The Judas Tree

by Matt Braun

  The greater revelation, however, had to do with the upcoming holdup. In discussions of the job, it became abundantly clear that Yeager had inside information. He already knew the value of the express shipment, and he was certain it would depart Virginia City on the morning stage. The clincher came when he told them the strongbox would be secreted beneath the floorboards of the coach. While he made no mention of an informant, the conclusion was all too obvious. There was a Judas working for the stageline.

  The gang members themselves were no great surprise. To a man, they were cold and callous, and placed little or no value on human life. They joked openly about express guards who had put up a fight and died in the effort. Yet, for all their grisly humor, they treated Starbuck with grudging respect. The story of his shootout with Pete Johnson had made the rounds, and none of them doubted his coolness under fire. Still, he was an unknown quantity as a robber, which caused them to reserve judgment. His test would come on the stage road to Dillon.

  Starbuck was under no illusions. Today, as they rode higher into the mountains, he knew he would have but one chance to prove himself. Steady nerves and teamwork were attributes demanded of every member of the gang. A new recruit who appeared shaky—or too much of a lone wolf—was a risk no one could afford; his first job would be his last. Starbuck understood the danger and accepted it without qualms. He had every intention of pulling his own weight.

  The holdup went off without a hitch. Yeager selected a sharp switchback on an uphill grade. Then he posted two men on either side of the road, with himself to the front and Reeves to the rear. An hour or so later, the stagecoach slowly rounded the curve. On the grade, the driver was forced to hold his horses to a walk, with no chance for a sudden burst of speed. Yeager simply stepped into the road while the others rose from hiding and covered the stage. All of them were masked, brandishing their weapons in a threatening manner, and Yeager’s commands were obeyed without hesitation. The express guard dropped his shotgun, and the passengers obligingly tore up the floorboards and tossed out the strongbox. From start to finish, the robbery took less than ten minutes. Then the stage was allowed to proceed on its way.

  The strongbox was carried into the woods. There Yeager blew off the lock with his pistol. The contents were an equal mix of bullion, gold dust, and bags of coins. The value, listed on an enclosed manifest, was fifty-six thousand dollars. While the men laughed and clowned, Yeager divvied the loot into separate piles. Reeves brought his own horse and Yeager’s horse forward, and one pile went into their saddlebags. The other pile, amounting to some five thousand dollars per man, was divided among the gang members. Then they mounted and scattered to the winds.

  Yeager asked Starbuck to wait behind. He left Reeves loading the saddlebags and walked Starbuck back to the road. His face was twisted in a possum grin.

  “Well, what d’you think? Was I lyin’ or not?”

  “Hell, no!” Starbuck laughed. “Easiest money I ever made in my life.”

  “Figgered you wouldn’t have no complaint.”

  “No complaint,” Starbuck agreed. “But I got a question.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “How come you take half?” Starbuck inquired easily. “You never told me it worked that way.”

  Yeager gave him a dirty look. “It don’t pay to get greedy.”

  “A man’s entitled to ask.”

  “I plan the job and it’s me that takes most of the risks! On top of that, I guarantee every time you ride you’ll get a payday. Which ain’t exactly nothin’ to sniff at! So let’s just say it all evens out in the end.”

  “I wasn’t bellyachin’ . . . just curious.”

  “Now you know.” Yeager studied the ground a moment, then glanced up. “You handled yourself real good, Lee. Keep your nose clean and stay out of trouble. I’ll be in touch before long.”

  “Any idea how long?”

  “Don’t get antsy,” Yeager ordered. “When I’ve got a payday lined up, you’ll hear about it. Understand?”

  “Whatever you say, Frank.”

  Starbuck waved and swung aboard his horse. He reined about and rode toward Virginia City. The thought occurred that he could have killed Yeager just now and reported the case closed. Yet he knew that would have been only a half-truth. Frank Yeager was not the man he’d been hired to kill.

  Over the last four days Starbuck had studied the gang leader closely. Yeager possessed a certain cunning, and he was an excellent tactician when it came to pulling a holdup. But he was no mental giant, hardly a thinker. Nor had he displayed the flair for organization and planning that were the hallmarks of the operation. He was a field commander, nothing more.

