Shawn Starbuck Double Western 1

by Ray Hogan

  Shawn halted behind Underwood. The rancher had resumed where he had broken off when the deputy interrupted, was talking in a steady, flowing stream. Holly, her face glowing, glanced to Starbuck and smiled proudly.

  “Took a lot of nerve, Sam,” someone in the crowd said, “standing up to three killers the way you did.”

  “Man does what he has to—when he has to,” the rancher replied. “Couldn’t just back off—and there wasn’t time to get help.”

  “Well, you sure saved our hides,” another commented. “Hate to think of what a robbery like that would’ve done to this town.”

  “Busted us all—that’s for sure.”

  “We all owe Sam a lot for what he’s done … ”

  Underwood laughed, raised his hands. “You got to remember, there’s money of mine in that safe, too. They’d have got it along with everybody else’s—and I didn’t want that to happen.”

  Everyone laughed heartily except Shawn Starbuck. Silent, he listened to the comments while a wary scorn built up within him. The man in the saloon had been relating correctly; alone, Sam Underwood had come upon the outlaws, and unaided, challenged them, and when they resisted, shot them down in a gun duel.

  Sam Underwood ... The town hero ... He’d be a cinch to sit in the governor’s chair now. The local newspaper would plaster the Territory with a vivid, elaborate account of the incident. Underwood’s niche was assured—as well as the exalted position he apparently felt was worth any cost to achieve.

  Again the need to be fair and honest put a tight rein on Starbuck’s thoughts. He could be wrong in this, too; Underwood was taking all the credit for himself perhaps only to enhance his reputation and prepare for the moment when he would make known the facts of his past. That could be the explanation.

  The rancher could be planning, after all, to hand the letter over to the sheriff or the marshal, and being a master politician, was simply striving to improve his image and lay the groundwork for a sympathetic hearing of his crimes.

  Maybe that was it, and he should give the man—fighting desperately to prevent the empire he’d built from crumbling to dust—the benefit of the doubt, at least for the time being. As far as any credit for the killing of the outlaws was concerned, Starbuck could care less. Let Sam Underwood claim it, glory in it, make the most of it if it suited his fancy. All he was interested in was seeing that right was done.

  Shawn became aware of a dwindling in the conversation, of the fact that the rancher, deigning now to notice him, had stepped back.

  “You get the letter?” Underwood’s question was low, the words coming from the corner of his mouth.

  “I got it,” Starbuck drawled.

  The rancher edged closer. “Slip it into my side pocket. Don’t want anybody seeing it … ”

  “No, I reckon not,” Shawn said. “Figured I’d better hang onto it until you’re ready to talk to the law.”

  Sam Underwood stiffened. “Now—hold on here. I—”

  “I’ll be at the hotel,” Starbuck said, and pushing by the rancher, past Holly, and the others in the room, he moved through the doorway into the street.

  Nineteen

  In less than an hour, probably the minimum time it required for him to slip away from his throng of admirers, Sam Underwood rapped on Starbuck’s door.

  Shawn, again slumped in the lone chair, but placed this time near the window so that he could face the entrance to the room, stirred restlessly. He thoroughly disliked the role he found himself in—that of custodian of a man’s future—but it had been thrust upon him and he could not in conscience turn away.

  “It’s open,” he called.

  The scarred panel flung back and the rancher, taut and angry, stepped in. He crossed to the center of the room, halted, hands on hips.

  “Well—spit it out! What’s your price?”

  “For the letter?”

  “Hell, yes—why else would I be here? You’ve got a price, I expect.”

  Shawn nodded.

  “How much?”

  “Not money,” Starbuck said quietly. “All you’ve got to do is go to the sheriff, tell him the truth.”

  The rancher swore wildly. “I knew I was a damned fool—letting you in on it!”

  “If you hadn’t,” Shawn said in a dry voice, “you wouldn’t be the hero everybody’s talking about.”

  Underwood stared, then shrugged and, moving to the bed, sat down. “Can’t see why you’re getting so hard-nosed about this. Means nothing to you. I’m willing to pay for your help. Worth five hundred in gold—your help and that letter.”

