The Judas Tree

by Matt Braun

  Starbuck let out his breath in a low whistle. “Now it all ties together. Skinner rigged it with Hoyt to fake your death. Then Hoyt spread the story that it was the work of outlaws trying to murder him. So that got you off the hook and it left Omar Stimson with nothing to tell the ‘boss.’ Isn’t that about the gist of it?”

  Alice Carver’s hand darted to her hair like a dying bird. “Cyrus loved me very much. He jeopardized himself for my sake . . . and what we’d shared.”

  “No question about it,” Doc Carver added hastily. “Skinner arranged the whole thing and got us out of town that same night. His only condition was that we were never to tell anyone—and stay away from Virginia City.”

  Starbuck heaved himself to his feet. “Doc, your secret’s safe with me. You and Alice just keep quiet, and don’t worry about a thing. I’ll see to it you’re never bothered again.”

  “What about Skinner?” Carver asked gloomily. “Will you have to . . .”

  “I’ll do my damnedest to take him alive. That’s the best I can promise.”

  Starbuck departed on that note. Outside the dressing room, he walked toward the stage entrance. His mind turned to train schedules and the journey ahead. He figured tonight’s killings had bought him a week’s grace, no more. Once the news hit Virginia City, all bets were off. He would have lost the element of surprise, and the edge.

  The night watchman nodded as Starbuck opened the door and stepped into the chill night air. He ran full tilt into Bill Cody. The scout stumbled and almost lost his balance. He was glassy-eyed and clearly feeling no pain. He gave Starbuck a tipsy grin.

  “You’re all set, Luke! I let those reporters have an earful!”

  “Wish I could’ve been there to hear it, Bill.”

  “Ol’ Deadeye Starbuck!” Cody laughed uproariously. “You’re gonna have yourself one helluva write-up in tomorrow’s papers. Course, it won’t do my show any harm, either. I took a modest share of the credit—knowing you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Don’t mind a bit,” Starbuck said earnestly. “You showed plenty of guts tonight, Bill. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Cody’s chest swelled and he stood a little straighter. “Guess I didn’t do so bad at that. I’ve been shooting blanks so long I almost forgot what real gunpowder smells like.”

  “An old war-horse like you never forgets.”

  “Well, it’s damn white of you to say so, Luke! Why don’t I buy you a drink and we’ll swap a few win-dies?”

  “Another time, maybe. I’ve got a train to catch.”

  “Where the devil you off to now?”

  “Headed west,” Starbuck said with an odd smile. “Look me up whenever you’re in Denver.”

  Cody wrung his hand and smote him across the shoulder. Then Starbuck turned and hurried toward the street. As he walked away it occurred to him that he had played into luck with Buffalo Bill’s Combination. Tonight’s backstage drama had positively identified the man he’d been hired to kill. Only one man knew about Alice Carver’s empty coffin. Therefore, only one man could have sent the killers to Chicago. A man who was called boss by Virginia City’s underworld leaders.

  His name was Henry Palmer.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The east end of Wallace Street was blocked by a shoulder-to-shoulder horde of miners. The crowd choked the intersection, and the roofs of several business establishments were packed with men. Their attention was riveted on the sheriff’s office.

  Farther upstreet, the noon stage slowly ground to a halt. Starbuck stepped from the coach, and his gaze was immediately drawn to the commotion. He’d departed Chicago six days ago, and he looked somewhat the worse for wear. His eyes were bloodshot from too little sleep and his features were etched with fatigue. He stared at the massed throng with a fuzzy expression, thoroughly bewildered. After collecting his warbag, he stopped a miner hurrying past. The man responded to his inquiry with a shout and a huge grin.

  “Hanging! Frank Yeager’s gonna swing!”

  The reply jolted Starbuck out of his funk. A surge of adrenalin pumped through him and he was suddenly galvanized with energy. He ducked into the hotel and left his warbag with the desk clerk. Then he crossed to the south side of the street and rushed along the boardwalk. Halfway down the block the crowd grew denser, with miners packed into a solid wedge. He pushed and shoved, bulling through their ranks, and finally fought his way to the intersection. The sheriff’s office and the jail were on the opposite corner. To the rear of the building, on an open plot of ground, stood a timbered scaffold. Several armed deputies held the crowd at a distance.

