Lone Star 05, page 4
Jessie said, “Let’s get out of here, Ki.” And without a glance at the mean-looking young man who smiled smugly at her, she strode outside. She was fuming, angry at herself for being bested by a small-minded marshal, and angry at the boy who sat in that jail cell and was complicating her life.
She and Ki, after boarding their animals and seeing that they’d be fed and cared for, went to the Skyler Inn and Hostelry, where they took rooms and washed up. In her quarters, Jessie brushed her hair and took stock of the situation. It wasn‘t, as Ki had warned her, to her liking.
In a sense, the stubborn marshal had been right. What proof did she have that she was related to Thomas Starbuck? Or that she had any business at all with him? What irked her most was the marshal’s and the sullen deputy’s statements that there were a number of people in town with an interest in the prisoner. How was that possible? And who could they be? Then, remembering Elkin’s recounting of the kid’s many crimes—the number of people he had robbed and killed—she resigned herself to the probability of competition.
She scrubbed her face at the washbasin to cleanse away the trail grit and fatigue, and toweled it dry. In the yellowed, cracked mirror above the bureau she saw the healthy bloom return to her cheeks. She then brushed her hair again with vigorous strokes, and it came back to life in a coppery luster. A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts as she buttoned up her blouse.
“Who is it?” she called, lifting her pistol off the bed and standing away from the door. This was a practice of long standing, after a trail of surprises had taught her to be prepared for anything.
“Scott,” came back a low, gravelly voice. “Deputy U.S. Marshal Ulysses Scott. I’d appreciate a word with you, Miss Starbuck.”
Jessie opened the door and admitted a tall, silver-haired man who carried a battered Stetson in his large brown hands. He was armed with a pair of holstered Colt Peacemakers strapped securely over his black pants, and as he stepped in, his big roweled Mexican spurs tinkled softly. They were the only adornments he wore; otherwise he had the look of a plain, tall boot.
He showed her his badge and she put down the gun and shook his hand, feeling the strength there.
“Good to meet you,” she said. “What can I do for you, Marshal Scott?”
The man’s long face was drawn and deeply lined. The creases spoke of many skirmishes in a long war against crime that he had somehow survived. His blue eyes were clear and open. And he stood slightly stooped, his long legs set well apart. “Hate to bother you like this, ma‘am,” he drawled. “But I hear that you’ve been asking about that there boy locked up in the jail. And your name being the same as his, I figured you might be a blood relative and could tell me about him. My job, ma’am, is to keep him alive and away from a hanging tree until he can be brung to a trial. Where at, I don’t know; but when my boss wires me where to take him, I mean to ride out. Don’t look forward to it.”
Scott spoke slowly and evenly, and he worked the hat around in his callused hands as if he wanted to crush it to death. Jessie could see that he was uncomfortable being in a woman’s room. Yet she sensed that he would not harm her in the least. In fact, she liked the lawman’s shy, shambling manner.
“There’s all sorts of people want to claim the boy’s hide, ‘cause there’s all sorts of rewards,” Scott said. “By some accounts, the bounties add up to over four thousand dollars. A pretty hefty sum.”
Jessie agreed. “So who are these people?”
Scott explained. One Nevada bank had sent a pair of private detectives; their names were Hodges and Monkston. They weren’t too discreet, but they hadn’t caused any trouble yet. The marshal had counted three bounty hunters—named Fagan, McKittrick, and Hill. They had all ridden to Skyler separately, but now were rooming together at a cheap hotel. The first two had “hardcase” stamped all over them, but young Hill was different, didn’t seem to belong with the others. And there was a smooth-talking foreign man who was throwing around a lot of money and powwowing with the local leaders to persuade them to turn the prisoner over to him.
This last man especially piqued Jessie’s interest. “What’s his name?”
“Goes by the handle Mueller. Talks real good English, but with a foreign sound to it. Dresses right smart too—a real dandy. He even tried to bribe me to use my influence to help him get the kid out of jail.”
