The Judas Tree Page 10

  Stimson’s route was an exercise in stealth. With the bouncer at his elbow, he crossed Wallace and proceeded north on Van Buren. Halfway down the block he turned sharply into an unlighted alley. From there he walked eastward and emerged on Jackson Street. Then he again swung north, moving past several darkened business establishments. Near the corner, he stopped and rapped on a door. A few moments later the door opened in a shaft of light. Stimson and the bruiser stepped inside, and the door closed behind them.

  Starbuck hesitated at the mouth of the alley. Streetlamps flickered at both ends of the block, and he was wary of being spotted. Finally, satisfied there was no one about, he crossed to the east side of Jackson Street, Hugging the shadows, he darted from doorway to doorway, working his way toward the far corner. Some distance down the block, he ducked into the doorway of a hardware store and flattened himself against the wall. Almost directly opposite him was the building Stimson and the bouncer had entered. The blind was drawn, but the glow of a lamp shone from inside. On the plate-glass window was a sign done in fancy gold scrollwork. The lettering was dimly illuminated by the corner streetlight:

  ALDER GULCH ASSAY COMPANY

  Cyrus Skinner

  President

  The name meant nothing. Yet the connection, however tenuous, was immediately apparent to Starbuck. An assayer was actively involved in the gold-mining business and privy to all sorts of privileged information. Which tended to raise more questions than it answered. Was Skinner the ringleader or the Judas or the political kingpin? Or was he all three rolled into one? Then, again, perhaps he was none of those things. It was entirely possible that Stimson used him to dispose of the stolen bullion and gold dust. Still, whatever else he was, the assayer was definitely another link in the chain. A bit of investigation might very well prove him to be the last link. The Virginia City overlord.

  Across the street, the door of the assay office abruptly opened. Stimson’s bouncer stepped outside and swung the door shut. Starbuck had only a moment to wonder why Stimson had remained behind. Then he realized he was in an exposed position, perfectly visible. The bouncer glanced in his direction and froze.

  There was nothing for it. The options were to kill the man on the spot or attempt to run a bluff. Starbuck hastily unbuttoned his pants and pulled out his pud. For a moment his bladder seemed paralyzed, and he thought it was a lost cause. Then he gritted his teeth and strained and finally got the waterworks into operation. He doused the hardware store door with a steamy spray that sounded wetly in the still night. A puddle formed around his boots, and he shook his pud once for good measure. Finished, he tucked himself away and pretended to fumble with the buttons on his pants.

  The bouncer was watching him intently. Yet Starbuck thought his chances were improving by the moment. He was wearing a common mackinaw, and his features were somewhat obscured in the silty glow of the streetlamp. By acting the part, he might still pass himself off as a drunken miner. He wobbled out of the doorway, careful to keep his head ducked low. Staggering along, he lurched and swayed with the rubbery-legged gait of a man crocked to the gills. At the corner, he walked straight into the lamppost and rebounded with a muttered curse. A quick glance confirmed that the bouncer was watchful but apparently not alarmed. Starbuck rounded the corner and went weaving down the street.

  The immediate danger had passed. Whether or not he’d fooled the bouncer completely remained to be seen. Tomorrow he would put it to the test and find out. But for now he had a more pressing problem. A question that still echoed through his mind.

  Who—and what—was Cyrus Skinner?

  Chapter Ten

  Starbuck went about his usual routine the next day. He thought it important that everything appear normal. Another unremarkable day in the life of Lee Hall.

  Yet his nerves were raw with tension. When he awakened, he felt oddly unsure about what lay ahead. He mentally reviewed the events of last night while he shaved. There was every chance he would be asked questions; his answers would have to be both believable and convincing. Otherwise, today might be his last day in the guise of Lee Hall.