  Simple deduction led to an obvious conclusion. Somehow, in a way not yet revealed, the entire operation was directed by a mastermind. The robbers themselves were little more than puppets; someone in the background pulled the strings. One intriguing possibility was that the Judas and the mastermind might be the same man. Only time and deeper investigation would tell. But of one thing there was no longer a shred of doubt. Frank Yeager was merely the gang leader. He was not the ringleader.

  And that was the man Starbuck had been hired to kill.

  Chapter Nine

  Outside Virginia City, Starbuck turned north. He skirted the town until he hit the rutted wagon trail. Then he rode west toward Rattlesnake Creek.

  Earlier, upon parting company with Yeager, he’d been undecided as to his next move. He was convinced Yeager took orders from whoever masterminded the robberies. There was also reason to believe that inside information was being passed along to the gang. It followed, then, that there was a pipeline into either the express office or the stageline company. The Judas was someone with access to confidential shipment schedules, highly restricted information. All of which put a whole new complexion on the problem.

  Starbuck could no longer afford to trust anyone. Topping the list were the men who had hired him. Munro Salisbury, president of the stageline, had direct knowledge of the express shipments. John Duggan, who headed the mining association, was also privy to inside matters. It seemed unlikely that either man was directly implicated in the holdups. Yet, however improbable, it was nonetheless a factor that merited consideration. The greater likelihood was that the Judas enjoyed the confidence of one or both of the men. So anything they knew was very probably known by the Judas. That being the case, the option of contacting either Salisbury or Duggan was foreclosed. To do so would risk blowing his cover.

  Still, Starbuck desperately needed a lead. His suspicions were valueless without hard evidence. He somehow had to unearth the identity of the mastermind and ringleader, not to mention the Judas. But he couldn’t confide in Salisbury or Duggan, nor could he question them as to likely suspects. By process of elimination, that left only Frank Yeager.

  Several things were apparent. Foremost was that Yeager’s half of the loot would somehow be split with the ringleader. Unless Starbuck missed his guess, the division would occur fairly rapidly. There was little honor among thieves, and Yeager would not be entrusted with the haul for any length of time. The premise seemed solid, and from it evolved two very distinct possibilities. The ringleader would appear at Yeager’s ranch and collect his share of the spoils. Or, barring that, Yeager would deliver the split to someone in Virginia City. One way or the other, an exchange was inevitable.

  In Starbuck’s view, it boiled down to a matter of risk. The ringleader would place himself in greater jeopardy by traveling to Yeager’s ranch. Aside from the risk of being seen, it would immediately establish a connection. The wiser choice would be to effect the exchange in Virginia City. For one thing, Yeager’s appearance in town would draw little attention. For another, the teeming crowds and street activity offered a better chance of secrecy. Yeager could move about at will and pick his time. No one would suspect he was there to make a payoff.

  For all that, Starbuck was still determined to hedge his bet. He’d learned long ago that trying to outguess a crook
was a sticky proposition. The only certainty was that the exchange would take place at night. Anyone cunning enough to organize the robberies would not hazard a payoff in broad daylight. Whether at Yeager’s ranch or in Virginia City, the meeting would occur under the cloak of darkness. So there was only one logical spot to set up a surveillance. And that spot was Rattlesnake Creek.

  Late that afternoon, Starbuck dismounted in a grove of trees. To the west, the sun was dipping lower behind the mountains. He tied his horse and walked forward to the creek. Yeager’s house was some distance beyond the far bank, but easily visible. He took a position screened by the treeline and lit a cigarette. Then he settled down to wait.

  Everything appeared in order. Yeager and Reeves, much as he’d expected, had taken a shortcut through the mountains. Their horses were unsaddled and standing hipshot in the corral. By rough estimate, he calculated they had ridden into the ranch some two hours ago. A tendril of smoke drifted from the chimney, and he caught the scent of coffee on an upwind breeze. He imagined they were eating supper about now, and his stomach rumbled in protest. The detective business, he told himself wryly, was a tough way to make a living. Outlaws had all the best of it . . . till the end.

