The Judas Tree Read online

  DYING HOPE

  The window exploded. Starbuck reacted on sheer instinct and threw himself backward in his chair. He crashed into the wall, pulling his Colt as the chair collapsed and he toppled to the floor. Hoyt jackknifed to his feet and gaped at two men dimly visible through the shattered window. Then the men opened fire with sawed-off shotguns.

  Starbuck levered himself up on one arm before the men could reload. He sighted on the shadowy figures and thumbed off a hurried snap shot. One of the men screamed and dropped his scattergun. Starbuck triggered another shot and then realized he was firing at an empty window. The men were gone, and in the sudden stillness he heard pounding footsteps on the boardwalk. Starbuck cursed the darkness and his own shooting. The man he’d hit wasn’t wounded seriously, for they were both running at top speed.

  A look around confirmed what he already knew. George Hoyt was dead, and with him had died any hope of a quick break in the case . . .

  ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS TITLES

  BY MATT BRAUN

  BLACK FOX

  OUTLAW KINGDOM

  LORDS OF THE LAND

  CIMARRON JORDAN

  BLOODY HAND

  NOBLE OUTLAW

  TEXAS EMPIRE

  THE SAVAGE LAND

  RIO HONDO

  THE GAMBLERS

  DOC HOLLIDAY

  YOU KNOW MY NAME

  THE BRANNOCKS

  THE LAST STAND

  RIO GRANDE

  GENTLEMAN ROGUE

  THE KINCAIDS

  EL PASO

  INDIAN TERRITORY

  BLOODSPORT

  SHADOW KILLERS

  BUCK COLTER

  KINCH RILEY

  DEATHWALK

  HICKOK & CODY

  THE WILD ONES

  HANGMAN’S CREEK

  JURY OF SIX

  THE SPOILERS

  MANHUNTER

  THE WARLORDS

  DEADWOOD

  THE

  JUDAS TREE

  Matt Braun

  NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Published by arrangement with Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Books USA Inc.

  THE JUDAS TREE

  Copyright © 1982 by Matt Braun.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Penguin Books USA Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

  ISBN: 0-312-98181-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Signet paperback edition / June 1992

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 2003

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  TO

  RON

  MARTY AND MARNIE

  MILT AND PETER

  A TEAM WITH VISION AND

  ALL WESTERNERS AT HEART

  Author’s Note

  The Judas Tree is based on a true story.

  The mining camps of Montana Territory were hellholes of depravity and lawlessness. None was more infamous, or alluring, than Virginia City. There, deep in the wilderness, one of the great gold bonanzas of all time was discovered. Thousands of miners were drawn by the promise of riches; not far behind them were the scavengers of the frontier, the saloonkeepers and gamblers and whores. Yet it was the outlaws and road agents who posed the gravest threat along Alder Gulch. Human predators, they robbed and killed with a savagery unequaled in the annals of the Old West. Their reign of terror ultimately claimed the lives of more than one hundred men. Wholesale murder was the order of the day in Virginia City.

  Where violence flourishes there are always men willing to take the law into their own hands. Vigilante movements were common in the Old West, and justice was seldom tempered by mercy. Such was the case in Virginia City, where unchecked lawlessness gave rise to mob rule and summary execution. Not infrequently, the leaders of vigilance groups were as ruthless and coldblooded as the outlaws they hanged. Anyone familiar with the history of Montana Territory will recognize The Judas Tree as a work of fiction based on fact. Some license has been taken with events and dates, and the names of certain historical characters have been changed. Yet the truth of that long-ago time has been depicted with accuracy and realism. Documented fact rather than invention forms the cornerstone of the story.

  Luke Starbuck undertakes a hazardous assignment in The Judas Tree. His reputation as a detective and mankiller precedes him wherever he travels on the western frontier. All his talents as an undercover operative and a master of disguise are tested to the limit in Virginia City. His mission pits him against corrupt politicians, vice lords, and a murderous gang of robbers. The ultimate challenge, however, involves a confrontation with the band of stranglers who called themselves vigilantes. His investigation brings to light the volatile world of a lawless mining camp.

  The Judas Tree, in the end, depicts a tale of men brutalized by events. Luke Starbuck saw it happen very much the way it’s told.

  THE

  JUDAS TREE

  Chapter One

  The trolley car stopped at Seventeenth and Larimer. Starbuck swung down, waiting for a carriage to pass. Then he crossed to the corner occupied by the Windsor Hotel. His office was on Seventeenth Street, halfway down the block. He strolled along at a leisurely pace.

  Denver basked under a bright August sun. To the west, the Rockies jutted skyward, still capped with snow. The air was crystal clear and the afternoon moderately warm. Starbuck’s attire was casual, suitable to the weather. He wore a light corduroy jacket, a linen shirt open at the neck, and a low-crowned Stetson. Under the jacket, snugged tight in a crossdraw holster, he carried a Colt .45 at waist level. Even in Denver, he always went armed.

