Shawn Starbuck Double Western 6, page 1
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
Lawman for Slaughter Valley
Starbuck wondered if young Bishop really had the guts to last. Opposed by an evil rancher and his ruthless henchmen, a corrupt mayor and a townful of roughneck cowboys, he didn't have much of a chance. How could Starbuck help and still let Bishop prove himself a man, both to the skeptical settlement and his attractive young wife? But when Max Eagle, feared gunslinger, came to town seeking vengeance for the death of his brother, the man Bishop shot down in defense of his honor, Starbuck could wait no longer. For his decision might determine who would live and who would die!
The Guns of Stingaree
The whole valley feared King Mallory and his savage land raids. Mallory owned Stingaree and most of the Gila Valley except for Arrowhead Ranch – land that he was determined to seize. Mallory offered Shawn Starbuck the job of heading his band of raiders. Though Starbuck refused, he still found himself involved in bloody night rides, a lynching, and murder. How could Starbuck stop the spreading violence? How could he right the savage wrongs that Mallory had committed … especially when young Jack Mallory seemed determined to continue the evil ways of his father? And what of Jack’s pretty sister, Christine? Would she really find love in the arms of young puncher Emmett Stark, who was seemingly on the wrong side?
SHAWN STARBUCK DOUBLE EDITION 6:
11: LAWMAN FOR SLAUGHTER VALLEY
12: THE GUNS OF STINGAREE
By Ray Hogan
First Published by Signet Books in 1972 and 1973 respectively
Copyright © renewed 2000 by Gwynn Hogan Henline
First Edition: November 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 An Eye for Trouble, 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.
LAWMAN FOR SLAUGHTER VALLEY
One
Starbuck drew his horse to a halt in the warm afternoon sunlight and studied the faded sign facing him from the edge of the road ... TANNEKAW. He sighed, wiping at the film of gray dust on his weather-burned features. Another town. Would his luck be any better there than it had been in all the other places he had visited in his search for Ben?
He had entertained high hopes that he would find his brother in Santa Fe, had actually changed his original plan of spending only a few days in the ancient capital and had extended his stay through the winter, in the belief that Ben, attracted by the colorful festivities that marked the Christmas season in the old city, would put in an appearance.
The possibility proved groundless, and shortly after the holidays ended Starbuck rode on, following the time-worn trail that, if pursued, would lead a man all the way to Mexico City.
On the first day out he paused briefly in the settlement of Bernalillo, on the banks of the Rio Grande, near where Spanish conquerors had spent a bloody winter some three centuries earlier, ruthlessly teaching their red-skinned subjects the advantages of royalist civilization.
Having no luck there, he continued south, soon arriving at another small town situated on the same river and hemmed in by towering mountains on the east and a wall of extinct volcanoes on the west. It was again an unproductive pause. No one there had ever heard of Ben Starbuck, or of Damon Friend, a name Shawn thought his brother might be using; nor could anyone recall having noticed a pilgrim who fitted the meager description he was able to give of his brother.
In the saddle again, he followed the winding stream as it made its way on down the floor of the valley, stirring now under the promise of spring, past a sun baked pueblo of friendly Indians and a half a dozen more small villages, until he reached, finally, the town of Socorro at the upper end of that dreaded hell on earth, the awesome Jornado del Muerto.
He found some encouragement in Socorro. Although the lawman had no recollection of his brother under any name, he suggested Shawn try the Slaughter Valley country, on to the southwest. It was an area of big ranches rimming the town of Tannekaw, and a great deal of hiring of new hands was being done. If Ben worked cattle and was looking for a job, the chances were better than good that he’d sign on withone of the Slaughter Valley outfits.
Starbuck had taken the sheriff’s suggestion, heading out the next day, pointing first for the Seven Brothers Mountains since best route was said to be faster as well as safer. From there he angled through a maze of rocks that went on for miles, and then crossed the greening plains of Burro Mountain until at last he was in the Slaughter Valley country. The name had puzzled him at first; he had known a man in Arizona Territory—a rancher whose name was Slaughter—and wondered if he had moved or extended his interests.
There was no connection, the Socorro lawman had assured him. The valley took its name from a massacre—one involving an incident between a band of Apache warriors and a California-bound wagon train.
He’d headquarter there, at Tannekaw, he decided, looking ahead at the scatter of buildings lying silent in the bright sunshine. He’d get a line on all of the ranches and visit them one by one, making his inquiries concerning Ben. It could take a week, perhaps two, and if he met withthe usual failure, he’d move on to Tucson.
It was a routine now grown old to Shawn Starbuck. He had wandered from town to town—from the Mexican border north to Canada, from the Mississippi west to the vast Pacific—sometimes coming close but always finding disappointment at the end of the trail he had followed.
