Shawn Starbuck Double Western 6, page 8
Shawn stood listening to the thud of Bishop’s boot heels moving across the landing, then the quieter, muffled thump as he stepped down into the dust and turned for home. The lawman had made his decision, one that could only have fatal consequences. He was hopelessly outclassed by Max Eagle, and the killer would show him no mercy—all of which he was aware. Arlie Bishop, all other shortcomings notwithstanding, was a brave man.
Disturbed, Starbuck stepped into the doorway and looked out into the night. Overhead the stars were a sprinkle of silver dust and nuggets on a blue-black canopy. The air was crisp, conveying the clean, good smell of wood smoke and the quavering notes of a woman inside the Valley Queen singing the melancholy ballad “Lorena” to the plinking of a piano. Elsewhere along the street windows were dark, the merchants having at last closed up shop and gone home, leaving Tannekaw to the saloons and Ruby McGrath.
It was a good town, he thought, one where a man could dig in, grow, make a mark for himself. It had problems, of course; what settlement did not? But time would pass and they would be overcome. He guessed he could understand why Arlie Bishop had determined to run no more; he at least had gained a small foothold here, however small—something he’d never managed to accomplish elsewhere.
A pity the cards were all stacked against him. Eventually he would have developed into a good lawman. He had acquired the feel for it, discovering within himself that strange, undeviating devotion for the law that only dedicated men experience. Given the chance to become proficient with a gun, he undoubtedly would not only be a credit to his profession but to the town he protected as well.
Starbuck stirred restlessly. Arlie would never have that opportunity, for, as he had said in that bitter, lost way, he would be dead by the next sundown. And there was nothing he could do about it, Shawn realized. He could not take Arlie’s place, face the gunman for him; Max Eagle would accept satisfaction only from the man who had shot down his brother. It was an affair in which no substitutes were permitted.
The pathetic notes of the old war song ended in a burst of cheers. The pianist struck up a more lively tune, one overridden now and then by laughter and shouts. That the Valley Queen enjoyed the major portion of the town’s business was evident; only two horses stood at the rack fronting the Red Mule, and none at all at the Silver Dollar.
Weary, troubled by his thoughts of Arlie Bishop and the inescapable fate that awaited him, of Carla and the uncertain future that she and her small daughter faced, he turned slowly, reentered the office, and sat down at the desk. Within him a conviction was growing, gaining strength, refusing to be ignored; he could not let Arlie Bishop die. He must find a way to keep him alive, while still satisfying Max Eagle.
He sat stone still in the dim light, considering the problem. Earlier he had toyed with the idea of aiding Bishop in some manner, but he had not gone into it deeply, contenting himself with letting it ride while matters took their course. Now he stood before the cold, brutal wall of decision; either he find a means or else forever after bear the stinging lash of his own conscience.
How—and assuming he could come up with a plan that would put him in Bishop’s stead, what were the possibilities of his own survival when he faced Max Eagle?
He had never wasted much time considering his own capabilities with a six-gun. Whenever it had been necessary to use the weapon on his hip, he had found himself able to meet the situation. He supposed he was considered fast, probably better than average, and he knew that he was accurate—a necessity that chance acquaintance had impressed upon him when he first began the search for Ben.
“Might be a man can outdraw you,” he’d said, demonstrating his own amazing skill, “but if pulling fast causes him to miss, then it ain’t worth a damn to him. It’s being fast and still putting the bullet where you want it that counts.”
Shawn had listened well and taken the gunman’s advice to heart, practicing diligently to perfect his draw and yet maintain accuracy. When they had finally gone their separate ways, Starbuck felt he could at least hold his own if ever the occasion arose where his life depended upon the forty-five riding on his hip—an assumption that proved correct in the months that followed.
But he was not fooling himself. For a man such as Max Eagle to gain the reputation he enjoyed, he would have to be good, and one who was also aware of the need for both speed and precision. The fact that he had never heard of the man meant little; only once before had he been through that particular part of New Mexico Territory, and there were those who preferred to stay within their own bailiwicks, where they could enjoy the advantages of local prestige.
