Shawn Starbuck Double Western 5, page 1
Passage to Dodge City
When Starbuck signed on for the cattle drive from Texas to Dodge, he hadn't counted on the mysterious bushwhacker following his trail with deadly motives. And why? Wasn’t it hard luck enough with dry water holes, treacherous storms and savage raider gangs? And in Dodge City, Marshal Wyatt Earp himself was awaiting the drovers before playing his part in the desperate enterprise.
Would Starbuck and the others make it alive?
The Hell Merchant
Attacked by a black-bearded, half-crazed giant of a bounty hunter, Shawn Starbuck is dragged to Cimarron’s sheriff like a common outlaw. Now, further dangers are triggered by the missing King brothers, Ollie and Aaron, and gun-toting “Ma” King herself. Fifty thousand dollars in gold was stolen, hidden and buried—but where?
Does pretty Dora play a part in the conspiracy? Can Starbuck trust her? And what about Ben, his long-missing brother? Will he ever find him?
Starbuck plunges into the middle of a bullet-riddled ambush for a final showdown of deadly truths.
SHAWN STARBUCK DOUBLE EDITION
9: PASSAGE TO DODGE CITY
10: THE HELL MERCHANT
By Ray Hogan
First Published by Signet Books in 1972
Copyright © renewed 2000 by Gwynn Hogan Henline
First Edition: September 2018
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Our cover features a detail from Fighting for the Outfit, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.
Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri
Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.
Series Editor: Ben Bridges Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Golden West Literary Agency.
PASSAGE TO DODGE CITY
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE HELL MERCHANT
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
PASSAGE TO DODGE CITY
CHAPTER ONE
Tucson was another bust. Starbuck had hung around the old Arizona mission town for a full week hoping to learn something of his missing brother, Ben, to no avail. No one had seen or heard of a man answering the meager description Shawn could give.
Earlier he had come close; Ben had been in Silver City, had staged a boxing match there for the citizens of that wild, free-spending little mining town, and had ridden on—only hours before Starbuck, delayed by an obligation he felt he could not ignore, had arrived. The incident had provided one gainful result, however; he now knew definitely that Ben was also calling himself Damon Friend.
So far as he was aware, that was the nearest he had ever come to finding the brother for whom he’d searched so long; and the dismal knowledge that he had been on the very brink of ending the chase and settling the family matters that would enable him to forsake the endless trails and build a life of his own—only to fail—was a bitter conclusion to a soaring hope.
His persistent quest had carried him ceaselessly back and forth across the frontier, from the Mexican border to Canada, from the Mississippi to the California coast, always with no luck. Several times he had thought himself near success, only to have the person believed to be Ben turn out a stranger, or perhaps, as was the case in Silver City, already gone.
But on that occasion, in the brawling New Mexico settlement where silver was king, it had been different; Ben actually had been there and only circumstances had prevented the long-sought-for meeting that was so important to Shawn.
He had thought Ben would head for Tucson after that. The ancient Arizona town was said to be booming, and it was a logical place for a man looking for work. Again he guessed wrong; there were jobs to be had but Ben was not, nor had he been, among those seeking to sign on.
When it became apparent Shawn was only wasting time there, he had swung north, remembering the big ranchers in what was known as the Rockinstraw Valley country; this was the season when they would be adding hired hands. A seemingly reliable tip had taken him there once before, but the lead, like all the others he had followed, had proven to be of no value.
Once more failure was his only reward; there was no trace of Ben, and the long side trip had developed into little more than a renewal of friendships started during his original visit. Now, slumped in the saddle of the big sorrel gelding he rode, he gave thought to his next destination as he slowly made his way across the forsaken Sulphur Springs flats.
El Paso, he supposed, indifferently, and then perhaps across the line into Juarez and on down into Mexico if he had no luck in the pass city some folks still referred to as Magoffansville. One place seemed as good a bet as another; Ben could be anywhere.
Raising a hand, Starbuck brushed at the sweat blurring his narrowed eyes. It was early summer and the glaring heat had already set in. It would be hot in El Paso, too, as well as on the other side of the Rio Grande, he knew, but the realization brought only a shrug to his shoulders. He had long since reached that stage where he accepted things beyond his power to change—such as time and the elements—as no more or no less than pure reality, a fact of life that a man must accommodate to and make the best of.
He glanced ahead to a maze of low, rolling, brush-covered hills. There was a settlement somewhere beyond them; to the south, he thought. With a bit of luck he should reach it by nightfall. Shawn hoped so. The ragged land into which he was riding would offer little in the way of a decent campsite.