An interesting cast of characters, she mused. And this Mueller—was he listed in her father’s diary? She’d have to look him up. It was too much of a coincidence to have a boy claiming to be a Starbuck in the town jail and a man who was possibly a representative of the cartel also in Skyler.
“And who are the local leaders Mr. Mueller is trying to persuade?”
“Well, this here town, like most all of Utah, is Mormon,” the marshal explained. “Folks in these parts are funny about regular government—they run their own, and they run it in their own way, which don’t always agree with the Constitution of the United States and suchlike. Anyhow, this particular town is controlled by a feller named Joshua Carpenter. Everybody from the town marshal on down take orders from him. He don’t take no opposition from nobody. Says he takes his orders from Upstairs, if you know what I mean. One of these hellfire-and-brimstone fellers—but the people look up to him. He is a damned fine organizer, and I wouldn’t want to cross him if I didn’t have to. All in all, he runs a tight ship here. And anyone who wants to see the prisoner has to go through him first.”
“Sort of a king, is he?” Jessie said. “Then I’ll have to be on my best behavior for His Majesty Mr. Carpenter.”
She was only half joking. She’d run into these town dictators before. Some were better than others, but mostly they were cut from the same cloth—stubborn, autocratic, dead sure they knew what was right for their towns and their people. But each man had a peculiar weakness, and she meant to find out what Carpenter’s was.
“Can you take me to him?” she asked Scott.
The deputy marshal liked this girl’s spunk. “Sure, miss. If that’s what you want. But I’m warning you, he’s not easy to talk to.”
Carpenter ran the town from his home, a rudely constructed but solid structure on Zion Avenue. From the outside it looked no different from any of the other unpainted houses in Skyler, and inside it sorely needed the hand of a woman, which it lacked despite the fact that Carpenter possessed five wives. It looked as if they were too busy quarreling with each other and spanking the howling children to pay much attention to the interior decor. In the cluttered front room, rifles competed with pots and pans and dusty needlepoint samplers for space on the walls. A puncheon table stretched across the floor, sagging under the weight of books, papers, a tin plate of a half-eaten meal, and a heavy old cap-and-ball pistol.
Joshua Carpenter himself was an imposing figure. Of average height, he nonetheless had wide, powerful shoulders and a chest as big around as a water barrel; his hairy forearms were tree-trunk thick, and his legs, too, bulged with muscle and tension. The perpetual scowl on his face was intensified by the great shocks of salt-and-pepper hair that shot out of his head and chin, marking him as a prophet. He was lame in his right foot and walked with the aid of a walnut staff. But that did not diminish his awesome personality, nor his authority. His blazing black eyes made certain of that, eyes that could pin you down in your chair and never let you up.
Jessie Starbuck, as she stood before Joshua Carpenter for the first time, sized him up as a formidable opponent in any fight—or a valuable ally if he chose to be. She would have to tread carefully but firmly, she decided. A man like Carpenter respected power, whether it be God’s or another man’s. The fact that she was a woman would hurt her cause, she knew; but if she could overcome that particular handicap, she might persuade him to help her get at the truth.
She noticed one of the samplers hanging crookedly from a nail on the wall. It reminded the visitor that “Vengeance is Mine, Saith the Lord.”
“Mr. Carpenter,” Scott began, working that weathered hat like dough in his big hands, “this here is Miss Jessica Starbuck, come all the way from—”
“Starbuck!” he boomed. “Are you kin to that young killer we have locked up in the jail?” His dark eyes bored into her, demanding an answer.
Jessie was startled by the power of his bass voice. Clearly he was used to catching strangers off guard and assuming immediate authority in any situation. But she wasn’t about to allow him to intimidate her.
“It seems, Mr. Carpenter, that Thomas Starbuck is trying to convince a lot of people that he’s my father’s son. I have no solid evidence, and neither does the boy, I gather. In any case, I must be allowed to see him to find out. That’s why I came to Skyler, and I won’t leave before I can talk to him.”
