The Judas Tree

by Matt Braun

“Perish the thought!” Lola graced him with a dazzling smile. “Would you care for a glass of champagne, Mr. Hall?”

  “Why, thank you, ma’am!” Starbuck seated himself and tilted his hat at a rakish angle. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “To the victor!” Lola lifted her glass in a toast. “A man as good as his brag—cock of the walk!”

  Starbuck let go a great bellywhopper of a laugh. He filled Johnson’s empty glass and drank to her toast. The crowd slowly lost interest, and people at nearby tables went back to their own affairs. The ivory-tickler struck up a lively tune and the wrestling match on the dance floor once more resumed. Lola leaned forward, still smiling a devastating smile. Her voice was low and conspiratorial.

  “That was some entrance you made, lover!”

  “Worked out pretty good.” Starbuck sipped champagne, watching her over the rim of his glass. “Got us together and let everybody know Lee Hall’s in town. You just keep acting like I’ve charmed you out of your drawers. That way we can have a drink every night and swap information.”

  “No problem,” Lola said brightly. “The joker you whipped really was bull o’ the woods! Nobody will come anywhere near me—not when you’re around.”

  “What’s the story on Johnson?”

  “I know everyone is scared witless of him! Even Stimson—the owner of this joint—caters to him. He asked me as a special favor to have a drink with the big gorilla. We were just getting acquainted when you showed up.”

  “How’re things otherwise?”

  “Christ!” Lola spat in a sibilant tone. “It’s no wonder Stimson offered me a thousand a week. To put it charitably, the boys in Virginia City are a little uncouth. You ought to hear what they shout when I’m onstage!”

  Starbuck smiled. “Never saw a miner yet with any class. Course, as I recall, you asked to come here. Nobody twisted your arm.”

  “You’re all heart!” Lola said sweetly. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you what I’ve learned by keeping my eyes open!”

  “No more wisecracks,” Starbuck promised. “What’d you find out?”

  “Well, for one thing,” Lola said in a hushed voice, “there’s something funny about Stimson. I noticed it today, when I was rehearsing with the band. He’s got an office upstairs, and there was a regular parade through there all afternoon.” She paused, toying with her champagne glass. “From the looks of them, they’re all part of the sporting crowd. I’ve been around enough to recognize the type.”

  Starbuck was thoughtful a moment. “Hard to say what it means. Offhand, though, I’d doubt it has anything to do with the gang.”

  “That’s the other thing!” Lola’s eyes got big and round. “So far as I can tell—there’s no gang!”

  “No gang?” Starbuck looked at her seriously. “How’d you come by that?”

  “I got the musicians talking. We were taking a break, and I just casually mentioned I’d heard about the stagecoach robbers. Told them I was scared to death the whole trip over here from Dillon.”

  “What was their reaction?”

  “Oh, the robbers are real enough! Nobody denies that. But everyone believes it’s several gangs, all operating on their own. Not a single word—not even a rumor—about one gang leader!”

  “I hope to hell they’re wrong,” Starbuck said, troubled. “Otherwise we’re here on a wild-goose chase.”

  “Speak of the devil!”

  Starbuck glanced around and saw the musicians drifting into the orchestra pit. He turned back to Lola. “Time for the first show?”

  “Almost.” She pulled a face. “Will you wait till “I’m through?”

  “Not tonight. We don’t want to give anyone ideas.”

  “I’m staying at the Virginia Hotel—room two-oh-four—in case you get any ideas.”

  “We’ll see,” Starbuck said evasively. “However it works out, let me contact you. Don’t make any moves on your own.”

  “Anything you say, lover.” Lola rose and gave him a brilliant smile. Her voice was gay and pitched loud enough to be heard over the drone from nearby tables. “I do want to thank you for a lovely conversation, Mr. Hall. Drop around anytime! You’re always welcome.”

  “I shorely will, Miss Montana! That’s a puredee promise!”

  Lola nodded and walked toward a door leading backstage. Starbuck lit a cigarette and poured himself another glass of champagne. He decided to stay for the show and then move on to another joint. While he hadn’t mentioned it, he was registered at the Virginia Hotel, and he thought he might look in on her later. He was abruptly jerked back to the present when a man halted beside the table.