Reaching the first of the bluffs, he again wiped at the sweat on his face, and raising himself in his stirrups, looked to the south. A tall, lean man, he appeared to be all bone and muscle in the harsh sunlight, and his deep-set gray-blue eyes, overshadowed by dark, thick brows seemed colorless at that moment.
Young in years by the prescribed standard of numerical count, he nevertheless possessed the calm sureness which only crystallizing experience can bestow upon a man and fill him with that indefinable quality of cold self-sufficiency so necessary in a savage land where only the quick and the wise stay alive.
His glance rested upon a paloverde tree, a faded green blur on the burned flat. He’d best start veering toward it, more to the south, he decided, resuming his seat and putting the gelding into motion. The town he now recalled was just beyond the peaks at the end of the mountains to his left—the Swisshelms, someone had told him they were called. The name of the settlement he could not remember; a Mexican word, it seemed. Whatever, it was of no great consequence, only that it was there and—
The high, sharp crack of a pistol, a quick spurt of sand a dozen strides beyond the sorrel, brought Starbuck up short. Startled and angry, he glanced around, scanning the countless rolling mounds of brush-covered brown earth.
Had that bullet been meant for him? It hadn’t come close, seemed more a stray shot—and who would be gunning for him? He could think of no one at the moment. Apaches? It wasn’t likely. Indians seldom used pistols, generally preferring a rifle or a shotgun.
There was no one in sight. A stray bullet, he concluded, possibly directed his way by ricochet. Settling back, Shawn touched the gelding with his spurs, and moved on. Likely it had been some passing pilgrim or cowhand beyond the humps of land taking a shot at a gopher or some other varmint.
The pistol cracked again. Starbuck felt the breath of the bullet, heard the rattle of it as it clipped through a clump of sun-dried mesquite behind him. He reacted as the echoes began to roll, rowelling the sorrel sharply, sending him plunging ahead. The six-gun’s report sounded once more, that bullet striking well ahead of the gelding. There was no doubt now; someone was shooting at him—someone, fortunately, not too skilled with a weapon.
Bent low over the sorrel’s neck, Shawn swerved his horse toward an arroyo some fifty yards farther on. It appeared deep and could offer protection. Again the pis
Six times, Starbuck thought grimly as the gelding thundered on toward the deep cut. A man who carried a full cylinder in his weapon. He would have to reload now unless he had a second gun—or there was more than one bushwhacker.
The arroyo was suddenly before him. The sorrel hesitated briefly, sprang, and then he was down in its sandy depth.
CHAPTER TWO
Starbuck left the saddle the instant his horse righted himself. He hit the ground running, rushed forward to the edge of the arroyo, and shielded by a clump of rabbit-bush, threw his glance in the direction from which the shots had come.
He could see no one, hear no sound. By that moment the bushwhacker would have had time to reload and be ready to try his luck again—but now it would be different; now they were on even terms.
Shawn continued to sweep the brushy, rolling land before him with studied care. Nothing. Was the would-be-killer, apparently in an arroyo also, working his way around, hoping to circle and come in from behind? And who the hell was he? Starbuck swore in exasperation. What was it all about? Robbery?
Again his mind went back to the Apaches. There were plenty of Chiricahuas in the area, some friendly, others openly hostile. That they didn’t ordinarily use a handgun was no absolute guarantee that they would not. It could be a party of renegades after his horse and weapons, but he still doubted it.
Mexican bandits. That seemed a more likely possibility. Bands of the fierce, bandoliered riders crossed the border regularly to raid wagon trains and stagecoaches, attacking solitary travelers on the way. He shook his head; that idea didn’t bear up either. There was only one gun, therefore only a lone man. The Mexicans, like the Apaches, ran in packs.
He pulled back, eyes aching from staring steadily into the glare. High above the quiet, sprawling country, an eagle lifted and fell gracefully as he rode the air currents in search of prey below. Starbuck, hunched low, moved another ten yards farther along the wash to a second clump of brush. From that new vantage point he again scanned the unfriendly land before him.
Nothing ... only the soaring eagle etching the clean, blue sky overhead. He wheeled impatiently. The bushwhacker had either given up or was waiting for him to mount and once more show himself on high ground. Whoever it was, he’d be wasting his time, Starbuck decided. He’d keep down in the arroyo, not expose—
Shawn halted. The sorrel, standing a few strides farther on, had looked up quickly. Long neck curved, he was staring over his shoulder, watching the upper end of the wash.
Left hand dropping to the forty-five on his hip, Starbuck crossed quickly to the opposite side of the cut, where a bulge of root-filled earth jutted out. He had heard nothing, but the sorrel had detected a sound or had perhaps picked up an odor with his sensitive nostrils. Something had attracted him—and Shawn had never known the big gelding to be wrong.