  His concern centered on two seemingly unrelated matters. The first had to do with his horse. Upon arriving in town the previous evening, he’d gone straightaway to the livery stable near Chinatown. He had ridden hard, and he figured he was at least a half hour ahead of Frank Yeager. At the livery, he had rented a stall and insisted on looking after the horse himself. That gave him an opportunity to ditch the sacks of gold dust and coins stowed in his saddlebags. He scooped away straw and manure and dug a hole in the floor of the stall. Then he buried the gold, certain that no one would poke around beneath a pile of horse apples. After tending to the horse, he’d crossed town and taken up his post outside the whorehouse. There was only one flaw in his actions to that point. Anyone who cared to check could easily establish the time he’d arrived in town. He would have to be prepared for questions.

  His second concern was by far the more troublesome. The close call last night with Stimson’s bouncer still weighed heavily. He thought he’d pulled it off; the drunken-miner act was one of his more memorable performances. But he’d learned long ago never to take anything for granted. It was entirely possible the bouncer had recognized him. Apparently, after delivering the satchel, Stimson had dismissed the man and stayed behind for a private talk with Cyrus Skinner. Whether or not the bouncer had returned and informed Stimpson of the incident was the key question. In retrospect, Starbuck concluded he must assume it had happened in just that manner. False confidence, particularly at this juncture, was a pitfall he could ill afford. Better to put it to the test and determine where he stood. Tonight he would beard Stimson at the theater watchful for any telltale signs of hostility. A bold front might very well turn the trick.

  In the meantime, there was the matter of Cyrus Skinner. Starbuck was somewhat at a loss as to where he should start. The assayer was a complete cipher, an unknown quantity. His association with Stimson appeared anything but legitimate; their clandestine meeting directly linked him to the stage holdups. Yet his overall role presented a whole grab bag of possibilities. He might be anything from a fence for the stolen gold to the political kingpin of Virginia City. An investigation, however, would prove a tricky proposition. Overt snooping would pose the hazard of alarming both Stimson and Skinner. So the questions would have to be framed in a casual manner and directed to people who had no dealings with either man. That greatly limited the scope of the investigation and bothered Starbuck more than he cared to admit. Still, he saw no alternative to discreet inquiry. He was too close to risk blowing the case.

  Starbuck emerged from the hotel at noontime. As was his custom, he went directly to a café across the street. There he wolfed down a breakfast of beefsteak and eggs and sourdough biscuits. He topped off the meal with a cup of coffee strong enough to grow hair and left a four-bit tip. Outside, with a toothpick stuck in his mouth, he stood for a while basking in the sun. Then he strolled upstreet at a leisurely pace.

  The afternoon was spent drifting from saloon to saloon. Starbuck shot a few games of pool and let himself be conned into a small-stakes poker game. The sporting crowd was out and about, and they greeted him as one of the fraternity. Everywhere he went he bought drinks for others, while he himself nursed a schooner of beer. His conviviality, along with the free drinks, assured him of company at every stop. He talked with bartenders and gamblers, thimbleriggers and shills, and a seemingly endless parade of saloon girls. One way or another, he steered the conversation onto gold and the looming prospect of quartz mining. From there, he worked the talk around to promising claims and the latest assay reports. A leading question sometimes brought the name of Cyrus Skinner into the discussion. Then he listened a lot, pretending off-hand interest and bored curiosity. By the end of the day, he’d pumped the sporting crowd for all they knew. It wasn’t much.

  Cyrus Skinner was an old-timer in Virginia City. He’d opened a one-man assay office shortly after gold was discovere
d along Alder Gulch. As the camp mushroomed into a boomtown his business had prospered and grown, until now he pretty much had a corner on the assay market. He was a mainstay in the local Democratic party, though he’d never held office or achieved prominence in the political arena. Widely respected, he was known as a man of character and scrupulous honesty. He took an occasional drink but shunned the gambling dens and apparently steered clear of the town’s parlor houses. According to the sporting crowd, he was a rabid civic booster and a man with no known vices. Which made him square as a cube.