  Starbuck’s wait ended three cigarettes later. As dusk settled over the land Yeager emerged from the house. His saddlebags were thrown over his shoulder, and the weight was sufficient to make him list. There seemed little doubt the pockets were stuffed with bullion and gold dust. He walked swiftly to the corral and draped the saddlebags over the top rail. Then he caught up his horse and snubbed him near the gate. He began saddling.

  Easing away from the creek, Starbuck hurried through the trees. His hunch had panned out; Yeager was headed for Virginia City and a payoff. Yet Starbuck knew an even larger gamble was about to commence. To trail Yeager into town—in the dark—would require that he stick too close for comfort. Even if Yeager didn’t spot him, the sound of hoofbeats from behind would betray his presence. Either way, it would alert Yeager and spoil the game. So he had no choice but to ride ahead and take up watch on the outskirts of town. He was betting Yeager would stick to the wagon road.

  He mounted and galloped hell-for-leather toward Virginia City.

  The night was dark as pitch. Starbuck stood in the shadows of a whorehouse at the west end of Wallace Street. The red-light district was swarming with miners, every crib and bagnio turning them away at the doors. No one even glanced in his direction.

  Starbuck judged it to be somewhere around eleven o’clock. He’d been waiting nearly two hours, and still no sign of Yeager. While he’d pushed his horse, he hadn’t thought Yeager would poke along. Unless the gang leader showed soon, it would mean he had circled and entered town somewhere else. Or worse, that his destination was not Virginia City after all. A sinking feeling crept over Starbuck as he considered the thought.

  Then, suddenly, he stiffened and edged deeper into the shadows. Yeager rode past at a walk, slumped slouch-shouldered in the saddle. Starbuck tugged his hat low and joined the stream of miners on the boardwalk. He stayed a good twenty paces behind, following slowly as Yeager moved toward the center of town. At the next corner, Yeager turned south on Van Buren. Starbuck kept to the north side of Wallace and stopped at the corner. He saw Yeager rein into an alleyway.

  Crossing the street, Starbuck hurried to the alley. He eased his head around the corner of a building and watched as Yeager rode halfway down the block. There the gang leader halted at the intersection of an alleyway which ran in the opposite direction. He took a long look around, then dismounted and moved across the intersection on foot. He hitched his horse to the banister of a stair landing and quickly unfastened his saddle bags. With the saddlebags thrown over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs to a second-floor landing. He stopped before a door and knocked. Several moments passed before the door opened in a flood of light. He stepped inside.

  Starbuck’s pulse skipped a beat. The distant alley was the one in which he’d killed Pete Johnson. It flanked the Gem Theater and emerged onto Wallace Street, the town’s main thoroughfare. More to the point, Lola had told him that Omar Stimson, the theater owner, had an office on the second floor. Frank Yeager had just climbed the stairs to the Gem’s rear entrance.

  Whirling around, Starbuck sprinted back to the corner. He turned onto Wallace Street and rushed along the boardwalk. He bulled through the throngs of miners, roughly shoving and jostling as he moved down the block. When he pulled up outside the Gem, no more than thirty seconds had passed since he’d observed Yeager mount the stairs. He pushed through the bat-wing doors and halted.

  The barroom was packed with a boisterous crowd. His gaze swept the room, then abruptly stopped. He saw Omar Stimson standing behind several miners at one of the faro layouts. The play was heavy, and the Gem’s owner seemed to have his eye on the dealer. As Starbuck watched, a bouncer threaded his way through the men ganged around the table. Tapping Stimson on the shoulder, he whispered something under his breath and jerked a thumb upstairs. Stimson asked a question, and the bouncer bobbed his head. After a moment, one eye still on the faro game, Stimson turned away. The bouncer swiftly cleared a path.

  Starbuck held his place by the door. He lit a cigarette, gazing over the flare of the match. Stimson, preceded by the bouncer, crossed the room and went up the stairs to the second floor. On the upper landing, they entered a hallway and walked toward the rear of the building. Starbuck snuffed the match and took a long, thoughtful drag.

  All of it fitted and everything he’d seen made sense. Yet he was struck by a sudden doubt. Some visceral instinct told him things were not as they appeared.