“I’ve heard about your family, young mistress, and how your father amassed a wealth of worldly possessions before he was cut down by the hand of God. Every man receives his just reward—as the boy murderer shall receive his!”
Jessie was halfway between rage and tears. “My father was not cut down by any hands except those of thieves and murderers and corrupters. You have no business judging my father, Mr. Carpenter. He was a good man. But I am not here to defend his reputation. I just want to get to the truth of the Thomas Starbuck matter.”
The Mormon patriarch was a bit startled, and he looked over to Deputy Marshal Ulysses Scott. “You brought this impudent child to me, Marshal? She certainly does not help your cause. I cannot allow you or this girl access to the prisoner—now or ever. You are dismissed.” He sat down behind his crude desk and began shuffling through the soiled papers, pushing aside the plate of food. He fully expected them to leave.
Jessie, however, stood her ground. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You can’t get rid of us just like that. The marshal here has a federal warrant for the boy. And as a blood relative, I have a right—”
“So, then, you do claim to be the killer’s sister,” Carpenter snapped. His fierce eyebrows rose and fell as he parried her renewed thrust.
“If that will get me in to see him, yes,” she replied. She would not let him cow her or frighten her away.
“Young woman, are you a believer?” the Mormon leader demanded.
“I believe in God, if that’s what you mean,” she said. The blood rushed to her face, and she stood flushed but unflinching. She would answer his questions, but she would also continue to press for a commitment from him to let her see the prisoner.
“That is not enough!” Carpenter boomed. “There is only one true manifestation of the Lord—and that is through His holy Church.” He rose from his chair and pounded his heavy fist on the table. “If you are not baptized in the Church, you are unclean and not fit to traffic with the Lord’s people. Like the Gentiles of old, you are not sanctified by the grace of our angry God. As such, you are fortunate to set foot in this house!”
As he roared on, two bearded men, each bearing a shotgun, stepped into the front room and took their places on either side of Carpenter. His eyes gleamed fanatically.
“Harken to the word of the Lord! Verily He shall smite down the enemies of his people and raise up the Chosen Children to rule over all the earth; and His name shall be spoken in fear by the peoples who oppose Him!”
Scott tugged at her sleeve, indicating that it was time to leave. Jessie, though, stood her ground. Ignoring the gun-toters behind the angry prophet, she continued to press her case doggedly.
“There’s no need to resort to threats, Mr. Carpenter. I, respect your religious beliefs and have no thought of opposing them. My only interest here is to speak with the prisoner, to find out who he really is. I mean no harm to you or your people. Please, all I am asking is a chance to see him.”
Then Scott spoke up. “See, Carpenter, the lady does have a legal right to do so, if she is the prisoner’s sister. And as a federal officer, I’m obliged to tell you so.”
“Silence!” The imperious command erupted from the Mormon’s lips like a cannon shot. “You speak of rights. My people have been denied their rights by your government for forty years. We have been driven from state to state, hounded like animals. Only when the great prophet Brigham Young, inspired by a holy vision, brought us here, to Deseret, did we find peace. And now even this sanctuary is being violated by thieves and murderers and fornicators and those who trade in blood and money. When will it cease? When will we know peace? Don’t talk of rights to me, Mr. Marshal. For I know that they do not exist for God’s people!”
Then it occurred to Jessie to change tactics. Perhaps Carpenter would listen to an offer for financial support of his town—if it were presented in a properly subtle manner. After all, he was a political as well as a religious leader in this community. One cannot build the Kingdom of God without adequate funds. But it must not sound like a bribe offer.
“What the marshal and I are saying,” she put in, “is that we fully recognize your position, and we bear no ill will toward your people. And further, Mr. Carpenter, we expect to bear any expenses we may incur and to reimbuse the town for any inconvenience we may cause. Like you, all we seek is justice.”
Carpenter chewed on that for a while. He waved the two gun-bearing protectors away, and they disappeared into the back of the house. Hobbling out from behind the littered desk, he confronted Jessie directly. Pulling thoughtfully on his long, unkempt beard, he growled, “Yes, justice. That is the chief love of my people. After its having been denied us for so many years, it is a precious commodity indeed.”