  Starbuck retired to his hotel room shortly after sundown. He sprawled out on the bed and slowly digested all he’d learned. While none of it was revealing, the sum and substance sparked his cynicism. Any man with no known vices was, in his view, automatically suspect. A veneer of morality all too often masked oddments of an unwholesome nature. Based on what he had seen last night, that seemed very much the case with Cyrus Skinner. But he still had no cold, hard facts, no proof. Nor had he the slightest notion of where to look.

  With the onset of darkness, he rose and lighted a lamp. Tomorrow, even though it was a risk he preferred to avoid, he would kick over one last stone. He had only a vague hope that it would uncover anything new and startling about the mysterious assayer. Tonight he would tackle another, and equally unsettling, problem. The matter of Omar Stimson and his eagleeyed bouncer.

  Starbuck began washing up for supper. As he soaped his hands his gaze was attracted to his warbag. He always left it on the floor beside the washstand, and he always left the clasps unfastened. He saw now that the clasps were fastened and the warbag itself had been moved slightly. The discovery at once angered him and sent a chill along his backbone. He knew exactly what it meant.

  Someone had searched his room.

  Whatever he’d expected, Starbuck’s reception at the Gem was something of a shock. He no sooner bellied up to the bar than Omar Stimson appeared at his elbow. The theater owner greeted him warmly and ordered a drink on the house.

  “Been out of town?” Stimson inquired genially. “I missed you the last few days.”

  Starbuck thought it a crafty ploy. The question revealed nothing and it still opened up a can of worms. He had no idea where it would lead, but he decided to play along.

  “I’m surprised you even knew I was gone.”

  “You’re a regular now, Lee! I always look after a good customer.”

  “Well, like I told you before—” Starbuck paused and sipped his drink. “I got business that takes me here and there.”

  “Oh, I remember!” Stimson laughed. “A little of this and a little of that. Wasn’t that it?”

  Starbuck smiled. “I don’t gather much moss.”

  “Some folks are wondering about that very thing.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I hear Sheriff Palmer has been asking around about you.”

  “Why so?”

  “Big excitement yesterday.” Stimson fixed him with a sly look. “The morning stage to Dillon was robbed. Or hadn’t you heard?”

  “Somebody mentioned it,” Starbuck said vaguely. “Are you trying to tell me the sheriff thinks I had a hand in that holdup?”

  “You be the judge,” Stimson replied with a shrug. “There’s a rumor to the effect he searched your hotel room this afternoon.”

  “The hell you say!” Starbuck appeared dumbfounded. “Why would he do a thing like that?”

  “I imagine he was looking for stolen gold.”

  “Kiss my dusty butt!” Starbuck said hotly. “Wonder where he got such a damnfool notion?”

  “Word’s around you got yourself a horse.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “People talk,” Stimson said with a bland gesture. “Someone at the livery stable mentioned you’d rented a stall. When Palmer got wind of it, he went over and checked out the horse.”

  “What in tarnation for?”

  “Evidently the sheriff has got you pegged as a bad character. If the stage driver could identify your horse, then you’d be up a creek. See what I mean?”

  “Not a chance!” Starbuck crowed. “Goddamn horse’s own mother wouldn’t recognize him!”

  “Glad to hear it.” Stimson was silent a moment, thoughtful. “One other thing you ought to consider.”

  “Oh?”

  “The hostler said you brought your horse in a little before nine last night. In case you’re asked, you better be able to account for your whereabouts.”

  “Simplest thing on earth!” Starbuck said boldly. “I rode in yesterday afternoon and stopped at one of the cathouses. Always take my time when I go to get my log sapped. So it was late before I made it down to the livery.”

  “Looks like you’re in the clear, then.”

  “You bet your boots I am!”

  Stimson chatted awhile longer, then wandered off. Starbuck wasn’t quite sure what to make of the conversation. On the surface it seemed Stimson merely wanted to warn him about the sheriff. Then, again, there was an undertone of suspicion to the questions. Almost a sense of interrogation. Either way, Starbuck decided on an abrupt change of plans. Tomorrow night very well might be too late.

  Tonight was the time to kick over that last stone.