Bitterness at such failure had long since given way to a quiet sort of resignation; one day he would find Ben, alive or perhaps dead—but he would find him and the quest would then end. That he could spend his lifetime searching—waste it, in fact, as some had prophesied—was possible, but he gave that only occasional thought. If that was to be his destiny, so be it; he would accept it, for he felt he had no alternative. Yet there were times when his spirit hungered, moments when loneliness closed in upon him, and gripping him in a viselike clamp, turned him inward.
He was a man with the faint mark of youth still upon him despite a remoteness that tempering experience had brought. He brushed again at his face, and shifted on his saddle. Reaching down, he slid the heavy forty-five strapped to his left leg forward to a more comfortable position and clucked softly to the big sorrel gelding. Might as well move on, get to the hotel and line up a room. He’d start asking questions there; perhaps the clerk would know something of Ben. Perhaps ...
He moved on at a slow pace, crossed a small flat, and reached the end of the street. He swung into it, noting again its deserted appearance. It seemed unusual, for summer’s intense heat had not yet set in dictating the hours for shopping and conducting business, but he had long ago ceased to be surprised by the different customs encountered in different settlements. There would be a reason for the absence of activity, he knew.
To his left he noted a small white church set well back from the roadway. Its adjoining cemetery was clean of weeds and orderly, with all of the grassy mounds neatly tended and bearing markers. Gus Damson’s livery barn was first in the line of structures on the west side of the street, and directly opposite, in rapid succession, lay the Blue Ribbon Bakery, Miss Purdy’s Ladies’ & Children’s Clothing Store, a vacant building, Corrigan’s Gun Shop, Henry Grissom’s General Store, and the marshal’s office.
Shawn mentally fixed the location of the lawman’s quarters in his mind. He’d make a call on the marshal after he’d arranged for a room at the hotel. Raising his glance, he squinted into the glare, scanning the facades for a hostelry. He located it just beyond the lawman’s office on the opposite side of the broad lane. It was a bulky, two-storied structure called the Far West. It had a full-width porch, and there was a stable behind it, he saw with satisfaction; he’d make use of it rather than Damson’s. It would be much handier.
His idle inventory continued; Sol Wiseman, Gent’s Clothing, a combination barber and undertaker, Bridger’s Saddle & Harness Shop, the Lone Star Café, a residence or two, a small saloon called the Red Mule.
That completed the business establishments on the east wall of the canyon like area separating the opposing structures. On the west side, which seemed to enjoy a lesser degree of preference, there were only Damson’s barn, the Lone Star, another small saloon, a couple of offices, several vacant storerooms, the hotel, and what appeared to be the largest building in town, the Valley Queen—Gambling, Dancing, and Liquors.
Farther on, and somewhat removed from the business district and the residences scattered on the outskirts, Shawn could see a two-floored frame house; the local bawdy establishment Shawn assumed, judging from its outward appearance.
He could see people inside the stores, many of them pausing to stare curiously at him as he rode by, heading for the hitch rack fronting the Far West, and he caught sight o
He felt the hostility in the air before he was halfway to his intended destination. Tannekaw was awaiting something—trouble, likely, and that thought brought a frown to his features and stirred into life within him a current of impatience.
He’d like—just this once—to stay clear of other people’s problems. Such involvement was forever occurring, delaying him in the pursuit of his own purpose, and while his upbringing at the hands of Hiram and Clare Starbuck had instilled in him a sense of responsibility toward the trouble-beset, he would have liked, this one time, to go about his business without interruption and complication.
It would take days to pay calls on all of the ranchers in Slaughter Valley, assuming he learned nothing of value from the merchants in Tannekaw, and should there be no trace of Ben at any of the ranches, he should move on to Tucson, where considerable work was in progress, as soon as possible.
Starbuck grinned wryly. He’d made such vows to himself before, declarations that he’d not permit himself to become involved; he had yet to keep those vows. Somehow he always found it impossible to turn his back on a man who asked him for help. He supposed that since the time he had first ridden out from the old Starbuck home along Ohio’s Muskingum River, he had given up in total a good half year to others, if all the days were added together into a single lump.
And during those days the search for Ben had gone begging. There could have even been times when his brother was near, perhaps in the next town, and arriving a week or two late may have caused him to miss out. It was something he never knew for certain, but quite often it caused him to wonder.
It would not happen in Tannekaw. He would attend strictly to his own business; he’d find out as quickly as possible if Ben was in the Slaughter Valley country, and if he was not, he’d light out for Tucson, get there while things were still humming. For once he’d not arrive at a destination days later than planned.
He drew up to the rack of the Far West and again let his glance sweep the empty street. After a moment he swung off the saddle, grunting a little as his heels hit solid ground and the muscles of his back and legs made known their grateful relief at the change. It had been a long day, one that had started well before sunrise, and he had pushed the sorrel continually in an effort to reach the settlement before dark. A good meal and a soft bed—both would be more than welcome.
Tugging at the strings behind the cantle, Shawn freed his blanket roll and saddlebags, hung them over his shoulder, and then winding the gelding’s reins around the crossbar, started up the steps of the porch of the hotel. He’d see to a room first, be sure one was available; then he’d return and arrange for the big gelding’s care.