Letterman ... He apparently was one of those who worshiped at the gunman’s shrine. Perhaps he could learn a few facts pertaining to the man from him. Rising, Shawn moved to the connecting door, opened it, and stepped into the room. The prisoners were all in one cage. Some were slumped on the cot, others on the floor. In one corner he saw the blacksmith, Red; the man had drawn off to himself as much as the confines permitted. Both eyes were swollen shut, and his mouth and nose were puffed badly out of shape.
The Longhorn foreman rose and moved to the door of the cell, his features sly, expectant. “Letting us go?”
Starbuck shook his head. “Up to the marshal.”
Letterman shrugged indifferently. “Makes no difference, I reckon. Sleeping here’s the same as sleeping somewhere else. Max’ll turn us loose tomorrow when he shows up—if some of the boys don’t beat him to it.”
“Don’t bet on it,” Shawn murmured. Then, “You set big store by this Max Eagle. Plain fact is I’ve never heard of him, and I’ve done quite a bit of traveling.”
“You’ll know him after tomorrow—and you sure won’t be forgetting him. If you was half smart, you’d climb on your horse right now and be long gone before he shows, because he won’t be figuring you for no friend, backing that tin star the way you been doing.”
“Maybe so ... He’s great shakes with a six-gun, I take it.”
“You take it right! He’s killed sixteen men, not counting blacks and Indians and Mexes. Ain’t no telling how many he’s cut down if you was to tally all of them.”
Starbuck leaned back against the wall, folded his arms across his chest, and wagged his head. “Sure is a puzzle why I never came across him. Seen plenty of the other top guns—Allison, Tim Carnavan, Earp, Charlie Leslie, and such. None of them ever mentioned him, either.”
“Expect they know him, just the same.”
“I’m wondering. Seems to me somebody, somewhere, would have talked about him if he’s big as you claim he is.”
Letterman’s features darkened. “You saying I’m lying to you?”
“Nope, just can’t figure why I never heard of a gunslinger named Max Eagle—until I got here.”
“Well, he’s the genuine article, all right. You’ll find out tomorrow when he rides in from Silver City to take care of the greenhorn.”
“Silver City where he lives?”
Jack Letterman shrugged. “Naw, got hisself a saloon and gambling joint up Colorado way. Come down to do some betting on the big fight that’s coming off in Silver tomorrow—that’s how it happened he was close. Ward was aiming to make the ride up there tonight, join with him. They ain’t seen each other in a couple of years. Was going to do a little betting hisself.”
A stillness had come over Shawn Starbuck. After a moment he said, “What kind of a fight?”
Longhorn’s foreman spat into a corner of the cell. “Heard Ward say it was sort of a championship thing. Was to be between some big miner who’d licked everybody around there and one of them fancy boxers—like you.”
Sixteen
Starbuck drew himself up, senses tingling keenly. A fancy boxer. Ben—could it be Ben?
“Eagle mention any names—the fighters, I mean?”
Letterman reached into his shirt pocket for his sack of Bull Durham and its sheaf of thin, brown papers, and began to roll a cigarette. “Don’t recollect what the miner was called. The fancy-dan’s handle was Friend, seems.”
Shawn started visibly, struck by the unexpectedness of it all. He had found Ben—assuming he was right in the belief that his brother had adopted the alias Damon Friend—and he was less than a short day’s ride away. The search was over, finished, had come to an end at last. He had often wondered how he would feel at that moment of fulfillment. Curiously, he now found himself detached and disbelieving.
“You sure of that name?”
Letterman scratched a match into flame, touching it to the twisted tip of his smoke. “Hell, yes, I’m sure. Reckon I can hear.”
A thread of suspicion began to worm its way into Starbuck’s mind. Why would Letterman know the name of one man in the contest and not the other? He was aware that Shawn had come to the Slaughter Valley country looking for his brother; was the foreman making use of the knowledge to get him out of town for some reason?
