The Judas Tree

by Matt Braun

  “Guess he recollects our last go-round.”

  “Watch yourself,” Stimson warned. “Johnson’s a sore loser. He’s been known to carry a grudge.”

  “That’s his problem,” Starbuck said lightly. “I don’t look for trouble, but I’m always willing to oblige.”

  “Just thought I’d mention it.”

  “I appreciate the advice.”

  Stimson wandered off into the crowd. Starbuck had another drink, pleased by the incident. The vice boss of Virginia City apparently held him in some esteem. It was the sort of thing that would draw attention and thereby peg his reputation a notch higher. After finishing his drink, he decided to make the rounds. The more dives he visited, the faster the word would spread. And perhaps, with a little luck, he would get a nibble.

  Outside the theater, he eased through a knot of miners ganged around the entrance. Then he stepped off the boardwalk and angled toward a gaming den on the far corner. He was almost to the middle of the street when a slug nicked the shoulder of his coat. A split second later the report of a gun sounded directly behind him. All thought suspended, he acted on reflex alone. He dodged sideways, pulling his Colt as a second bullet whistled past. Then he hit the ground in a rolling dive, dimly aware of men stampeding in every direction. On the third roll he spun himself about, flat on his belly. He thumbed the hammer and brought the sixgun to bear.

  A third shot kicked dust in his face. He saw Pete Johnson standing in an alleyway, pistol extended at arm’s length. Starbuck’s finger feathered the trigger, and the Colt spat a sheet of flame. Then, with no more than a pulsebeat between shots, he emptied the gun. Johnson was driven backward as though struck by lightning. His arms windmilled crazily and the impact of the slugs sent him reeling in a strange, nerveless dance. He slammed into the wall of the theater; then his knees collapsed and he dropped his pistol. He pitched raglike to the ground. An eerie stillness settled over the street.

  Starbuck pushed to his feet and began shucking empty shells. He reloaded as he walked to the alley. There he stopped and stood for a moment looking down at the body. All five shots were in the chest, less than a handspan apart. He grunted to himself and holstered the Colt. Then he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Omar Stimson stepped off the boardwalk and halted beside him.

  “Looks like Johnson was feeling lucky.”

  “Sorry bastard!” Starbuck cursed savagely. “He tried to backshoot me!”

  Stimson slowly inspected the blood-spattered corpse. He shook his head, whistled softly under his breath. “You’re even better with a gun than you are with your fists.”

  “I generally get by.” Starbuck paused, looked at him. “Guess I should’ve listened a little closer. You shore called the turn.”

  “You want some more advice?”

  “Hell, why not?”

  “Sheriff Palmer frowns on gunplay. Do yourself a favor and talk polite when he questions you.”

  “God a’mighty damn! It was self-defense, pure and simple!”

  Stimson shrugged. “I’m just offering you a pearl of wisdom. Take it for what it’s worth.”

  “You talk like he’s some tough lawdog!”

  “You will, too . . . when he’s done with you.”

  Henry Palmer was a man with hard eyes and steel in his voice. He was trimly built, with dark wavy hair and a determined jaw. His bearing was monolithic, and he possessed a strong animal magnetism. He looked like someone accustomed to having his own way.

  Starbuck was seated opposite him. On the sheriff’s desk lay the Colt used to kill Pete Johnson. So far the questions had been general, almost conversational in tone. But now Palmer hefted the sixgun and studied it critically. The gutta-percha handles and lustrous blue finish gave it a distinctive appearance. He deftly unloaded the Colt and closed the loading gate. Then he eased the hammer to full cock and lightly touched the trigger. The hammer instantly dropped. He nodded and looked up.

  “A hair trigger,” he said quietly. “I would venture to say everything inside this pistol has been overhauled by a very competent gunsmith. Would I be wrong?”

  “Search me,” Starbuck said with a guileless smile. “I won it in a poker game.”

  “Who was your opponent . . . Doc Holliday?”

  “You’ve got me all wrong, Sheriff!”

  “No, Mr. Hall.” Palmer’s gaze bored into him. “Your shooting tags you for precisely what you are. You’re a professional gunman!”

