The Judas Tree

by Matt Braun

  “Why was she murdered?”

  “Now it gets interesting!” Lola’s face was animated, eyes flashing. “My musician friend says she got in over her head. She learned something she wasn’t supposed to know, and it got her killed.”

  “What was it she learned?”

  “Nobody knows.” Lola collected herself, casually took a sip of champagne. “Here’s the topper, though! The rumor’s all over town it had something to do with the stage robberies.”

  “Any names?” Starbuck demanded. “Some idea as to who killed her?”

  “Not a peep,” Lola said ruefully. “There was talk that she was having an affair—”

  “Wait a minute!” Starbuck broke in. “You mean she was sleeping with somebody?”

  “So everyone thought! But no one had any inkling of who, or where she met him, or anything else. She was a very secretive little lady!”

  “When was she killed?”

  “Not quite a month ago.”

  “What happened to her father?”

  Lola’s eyes danced merrily. “He took off like a ruptured goose! Everyone thinks he knew who did it and why—and skipped town to save his own neck!”

  “If he knew so much, then why wasn’t he killed?”

  “Search me, lover! I’m just telling you what I was told.”

  Starbuck mulled it over a moment. “Any idea where he skipped to?”

  “Believe it or not—” Lola laughed. “He joined Buffalo Bill’s Stage Show!”

  “Bill Cody?”

  “The one and only!” Lola bobbed her head. “There was an item in the paper. He went straight as a bumblebee from here to North Platte, Nebraska. Cody’s theatrical troupe headquarters there.”

  “I’ll be go to hell!”

  “Will it help? Does it give you a lead of any kind—a clue?”

  “I don’t know,” Starbuck said slowly. “I’ll have to think on it.”

  “Well, I’ve got another show to do. Will you wait on me? I damn sure don’t want to be kept in suspense until tomorrow night!”

  “Tell you what.” Starbuck hoisted his glass, pretended to toast her. “You go on to the hotel after the show. I’ll meet you in your room.”

  “Goody, goody! Looks like my lucky night!”

  Lola downed her champagne and hurried backstage. Starbuck sat like a dreamy vulture, staring off into space. After a while, he rose from his chair and dropped a double eagle on the table. His expression was still bemused.

  He walked from the theater as the band thumped to life.

  Lola entered the hotel shortly after midnight. One of the Gem’s bouncers had escorted her from the theater. His presence ensured that she would not be bothered by late-night drunks and rowdies on the street. He saw her into the lobby, then bid her good night. She waved to the desk clerk and swiftly mounted the stairs.

  On the second floor, she proceeded along the hallway to her room. She unlocked the door and stepped inside. A match flared in the darkness, and she uttered a sharp gasp. Chuckling softly, Starbuck lit a table lamp, trimmed the wick low. She locked the door and turned to face him. Her voice was shaky.

  “You scared the living bejesus out of me!”

  “Sorry.” Starbuck dropped into one of the chairs beside the table. “I wanted to avoid being seen. Figured the odds were better if I let myself in before you arrived.”

  “So you picked the lock?”

  “One of my minor talents.” Starbuck motioned to the other chair. “Come sit down. We’ve got some talking to do.”

  Lola tossed her cape on the bed and crossed to the chair. She studied his dour expression a moment. “Why do I get the feeling it’s bad news?”

  “Not bad, exactly,” Starbuck remarked. “But there’s been a change of plans. I have to go to North Platte.”

  “Omigawd!” Lola yelped. “You’re going after Doc Carver!”

  “Got no choice.” Starbuck’s square features creased with worry. “I’ve thought it through, and it’s the only way. Unless I got lucky, I could hang around here till doomsday before I turned up a lead. A talk with Carver might do the trick muy pronto.”

  “Then you believe it—about him and his daughter?”

  “I believe she was murdered. Whether or not it had anything to do with the robbers—” Starbuck lifted his hands in a shrug. “I reckon I’ll have to let Carver tell me that.”

  “Why else would he have run?”