  “Evening.”

  “Hullo.” Starbuck looked at him through a wreath of smoke. “Help you with something?”

  “I’d like to talk with you a minute. Mind if I have a chair?”

  “All depends on who’s asking.”

  “Omar Stimson. I own the place.”

  Starbuck shrugged and waved his hand. “Take a load off your feet.”

  “Thanks.”

  Stimson was short and heavyset, paunchy around the middle. His face was moonlike and his nose was veined red from an intimate acquaintance with liquor. A long black cigar jutted from his mouth. He lowered himself into a chair.

  “You’re pretty handy with your fists.”

  “I get by,” Starbuck allowed. “That fellow a friend of yours?”

  “Johnson?” Stimson shook his head. “No, he’s just one of the regulars. Asked me to introduce him to Miss Montana, and I did the honors.”

  “Way he acted, anybody would’ve thought he had a bill of sale on the lady.”

  “Johnson’s used to doing the pushing, not vice versa.”

  “The bigger they are,” Starbuck said stolidly, “the harder they fall.”

  Stimson munched his cigar, nodded wisely. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your name?”

  Starbuck gave him a wooden look. “Lee Hall.”

  “Uh-huh.” Stimson’s expression was one of veiled disbelief. “Where do you call home, Mr. Hall?”

  “Texas.” Starbuck took a slow drag, exhaled smoke. “New Mexico. I drift around.”

  “What’s your line of work?”

  “Little of this and a little of that.”

  “Jack-of-all-trades, huh?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “No offense,” Stimson said quickly. “I was just impressed by the way you manhandled Johnson. I’m always on the lookout for a good bouncer.”

  Starbuck grinned ferociously. “I don’t hire out. You might say I’m self-employed.”

  “Of course.” Stimson chuckled a fat man’s chuckle. “A little of this and a little of that.”

  “Beats working for a living.”

  “I suspect it does.” Stimson heaved himself to his feet. “Well, enjoy your stay in Virginia City, Mr. Hall.”

  “I intend to, Mr. Stimson. I shorely do.”

  Stimson nodded pleasantly and walked away. Starbuck laughed to himself, inwardly delighted with the evening’s work. He thought things had gone even better than he’d planned. Lola would continue to ferret out choice tidbits on the local grapevine. Word of the drubbing he’d given Johnson would spread rapidly. Omar Stimson would doubtless let it drop he was using an alias and was a mite touchy about questions. All of which, lumped together, would fuel the impression he wanted circulated throughout Virginia City.

  Lee Hall was a man slightly windward of the law.

  Chapter Four

  Starbuck spent the next three days prowling around town. Every mining camp, much like a river at flood tide, had hidden undercurrents. He meant to determine the order of things in Virginia City.

  Starting uptown, he leisurely reconnoitered the camp. His job was made easier by virtue of the brawl with Pete Johnson. The sporting crowd evidenced a strong dislike for Johnson, and not without reason. A bullyboy, overbearing and obnoxious, he was noted for throwing his weight around. According to Lola, the rumor was he’d
been put out of commission for a week, perhaps longer. His jaw was broken and his gonads were swollen the size of gourds. The upshot was that Starbuck, in the guise of Lee Hall, had become the talk of Virginia City. The sporting crowd treated him with deference and applauded the neat job he’d made of Pete Johnson. He was welcome wherever he went.

  The dives along Wallace Street proved to be a lode of information. Starbuck was a good listener and versed in the techniques of subtle interrogation. He concentrated on saloons and gaming dens, for these were the principal gossip mills of any boomtown. He talked with gamblers and pimps, bartenders and grifters, and what seemed a legion of ordinary miners. Once they were engaged in conversation, he guilefully prompted them along with rapt interest and a few leading questions. Upon parting, he knew virtually everything they knew, and no one the wiser. He slowly pieced together the story of those hidden undercurrents.