  A hush fell over the miners as Starbuck edged around the corner. He stopped, staring intently across the street. Frank Yeager, arms strapped to his sides, was positioned over the gallows trapdoor. Apparently the death warrant had been read and the condemned man had already spoken his last words. As Starbuck watched, the sheriff loosened a hangman’s noose dangling from the crossbeam. Palmer then slipped the noose over Yeager’s head and cinched the knot tight behind the left ear. Yeager’s eyes glistened and his labored breathing was audible in the eerie quiet. He looked like a bayed animal, paralyzed and desperate.

  Palmer walked to the rear of the gallows and halted beside a long wooden lever. His expression was phlegmatic, no trace of emotion. He seemed to hesitate for an interminable length of time, though only a few seconds elapsed. Then he took hold of the wooden lever and yanked it hard. The trapdoor popped open and Frank Yeager shot through the hole. A split second later he hit the end of the rope with a suddenness that jarred the scaffold. His neck snapped and his head crooked over his shoulder at a grotesque angle. His body hung on a plumb line, swaying gently to the creak of the rope. A dark stain spread over the crotch of his trousers.

  Somewhere in the crowd a man loosed a yipping cheer. The assemblage took up the cry, and within moments the voices of a thousand or more miners were raised in a thunderous bloodroar. On the scaffold, Palmer seemed wholly oblivious to the bedlam on the street. He knelt at the edge of the trapdoor and felt for a pulsebeat on Yeager’s neck. Then he stood, motioning to a couple of the deputies, who hurried beneath the scaffold and lifted the dead man into the air. Palmer removed the noose, and the body was lowered to the ground. The crowd began chanting his name as he descended the gallows steps. The sheriff waved and disappeared through the back door of the jail.

  A chill settled over Starbuck. Something was all wrong here, and he had no ready explanation. Frank Yeager should not have gone quietly to his death. He should have accused, instead, the man who’d hanged him. The boss of Virginia City, Henry Palmer. Yet it was clear that Yeager had suspected nothing. Nor was there any evidence of hostility among the miners and townspeople. The crowd had actually cheered the sheriff.

  Starbuck turned and walked away. A prickly uneasiness pervaded his thoughts, and he felt curiously disoriented. The case had taken a queer and totally unexpected twist while he was in Chicago. He needed information, details and hard facts. Only then could he sort things out and decide on his next move. He drifted along as the crowd quickly dispersed to saloons and gaming dens upstreet. A hanging was always good for business.

  By the time he entered the hotel, Starbuck had regained his composure. His features were a mask of bonhomie and jolly good humor. He approached the front desk, where he’d left his warbag, with a confident stride. He nodded pleasantly to the desk clerk.

  “You missed a helluva show!”

  “Just my luck!” the desk clerk grouched. “Biggest thing that’s happened around here since Heck was a pup!”

  Starbuck thought there was little chance he would be recognized. On previous stopovers at the hotel, he’d been operating under the guise of Lee Hall; today he was himself. The desk clerk seemed the talkative sort, and the lobby was empty. He figured it was as good a place as any to start asking questions. He leaned on the counter, his expression quizzical.

  “Who was the jaybird they hung?”

  “Frank Yeager!”
the desk clerk said importantly. “Only the top dog of a gang of stage robbers and murderers!”

  “No joke?” Starbuck marveled. “How’d he get himself caught?”

  “Sheriff Palmer captured him and brought him to trial. He confessed, and the jury sentenced him to hang.”

  “Confessed?” Starbuck repeated, genuinely astonished. “Why would he do a thing like that?”

  The desk clerk chortled. “There’s a rumor the sheriff put a gun to his head. Anyway, Yeager wrote it out and signed it, and he named names. Set the whole town back on its ear!”

  “You talking about gang members?”

  “Well, that was only part of it. Turns out a couple of big muckamucks here in town were involved. One was Omar Stimson, owned the Gem Theater. The other was Cyrus Skinner—and that really blew the lid!”

  Starbuck took a tight grip on himself. “What’s so important about Skinner?”

