The Judas Tree Page 14

  “I’ve put out feelers.” Palmer’s face twisted in a grimace. “If he’s still in Montana, I’ll hear about it.”

  “You really think he’d stick around?”

  “No,” Palmer said with a sour look. “I’d say he’s far away and still running.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.” Starbuck arched one eyebrow. “How’d Stimson come to pull a gun on you?”

  “Your guess on that’s as good as mine. I thought he’d go along peaceable, and instead he made a fight of it. I was lucky to get him before he got me.”

  “Too bad,” Starbuck remarked. “He would’ve made a better witness than Yeager.”

  “Too bad and too late,” Palmer added without humor. “By the time I got to Skinner’s office, the news was already out. He skipped town one step ahead of me.”

  “Word travels fast,” Starbuck said evenly. “What about the Judas . . . anything turn up?”

  “No hard proof.” Palmer seemed to look through him. “But I’d bet my bottom dollar it was Skinner. His assay business gave him all sorts of inside information. Course, the way things sit, we’ll probably never know.”

  “I reckon not.” Starbuck nodded absently. “How do you figure to stop the vigilantes?”

  “I don’t.” Palmer regarded him with great calmness. “I couldn’t deputize enough men to stop them. Besides, it’ll eventually run its course anyhow. Wilbur Lott won’t be able to hold them together.”

  “He seems to be doing a pretty fair job so far.”

  “A couple of days don’t mean a thing. A week from now it’ll all be ancient history.”

  “Hope you’re right.” Starbuck gave him a sideways look. “If you’re not, it’s liable to get ugly. Vigilantes generally wind up lynching innocent people before they’re through.”

  “I almost wish they would!” Palmer said fiercely. “Then I’d have an excuse to stretch Wilbur Lott’s skinny neck!”

  “Write me and let me how how it turns out.”

  Palmer looked surprised. “That sounds like you’re calling it quits?”

  “No reason to stay.” Starbuck’s smile was cryptic. “Skinner’s the only one left alive, and he’s long gone. I reckon I’ll just close the file on this one. I’ve got other fish to fry.”

  “Another case?”

  “Sheriff, there’s always another case!”

  Starbuck pumped hs hand vigorously and walked off toward town. He wondered if Palmer realized he’d lied not once but several times during the conversation. Then, with a sardonic chuckle, he put it from mind. He had a fish to fry that wouldn’t wait.

  A sucker fish otherwise known as Cyrus Skinner.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The night was cold and dark. Starbuck stood in the alley behind the Alder Gulch Assay Company. With the butt of his Colt, he broke an upper pane of glass in the rear window. He listened intently for a moment before holstering the pistol. Then he slipped his hand through the broken pane and unlocked the window catch.

  A burlap bag lay at his feet. Inside were various tools he’d purchased earlier at a hardware store. After raising the window, he pushed the bag through and lowered it to the floor. He climbed over the sill, then closed the window and drew the blind. The door to the room was shut, and a quick look around convinced him he was in Cyrus Skinner’s private office. He pulled a candle from his pocket and lit it with a match. Directly opposite him was a squat floor safe, positioned against the wall. Grunting with satisfaction, he dripped hot wax on the edge of a nearby desk and sealed the candle in place. Then he opened the bag of tools and went to work.

  The break-in had been prompted by several factors. A remark by Henry Palmer during their conversation that afternoon had provided the key. The sheriff, immediately after killing Stimson, had gone from the theater to Skinner’s office. But word of the shooting had preceded him, and he found Skinner had already skipped town. Which meant Skinner had been caught unprepared, with no time to organize his escape. He’d taken flight on the spur of the moment.

  Starbuck understood the criminal mentality. Over the years, he’d developed the knack of stepping into the other man’s boots and viewing a situation from the crook’s perspective. Everything he had learned to date indicated Cyrus Skinner was a careful man, a methodical planner. So it was reasonable to assume Skinner would have prepared—in advance—for any eventuality. In particular, he would have taken steps to secure his financial position. He would not have fled into poverty.

