by Ray Hogan
“We could’ve gone through the lobby,” the smaller of the pair said in a grumbling tone. “Old Pankey’d be asleep this time of night. Always is.”
“Somebody else might’ve seen us—and Sam said we was to be quiet, do it without no fuss.”
The chestnut shifted, stamped a hoof. Instantly the men halted, wheeled.
“Who’s that?” the taller one called.
Both pulled away from the wall of the building, edged deeper into the yard. Weak moonlight glinted feebly on the pistols they had drawn.
“Nobody special,” Shawn replied, his hand sliding down to where it rested on the butt of his own weapon. “No need for that hardware. One of you the hostler?”
“Hell, no,” the tall man said in disgust. “You coming or going?”
“Little of both, depending on how you look at it. Know where the hostler’ll be?”
“Probably down at Kaseman’s saloon. Where he is most of the time. You’re a-wanting to stable your horse, best thing you can do is see to it yourself. He ain’t apt to show up till every saloon in town’s closed.”
“Obliged,” Starbuck said, and nudging the gelding gently, doubled back over his tracks toward the wide doors of the stable.
Entering, he halted in the odorous blackness, looked over his shoulder. The men were just going into the hotel through the same door he had used earlier. He waited out a long two minutes, assuring himself the pair would not reappear, and then cut back through the stable’s entrance into the yard.
He’d best waste no more time scouting for a back way out of town—there was none left, not with Underwood’s friends already moving in on him. Likely there were others in the front watching the window and the lobby door. The rancher evidently had decided not to wait until morning to act; his own hunch to pull out had been a good one.
Holding the chestnut to a walk, and again in the deep shadows, he made his way to the street. Turning sharply right, he rode along the shoulder, deserted in this fringe area, until he came to the last building. Then, touching the big horse with spurs, he crossed and swung onto the road that led to Underwood’s ranch.
“Gone!”
The word ripped from Sam Underwood’s lips with all the suddenness of a pistol shot.
Standing in the darkness behind the bank, the tall puncher nodded his head vigorously.
“Yessir, gone. When we got inside his room all we found was the bed fixed up so’s it looked like somebody was sleeping in it. Only it wasn’t nobody.”
The rancher swore harshly. “Now, when in the hell could he have got out? Wasn’t no more’n thirty minutes after I left him that I sent you two over there.”
“Must’ve done it right after you left,” the short rider said.
“You sure he ain’t in one of the other rooms? Could’ve played it smart—changed.”
“We got Pankey on his feet, asked him that. Said no. Far as he knew that Starbuck fellow was in the room he’d rented—Number Four.”
“You look in the others?”
“Sure did—them that wasn’t rented, which most of them ain’t. Never found nobody.”
“Then he’s here in town somewhere, hiding,” Sam Underwood said with conviction. “Got to root him out.”
“We checked all the saloons. Couldn’t spot him. And I ain’t about to go opening them doors on the second floor of the Gold Dollar. Man could get his head blowed off doing that.”
Again the rancher swore, deeply, fiercely. He hadn’t expected Starbuck to run for cover, had figured he’d wait in the hotel until morning to see Abrams. Starbuck was no fool. He’d underestimated him—had all along, he guessed.
“What you want us to do now, Sam?”
The rancher shook his head, walked slowly for the street. “Got to do some thinking. Wherever he’s holed up, the place he’ll be trying to get to in the morning is the sheriff’s office. Got to keep him from doing that.”
“Now, how you—”
“Charley, I want you to take your rifle and get up on the roof of Hayden’s Feed Store. Keep hid so’s nobody’ll see you. Tuck, you plant yourself in that empty store building down the street from Hayden’s.”
The tall man drew a loud breath. “You mean you’re wanting us to shoot him right out there in broad daylight?”
“What an outlaw like him deserves,” Underwood said. “Anyway, won’t anybody see you if you’re careful. He’ll line out for Abrams early. Street’ll probably be empty, and I’ll be standing on the porch of the Exchange—”
“Why don’t you just go ahead yourself, Sam, do the shooting?”