  Starbuck rocked his hand, fingers splayed. “There’s no law against a man protecting himself.”

  “In Virginia City”—Palmer’s eyes were angry, commanding—“I am the law! A few weeks ago you whipped Johnson in a brawl, and tonight you killed him. That makes you a troublemaker in my book!”

  “Johnson started it both times.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Palmer said shortly. “Except for that, I’d have you under lock and key right now.”

  “I’m a mite confused, Sheriff.” Starbuck’s square face was very earnest. “Why’d you take my gun and haul me over here if you don’t aim to arrest me?”

  “Your habits interest me.”

  “Habits?” Starbuck repeated. “I don’t get you.”

  “You were here for a week; then you disappeared for almost two weeks.” Palmer paused with a speculative stare. “Now you’re back . . . and nobody saw you arrive.”

  Starbuck gave him a walleyed look of amazement. “How’d you know all that?”

  “I make it my business to know,” Palmer said without inflection. “What I don’t know is where you went—and what you did—when you left here.”

  “Any law says I gotta tell you?”

  “No.” Palmer’s face grew overcast. “But there’s a law you haven’t heard about. I put it into effect and I enforce it.”

  “What law’s that?”

  “Everybody is entitled to one mistake. You made yours by being too handy with a gun. Cause any more trouble, and I’ll post you out of town.”

  “Oh?” Starbuck smiled crookedly. “Suppose you posted me and I took a notion to stay. What then?”

  Palmer regarded him with clinical interest. “Then I’ll kill you.”

  Starbuck let it drop there. His Colt was returned and he was allowed to leave. On the street, he paused and lit a cigarette, highly pleased with himself. He’d killed a man and he had put himself crosswise of Virginia City’s badass sheriff. All in one night.

  The word would spread like wildfire.

  Chapter Eight

  Starbuck awakened shortly before noon. He hadn’t slept well, and his head felt groggy. He threw off the covers, sat for a moment on the edge of the bed. He dully recalled he was in the Virginia Hotel.

  Last night, he’d gone straight from the sheriff’s office back to the Gem Theater. His reception was even better than he had anticipated. Omar Stimson greeted him like a celebrity and insisted on buying several rounds of drinks. Killing a man—particularly Pete Johnson—had boosted his stock in Virginia City. The details were told and retold by those who had witnessed the shooting. He modestly allowed them to embroider on the truth.

  From the Gem, Starbuck had made a tour of the dives along the street. The sporting crowd treated him something like a conquering hero. Strangers stood in line to shake his hand, and drinks were on the house. Before long, he’d consumed enough liquor to act the part of a drunken loudmouth. He began by bragging about the shootout; then he went on to relate the highlights of his standoff with the sheriff. By the end of the night, he had told the story no fewer than a dozen times. He finally called it quits, acting only slightly drunker than he actually was, and checked into the hotel. He was thoroughly satisfied with his performance. Lee Hall was the talk of the town.

  Today, with a bright noontime sun streaming through the window, his thoughts turned to other matters. As he shaved, it occurred to him that he was somewhat impressed by Sheriff Henry Palmer. The lawman was tough and resourceful, and he ran a tight town. His credentials
were in no way diminished by the robberies and murders; his record of ten outlaws hanged and four killed was noteworthy by any standard. He was, moreover, a deadly mankiller. Starbuck recognized the breed on sight, for the quality was one shared by all boomtown peace officers. The warning issued by Palmer last night was no idle threat. Any man posted out of Virginia City would be wise to depart without delay. The alternative was to face the sheriff—and be killed.

  One thought led to another. Starbuck’s ruminations about the sheriff brought him once more to the matter of George Hoyt. The lawyer’s story was entirely plausible; it was reasonable to assume the outlaws would seek revenge against the county prosecutor. Yet, by that yardstick, it was equally safe to assume the outlaws would have attempted to assassinate the sheriff. And that wasn’t the case. So Starbuck knew his instinct hadn’t played him false. Hoyt had lied, and there was no logical explanation to justify the lie. Despite his devious manner, the lawyer clearly wasn’t in league with the robbers. But if that was true, then the lie seemed all the more unfathomable. Only one answer presented itself. Someone else, not the robbers, had murdered the Carver girl. All of which led to a still greater riddle.