Shawn thought back to that afternoon. Letterman had been in the Valley Queen with Ward Eagle when he’d made inquiries. But there had been no mention of Ben’s boxing prowess nor of the name Damon Friend in their presence. Ruling out that possibility, he turned to a second; was Jack simply assuming that the boxer in Silver City was Ben, having concluded that two brothers would have had the same training in the art?
It wasn’t likely. Letterman didn’t strike him as being that smart—and whether he remained in Tannekaw for the arrival of Max Eagle was of small importance if what he’d said about the gunslinger was right.
“Why you so interested?”
Shawn roused himself from his deep thoughts. “Nothing much. Could be I know a man named Friend.”
“Might be him, ’cause that was what Ward called him. Max had seen this jasper fight before and won some money on him. Ward was hoping to do the same.”
It was Ben. It could be no one else. He was in Silver City putting on a match—probably to raise some cash—and then he’d move on just as he had done before. By riding out immediately he could get there around mid-morning, probably even before the fight was staged, and thus catch him before he rode on.
Starbuck felt a heaviness slip into him. He couldn’t leave. He couldn’t ride off, leave Bishop to face Max Eagle. Even though he had not made his intentions known to the lawman or anyone else, he couldn’t do it. Bishop’s blood would be on his hands, just as sure as if he’d shot him down himself, and that knowledge, lurking like a dark, accusing shadow in the back of his mind, was something he couldn’t live with.
He stirred impatiently. If he’d minded his own business, stayed clear of trouble as he’d promised himself to do ... but he hadn’t. Now all he could do was hang around, see it through for Arlie Bishop—and for Carla’s sake—and then hurry to Silver City in the hope that Ben would still be there ... unless …
He frowned, raising his glance to Jack Letterman.
“Any idea which road Eagle will be riding in on?”
The foreman smiled, glanced over his shoulder at the men behind him and winked broadly. “Your feet starting to get cold, mister? You maybe thinking of pulling out and looking for the road Max won’t be on?”
One of the punchers laughed, bobbing his head. “If it was me standing in your boots, danged if I wouldn’t be doing the same. I sure wouldn’t be anxious to meet him!”
“Be plenty smart,” Letterman agreed.
“No doubt. Which road?” Shawn pressed.
If he knew for certain which route the gunman would be taking, he could head out, intercept him, settle things for Arlie Bishop, after which, assuming he was still able; he could hurry on to Silver City.
“How the hell would I know that? Could be he’ll come across the mountain trail, or maybe he’ll follow the main road—the one the stagecoach takes. And then there’s another one the ranchers use, a sort of shortcut. All I can say is he’ll pick the one he figures’ll get him here the quickest.”
Starbuck turned, made his way back to the lawman’s office, and sank into the chair behind the desk. Trying to choose the road Max Eagle would take would be a gamble, one where the odds were three to one, and he couldn’t afford to lose. If he failed to guess right, Arlie Bishop would die.
But what of his own needs? His life, from the day of his father’s death, had been based upon finding Ben, clearing up pressing matters of the past so that he could have a future; was he to lose the first and only opportunity presented to him since it all began, and because of someone else?
Never before had he been this near to success; always it had been a rumor, a tip, that had led him on, unconfirmed, but information that seemingly indicated the person concerned was Ben. And each time he had arrived too late. Consequently, he was never certain that it had been his brother. But there was little doubt here.
The quest was ended—but it would have to start again. He had found Ben, yet he could not see him, talk to him, bring to a close the problems of the past. He could only hope that when, and if, he reached Silver City, it would not be too late, that Ben, for some reason, had stayed over. Judging from previous occasions, however, he had little faith in the possibility.
Starbuck’s morose thoughts came to a halt as a step sounded on the landing. He glanced up, hand sliding unconsciously toward the pistol on his hip. It could be some of Longhorn’s riders coming to break Jack Letterman and the others out of jail. A moment later his fingers fell away from the butt of the forty-five. It was Carla Bishop.