“Be better if I don’t, after all that killing I did this evening. Can’t have folks thinking I’m gun crazy. Like I said—I’ll be on the porch of the hotel. When I see him drop, I’ll run to him, get them papers he stole from me. You two can sort of fade off, come into the street farther down—like you’d just heard the shots, was wondering what they was all about—”
“I’d as soon folks knowed it was me that done it—shooting an outlaw like him,” Tuck said. “Might make some around here show me a little respect instead of laughing at me and looking down on me the way they do.”
“However you want it,” Underwood said impatiently. “If you don’t want folks knowing, I can say I saw a rider leaving town hell for leather, that I think he was the one who did it.”
Charley scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his boot. “I ain’t sure, Sam,” he mumbled hesitantly. “Comes to shooting a man—bushwhacking him—wish we’d find him tonight so’s—”
“Wish’t we could’ve found that jasper we bumped into there at the stable,” Tuck said. “I’ll bet he seen that Starbuck fellow, and could’ve told us where he went.”
Sam Underwood had come to stiff attention. “What jasper?”
“Some bird we seen back of the hotel when we first got there. Was looking for Smitty, that old soak that runs the stable. Said he—”
“You get a good look at him?”
“Hardly none. Was setting his horse under that big Cottonwood.”
“What about the horse—you see it?”
“Some ... Was big, know that. Think maybe it was a bay.”
“Chestnut. Fourteen, fifteen hands high. Had white stockings and a blazed face?”
“Reckon that was the one. Where’d you see—”
“You damned fools!” Underwood snapped in disgust. “That was the man you were looking for.”
Charley straightened up in surprise. Tuck pulled off his hat, scratched at his head. “It was? Well, we wasn’t looking for no horse.”
“Reckon it could’ve been at that,” Charley said thoughtfully. “If I’d a guessed, I’d have taken a closer look at him ... Did go back to the stable later. Thought maybe he’d still be there. Aimed to ask him if he’d seen somebody—”
“And him and the horse were both gone,” the rancher finished.
“Sure was. Couldn’t find hide or hair of them.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Hour, maybe. No more’n that.”
Underwood stirred wearily. He should have known better than to line up a couple of bronc stompers like Charley and Tuck to do the job for him, but then it was a touchy situation and he didn’t have much choice. They were stupid enough to do what he told them, and not smart enough to ask any questions.
Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was better this way. Starbuck was clever—he figured a move would be made to take Rutter’s letter from him, so he ducked out, planning to lay low until his chances improved. Safest bet would be for him to get out of town. ... He might even head for Santa Fe and the U.S. Marshal—and then get clear out of the country.
Of course—that’s just what he’d done. He was on his horse, all mounted and ready to ride when Charley and Tuck ran into him. He wouldn’t have saddled up and all if what he had in mind was to just change places in town.
But he wouldn’t go straight to Santa Fe. He had some kind of an idea that Henry Smith was the long-lost brothe
r he’d been hunting for ... Seemed mighty important that he find him. He wouldn’t head for Santa Fe until he had first stopped by the ranch, had a talk with Henry ... That was it That’s what he was doing.
“Get your horses,” Underwood said in a sudden, harsh way. “Meet me at the south end of town in thirty minutes. Charley, you stop by Abrams, get yourself a deputy’s badge out of his desk drawer—I’ll explain to the sheriff later.”
“Yessir, Sam ... Where we going?”
“My place,” the rancher replied. “That’s where we’ll find Starbuck.”
Twenty-One
Starbuck rode into the ranch shortly after sunrise. Leaving the chestnut at one of the hitch racks, he went immediately to Tom Gage’s cabin. He was under no illusion about Sam Underwood; it wouldn’t take the rancher long to discover he was not in Las Vegas, and probably even less time to figure he’d head for the ranch to see Henry Smith before riding on to Santa Fe.
Thus the minutes were at a premium unless he wished to wait and have a showdown. He would as soon avoid such. He had no personal quarrel with the man—at least one serious enough to warrant bloodshed, and, too, he was thinking of Holly. Bleak moments were ahead for her when she learned the man she idolized was not all she thought, and he had no desire to add further to her heartbreak.