Jessie felt him wavering. She added, “My late father’s company is always interested in finding new locations and business interests, as well as investing in towns like Skyler. I find that we can be of great help to people in growing communities such as yours. For example, the assay office which the boy tried to rob—perhaps we could arrange to reorganize it and insure its safety. We have a very efficient operation just like it in Provo.”
A prophetic fire lit Carpenter’s face. He smiled, revealing a set of brown-tinged teeth. “Whoever this boy is,” he said, “he has been put here for a purpose. The Lord, as we all know, works his will in mysterious ways. Yes, very mysterious.”
Jessie and Scott exchanged puzzled glances. The Mormon evidently had his own interpretation of events.
“Very well, Miss Starbuck, you may visit the prisoner for one hour,” he declared, his hard gaze leveled on Jessie. “When you have established your relationship with him, then we shall talk again. And you, Marshal Scott, shall report to me every day from now on. As a federal officer, you have been charged with the prisoner’s safety, and I want to know if it is threatened—by anyone. There are already too many unfamiliar and unfriendly faces in Skyler. And sentiment among my people is running strongly against the boy. You and I both will be well served if we see that these bounty-hunting vultures are kept away from the jail.”
Marshal Scott nodded and tugged again at Jessie’s sleeve. It was time to go, before the volatile Carpenter changed his mind again.
“Thank you,” Jessie said. “I’ll return to the jail immediately and arrange for a visit with the young man. And if there is anything I can do for you, Mr. Carpenter—”
“I shall let you know, Miss Starbuck.” He returned to his chair and buried himself at once in the work he had to do, letting them find their own way out.
Jessie and Scott found the air more breathable in the street. Although the audience with the Mormon patriarch had been a limited success, she was still apprehensive about what lay ahead for her in Skyler. As she and the deputy marshal turned to head back to the hotel, her fears were reinforced by the appearance of three men coming toward them.
One was a small, impeccably dressed man in his forties, with blond hair and an erect, almost military carriage. His head was large, and the features of his face well formed, but she did not find him handsome in the least. A deep scar shot across his forehead, and his lips curled jaggedly. The other two were hulking men, each over six feet tall, who followed the shorter man’s lead. Jessie guessed immediately that the short man was Mueller.
Scott drawled out of the side of his mouth, “That’s the foreign feller I told you about, and his bodyguards. Wonder what he’s up to.”
Mueller walked directly up to them, his boys staying a step behind him, and nodded curtly to Scott. “Marshal,” he acknowledged. Then his gaze shifted to Jessie Starbuck. He eyed her appreciatively, from head to toe and said, “I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Miss Starbuck. And it is indeed a pleasure.” His blue eyes sparkled confidently, and he toyed at his gold watch chain with a well-manicured hand. He bowed slightly, inclining his head, then snapped erect. His polished black boots seemed impervious to the street dirt. “I am Heinrich Mueller, at your service,” he said.
“That’s what I figured,” Jessie replied, already distrusting the oily-mannered Prussian. “How do you know who I am?”
“Ah,” the little man said. “Your name is well known in the American West, as was your father’s. And in a small town like this one, people talk. It was not long after you signed the register in the Skyler Inn that everyone with ears knew of your arrival.”
“And do they say why I am here?” She wondered what the hell this man was getting at—and why he was here in the first place. His slight accent sounded carefully cultivated, as if he could speak pure, perfect English if that suited his purpose. He was an altogether repugnant figure to her, and her gut told her that he was in the employ of the cartel that had killed her father. Hatred for him boiled up within her.
“They say many things. They say you attempted to visit the prisoner Thomas Starbuck, the boy killer who says you are his sister.”
“I’m here to disprove that,” she replied. “And I don’t have time for idle talk. Come, Marshal.”
“Perhaps later we can engage in a less idle converstion, Miss Starbuck,” the German said. “I too have business to conduct. I am meeting with Mr. Carpenter—a remarkable man, don’t you agree?”