The moments dragged. Nearby a striped lizard appeared on the edge of the arroyo’s bank, eyed Starbuck briefly, and crawled on toward a flat of rock in short, jerky movements. The sorrel continued to watch the upper end of the wash, lowering his head only now and then to tear at the dry grass beneath him.
Sound registered on Starbuck’s straining ears—the slow thud of a walking horse, the faint creak of leather. Shortly, a man leading his mount stepped into view.
He was up in years, in his sixties, Shawn guessed as he considered the stranger critically. Dressed in ordinary range clothing—checked shirt, vest, cord pants, boots that were badly scarred, and a hat with a sagging brim—he was looking intently ahead. Evidently he could see the sorrel, was endeavoring to locate its rider.
Starbuck remained hidden behind the shoulder of sod, moving nearer to it for closer scrutiny. The man looked tough. Hawk-faced, he had small, dark eyes, and a head capped by a shock of bushy white hair that contrasted oddly with thick dark brows and mustache.
“Hello—there in the wash!”
Starbuck did not reply. He continued to study the man, searching his memory for some recollection of the man he was looking at. A stranger for sure, he decided. It would not be easy to forget that sharp face or that mass of snowy hair.
“Heard that head-hunter a-peppering lead at you. Figured I’d best have a look, see if you’d got yourself
winged.”
Shawn stepped from behind the bulge, pistol leveled. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “And maybe it was you doing the shooting.”
The older man drew up at Starbuck’s sudden appearance. After a bit he grinned, wagged his head. “It weren’t me.”
“I’m supposed to just take your word for that?”
“Up to you. I was meandering along back of them hills over to the east, when I heard the shooting.”
Shawn considered the reply coldly. “Be no chore for you to circle around, come at me from behind.”
“No, reckon it wouldn’t—if it was me. Only it sure wasn’t. You meaning to use that hogleg?”
“If I have to. Step up close. Keep your hands over your head.”
The old rider shrugged. Dropping the leathers of the buckskin he was leading, he raised his arms and came forward, halting when he was directly in front of Shawn. “Name’s Joe Fargo—if that counts for anything.”
“It doesn’t,” Starbuck said flatly.
Reaching out, he lifted the man’s pistol from its holster, smelled the end of the barrel. It hadn’t been fired in some time. Fargo hadn’t been the one to open up on him, that was sure, but he could be a partner of the man who had. Still suspicious, he thrust Fargo’s weapon under his waistband and holstered his own.
Fargo relaxed. “Reckon you’re satisfied now. Hell, last time I triggered that iron was more’n two weeks ago. Killed me a rattler half as big as my leg.”
“I’m satisfied this wasn’t the gun used—nothing more,” Shawn said coldly. “Your partner still hiding out in that arroyo over there?”
The old man’s brows came up. “Partner? I ain’t got no partner—all by myself. Heading east for Texas. Tell you again I ain’t got nothing to do with somebody trying to drygulch you. Mister, was it me doing that shooting, you’d be dead. I ain’t missed what I shot at in forty year.”
He was probably telling the truth, Shawn realized. If he was a party to the ambush, his friend would have made a move by that time. Likely it had been just as he had said. Taking the pistol from his waistband, he passed it, butt first, to the old man.
“Begging your pardon for being a mite hard-nosed about this. Just don’t fancy getting shot at.”
Fargo grinned, shoved his weapon into its leather. “Can’t say as I can fault you none for that. Got any idea who it was?”
Starbuck shook his head. “Don’t know who and I can’t figure why. Thought it maybe was some stray Apache or Mexican looking to hold me up.”
“Misdoubt that. They ain’t apt to jump a man when they’re alone. Like to run in bunches. Got themselves a cinch that way.”
“That’s how I looked at it. And if there’d been a bunch of them, they wouldn’t have fooled around but would have hit me fast.”
“Well, whoever, he sure ain’t no great shakes at shooting. Took six potshots at you and never cut a hair. Could do better with my head in a bucket. He still hanging around, you think?”
“Expect he is,” Shawn said, looking off toward the hills to the west.
“Then I reckon the natural thing for us to do is chase him out. Mind telling me your name?”
“Starbuck, Shawn Starbuck.”
The old puncher extended a horny hand. “Right pleased to know you, Starbuck. Done told you what I’m called.”
Shawn nodded. “My pleasure ... Think I will cut back around, see if I can get a look at that bushwhacker. No call for you to stick out your neck, however.”
Joe Fargo laughed. “Kind of shooting he was doing, I don’t figure a man’d be taking much of a chance. How you aiming to go about it?”
“Thought I’d move on down the arroyo a piece, circle west. He’s hiding somewhere on the other side of that first line of hills.”