  Yet an assay business was hardly a conduit for large amounts of gold. It followed, then, that Skinner would have developed a method for disposing of the stolen bullion. Starbuck was less interested in the method than in where the gold had gone. He felt confident that when he found the gold he would find Skinner. Since there had been no time to destroy records, Skinner had very probably left behind a paper trail. A file, or perhaps a ledger, that would lead ultimately to a bank. From there, it would be only a matter of legwork to locate Skinner himself. A thief and his money were seldom far apart.

  Starbuck’s plan was simple. Tonight’s job would appear the work of a common yeggman. No one would suspect he’d looted the office, and there would be nothing to indicate the actual purpose of the robbery. He attacked the safe with a drill punch and a four-foot crowbar. Within ten minutes, he had peeled the safe door and was pawing through the contents. He found more than he’d expected.

  The stolen gold was on deposit at a bank in Salt Lake City. There was a ledger indicating the dates of deposit and a current balance in excess of one hundred thousand dollars. Stuck inside the ledger was a dossier on one Robert Dempsey. Documented therein was evidence that Dempsey had murdered his former partner in a mining venture; the spot where the body had been buried was clearly marked on an enclosed map. On the map as well were directions to a spot identified simply as Dempsey’s Cabin. Some twenty miles south of Virginia City, the cabin was located on Stinkingwater Creek.

  Starbuck puzzled on it for several minutes. Then, suddenly, he grasped the significance of the dossier and map. The man named Robert Dempsey was Skinner’s conduit for the stolen gold. The bullion was somehow transferred to Dempsey, and he in turn arranged to deposit it with the bank in Salt Lake City. But Skinner was apparently a cautious man and operated on the principle that there was no honor among thieves. He’d gathered evidence of the old murder and used it as an instrument of blackmail against Dempsey. He thereby ensured that the gold would arrive safely in Salt Lake City. At the same time, he had guaranteed Dempsey’s silence.

  Cyrus Skinner’s vanishing act was no longer a mystery. Whether or not he’d gone on to Salt Lake City was a moot point. His first stop was pinpointed precisely on the map.

  A cabin on Stinkingwater Creek.

  The sun was at its zenith. A narrow ribbon of water snaked through a boulder-strewn canyon. On one side of the creek, the shoreline was sheltered by trees. On the other, a crude log cabin was silhouetted against distant mountains. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney.

  Starbuck lay concealed in the trees. By the angle of the sun, he judged he’d been watching the cabin for nearly an hour. No one had appeared during that time, even though the cabin was clearly occupied. He took heart from the fact that there were two horses standing hipshot in a split-log corral. One man rarely had need of an extra mount.

  The wait was slowly beginning to wear on his nerves. He’d ridden through the night, following the road south from Virginia City. Early that morning he had hit Stinkingwater Creek and left his horse tied in a grove of trees. On foot, he had then made his way upstream, pausing frequently to check the map. After spotting the cabin, he’d bellied down and wormed the last hundred yards. He was now bone-tired and on edge, and toying with the idea of rushing the cabin. He decided to give it another five minutes.

  The cabin door abruptly opened and a man stepped outside. Starbuck watched as he walked toward the creek with a bucket. He was large and burly, and in no way fitted the description of Cyrus Skinner. Which pretty well p
egged him as Skinner’s secret accomplice, Robert Dempsey. A pistol was strapped on his hip, and the holster shifted higher as he stooped down at the creek. He dipped the bucket into the water.

  “Don’t move!”

  Starbuck’s command was rapped out in a hard voice. Dempsey froze for an instant; then he dropped the bucket and dodged sideways. He moved uncommonly fast for a big man, and the pistol appeared in his hand before he’d taken a full step. He suddenly stopped in his tracks, whirling and crouching, and fired blindly at the treeline. Starbuck shot him twice, centering both shots within a handspan of his shirt pocket. The slugs jarred him backward and his bootheel caught on a rock. Then the gun fell from his hand and he spraddled out on the creek bank. He lay perfectly still.

  On his belly, Starbuck squirmed a few yards upstream and took cover behind another tree. He watched the cabin for several moments and thought he saw a shadow of movement behind the window. He cupped one hand to his mouth and yelled.

  “Skinner!” He waited a beat. “I know you’re in there. Let’s talk!”