Smith should have returned, he thought as he pushed open the door of Gage’s quarters; he’d see him, have a talk, and then if it was the usual false lead he’d come to accept as almost inevitable, he’d line out for Santa Fe. But if Smith did prove to be Ben—well, he’d decide then what to do.
The old foreman was sitting on the edge of the bed rubbing at his whiskered face as Shawn came in. He glanced up, grinned.
“Back, eh? Good to see you.”
Starbuck nodded. “Smith come in?”
“Sure did. Yesterday—late. Hear Sam had hisself quite a whing-ding in Vegas. Them stinking sidewinders. Knowed they was no good the day I first laid eyes on them.”
Shawn, about to return to the yard, make his way to the bunkhouse, paused in surprise. “How’d you know about it?”
Gage began to pull on his clothing. “The little gal—Holly. Got in early—her and Ira Cameron’s womenfolk. Was so worked up and near busting her buttons about what her pa’d done, she couldn’t wait to tell her ma and us all about it. Cameron had one of his hands drive them in his surrey. Sam come in, too?”
“No,” Starbuck said. “Be here soon, I expect.”
Gage stood up, stamped his feet into his boots, began to close his shirt. “That gal is sure proud of Sam. He really do all she says—shoot it out with them jaspers and such?”
Shawn was silent for a long minute. Finally, “Expect she’s telling it the way her pa told it to her.”
The old foreman paused, studied Starbuck with his shrewd eyes. After a bit he resumed dressing. “Never figured Sam had that kind of spunk in him. How’d it happen you wasn’t in on it?”
“What did Holly say about me?”
“That you’d gone over to the saloon for a drink, left Sam by hisself.”
The corners of Shawn’s mouth pulled down into a wry smile, and then he shrugged. Let it pass. It didn’t really matter.
“Like to see Smith soon as I can,” he said, getting off the subject.
“Help yourself. He’ll be in the bunkhouse with the rest of the boys. Whole bunch’ll be going in for chow in a minute. You could see him, do your eating at the same time.” Once more Gage hesitated, considered Starbuck thoughtfully. “Something bothering you, son? You’re acting plenty spooked.”
“Hard ride. Expect I’m a bit on the wore-out side. Just want to see Henry Smith, move on if it turns out he’s not my brother.”
“Just like that, eh? Was figuring you to hang around for a spell. Didn’t you sign on with Sam—that there special job—”
“Quit last night,” Starbuck said, moving to the window. Several of the punchers were in the yard, standing around sleepily, yawning, stretching, having a first smoke.
“Any of those men Henry?” he asked.
Gage crowded up to his side, scanned the hard pack. “Nope, ain’t one of them. There—that’s Henry coming out the bunkhouse now. One wearing a red-checkered shirt.”
Starbuck pivoted swiftly to the door of the cabin, stepped out into the yard, quick, hard tension building within him. Henry Smith was dark and a stubble that covered his cheeks and chin looked blue.
Shawn’s hopes rose. He could be Ben ... Built a lot like Hiram Starbuck—actually looked something like him ... Those big hands, that square-cut face ... Starbuck’s pulses quickened, began to hammer as he strode toward the man ... Maybe he’d finally come to the end of his quest; perhaps this was the finish—here in the yard of a ranch where trouble was racing to overtake him.
He reached the front of the bunkhouse. Smith had stepped to the edge of the landing, was gazing at the hills to the east.
“Henry Smith?” Shawn said hesitantly as he pulled up a pace or two away.
The trail boss turned lazily. “That’s me, I reckon.”
Dark eyes—not blue ... But maybe the color had changed through the years.
“You want me for something?”
Shawn caught himself, said, “Yes ... My name’s Starbuck.”
Smith waited, his face quizzical. “So?”
“That name mean anything to you?”
“Nope, can’t say as it does. It supposed to?”
A ponderous, weighty disappointment settled over Shawn. “Was hoping it would. I’m looking for my brother. Name’s Ben. Was hoping you might be him.”
“Ain’t got no kin,” Smith said. “I’m purely a orphan.” He half smiled, looked closer at Starbuck, a suspicious glint in his eyes. “You funning me?”