  Who was George Hoyt protecting . . . and why?

  Starbuck pondered the question as he dressed. Doc Carver was lying and George Hoyt was lying, and none of it made sense. He glued the mustache onto his upper lip, all the while searching for some rhyme or reason. At last, completely buffaloed, he walked to the bed and retrieved his pistol from beneath the pillow. He checked the loads and lowered the hammer on an empty chamber.

  A knock sounded at the door. Starbuck crossed the room, his thumb hooked over the Colt’s hammer. He stopped beside the doorjamb.

  “Who’s there?”

  “I got a message for Lee Hall.”

  “Who from?”

  “Lemme in and I’ll tell you.”

  Starbuck twisted the key and backed to the center of the room. He leveled his sixgun on the door.

  “C’mon in . . . slow and easy!”

  The door creaked open. A tall, lantern-jawed man stepped into the room. He was grizzled and lean, with cold eyes and a tight-lipped expression. He looked like an undertaker at a funeral service, sober but not really sad. He closed the door and kept his hands in plain sight.

  “I come in peace,” he said solemnly. “You don’t need no gun.”

  “Who’re you and what’s your business?”

  “The name’s Frank Yeager.”

  “I’m still listening.”

  “I got a proposition for you.”

  “What sort of proposition?”

  “I don’t talk so good lookin’ down a gun barrel.”

  Starbuck wagged the pistol. “Take a seat on the bed. Put your hands on your knees and don’t try anything sudden.”

  “Sudden ain’t my game.”

  Starbuck waited until the man was seated. Then he pulled up a straight chair for himself and straddled it backward. He let the Colt dangle loosely in his hand.

  “Awright, Mr. Yeager,” he said churlishly. “What is your game . . . just exactly?”

  “You killed Pete Johnson last night.”

  “So?”

  “Johnson worked for me.” Yeager’s brow puckered with a frown. “Somebody’s gotta fill his boots. I figgered you might be the man.”

  Starbuck was instantly attentive. “How do I know you’re not trying to get even for Johnson? Sounds the least bit like a setup.”

  “If I wanted to kill you,” Yeager observed, squinting querulously, “I’d just wait and bushwhack you some dark night. Why bother to rig a setup?”

  “Guess you got a point,” Starbuck conceded. “Course, it doesn’t change things one way or the other. I got my own game and I play a lone hand.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Yeager’s eyes narrowed, and a smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Word’s around you snuck off and pulled a job last week.”

  Starbuck gave him the fisheye. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Little bird told me.” Yeager laughed without humor. “I hear you’re from Texas and you got no use for the law, and it’s short odds your name ain’t Lee Hall. I hear lots about you.”

  “Maybe too much,” Starbuck bristled. “I never cared much for a man with a long nose.”

  “Don’t get bent out of shape! Folks talk and I listen. No harm done!”

  “Why all the interest in me?”

  “You got guts!” Yeager grunted sharply. “And you damn sure ain’t no tyro with a gun! Anybody that puts Pete Johnson away knows his business. So I figgered I’d sound you out.”

  “Since you don’t hear so good, try watching my lips. I’m not for hire.”

  Yeager barked a short, harsh laugh. “You might change your tune when you hear the wages!”

  “Try me and see.”

  “Anywheres from five to ten thousand a crack.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Gold dust or dollars, it all spends the same.”

  Starbuck regarded him with a long, slow look. “What line of work are you in?”

  “I rob stagecoaches.”

  There was a long pause of weighing and appraisal as the two men examined one another. At length, Starbuck fixed him with a corrosive stare. “Ten thousand? You wouldn’t be pulling my leg, would you?”

  “One way to find out,” Yeager said simply. “Come along on a job and see for yourself.”

  “When did you have in mind?”

  “You got a horse?”

  “I could buy one easy enough.”