  John Duggan, president of the Virginia City Mining Association, was not altogether the civic partisan he pretended. Nor was his concern over vigilantes wholly altruistic. There was, instead, bad blood between Duggan and Wilbur X. Lott, the man behind the vigilante movement. The problem stemmed from economic conflict and opposing interests. Duggan was the stalking horse for financiers and businessmen, the growing cadre of mine owners. Lott, who worked his own claim on Daylight Creek, was the self-appointed champion of the independent miners. The collision was all but ordained, one that sooner or later touched every mining camp. Virginia City was merely the latest battleground.

  All gold bonanzas, in the beginning, were strictly surface operations. The gold was discovered above ground, generally along creeks or rivers. The most common method of extracting dust and nuggets from loose earth was known as placer mining. The dirt was shoveled into a rocker, which was nothing more than a crude sluice box. The whole affair was rocked back and forth while water moved the material down a series of flumes. Since gold was heavier than dirt, it dropped to the bottom and was trapped there. A placer miner needed little more than a strong back and some ordinary tools. His claim was his ticket to independence. He worked it himself, and all the dust went into his poke.

  Quartz mining, on the other hand, was the search for gold below ground. A tunnel was sunk in the earth, or burrowed into a mountain, and followed the vein wherever it traveled. The tunnel was shored with wooden beams, and the quartz was dislodged from the earth with blasting powder. Then the loose quartz was run through an ore crusher to separate the gold. The process required stamp mills and heavy equipment, and men to work the mines. Which in turn required enormous amounts of capital, and investors. There was, moreover, the need to acquire surrounding claims; only in that manner could the vein be followed and the investment protected. Complicated and costly, it was a game that attracted wealthy businessmen and moneyed entrepreneurs. Once quartz mining began, it generally tolled the death knell for placer miners. There was no room for small operators when the stakes were boosted sky-high.

  So the lines were now drawn. On one side stood John Duggan and the members of the mining association. On the other stood Wilbur X. Lott and the independent miners. The two sides were at loggerheads, and there would be no compromise. The robbers, in effect, were being used as the catalyst in a power struggle. The real issue was control of Virginia City and untold millions in gold. The vigilante movement was merely an outgrowth of that conflict. A fight between the little dog and the big dog over a bone. A golden bone.

  Starbuck was hardly surprised. Always the cynic, he knew that men’s motives were seldom what they appeared. Ambition and greed were often cloaked in the pious rhetoric of do-gooders. Yet his curiosity about the vigilantes had led quite naturally to questions about the robbers, and there he was surprised. All he’d heard tended to confirm what Lola had told him. No one gang was thought to be responsible for the robberies. Nor was there the slightest hint of a hewolf gang leader. The general consensus was that cutthroats and robbers infested the countryside. It was considered to be a murderous form of free enterprise, with devil take the hindmost.

  The thought occurred that he was somehow being used by John Duggan and the mining association. Then, upon reflection, he concluded it was unlikely. Horace Griffin, the Wells Fargo superintendent, was not easily hoodwinked. Nor was Munro Salisbury, the stageline owner, a man given to jumping at shadows. In their opinion, one gang was responsible for the express-shipment holdups. That in no way discounted the possibility that other robbers were preying on lone miners. Their belief, quite simply, was that the number of stage holdups almost certainly indicated an organized gang and a Judas. For all he’d heard to the contrary, Starbuck still agreed with their argument. Some inner voice told him it was so.

  One other point seemed beyond dispute. Sheriff Henry Palmer was apparently a hell-on-wheels lawman. Apart from the robbers he’d captured—and hanged—he had personally killed four outlaws in gunfights. The common wisdom, expressed by miners as well as the sporting crowd, tagged him a resourceful and dedicated peace officer. At the same time, everyone thought he was faced by staggering odds. His war on the criminal element, despite a full complement of deputies, was hampered by the mountainous terrain and the sheer number of outlaws. While it was an uphill battle, his efforts had brought accolades from as far away as the territorial capital. The attorney general of Montana had nominated him for the post of U.S. marshal. The honor had boosted his reputation yet another notch in Virginia City.