  “Everybody thought he was the pillar of the community! But Yeager accused him of being the mastermind behind the robberies and the political kingfish of Virginia City. Appears he was right, too! Skinner lit out and he hasn’t been heard from since.”

  “What happened to the other one . . . Stimson?”

  “Dead and buried! Sheriff Palmer cornered him in his office, over at the Gem. The damn fool resisted arrest—pulled a gun—and the sheriff shot him down on the spot. Guess he figured he’d hang anyway, so what the hell!”

  “How about the gang?”

  “Now there’s a story!”

  The desk clerk gleefully recounted events of the past twenty-four hours. A news story had appeared yesterday regarding a private detective and a shootout in Chicago. The story implied that the stageline had little faith in the sheriff; thus an undercover agent had been assigned to the case. Adding to the controversy was the fact that the sheriff had captured Yeager but none of the gang. The vigilantes had mobilized, with their leader, Wilbur X. Lott, issuing a call for citizen justice. Late yesterday three gang members had been run to earth and summarily hanged. Earlier today two more robbers had been taken prisoner, and they were scheduled to hang before sundown. It was both an object lesson to outlaws and a direct challenge to the sheriff. The vigilantes planned to hold a public necktie party on the edge of town. Their act, in effect, would place them above the law.

  “The town’s divided,” the desk clerk concluded. “Some support the sheriff and some support the vigilantes. God knows where it’ll end!”

  Starbuck thought it an appropriate comment. He signed the register and collected his warbag. Then he climbed the stairs and moved along the hallway to his room. His carefree manner vanished the moment the door closed. He was now thoroughly confounded.

  Standing at the window, he stared out across the mining camp. He mentally catalogued all he’d learned in Chicago. The Carver girl’s story, added to the backstage shootout, led inexorably to one conclusion. Sheriff Henry Palmer was the shadowy “boss” of Virginia City.

  Yet that certitude had now gone by the boards. Palmer’s actions over the past week or so were those of a dedicated lawman. He had wrung a confession out of Yeager and brought the gang leader to trial in open court. At the same time, he had exposed the town’s vice lord and killed him in a gunfight. Finally, he’d put Cyrus Skinner to flight and thereby scuttled the entire conspiracy. All of which would have proved suicidal—if Palmer actually was the “boss.”

  Any of the men involved, particularly Stimson and Skinner, could have turned the tables. By identifying Palmer, they could have saved themselves and gained revenge in one stroke. But none of them had pointed an accusing finger and no allegations had been directed at the sheriff. Events, it appeared, were at variance with everything unearthed in Chicago. Nothing jibed, and for all practical purposes there was no case. The theory about Henry Palmer had been scotched.

  Starbuck found himself in a quandary. There was no doubt whatever that a conspiracy existed. Alice Carver’s story, in that respect at least, had been borne out by what he’d uncovered on his own. Yet the principal suspect—until an hour ago the only suspect—was seemingly absolved of guilt. Which raised the specter of still another imponderable.

  Who was the phantom “boss” of Virginia City?

  Late that afternoon the sun slowly retreated toward the mountains. The creek was molten with sunlight and the road through Alder Gulch was jammed with miners. Their destination was a clearing on the outskirts of town.

  Starbuck was lost in the crowd. He estimated there were easily twice as many men as had attended Frank Yeager’s hanging. More were arriving by the minute, with a greater number from claims upstream along the gulch. The turnout indicated the vigilantes had mustered strong support.

  From his vantage point, Starbuck had what amounted to a ringside seat. He stood on a small knoll which directly overlooked the clearing. A large alder tree, with massive branches sweeping outward, dominated the scene. He thought it ironic that the alder had already been dubbed the Judas Tree. The Judas he sought, who was still unidentified, no doubt appreciated the joke even more. Understandably, the vigilantes had selected the name solely for its biblical symbolism. All who robbed and murdered their fellow men were by definition the worst of traitors. Or so the vigilantes claimed.

  Strangely, Starbuck was not an advocate of vigilante justice. He hunted down outlaws and killed them, which was a form of summary execution. Yet he operated within the framework of the law, and he considered it contemptible to kill in cold blood. By his code, a mob was never to be trusted. There was no reason in their ugliness, no temperance in their rage.