  “Lot of money,” Starbuck said. “But I’m not Rutter or the others.”

  The rancher groaned. “You’ve got a price—same as every man. This holier-than-thou act of yours isn’t fooling me. Let’s cut it and get down to hard cases. Five hundred’s not enough—all right—how much?”

  “You heard the price.”

  Underwood rose from the bed in a sudden burst of rage. “Why, you saddle tramp! You think you can blackmail me? I—I’ll—”

  “Expect I could,” Shawn said calmly. “Be real easy to do—but I’m not figuring on it. All I want is for folks to know the truth about you. Afterwards, if they want to overlook it, forget all about what you’ve done, it’ll be fine with me. I just think they’ve got a right to all the facts about the man who’s wanting to be their governor.”

  “The facts! I’d be crazy to tell—”

  “You don’t know for sure how they’d take it. Could be they’d stand by you.”

  The rancher relaxed slightly. “You think they’d do that—stand by me?”

  “Odds seem pretty fair to me. Far as I’m concerned they can go on thinking you’re a hero—and I reckon you’ve done some good for the country.”

  Underwood was silent for a full minute. Finally he shook his head. “No, I just can’t risk it. Too much to lose.”

  “Heard you say that before,” Shawn said, his voice hardening. “Back there in the bank when we went up against Rutter and his bunch. You were to side me.”

  “I know, I know,” Underwood murmured. “Couldn’t seem to make myself do it—face those guns—”

  “Takes guts to lie, too. You’ve got plenty of that kind.”

  The rancher lifted his hands, allowed them to fall. “Didn’t actually plan it that way, Starbuck. You’ve got to believe that. Everybody just sort of latched onto the idea—me being there alone. Before I knew it the word was going around fast. You know how things like that spread.”

  “Didn’t hear you bothering to straighten anybody out on it. Makes no difference. Killing a man—good or bad—is nothing to be proud of. One thing I’d like to know, however.”

  Underwood frowned, resumed his place on the bed. “What’s that?”

  “Rutter ... Did he try to run for it after I left, or did you shoot him down to keep him from talking? Way it’s worked out, none of that bunch pulling that paymaster holdup is alive now but you.”

  “He was going to run for it—”

  “With a bullet in his side and bleeding like a stuck hog—and you holding a gun on him?”

  “He tried to get away,” Underwood insisted dully. “It’s the gospel truth.”

  Starbuck shifted his legs. “I’m hoping so. You’re going to have hell living with the thought of it, if it wasn’t.”

  “Not worried about that,” the rancher said, regaining a grip on himself. “What about that letter? I’ve got to have it. Let’s come to some kind of terms.”

  Shawn shrugged. “You’ve heard mine—and I won’t track over them again. You take a walk with me to the sheriff’s office—”

  “Abrams isn’t in town—”

  “A deputy’ll do. Moment you start talking, I’ll hand you the letter and move on.”

  “I’d rather wait for Abrams—no use bringing the whole town in on it at first. Give me the letter now and you’ve got my word I’ll wait for Abrams, tell him the whole story minute he shows up.”

 
“Afraid that’s not enough.”

  “My word’s good to plenty of others!” Underwood exploded defensively. “You think you’ve got me by the short hair, don’t you? Mister, you’re wrong as hell! I’ve got a lot of friends around here—friends that owe me favors. If I want, all I need do is walk out into that street, tell a dozen men that you’re setting up here trying to rawhide me into paying you off for something, and in less time than it takes to skin a snake, they’ll have you swinging from a tree!”

  “Maybe so,” Shawn replied, “but during that time I’ll get some talking done. And I’ll manage to get that letter into somebody’s hands who’ll be curious enough or honest enough to see that it’s delivered. Then what?”

  “They’d give it to me first.”

  “Doubt that—it being addressed to the U.S. Marshal or the sheriff.”

  The rancher was studying Starbuck narrowly. “You open it?”

  “No. Leave that up to the law.”