He paused. A dozen riders had turned into the lower end of the street. All were purposeful, hard-set men. Starbuck considered them thoughtfully. He reckoned he was looking at the reason why Tannekaw had sought shelter, had drawn inward.
Two
Starbuck, looming tall and wide-shouldered in the shadow of the saloon, lowered his gear to the top step and turned to watch. Except for the pair in the lead, the riders appeared to be ordinary working cowhands, leaning, perhaps, a bit to the tough, wild side. They curved in toward the jail, halted, then formed a half circle facing it. The two in the front came off their horses lazily, indifferently.
The husky one, a thick-necked, dark-faced man with small eyes, wearing a dirty undershirt beneath a stained leather vest, denim pants, and scarred work boots, brushed his hat to the back of his head and nodded to the men behind him.
“Don’t figure this’ll take long, boys. You all stay mounted ... Me and Letterman’ll handle it.”
The puncher in the center of the semi-circle raised his hand in a gesture of understanding. “Yes, sir, Mr. Eagle,” he said, and eased back in his saddle.
Letterman was evidently a hired gun, Shawn thought, studying the man idly. He was lean, quiet-faced, stood by silently, legs spread, as Eagle, probably one of the big ranchers in Slaughter Valley, called the shots.
“Bishop!” he yelled suddenly, swinging his attention to the marshal’s office. “Come on out where I can do some talking to you!”
There was no response. Farther down the empty street a dog began to bark. Eagle took a few steps closer to the building, and Letterman also moved forward while still maintaining a position one pace behind the squat man.
“Bishop! Goddammit, I know you’re in there! You better get out here!”
There was motion just within the doorway of the low-roofed structure. A man wearing a star stepped slowly into view, halting on the landing outside. He was young to be a lawman, had thick brown hair that lay loose about his head, and eyes that darted nervously over the men ranged before him. His manner was anxious, almost one of desperation.
Eagle surveyed him with disdain for several moments, then shrugged. “Come after Jimmy Joe and Kansas,” he drawled. “Hell—you known better’n to lock up any of my boys.”
The marshal shifted uncertainly, dropping his glance. After a bit he shook his head. “They’re paying a fine or serving time,” he said in a low voice.
“Reckon not. What’re they in for?”
“Disturbing the peace. Breaking up property.”
“You talking about that little funning they was having in the Red Mule?”
“Was a fight. They done quite a lot of damage—and they were shooting off their guns. Could’ve hurt somebody.”
“But they didn’t and far as damage is concerned, that outfit’s made plenty off Longhorn cowhands—more’n enough to pay for what damage they done.”
“Makes no difference. The law says—”
“The hell with the law!” Eagle snapped. “I’m all the law my boys need. Now, are you turning them loose or am I going in there after them? Brought me along enough help to take that cracker box apart board by board if I have to.”
Bishop slid a glance up the hushed street. His features were taut and his eyes were bright, reflecting the strain he was under.
“They got to serve out their terms, unless you’re willing to pay the fines,” he said stubbornly.
“Ain’t about to!” Eagle snarled, yanking at his hat. “Who said they had to do all that? There ain’t been no judge around here for months.”
“It’s a town ordinance—law. Disturbing the peace is ten days in jail, or a ten-dollar fine.”
The squat rancher laughed, and threw a glance over his shoulder to the men behind him. “Well, I got a ordinance of my own. Says that nobody working for me ever lays out in jail or pays a fine—not in this town ... All right, boys, let’s go—”
“Hold on a minute!”
Eagle paused. Starbuck shifted his attention to the porch of the general store. A graying, middle-aged man wearing a bib apron over his work clothes crossed hurriedly to the steps and moved down into the street. The cowhands eased back in their saddles as Eagle raised a staying hand and grinned at the merchant.
“Well now, Mister Mayor, you got something you’re wanting to say?”
This would be Henry Grissom, the store owner, Shawn supposed. Evidently he was also the mayor of the settlement.
“Like to talk a bit to the marshal,” he said, walking rapidly toward the jail. “No reason why this can’t all be ironed out with no trouble.”
“No reason at all,” Eagle said mildly. “All Bishop’s got to do is turn my boys loose.”
Grissom bobbed agreeably, and stepping up onto the landing, grasped the lawman by the arm and pushed him back into the building.
One of the punchers laughed. Letterman, a silent shadow throughout the exchange, nodded to Eagle. “Seems the mayor don’t want his jail tore up. Expect he’ll straighten out the marshal.”
“Just what he sure better do,” the rancher replied, grinning.
The barking dog, emboldened by no show of opposition on the part of the riders, had slunk in closer. He was now in the center of the street, where he continued his frantic yapping. Eagle drew his pistol, snapping a shot at the animal. The bullet struck short, spurted dust over the mongrel. He yelped, turned tail, and raced off into the passageway that lay between the saddle shop and the Lone Star Cafe.