  Some years ago, on his first job as a range detective, he’d witnessed the madness of mob action. Hired by a group of ranchers, he had trailed a gang of horse thieves to No Man’s Land. Following a gun battle, the ranchers had hanged the surviving gang members in a frenzy of bloodlust. With no power to intervene, he had gone along, even participated in the lynching. But he’d thought less of himself in the aftermath, and he hadn’t slept well for some months. Since then, he had avoided vigilantes like a virulent disease.

  Today he was reminded of that long-ago incident. In the clearing below, a group of some twenty vigilantes were gathered around the alder tree. Wilbur X. Lott, their leader, was busily orchestrating the proceedings. A cadaverous man, with a hooked nose and a downturned mouth, he was attired in a hammertail coat and a high-crowned black hat. His voice was loud and astringent, like that of a schoolteacher instructing unruly children. Which was not too far from the truth. He was teaching the rudiments of slow and painful death.

  The men waiting to be hanged were apparently resigned to the ordeal. Their hands were tied behind their backs and their expressions were vacant, almost bovine. One of the robbers was Yeager’s lieutenant, Charley Reeves. The other man was a hapless gang member whose name meant nothing to anyone. With seeming indifference, they allowed themselves to be positioned beneath a stout tree limb. Then ropes were tossed over the limb and crude nooses were fitted around their necks. Several vigilantes stepped forward and took hold of the slack ropes. Oddly, they looked like teams about to engage in a tug-of-war.

  On Lott’s command, the vigilantes hauled back on the ropes. The robbers, dancing frantically on empty space, were hoisted off the ground. Their eyes bulged and seemed to burst from the sockets with engorged blood vessels. Their gyrations spun them kicking and thrashing, while their features purpled, then turned darker. Their mouths popped open and their swollen tongues gradually changed from blackish amber to deep onyx in color. They vainly fought the ropes until the last gasp of air was gone, and even then their frenzied struggles lessened only by degrees. Several minutes passed while they slowly strangled to death.

  Starbuck eased through the crowd and made his way back to the road. As he walked toward town it occurred to him that Wilbur X. Lott was either a rank amateur or an inhuman sadist. He tended to think it was the latter. Lott had staged a gruesome spectacle with only one thought in mind. After today, the vigilante leader w
ould be known as a fearsome avenger, the champion of honest men. It was a reputation that would serve him well when he threw his hat into the political arena. The hanging of the stagecoach robbers was strictly incidental. A sideshow to beguile the mob and win support.

  On the edge of town, Starbuck spotted Henry Palmer. The sheriff was standing outside a whorehouse on the fringe of the red-light district. From there, he had observed the mass gathering of miners and the hangings. That he hadn’t attended—or attempted to interfere—was a gauge of the mood in Virginia City. His expression was somber as he watched Starbuck approach.

  “Hello, Luke.” He nodded stiffly. “Heard you’d checked into the hotel.”

  “I got back in time to see Frank Yeager take the drop.”

  “Why didn’t you come by the office?”

  Starbuck ignored the question. “That was a nifty piece of work with Yeager. From what I hear, you got him to squeal like a stuck hog.”

  “Nothing to brag about,” Palmer said, no timbre in his voice. “I should’ve followed your advice—gone after Stimson’s bouncer.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “Figured I’d make Yeager talk and build a stronger case. It worked fine till things went haywire.”

  Starbuck eyed him keenly. “Stimson’s bouncer wasn’t around, anyway. He trailed me to Chicago.”

  “I read about it.” Palmer shook his head ruefully. “Guess we outfoxed ourselves. Stimson must’ve had a tail on you the whole time.”

  “Appears that way.”

  “How’d you do with Alice Carver?”

  “Blind alley.” Starbuck opened hs hands, shrugged. “She wasn’t with her father, and all my other leads fizzled out. I suppose she’ll turn up someday.”

  “Yeah, probably so.” Palmer hawked and spat, eyes rimmed with disgust. “Seems like tough breaks always come in bunches.”

  Starbuck looked down and studied the ground a moment. “What’re you doing about Skinner?”