  Sam Underwood came again to his feet, stretched forth his hand. “Mind if I take a look at it?”

  “Not for you, either.”

  Anger again flamed in the rancher’s eyes. “I can see there’s no sense trying to reason with you. I’m willing to treat you right, but you won’t listen. What do you aim to do next?”

  “Only thing I can. If you won’t go to the law, I’ll take the letter to the sheriff—or maybe on to the marshal in Santa Fe.”

  Underwood mopped at the sweat beading his forehead. “Supposing I raise the ante—say to a thousand. That’s a hell of a lot of money.”

  “Won’t argue that.”

  “A thousand would buy a man most anything he had a hankering for—could even get himself started in the cattle business.”

  “You’re wasting your breath, Underwood. I’m not about to change my mind.”

  “Goddammit! What’s the matter with you? This thing don’t mean anything far as you’re concerned. You don’t even live in the Territory! What difference it make to you who or what—”

  “Man can’t turn his back on a wrong just because it’s not in his own yard. Was taught that. Expect you were, too.”

  “Ain’t the point. Way I see it, you’re meddling in where you don’t belong, mixing yourself up in business that sure ain’t none of your business. Fact is, nosing around like you are could get you killed.”

  Shawn stirred, smiled faintly. Now came the threats. Sam Underwood was trying everything in a desperate effort to get his hands on Guy Rutter’s letter.

  “You think I was bulling you about getting a dozen men to work you over on my say-so? Be no problem at all, and there’d be no questions asked by Sheriff Abrams—or anybody else. You’re a stranger here. I’m not. This is my town, my Territory. What I’d tell them would—”

  “You won’t yell for help,” Starbuck broke in wearily. “Too big a chance of that letter getting into the wrong hands—for you.”

  “Not that at all. Just don’t want to cause you a lot of trouble.”

  “Trouble’s yours, not mine.”

  The rancher swore angrily again. “You’re a plain fool, Starbuck! Work with me and I’ll make you a big man around here. A thousand dollars to start. Then when I’m governor, I’ll put you in as chief of the mounted police. That’s one of the promises I’ve made folks—that I’d organize a mounted police force, like the Texas Rangers. You’d make a good chief. A thousand in gold on top of that. I’ll put it in writing if you say so.”

  Shawn got to his feet slowly, almost lazily. “You’re a hard man to convince, Underwood—and I’m tired of wrangling. Nothing’s changed. If you’re not going along with my terms—get out.”

  The rancher stared. His face whitened and his lips worked convulsively as rage swept through him. “Nobody talks to me that way—”

  “Could be they never had the chance, or maybe they had too big of an axe to grind. Happens you don’t count with me one way or another. I’m looking for nothing—just want to see the right thing done.”

  “The hell! Who’re you to say what’s right and what’s wrong?’’

  “Already asked myself that question. Man can only go by what he knows inside himself is right.”

  “According to what he thinks is right. Could be you’re wrong, Starbuck—dead wrong! Well, I’m promising you this: it’s a hundred yards down the street from here to Abrams’ office. You’ll never get there alive.”

  “We’ll see,” Shawn said coolly. “So long, Mr. Underwood.”

  The rancher’s eyes flared, and then wheeling stiffly, he crossed the room, yanked open the door, and disappeared into the dark hallway.

  Twenty

  Starbuck gazed at the opening through which the rancher had vanished. Moving forward, he pushed the panel closed and stood for a time with his eyes on the knob.

  As far as the sheriff was concerned, there was nothing he could do until morning, and possibly not even then if Abrams had not returned to the settlement. And he would not risk taking the matter to the deputy—Harvey, or whatever his name was. He appeared to be one who would succumb quickly to Sam Underwood’s blandishments and persuasion.

  But there was no ignoring the rancher’s final threat. The man, a deceptively ruthless one, pushed to the extreme by the possibility of seeing his political ambitions collapse in personal disaster, would doubtless act quickly; and with the influence he was in a position to wield, he’d find many men to do his bidding regardless of its nature.