  “That’s got me puzzled.” Starbuck massaged his jaw. “Apparently it’s pretty common knowledge he joined Cody’s show. So if somebody was afraid he’d spill the beans, why not go to North Platte and kill him? He’s just as much a threat there as he was here.”

  “Maybe the robbers—the gang leader—didn’t read the paper.”

  “Maybe,” Starbuck conceded. “Guess I won’t know till I ask.”

  Lola cocked her head to one side. “What makes you think he’ll talk? After all, his daughter was murdered and he hasn’t spoken up yet. He might tell you to take a hike!”

  Starbuck smiled. “I’ll reason with him.”

  “God help him!” Lola said with feigned horror. “When do you leave?”

  “The end of the week,” Starbuck told her. “We’ll leave right after you finish your engagement at the Gem. That way, I’ll know you got out of here safe and sound.”

  “Oh, for—”

  “No argument!” Starbuck halted her protest with an upraised palm. “You’re not staying here alone. I’ve already made up my mind, and the discussion’s closed!”

  “You’re a worrywart! I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself!”

  “Only one trouble.” Starbuck was deadly earnest. “You’ve got a taste for undercover work and you’re good at it. If I left you here, you’d keep on digging. I won’t take that chance.”

  “Don’t be too sure!” Lola’s lips curved in a teasing smile. “I didn’t have time to tell you everything tonight. You might want me to stick around . . . when you hear about Stimson.”

  “Stimson?” Starbuck returned her gaze steadily. “What about him?”

  “He’s a crook!” Lola announced. “You remember the musician who told me about Doc Carver? Well, he also told me that Stimson controls the vice in Virginia City. The gambling dives, the whorehouses, everything! They all pay a percentage off the top, or else they don’t operate. Stimson’s word is law, and he runs things with an iron fist!”

  “Your musician friend?” Starbuck said wonderingly. “How come he blabs everybody’s secrets to you? That’s the part I’d like to hear.”

  “Oh, call it a woman’s wiles!” Lola gave him a sexy wink. “I told you I have a way with men. And, sweetie, it sure makes undercover work easier. God, does it ever!”

  “All the more reason to get you out of here! You’re liable to put the whammy on the wrong man and wind up in hot water.”

  “What about Stimson?” Lola implored. “I’m positive he’d extend my engagement another week! Let me stay, and I’ll bet anything I get the goods on him. I just know it!”

  “No soap,” Starbuck said stubbornly. “You leave on the same stage with me.”

  “Spoilsport!” Lola stuck out her bottom lip. “You’re passing up the chance to blow this town wide open. And I’m the girl who could do it!”

  “You’re forgetting one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I wasn’t hired to get Stimson. I’m after a gang of robbers . . . not some sleazy vice boss.”

  “Well—” Lola replied with a charming little shrug. “It would have been fun, anyway. And besides, he’s such an oily bastard he deserves to get caught!”

  “Got you hooked, doesn’t it?”

  “Hooked?”

  “Undercover work,” Starbuck observed dryly. “You act like a kid turned loose in a candy store.”

  Lola stood and languidly moved to his chair. She sat down in his lap, encircled his neck with her arms. Her voice was furry velvet and she put her mouth to his ear.


  “Luke?”

  “Um-hum?”

  “Would you let me work with you again . . . on another case?”

  “I might.”

  “Promise?” she purred. “Cross your heart?”

  “Think it’d be worth my while?”

  “Why don’t I give you a sample and let’s see?”

  “Sounds fair to me.”

  Lola extinguished the lamp. She kissed him and her tongue darted inside his mouth. She squirmed her bottom into his groin and felt his manhood harden. Her hand drifted like a tingling snowflake down his chest, then went lower still. She slowly unbuttoned his pants.

  Starbuck suddenly rose and carried her to bed.

  Chapter Five

  Starbuck pulled into North Platte on the afternoon train. The Union Pacific depot was large and sprawling, constructed of brick. A two-story hotel abutted the rear of the station house, with a wing extending eastward. He went inside and took a room for the night.