  “Not without everybody knowin’ it.” Yeager considered briefly, then nodded. “One of my men will come get you tomorrow night. He’ll bring an extra horse.”

  “Where’re we headed?”

  “You’ll see”—Yeager’s eyes veiled with caution—“when we get there.”

  A fleeting look of puzzlement crossed Starbuck’s face. “How’d you know I’d go for the deal? I could’ve turned you in to the sheriff and collected myself a reward.”

  “Four of my boys are waitin’ outside the hotel.”

  “So what?”

  “Unless they get the high sign from me, you’d be cold meat the minute you hit the street.”

  “You don’t play for chalkies, do you?”

  Yeager’s mouth set in an ugly grin. “I only bet on sure things. You’ll see what I mean the first trip out.”

  “Yeah, I reckon I will at that!”

  “Okay if I get up now?”

  “Jesus!” Starbuck stood with a foolish smile and quickly holstered his pistol. “I clean forgot I had you covered!”

  “Well, don’t forget tomorrow night. Somebody’ll rap on your door right about dark.”

  “Frank, if you want a sure thing—bet on that!”

  Starbuck walked him to the door and they shook hands. When Yeager was gone, he turned back into the room with a jubilant grin. The bait had been taken, hook and all! He’d got the invite he needed, and it had come from the gang leader himself. Which left only one question.

  Who the hell was Frank Yeager?

  • • •

  An early September frost touched the land. In the valleys, where cottonwoods lined the creeks, a blaze of yellow foretold oncoming autumn. On the hillsides, columns of silver birch were flecked through with orange and gold. The air was sharp and crisp, and the mountains marched westward to the horizon. A brilliant sunrise lighted the pale sky.

  The terrain got rougher as the men climbed steadily higher into the mountains. They followed the corduroy road that connected Virginia City with the railhead at Dillon. The steep grade was a series of hairpin curves and sudden switchbacks, twisting upward through the countryside. Frank Yeager led the way, and strung out behind him were five riders. The men wore mackinaws, and their horses puffed clouds of smoke in the frosty air. No one spoke.

  Starbuck was the third rider in line. The other men were a coarse lot, hard and tough, still somewhat standoffish. He understood he was the new recru
it, as yet untested. All the others were veteran highwaymen, old hands at robbery and murder. He’d been assigned the middle spot in the column, and it took no mental genius to figure the reason. He would be observed closely and entrusted with only the most menial chores. His every action would be noted, and his performance would determine his future with the gang. Today was a baptism into their ranks, and very much a test. It was his first job.

  Four nights past, one of the gang had appeared at the hotel. His name was Charley Reeves, and he was there at Yeager’s order. He led Starbuck to the edge of town, where two horses were hidden in a stand of trees. They rode westward along a rutted wagon road, and Reeves maintained an aloof silence the entire way. Sometime after midnight, they forded a creek and turned into the yard of a log house. Frank Yeager greeted them at the door.

  Over a jug of whiskey, Starbuck had been briefed on the layout. Yeager operated a small cattle outfit, located on Rattlesnake Creek. He supplied beef to butcher shops in Virginia City, and he’d built a reputation as an honest rancher. In truth, the ranch was nothing more than a clever front. The gang assembled there before a robbery, and only then were they told the details of the job. After the holdup, the loot was split and the gang immediately dispersed. Since they never returned to the ranch, there was no way to track them from the scene of the robbery. None of them were known outlaws, and no one suspected their involvement. The operation, for all practical purposes, was foolproof.

  Subsequently, Starbuck discovered that Yeager had not been entirely forthcoming. Over the next two days, while they waited for the gang to assemble, he listened more than he talked. From snatches of conversation between Yeager and Reeves, he slowly became aware that the operation was both complex and skillfully organized. Altogether, there were apparently a dozen or more gang members. Some lived in town and others worked claims along Alder Gulch. Yet they were rotated from job to job, and only five or six men took part in any one holdup. As a result, their periodic absences went unnoticed, and thereby the risk of exposure was reduced. The same men were never used on two jobs running.