“No. Man up in Kansas said you sort of fit the description I gave of Ben—what I have, anyway. Rode down here to see you, thinking maybe—”
“Well, I’m real sorry you had yourself a long ride for nothing. I sure ain’t your brother. I ain’t nobody’s brother. Like I said, I’m a orphan.”
Shawn, clinging to one final strand of hope, stepped up onto the landing. Bitter as Ben had been when he ran off, it was possible he still entertained the same feelings about the family name and would refuse to admit any relationship. There was that one proof he could neither hide nor deny.
“You looking for something special?” Smith asked mildly.
Shawn’s eyes were on the rider’s face, searching for that telltale scar over the left brow ... There were lines, cut there by endless days in the sun and wind, but no memento of that day in the rocks now so many years in the past.
Shoulders going down, Starbuck fell back. “No, I guess you’re not him. Maybe you don’t even look like him, I don’t know for sure.”
“Well, he’s a right lucky soul,” Smith drawled, “not taking after a ugly critter like me. Ain’t you got no idea a’tall where you can find him?”
“None,” Shawn answered, staring off across the hard pack. “Don’t even know what name he goes by. Doesn’t call himself Ben Starbuck—sure of that.”
Henry Smith whistled softly. “Mister, you’ve picked yourself one hell of a smoke trail to be riding! Why, a man could follow it till Kingdom Come and not find what he’s looking for.”
“I’ll find him,” Shawn said wearily. “Got to.”
“If you’re lucky—and he ain’t dead,” the rider said. “Well, I’m hoping you do. He all the kin you got?”
Starbuck nodded. “Trailing herds, you run into a lot of people. You ever remember seeing a man that might’ve been him? He’d probably look a lot like you—build and such. Eyes more’n likely are blue. Main thing, he’s got a scar over the left one.”
“So that’s what you was doing—looking for a scar!” the trail boss said with a wide grin. “Figured there for a bit I maybe had lice or something.” He sobered, scrubbed the stubble on his chin, his glance on the rest of the crew now drifting toward the kitchen for the morning me
al.
“When you first mentioned what you was after, I did recollect a fellow, but I ain’t one to send no man out on a snipe hunt.”
“Only way I’ll ever find Ben is to ride down every prospect I hear about. Been doing it for quite a spell. Another failure won’t matter—and this time it just might be him ... Who is this man and where’d you see him?”
“Name of Jim Ivory. Punches cows for the Box C outfit, down Arizona way—the Mogollon country. Fellow once said we looked enough alike to be twins.”
Revived hope stirred within Shawn. “How long ago was this?”
“Couple, three years I reckon since I seen Jim. Reckon he’s still there if he ain’t gone and got hisself killed in a poker game. A plain dang fool when it come to cards. Carries a deck right in his pocket. Every time he sets down, out comes them cards. If he can’t talk some of the boys into playing with him, why, he just plays by hisself.”
“Box C,” Starbuck murmured. “The Mogollon country. Was through there about a year ago—on my way to Tucson. Didn’t stop. Remember there was a town by the name of Lynchburg.”
“Your rememberer’s good. Box C’s about twenty miles west. Big spread. You won’t have no trouble finding it.”
The cook began to hammer on his iron bar, summoning the stragglers. Smith yawned, grinned, said, “Reckon he means us. I ain’t even got around to washing the night off my face, but I ain’t minding it if nobody else does. Come on, Starbuck, we’d best be getting there.”
“Go ahead,” Shawn said, extending his hand to the rider. “Appreciate what you told me about this Jim Ivory, and sorry if I bothered you some.”
“No bother—only wish’t I did belong to somebody. Ain’t you eating with us?”
“Not this morning,” Shawn replied. The last thing he wanted was to sit down at Sam Underwood’s table, eat his food. “So long. . . .”
“Adios,” Henry Smith said, stepping off the landing and heading for the kitchen. “Luck.”
Shawn turned, moved toward the chestnut waiting patiently at the hitch rack. Tot up one more failure, he thought, but the slash of disappointment was not so deep as once it was; too many other promising leads had ended this way.