  Omar Stimson wasn’t the man he’d been hired to kill.

  Starbuck sat concealed behind a trash heap. Across from him was Yeager’s horse and the stairway leading to the Gem’s rear entrance. Some fifteen minutes had elapsed since he’d walked from the theater and found himself a vantage point in the alley. He waited with the patience of a hunter stalking dangerous game.

  His conviction was stronger now. What began as a swift-felt impulse had been buttressed by hard-won experience. After seven years as a detective, he had gained considerable insight into the mentality of criminals. One of the prime lessons he’d learned had to do with the inner workings of the underworld. There was a certain code which governed any criminal enterprise. The more complex the operation, the more rigid the system became; where big money was involved, the rules were all but carved in stone. The code was formulated by the underworld hierarchy, and it was enforced with ruthless savagery. No one broke the rules and lived.

  So far, the chain of command had followed a standard pattern. Frank Yeager recruited men into the gang and led them in the actual holdups. Yet he operated under the sanction of someone at a higher level, and he was accountable for every job. Clearly, the man he reported to was Omar Stimson, the vice czar of Virginia City. In turn, Stimson answered to someone still higher. A percentage of all criminal activity—whether vice or stage robbery—was funneled to a man at the top. An overlord whose word was law in any underworld enterprise. A man with political clout.

  In Starbuck’s experience, vice and politics were inseparable. Without political protection, no vice czar could exert control over the diverse elements within the underworld. He’d found it to be true in other mining camps, such as Tombstone and Deadwood. On another assignment, which took him to San Francisco, the trail had led from train robbers to a vice boss to a political kingpin. Even in Denver, his own town, a thug named Lou Blomger controlled vice and crime through dominance of the political apparatus. Never before had he encountered an exception. Wherever he traveled, he found politics and vice to be the original strange bedfellows. Virginia City would prove no different.

  Hidden behind the trash heap, Starbuck considered the knotty question of how to proceed. Frank Yeager was plainly an underling, low man on the totem pole. He could easily be captured and made to talk. Charged with robbery and murder, he would gladly spill his guts to avoid
the hangman’s noose. That would implicate Stimson and thereby place him on the road to the gallows. Still, there was a vast difference between the two men. A stage robber was expendable, merely a pawn to be sacrificed. A vice czar was virtually immune to prosecution.

  Stimson was a dominant force in the underworld. By extension, that made him a key member of the local power structure. Should he decide to name names, he could implicate the man—or men—who ruled Virginia City. Therefore, even if he were taken into custody, he would not talk. Whoever he reported to would grant him immunity in exchange for silence. No indictment would be handed down and he would not stand trial. He would, instead, walk away free.

  Accordingly, Starbuck saw nothing to be gained by hasty action. The smarter move was to lie low and play a waiting game. Yeager had led him to Stimson, and that was by no means the end of the trail. Nor was it the last of the payoffs. The haul from the robbery would be split once again, and this time Stimson would make the delivery. Perhaps tonight, maybe not until tomorrow. But Starbuck thought it would be done without undue delay. He planned to follow wherever Stimson led.

  Shortly before midnight Yeager emerged from the upstairs office. His saddlebags were empty, and he came down the stairs like a man relieved of a burden. Then he mounted his horse and rode off. Starbuck simply hid and watched. He was resigned to a long wait.

  Not ten minutes later the door again opened. The bouncer stepped onto the upstairs landing and peered around the alley. He was a bruiser, heavily muscled, with a thick neck and powerful shoulders. A bulge underneath his suit jacket indicated he had a pistol stuffed in the waistband of his trousers. At length, he turned and signaled the all clear. Omar Stimson moved through the door and followed him down the stairway. The vice czar was carrying a leather satchel.

  Starbuck suddenly felt vindicated. The bouncer was clearly riding shotgun on the contents of the satchel. Which meant everyone involved knew the robbery had taken place and they were expecting to be paid off tonight. He waited until Stimson and the goon reached the end of the alley. When they rounded the corner onto Van Buren Street, he quit the trash heap. He tailed them at a discreet distance.