  The trip from Virginia City had consumed the better part of a week. By stage and train, he and Lola had made their way to Denver. There he’d laid over a night and then caught the northbound for Wyoming. At Laramie, he had switched to the Union Pacific and continued on to Nebraska. The roundabout route was tedious and wearing. Yet, for all the inconveniences, it had relieved him of a major worry. Lola’s brief stint as an undercover operative had ended with her engagement at the Gem Theater. She was once more safely in Denver.

  No longer in disguise, Starbuck registered at the hotel under his own name. He was pressed for time, and he thought it would speed things along if he approached Carver openly. After dropping his warbag in the room, he returned to the lobby. His inquiry about Buffalo Bill’s theatrical headquarters was apparently routine stuff in North Platte. The desk clerk simply pointed him in the right direction, noting it was a short walk. Outside, he turned west on Front Street.

  The town’s main thoroughfare bordered the railroad tracks. Once a frontier outpost, the settlement had expanded along the banks of the South Platte River. A cavalry cantonment, Fort McPherson, was the hub of the community. The business district was centered on the fort, and behind it, toward the river, was a growing residential area. Stores and shops lined Front Street, but North Platte was still very much a small town. A brisk walk in any direction ended on open prairie.

  Some distance past the fort, Starbuck stopped before a modest frame house. To the rear was a large barn and a log corral. A group of men, dressed in range clothes and vaquero costumes, was standing outside the barn. Several Indians were squatting in a patch of shade near the corral. Their faces were smeared with war paint, and their manner of dress pegged them as Pawnees. All of them looked like actors in a traveling stock company.

  Starbuck circled the house and walked toward the barn. The loafers standing outside gave him a quick once-over, then went back to talking. He entered through the wide double doors and found himself in what appeared to be an office. The front of the barn had been partitioned off, and two men were busily at work. One was seated behind a table littered with correspondence and ledgers. The other sat at a rolltop desk, scribbling furiously with pen and paper. The wall behind them was emblazoned with show posters. Among the more eye-catching were advertisements for The King of Border Men and The Scouts of the Plains. All of them depicted Buffalo Bill in epic proportions.

  The man behind the table glanced up. “Do something for you?”

  Starbuck approached and halted. “I’d like to see Doc Carver.”

  “He’s out.”

  “How about Bill Cody?”

  “He’s busy.”

  “Tell him it’s important.”

  “I handle important matters for Colonel Cody.”

  “Who are you?”

  “John Burke, manager of the company.”

  “Then you won’t do.” Starbuck’s tone was flat and hard. “Suppose you just tell Cody I’m here.”

  “Now—” Burke hesitated, looked deeper into the pale stare. “What’s the name?”

  “Luke Starbuck.”

  “He doesn’t like interruptions . . . but I’ll try.”

  “You do that.”

  Burke stood and moved to a door at the end of the room. He rapped once and entered. The other man turned from his desk, watching Starbuck a moment. Then he dropped his pen and rose, walking forward.

  “Are you the Luke Starbuck—the detective?”

  “Usually,” Starbuck acknowledged. “You’ve got the advantage on me.”

  “Oh!” The man smiled sheepishly. “I’m Prentiss Ingraham, Mr. Starbuck. I write all of Bill’s adventure stories.”

  Starbuck was familiar with the product, if not the man. It was common knowledge that one or more ghostwriters churned out the dime novels about Buffalo Bill. The stories were pure invention, written in a florid style, and pandered to the public’s taste for hair-raising derring-do. The plots generally subjected Buffalo Bill to capture by savage Indians or desperados; by some ingenious trick he always managed to foil the villains and emerge victorious. A great many people accepted the stories as literal truth.

  Around Denver, where Cody’s stage show had appeared several times, he was known as See Me Bill. The nickname derived from his flamboyant style of dress and his passion for telling big windies about himself. His official autobiography, published not quite two years ago, merely served to reinforce the point. Westerners were now of the opinion that he was no longer able to distinguish between the dime-novel yarns and the reality of his years on the Plains. Starbuck, for his part, saw it as a sad commentary. He knew that Cody had served as chief of scouts for several cavalry regiments and had been awarded the Medal of Honor for bravery in action. He thought the truth far more compelling than the fiction.