  A few minutes before seven, Starbuck slipped out of the Gem. He walked to the corner and crossed the street to his hotel. He went straight through the lobby and out the back door. A narrow passageway between buildings led to Jackson Street, and there he paused. He slowly inspected the street in both directions.

  The town’s main intersection, which he’d crossed only moments before, was clogged with the usual nighttime crowd. Jackson Street itself was dimly lighted and appeared empty. At length, satisfied he hadn’t been followed, he stepped from the passageway. He hurriedly moved to the opposite side of the street and cut into the alley. A quick walk brought him to Van Buren, and there he turned north. George Hoyt’s office was a few doors up the block.

  On his previous visit Starbuck had found the lawyer working late. He was banking on that being the case tonight. Otherwise, he would have to ask directions to Hoyt’s home, and that would compound an already dicey situation. His luck held. A beam of light filtered through the plate-glass window. He strode rapidly to the door and ducked inside.

  George Hoyt looked up from his desk. His expression was one of surprise and mild curiosity. Then, still silent, he watched Starbuck lock the door and pull the blind. The disguise was different, but Starbuck’s furtive manner triggered a memory of their last meeting. Hoyt suddenly made the connection, and his face went slack with fear.

  “You!”

  “Nobody else.” Starbuck moved forward and took a chair. “Figured it was time we had ourselves another talk!”

  “But I—” Hoyt stammered. “I kept my word! I spoke to no one about you or our conversation!”

  “Never doubted it,” Starbuck assured him. “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “We’re going to make a swap. You come clean and provide me with certain information. In return, I’ll keep you out of prison.”

  “Prison!” Hoyt shook his head dumbly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Cyrus Skinner.”

  Hoyt’s mouth popped open and he sat transfixed. His face went chalky, and behind the wire-rimmed glasses a pinpoint of terror surfaced in his eyes. When at last he spoke, his voice had an unusual timbre.

  “I have nothing to say . . . nothing.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Starbuck said tightly. “I’ll spell it out for you. Frank Yeager and Omar Stimson are going to hang for murder. Skinner will probably get a life sentence. You’re just small fry, but you’re still an accessory before the fact. So you’re looking at twenty, maybe thirty years.”

  “Who are you?”

  “U.S. deputy marshal,” Starbuck said without expression. “I was sent here to get the stage robbers. One thing led to another, and I kept turning up more names. All I need to make a cas
e are a few more details, and that’s your way out. You come clean, and I guarantee you won’t serve a day.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Hoyt said, his face careworn. “If you know so much, why do you need me?”

  “Corroboration.” Starbuck smiled crookedly. “I infiltrated Yeager’s gang and helped him rob the stage yesterday. Then I trailed him to Stimson, and Stimson led me to Skinner. You turn state’s evidence—corroborate my story—and you’re off the hook. Otherwise, you win yourself a striped suit.”

  There was a stretch of deadened silence. Hoyt seemed caught up in a moment of indecision, and his eyes drifted away. Then he pursed his lips in a forlorn expression.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about Skinner.” Starbuck regarded him evenly. “I’ve already got the goods on Yeager and Stimson.”

  “Cyrus Skinner,” Hoyt said hollowly, “controls the county political machine. He purposely stays out of the limelight, but he’s the power behind the throne. No one gets into public office without his stamp of approval.”

  “Which includes you?”

  “Yes.” Hoyt was unable to meet his gaze. “Skinner handpicked me for county prosecutor. As an added inducement, he promised to back me for the legislature in next year’s election. I agreed to turn a blind eye to the robberies and other irregularities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Graft and corruption. Skinner uses Omar Stimson as a front man. All the vice operations pay protection money, and it ends up in Skinner’s pocket.”

  “How about Sheriff Palmer?” Starbuck persisted. “Is he Skinner’s man, too?”

  “Palmer’s the exception,” Hoyt said softly. “He’s a political maverick, an independent. He campaigned on his own ticket and beat Skinner’s candidate three to one.”