  A long moment slipped past. Then, his voice muffled from within the cabin, Skinner called out. “Who are you?”

  “Luke Starbuck! I’m a private detective—the stage-line hired me!”

  “How do I know you won’t kill me?”

  “Doc Carver asked me to take you alive! I promised I’d try!”

  “Carver?” Skinner sounded doubtful. “What’s it to him?”

  “His daughter’s still sweet on you! Besides, he figures they owe you one for getting them out of town!”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “You’ve got no choice!” Starbuck replied. “You can come out and live. Or I’ll burn you out and kill you. Take your pick!”

  Skinner hesitated only briefly. “All right, you win! I’m throwing my gun out. Don’t shoot!”

  The cabin door opened and Skinner tossed his revolver on the ground. Then he took a tentative step outside and halted, hands raised overhead. He stared apprehensively at the treeline.

  Starbuck scrambled to his feet. He kept Skinner covered and cautiously forded the creek. As he moved closer he saw why Alice Carver had lost her head. Skinner was an unusually handsome man. His features had a chiseled look, with a cleft in his chin and piercing dark eyes. His hair was raven black and wavy, and he was built along lithe, muscular lines. He was a ladies’ man who looked the part.

  “How did you find me?” Skinner asked nervously. “I never told anyone about Dempsey.”

  “Tricks of the trade,” Starbuck said with a tired smile. “You might say I followed a paper trail.”

  Skinner appeared bemused. “Alice couldn’t have told you—she didn’t know!”

  “She told me lots of other things.”

  “Such as?”

  “The whole setup,” Starbuck said matter-of-factly. “How do you think I got onto your game?”

  “What game?”

  “The stage holdups,” Starbuck observed. “Your political connections. You and Stimson and Yeager. . . . everything.”

  “I don’t believe you!” Skinner said in an aggrieved tone. “It wasn’t Alice! You got to me through Yeager.”

  Starbuck shrugged, watching his eyes. “When did you learn I was on the case?”

  “The night—” Skinner stopped, shook his head. “Good try! I never heard your name before today.”

  “Believe it or not,” Starbuck countered, “I’m trying to pull your fat out of the fire. Alice also told me about your boss.”

  Skinner gave him a blank stare. “What boss?”

  “You sure loused it up,” Starbuck went on with a mirthless grin. “He must’ve been some ticked off when he found out you’d faked the Carver girl’s death.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’ve got one chance.” Starbuck’s voice dropped. “Tell me his name—turn state’s evidence—and let me go after him. Otherwise, you’ll wind up in the bone-yard.”

  “Oh?” Skinner blustered. “What makes you think so?”

  “You’re the last witness!” Starbuck said urgently. “The only one who knows the full story. He means to kill you and he’ll do it—unless I stop him.”

  Skinner glanced away and stared for a long while at nothing. He was quiet so long Starbuck began to think he wouldn’t answer. But finally he sighed and spread his hands wide. His face was stricken with a look of dread and uncertainty.

  “All right,” he conceded glumly. “I’ll make a deal with you. Deliver me to the territorial capital and put me in the custody of the attorney general. Then I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  Starbuck examined the notion. “Helena’s a long way off. Why not tell me now?”

  “I want insurance.” Skinner grinned weakly. “You get me there alive and I’ll talk! Not before.”

  A moment elapsed while they stared at one another. Then Starbuck nodded. “You’ve got yourself a deal. We’ll spend the night in Virginia City and catch the morning stage. That ought to put us into Helena day after tomorrow.”

  “No!” Skinner’s eyes froze to pinpoints of darkness. “I won’t go back to Virginia City!”

  “Don’t worry,” Starbuck said with a clenched smile. “I won’t let him get you.”

  “I refuse!” Skinner’s voice was choked with terror. “I’m as good as dead the minute I set foot in town!”

  “Quit squawking!” Starbuck silenced him with a frown. “You’re my prisoner, and nobody will harm you while you’re in my custody.”

  “He’ll try,” Skinner whispered desperately. “You know he’ll try!”

  “I know he’s dead if he does.”

  Starbuck considered it a no-lose proposition. By returning to Virginia City, he might end the case quickly and permanently. Helena would delay things a few days, but time was now on his side. Either way, he’d gained the edge at last.