  Starbuck briefly considered contacting the sheriff. Then, on second thought, he rejected the idea. When working undercover, he seldom revealed himself to local peace officers. Some were resentful and jealous of outsiders, and others were simply more hindrance than help. There were exceptions, but those were lawmen Starbuck knew personally. They belonged to a loose confederation of peace officers he corresponded with regularly, and all of them had contributed in some fashion to his rogues’ gallery. Even with them, however, he exercised great caution. Too many men liked to hear themselves talk, and a slip of the lip might very well imperil his life. So he was doubly cautious about Henry Palmer. There were too many factions at work in Virginia City, and the sheriff was still an unknown quantity. All in all, a lone hand seemed the wiser option.

  By his third day in town, Starbuck was forced to admit he was stymied. He had unearthed a great deal of interesting, and sometimes intriguing, information. But none of it was especially germane to his investigation. Nothing he’d uncovered thus far shed any light on either the gang or the gang leader. In fact, everything he had learned tended to obscure an already murky situation. He decided to let it rest for a couple of days. He was by now a familiar figure around the camp, and he’d managed to get thick with the sporting crowd. Sooner or later someone would say something worth hearing, and his years as a manhunter had taught him a vital lesson. Only the killing was done swiftly. The stalk should never be rushed.

  Every evening he made it a practice to drop by the Gem Theater. He stayed only for one show, and he never attempted to monopolize Lola’s time. She joined him at his table, and for appearance’s sake he always ordered a bottle of champagne. They laughed and flirted, and so far as anyone could tell, he was simply one of her many admirers. She related whatever she’d learned during the day, and once the champagne was finished it was generally time for the second show. He then tried his hand at faro or went on to another dive. Thus far, he had steered clear of her hotel room, restricting all contact to the theater. He was still leery of arousing suspicion.

  Tonight, as was his habit, Starbuck drifted into the Gem as the first show got under way. Stimson greeted him jovially and ushered him to a ringside table. A waiter quickly materalized with a bottle of champagne and two glasses. Starbuck lit a smoke and settled back to enjoy the show. Lola sang a couple of sultry ballads, all alone onstage, the house gone quiet as a church. Then a chorus line pranced out of the wings, and she led them in a rollicking, sometimes bawdy, dance number. The crowd gave her a thunderous ovation, and she disappeared with one last flash of her ma
gnificent legs. The next act, a team of acrobats, romped out to mild indifference. The Gem’s clientele wasn’t much on gymnastic feats.

  A short while later Lola appeared from backstage. She wandered through the audience, pausing here and there to chat a moment and accept congratulations. Then, fending off a drunken miner, she made her way to Starbuck’s table. He rose with a courtly bow and held out her chair. She favored him with a beguiling smile.

  “Good evening, Mr. Hall.”

  “Miss Lola.” Starbuck seated himself and poured champagne. “You sure wowed ’em tonight! Yessir, that was some show.”

  “Aren’t you sweet!”

  “Compliments come easy where you’re concerned, Miss Lola.”

  “You sly rogue!” Her voice suddenly dropped. “God, I couldn’t wait to get out here! I’m onto something, lover. Something important!”

  “Stay cool!” Starbuck cautioned. “Half the people in this joint are still eyeballing you.”

  Lola laughed as though he’d said something marvelously amusing. “I’ve been bringing the musicians along slow and easy. They’re all boozers and the biggest gossips in the world. Just before the show, one of them got me aside on the q.t. and gave me an earful. I mean the lowdown!”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Have you ever heard of Doc Carver?”

  “Not that I recollect.”

  “Well, hold on to your hat, lover! You won’t forget him after tonight.”

  “Is he a local man?”

  “No,” Lola said softly. “He’s a sharpshooter. You know, one of those trick-shot artists. Stimson brought him here early this summer for a limited engagement. But his act was so popular he was held over almost two months.”

  “So what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Only this,” Lola replied, her tone low and urgent. “His daughter was murdered.”

  “Daughter?” Starbuck looked confused. “You just lost me.”

  “She was part of the act! Carver shot cigarettes out of her mouth and all those other routines sharpshooters do. From what I gather, she was a real beauty. Gave the act a touch of class!”