  The office building was directly behind the hotel, across the alley. He mounted the stairs to the second floor and proceeded along a hallway. Several years ago he had established headquarters in Denver. As his business expanded, his office had grown from a modest cubbyhole to a two-room suite. His caseload generally kept him on the move, and his visits to the office, even when he was in town, were sporadic. He turned into a doorway marked by a simple brass placard:

  LUKE STARBUCK

  INVESTIGATIONS

  Verna Phelps, his secretary, was seated behind a desk in the outer room. She was a spinster, pushing forty, and seemingly resigned to the life of an old maid. Her hair was pulled back in a severe chignon, and pince-nez glasses dangled from a black ribbon around her neck. She greeted him with a perfunctory nod.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “Afternoon, Verna.” Starbuck nailed his hat on a halltree. “What’s on for today?”

  “Where shall I start?”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “You have a full schedule.”

  “Well, like they say . . . no rest for the weary.”

  “Humph!”

  Verna clamped her pince-nez on the tip of her nose. She took great pride in his work as a detective. She even derived a certain vicarious satisfaction from his notoriety as a mankiller. Yet she viewed his personal life with prim disapproval. Between cases, he devoted his nights to Denver’s sporting district and seldom rose from bed before noon. His general attitude was that a man who worked hard was entitled to play hard. The upshot was what Verna considered a mild form of debauchery. She thought it scandalous behavior for a man in his position.


  “Perhaps a decent night’s sleep”—Verna gave him a vinegary glance—“would leave you less weary.”

  Starbuck yawned. “I like the indecent kind lots better.”

  “No doubt!” Verna flushed and handed him a stack of papers. “Here’s your correspondence and the monthly report from your banker.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You have a two o’clock appointment with Horace Griffin of Wells Fargo.”

  “Since when?”

  “He sent a note over this morning.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “I have no idea,” Verna replied. “His note simply requested an appointment.”

  “Here or there?”

  “Here.” Verna squinted over her glasses. “I thought it safe to reply you would be available—by two o’clock.”

  “Ouch!” Starbuck met her frosty look with a grin. “No need to draw blood.”

  “I merely deliver messages, nothing more.”

  Starbuck laughed and moved through the door to his private office. Nothing fancy, the room contained a desk and several wooden armchairs. On the far wall was a large double-door safe where confidential records were stored. He seated himself in a swivel chair behind the desk and lit a cigarette. Then, with no great enthusiasm, he began riffling through the correspondence.

  The letters were routine requests for his services. So far, 1882 had proved to be a banner year. He had played an active part in the death of Jesse James, and he’d broken a criminal conspiracy in Deadwood, Dakota Territory. The cases garnered national attention, and the resulting publicity had boosted his already formidable reputation as a private detective. The volume of mail increased accordingly, and he was now being offered work from every corner of the West. Several firms had even proposed placing him on a yearly retainer. Those letters were the first to hit the wastebasket.

  One thing Starbuck prized above all else was independence. His list of clients included railroads and stagelines, mining companies and banks. Yet he was extremely choosy, and money alone was never the determining factor. He accepted an assignment principally for the challenge involved; a run-of-the-mill case was simply passed over without consideration. He could afford to pick and choose by virtue of a sizable investment portfolio. The monthly statement from his banker indicated diversity and sound judgment. He owned substantial blocks of stock in railroads and mining companies, along with municipal bonds and select parcels of real estate. His total worth was approaching three hundred thousand dollars, and dividends alone provided a comfortable income. He enjoyed his work and he took pride in his craft. But he accepted an assignment only when it intrigued him. The wastebasket was constantly full.

  Today was no exception. One letter out of the entire stack was set aside for reply. Then, with that bothersome chore completed, he leaned back in the swivel chair. His mind turned to Horace Griffin and the upcoming appointment. He quickly sifted through his mental catalogue on the Wells Fargo division superintendent.

  Griffin had first hired him the fall of ’81. The assignment had taken him to Tombstone and pitted him against Wyatt Earp. In the course of his investigation, he had established that Earp was a coldblooded murderer and the ringleader of a gang of stage robbers. The outcome, in his view, was the one black mark on his record. Try as he might—and he’d tried very hard—he had failed to kill Earp. A slippery character, Earp had refused to fight, and therefore escaped Arizona alive. His present whereabouts was unknown, and of no interest to anyone.

  Still, even though Starbuck considered the job only half done, Wells Fargo had been appreciative. After Earp’s departure, stage robbery had all but ceased in the Tombstone district. Griffin had put through a request for a bonus, and the head office in San Francisco had approved it without hesitation. Since then, Wells Fargo had been instrumental in steering several clients to Starbuck’s doorstep. One assignment had taken him to San Francisco itself, and another had put him on the trail of Jesse James. The cases, in both instances, were unusual and challenging. So far as Starbuck was concerned, Wells Fargo was a regular tapspring of interesting work. He liked the brand of trouble they sent his way.

  Some while later, Verna ushered Horace Griffin through the door. The Wells Fargo superintendent was accompanied by two men, and they trooped into the office like a trio of gravediggers. Their expressions were curiously somber, and Starbuck sensed an undercurrent of tension. Griffin made short work of the introductions.