Seventeen
She halted just within the doorway, eyes dark and remote in the soft glow of the lamps. Her hair had been pulled into a bun at the back of her neck. Starbuck rose slowly.
“No place for you,” he said, frowning.
Carla smiled, moved out of the entry, and sat down on one of the chairs against the wall. “Seems that’s something I’ve never found,” she murmured. “Perhaps I never shall.”
The faint odor of her perfume touched Shawn. He looked away, and still frowning, resumed his seat behind the desk. They were thinking of two different things; he had meant her being alone with him, dressed as she was, in the late hours of the night. She was referring to her life in general.
“You will,” he said. “Everyone does. It’s only that it’s taking longer for you—and Arlie.”
She studied her clasped hands. “I wonder. We’ve drifted around from one place to another all our married lives, and we’ve never yet made a home.”
“Maybe this is the time.”
Carla raised her glance to him. “We both know better, don’t we? By this time tomorrow, Arlie ... it will all be over.”
She did not break at the thought, nor did tears appear. She had simply made a statement of truth in a calm and direct way, as if she had become accustomed to facing such facts.
“Could be you’re wrong. He’s not the same man he was yesterday—or even this morning.”
“Only because you’re standing by him. You can’t do that forever—not even tomorrow when that man comes to kill him.”
“Maybe he won’t get here. Something may happen, or it could be it’s all talk. I’ve seen it work out that way before.”
Carla Bishop shook her head wearily. “He’ll come. That’s how it’s always been for us—something always turns up to destroy us, ruin our plans.”
“Could be different this time,” Starbuck said, quietly stubborn. “Arlie know you were coming here?”
“No, he’s asleep. I was restless, decided to take a walk, get some fresh air. I saw you through the window and stopped by ... Are you leaving tomorrow?”
“Figure to be around a few days longer.”
“After that where will you go?”
“Tucson, if I don’t find my brother here,” he said, relieved at the change of subject. “Think he might be working for one of the ranchers in the valley.”
He was lying to her, of course; he knew exactly where Ben was, but to reveal the truth would set her to wondering why he did not ride out immediately, and that would call for an explanation he could not give. “Is it so important that you find him?”
“To us it is. Pa’s estate can’t be settled until I find him and take him back to Muskingum. It’s written that way in the will.”
“Did he run off from home?”
Shawn nodded. “When he was about sixteen. He and Pa had a big row over a chore Ben was supposed to take care of but forgot. Pa was always strict with us about things like that—not mean, but strict. The day ended up with Ben leaving, saying he’d never be back. Was the truth. We never heard from him again.”
“Your mother, was she alive then?”
“Died about two years before. As long as she was around she sort of kept things peaceful between them. After she was gone it was different.”
“I know,” Carla said quietly. “I lost my parents when I was young, too. Both of them. Spent several years after that moving from one relative to another, trying to find a home. None of them ever really wanted me, so I never did find one. Then I met Arlie. Thought I was through looking, that at last I’d have a home of my own. Soon found out I was wrong.”
She fell silent. The tinkling of the piano in the Valley Queen drifted softly through the night, and for a time she listened, eyes partly closed and far away.
“Oh, I wish tomorrow would never come!” she said abruptly, making a small, helpless gesture with her hands. “I—I wish there was some way I could make everything just stop!”
“Guess that wish has come to all of us at some time or another, and nobody yet’s been able to figure out how to do it. About all we can do is take things as they come, make the best of it.”
“I know, but I can’t help wishing … Have you been looking for Ben ever since he ran off?”
“No, I stayed on the farm with Pa for a few years, until he died, then I began. Had no money. It’s all tied up until I find him, so it’s taken longer than it should. Every now and then I run out of cash and have to find myself a job and work for a spell.”
“As a cowhand?”
“Anything I can find.”
“Then I expect you’ve done about everything and been about everywhere.”