  “I’ve read a couple of your stories,” Starbuck remarked, nodding toward the desk. “You writing a new one?”

  “No, not a novel,” Ingraham explained. “I’m working on a new play. We open in Chicago week after next, and from there we tour the East. Bill always insists on something fresh—original—to kick off the season.”

  “How do you keep coming up with ideas?”

  Ingraham grinned and tapped his head. “All a product of the imagination! Our audiences like them wild and woolly!”

  Starbuck couldn’t argue the point. For the past decade, the Buffalo Bill Combination had toured America. The stage shows were a mix of vaudeville and melodrama. The shooting exhibitions and roping acts were generally a prelude. The feature attraction was a play starring Bill Cody, some farfetched tale involving danger and damsels in distress. The show was booked solid every year, and every performance played to a full house. Buffalo Bill was by now an institution, almost a household word. Theater owners considered his show money in the bank.

  “What we do,” Ingraham went on, “doesn’t compare with your work, Mr. Starbuck. I’ve followed your cases in the newspapers, and I must admit I’m fascinated by the detective business. Have you ever considered doing an autobiography?”

  “If I do,” Starbuck said with a note of irony, “I’ll look you up, Mr. Ingraham. You did a helluva job for Cody.”

  “Oh, no, you’re mistaken! Bill wrote that himself!”

  “In here, Mr. Starbuck.” Burke reappeared in the doorway. “Colonel Cody will see you now.”

  Starbuck smiled at Ingraham and turned away. He crossed the room, moving past Burke, and stepped into an inner office. The walls were decorated with Indian regalia and all manner of weapons, and several overstuffed chairs were grouped around a long table. As Starbuck entered, two men rose from their chairs. One of them he immediately identified as Bill Cody.

  Buffalo Bill looked the part of a hero. He was easily six feet tall, with broad shoulders and the straight-arrow carriage of a soldier. He wore a goatee and mustache, and his hair hung in ringlets over his shoulders. He was attired in fringed buckskins and knee boots, and a brace of ivory-handled pistols were strapped around his waist. He grinned broadly and extended his han
d.

  “Welcome, Mr. Starbuck!”

  “I appreciate your time, Mr. Cody.”

  Starbuck sensed he was somewhat ossified. Cody’s eyes were slightly glazed and his breath smelled of liquor. All of which seemed to confirm his reputation as a boozer. Still, he was in dazzling good humor and clearly delighted by the interruption. He shook Starbuck’s hand vigorously.

  “I don’t mind saying it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Starbuck! You are the premier detective of our fabled West! God strike me dead if you’re not!”

  Starbuck brushed aside the compliment. “Every cripple does his own dance.”

  “You’re too modest!” Cody motioned the other man forward. “Let me introduce you to someone who chronicles the deeds of men such as ourselves. Luke Starbuck, meet Edward Judson. Otherwise known as Ned Buntline!”

  “Mr. Starbuck.” Buntline pumped his arm. “I’ve been an admirer of yours for years.”

  Starbuck was mildly surprised. A writer by trade, Buntline was perhaps the best-known dime novelist of the day. There were many people who credited him as well with Bill Cody’s success. Some years ago they had teamed up to produce the original stage show and several Buffalo Bill dime novels. Then, by all accounts, Cody had severed the partnership and sent Buntline packing. The writer’s presence today made for interesting speculation.

  “Don’t stand on formality!” Cody trumpeted. “You boys grab a chair!”

  “I wonder—” Starbuck stopped him with a gesture. “Would it be possible to speak with you in private? I don’t mean to intrude, but it’s important.”

  “You’re not intruding!” Cody assured him. “We were just sitting around chewing the fat. Weren’t we, Ned?”

  Buntline got the hint. “Why don’t I check with you later, Bill? That will give you time to think things over.”

  “Capital idea!” Cody agreed. “I’ll sleep on it overnight.”

  “Tomorrow, then.” Buntline glanced at Starbuck. “Hope to see you again, Mr. Starbuck.”

  Cody ushered him to the door with an arm around his shoulders. Buntline paused, talking quietly a moment, then went out. Cody firmly closed the door and turned back into the room.