  “Luke, I’d like you to meet Munro Salisbury and John Duggan.” While a round of handshakes was under way, Griffin went on. “Mr. Salisbury is senior partner of the Gilmer and Salisbury Stage Line. Mr. Duggan is president of the Virginia City Mining Association.”

  “Nevada?” Starbuck inquired. “Or Montana?”

  “Montana,” Duggan responded with a marled stare. “So far as we’re concerned, it’s the only Virginia City!”

  “I admire your civic spirit, Mr. Duggan.”

  At Starbuck’s invitation, the men took chairs in front of the desk. He was unaccustomed to dealing with committees, and he warned himself to proceed with caution. The nature of his work, which was largely undercover, demanded the utmost secrecy. For all their sepulchral mood, the delegation before him was an unknown quantity. He nodded and smiled.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Griffin took the lead. “Before we get down to cases, let me fill you in on the details. Several years ago Gilmer and Salisbury bought out Wells Fargo’s interests in Montana. We have an express contract with them—primarily gold shipments—but that’s it. We don’t actually operate the stageline ourselves.”

  “Sounds like a profitable arrangement.”

  “It was,” Griffin remarked stiffly. “Up until a year or so ago. Then the holdups started, and things have gone downhill ever since.”

  “Oh?” Starbuck said evenly. “How many holdups?”

  “Three or four a month, and that’s just the stagecoaches! Some miners transport their bullion themselves, and they’ve been hit even harder. We’re talking about an epidemic, Luke. Wholesale robbery!”

  “And murder,” Salisbury interjected gravely. “At last count fifty-six men had been killed. Twelve were stage employees or passengers, and the rest were miners.”

  “I’ll be damned!” Starbuck suddenly looked interested. “What about the law? Why hasn’t your sheriff cracked down?”

  “He has!” Salisbury said hastily. “We couldn’t ask for a better sheriff than Henry Palmer. In the last year alone, he’s captured eleven bandits and killed four more. I might add we tried and hanged ten of those he captured. But, as Mr. Griffin told you, it’s an epidemic! No peace officer can be everywhere at once.”

  John Duggan cleared his throat. “Are you familiar with that part of Montana, Mr. Starbuck?”

  “No,” Starbuck admitted. “I’ve only been through there once, and that was by train.”

  “It’s rough country,” Duggan explained. “Only two roads in and out of Virginia City. One to the railroad at Dillon, and the other to Butte. All of it’s mountainous and heavily wooded. Perfect for outlaws—and a nightmare for lawmen.”

  “Offhand”—Starbuck paused, an odd smile at the corners of his mouth—“I’d say it’s a matter of the wrong people getting killed.”

  The words were spoken in a pleasant voice. Yet none of the men missed the quiet deadliness underlying the statement. Starbuck stared back at them with eyes that were uncommonly blue and deceptively tranquil. He was tall and wide through the shoulders, and his features were ruggedly forceful under a thatch of sandy chestnut hair. Over one eyebrow was a jagged scar, and his nose was crooked a hair off center. He looked like a blooded veteran, cold and dangerous. His moderate tone somehow underscored the impression.

  Horace Griffin thought the statement revealed much about the detective. Starbuck was as deadly as the outlaws he hunted—a mankiller—the very attribute needed if ever law was to be brought to Virginia City. At length, the Wells Fargo superintend
ent shifted in his chair. He looked Starbuck straight in the eye.

  “We’d like to retain your services, Luke.”

  “Why?” Starbuck asked deliberately. “From what you say, you’re up against a regular army of robbers. What makes you think I’d do any better than your sheriff?”

  “The sheriff’s too well known for what we have in mind.” Griffin hesitated, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “We have reason to believe the stagecoach robbers are an organized gang.”

  “How so?”

  “The holdups appear to be planned. We think that would require someone with inside information—a Judas.”

  “Any idea who’s behind it?”

  “None whatever.” Griffin frowned, shook his head. “But if we’re right, then what we need is an undercover operative. Someone who can get to the bottom of it—and stop it.”

  Starbuck understood the message. He was being asked to infiltrate the gang and dispense summary justice. The gang leader—and the Judas—were to be killed. He mulled it over a moment, intrigued primarily by one aspect. He wondered why the robbers murdered their victims so casually, and so often. Then, abruptly, he turned to Duggan.

  “What’s your part in all this?”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “It’s simple enough,” Starbuck said bluntly. “Griffin and Salisbury want the stage holdups stopped. What’re you after?”

  “Law and order,” Duggan informed him. “At this very moment, Virginia City is on the edge of anarchy. Too many miners have been murdered, and there’s no end in sight. It has to stop!”

  “What do you mean . . . anarchy?”

  “Vigilantes,” Duggan said grimly. “One of our local hotheads is beating the drum for a vigilance committee. Unless you put a halt to these murders, he’ll get his way.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Lott,” Duggan said with a grimace. “Wilbur X. Lott. He’s politically ambitious, and he’s using the vigilante issue as a soapbox. People are starting to listen—and that’s dangerous.”