  Thus it would be foolhardy to take Underwood’s promise lightly. Brazen as it might seem, the chances were that hidden marksmen would keep him from ever reaching Sheriff Abrams’ office; moreover, now that he gave it thought, the likelihood of his even getting out of the hotel was probably growing slimmer with each passing moment.

  Starbuck swore impatiently. All he wanted was to find Ben; instead he’d gotten sidetracked, and the whole purpose of his being in the Territory was lost in the shuffle. Best thing he could do was climb out of the jam he was in fast, get back to his original purpose.

  Take first things first. It was dangerous to hang around Las Vegas any longer; the letter was addressed primarily to the U.S. Marshal who maintained an office in Santa Fe. The solution, therefore, was to slip out of town immediately without the rancher being aware of it, swing by the ranch in the hope that Henry Smith had returned, talk with him, and then, regardless of the outcome, ride on to Santa Fe and deliver Rutter’s letter. . . .

  It was the only sensible way to handle the situation. Leaning down, he drew aside the curtains, looked out into the street. There were still a few persons abroad and a guard had been positioned in front of the shattered window of the bank. Business in the saloons had not slackened.

  Shawn’s glance paused on three men standing in a close group a short distance beyond the Gold Dollar. One of them was Underwood. He grinned tightly. The rancher was doing as expected; he was already busy recruiting those dozen men he had mentioned. He was being blackmailed, he’d tell them; there was a personal letter involved, one that belonged to him despite what it said on its face. Sam Underwood, hero, would be able to convince them of anything.

  Reaching up, Shawn drew the sun-stiffened shade and turned to the bed. Pulling back the patch quilt, and using one of the two pillows, he shaped the bed clothing into the semblance of a sleeping person. That done, he took up his saddlebags, pulled on his hat, and moving to the door, opened it cautiously.

  There was no one in the hall. Although acting swiftly, Underwood had not yet had time to station a sentry in the hotel. Stepping out, he closed the panel silently, locked it and thrust the key into his pocket.

  Making his way down the corridor, he came to a second hall crossing at right angles. He turned left into it, followed along its narrow channel to the rear of the building. A door faced him at its end, and again cautious, he cracked it slightly. A low sigh passed his lips when he saw that it led into the yard that separated the hotel from the stable.

  It was what he looked for. Stepping out
onto the landing, he threw his glance to all directions, saw no one. Considerable noise was coming from the street, now on the opposite side of the structure, but he felt he had nothing to worry about from that point; it was unlikely anyone could see the yard.

  Holding his saddlebags, he crossed the weed-littered hard pack to the barn, slipped inside. The hostler’s quarters lay to his left. Shawn eased up to the door and peered inside. The room was empty. The hostler likely was out in the street savoring the excitement.

  Hurrying on down the runway he located the chestnut. His gear had been slung across a nearby rack, and grabbing up the blanket, he saddled and bridled the gelding in quick, efficient moves.

  That finished, he backed the horse into the clear, again stopped at the hostler’s quarters. Stepping inside, he laid a silver dollar and the key to his room on the dust-covered table and withdrew. He was square now with the Exchange Hotel and the stable keeper.

  A few moments later he was astride the chestnut and making his way through the deep shadows along the edge of the yard, toward the street. The road east lay at the opposite end of town, and he would be forced to cross over. He’d do that well down, beyond the view of anyone standing near the hotel or the saloons.

  He pulled up, leaned forward, searching the night-shrouded shrubbery for any indication of an alley or similar passageway that would permit him to reach that point without going all the way to the street. There seemed to be none; a rail fence ran the full depth of the adjacent property.

  He started to come about, have a look at the land behind the stable, thinking perhaps to find an open field. He pulled up short as the sounds of someone approaching caught his attention, sent a warning racing through him.

  “On the front, Sam said. . . .”

  In the broad shadow cast by an aged cottonwood, Starbuck hung motionless and prayed the gelding also would make no move.

  Two figures came from the front of the hotel. They walked with care but the gravel crunched solidly beneath their tread. Reaching the end of the walk they turned, headed for the rear entrance to the hostelry.