  He went along to the corral while Skinner saddled a horse.

  Dusk was settling over Virginia City. Starbuck and Skinner rode into town as the last rays of light were leached from the sky. Their arrival was timed perfectly with the supper hour and onrushing darkness. The streets were virtually empty.

  Starbuck thought it wiser to bypass the livery stable. The sooner he got Skinner undercover, the better. Then, if an assassination attempt was made, it would be made on ground of his own choosing. He led Skinner to the hotel and they dismounted out front. As they moved to the hitch rack, he heard a coarse shout from across the street. He looked around, and his blood went cold.

  Wilbur X. Lott and a group of vigilantes had just emerged from a café. With hardly a break in stride, they stepped off the boardwalk and hurried toward the hotel. Their eyes were fastened on Skinner, and the look on their faces was the look of death. A cone of silence enveloped them as they approached in a tight phalanx.

  Too late, Starbuck realized his mistake. The focus of his concentration had been on one man, a lone killer. He’d forgotten that a pack of killers now roamed the streets of Virginia City. A lynch-crazed pack, sworn to hang Cyrus Skinner. He felt slow and stupid, and he silently cursed himself. In his rush to get one man, he’d overlooked the greater danger. The mob.

  Lott halted directly in front of him. The vigilantes spread out and slowly surrounded the hitch rack. Skinner’s features turned ashen and he unwittingly moved closer to Starbuck. Lott uttered a dry laugh that sounded like a death rattle.

  “Well, now, Mr. Starbuck! You are a detective, aren’t you?”

  “Skinner’s my prisoner.” Starbuck’s eyes went steely. “I won’t turn him over, Lott. So call off your dogs.”

  “Why should we fight?” Lott’s face was a mask of righteous propriety. “A man in your profession understands the need for summary justice. Our goals are the same, Mr. Starbuck.”

  “Shove it!” Starbuck’s voice was alive with contempt. “I work my own game, and it’s not done yet. I’ve still got need of Skinner.”

  “That’s unf
ortunate,” Lott replied with cold hauteur. “You see, we want to ask him a few questions ourselves. I suggest you stand aside.”

  Starbuck’s mouth clamped in a bloodless line. “Why don’t you try moving me aside?”

  “Come now!” Lott scoffed. “You’re in a hopeless position, Mr. Starbuck. Unless, of course, you’re willing to die just to make a point.”

  The snout of a pistol jabbed into Starbuck’s spine. He stared at Lott, his look dark and vengeful. Then, with an effort of will, he forced himself to nod, signifying he’d lost. Lott laughed and motioned to his men with a brusque gesture.

  “Bring them both along,” he ordered. “I think Mr. Starbuck might learn something.”

  Lott walked off upstreet. The vigilantes crowded around Starbuck and Skinner, and they fell in behind. Several minutes later they entered the clearing on the outskirts of town. The Judas Tree stood bathed in a spectral glow of starlight. The ropes from yesterday’s hangings still dangled over the limb, and there was a ghoulish aspect to the scene. A man was assigned to watch Starbuck, and others hustled Skinner beneath the tree. After a noose was slipped around his neck, several vigilantes took hold of the rope. Then Lott stepped forward and faced him.

  “Cyrus, you’re going to die.” He spoke the words with a kind of smothered wrath. “How you die depends on whether or not you cooperate.”

  Skinner stood numb with shock. “I—I’ve done nothing.”

  Lott glanced past him and gestured. The rope snapped taut and Skinner was snatched off the ground. He clawed wildly at the noose, which cut deeper into his throat as the weight of his body pulled the loop ever tighter. His eyes were maddened and bulging, vivid with pain. He kicked and jerked, dancing on thin air, and his face turned a dark shade of purple. Then, at a signal from Lott, the vigilantes abruptly released the rope. Skinner dropped on the ground and fell to his knees. He tore the noose free and sucked wind into his starved lungs. He gagged, clutching at his throat, and coughed raggedly. His breathing was a labored wheeze in the still night.

  “Cyrus, that’s only a sample,” Lott warned with cold menace. “You’ll die by inches unless you give me a full confession.”