The Judas Tree Read online

  “Got any samples?”

  Lola laughed a sultry, deep-throated laugh. She scooted across the sofa and snuggled close. Her arms went around his neck and she pulled his head down. Then she kissed him with fierce abandon, her tongue darting his mouth. When at last they separated, her voice was warm and husky.

  “Ooo how I want you! Take me to bed, lover!”

  Starbuck took her.

  Epilogue

  El Paso

  September 22, 1883

  Starbuck stepped onto the veranda of the Parker House Hotel. Beyond the mountains, the last rays of sunset streaked the sky like dull fire. A bluish dusk slowly settled over El Paso.

  The hotel was situated on the east side of San Jacinto Plaza. From the veranda Starbuck had a commanding view of the broad square and the uptown business district. He walked forward and took a seat in a cane-bottomed rocker. He lit a cigarette and loosened the Colt in its crossdraw holster. Then he set the rocker into motion.

  A patient hunter, Starbuck let his mind wander while he waited. He recalled hearing that the conquistadores had originally named the town El Paso del Norte. Surrounded by mountains, it lay nestled in the Tularosa Basin and provided a natural pass to the north over the Franklin range. To the southwest, across the Rio Grande, lay the Sierra Madre range. The mountains formed a backdrop for El Paso’s counterpart on the Mexican shoreline, Paso del Norte. Yesterday, on the train, he’d heard that Paso del Norte was a place where gringo lawmen seldom ventured. He thought it a revealing comment, all part and parcel of a widely accepted belief. El Paso itself was considered the toughest border town on the frontier.

  Formerly a wilderness crossroads, El Paso had been little more than a stopover to somewhere else. The trail from Sante Fe to Mexico City ran directly through the plaza, while the stage route connecting San Antonio with the Pacific Coast meandered off in the opposite direction. Only two years ago, with the arrival of the Southern Pacific Railroad, the sleepy village had undergone a startling transformation. The daily trains from east Texas had disgorged a horde of saloon-keepers and cardsharps, whores and gunmen, and the usual assortment of hardcases. There were fortunes to be made in a boomtime bordertown, and El Paso welcomed harlot and outlaw alike with open arms. The town mushroomed under an uneasy alliance of commerce and vice.

  The danger to lawmen was in no way exaggerated. El Paso’s first marshal had lasted only a few months. His replacement, a former Texas Ranger, was Dallas Stoudenmire. Within a week of taking office, Stoudenmire had killed three men and established himself as a fighting marshal. Only last year, after running afoul of the sporting crowd, Stoudenmire had been removed from office. Some months later he’d been killed in a shootout with the Manning brothers, who allegedly controlled much of the vice district. The message was clear to men who wore a badge. El Paso was an open town, with no great pretense of law and order. A peace officer who believed otherwise risked his life on a daily basis.

  Staring out across the plaza, Starbuck thought it a point worth remembering. He had arrived by train only last night, and he was under no illusions about his own safety. In the event he was recognized, there were any number of men in El Paso who would gladly gun him down from behind. Not the least among them was the man he sought. Still, he had opted to work openly rather than operate undercover. He’d come here to kill Wilbur X. Lott.

  Hardly to his surprise, Starbuck’s prediction regarding the Virginia City vigilantes had proved correct. Some six weeks past, Lott and his band of stranglers had lynched a man mistakenly identified as a horse thief. Lott, who had failed in his bid for political office, was already at odds with the authorities. The hanging of yet another innocent man merely quickened his downfall. He was charged with murder and promptly fled Virginia City. A fugitive warrant was issued and the territorial governor posted a reward of a thousand dollars. He was wanted dead or alive.

  The reward was a matter of no consequence to Starbuck. He had a personal score to settle, and the law had provided the legal means. While he couldn’t spare the time for an investigation, he had no intention of allowing Lott to escape justice. After reflecting on it, he’d decided to approach the problem in a roundabout manner. Through Jack Murphy, his chief informant in the Denver underworld, he had put out feelers across the West. Among thieves and desperados, the moccasin telegraph was the principal source of information. Over a month passed before word drifted back to Starbuck via the grapevine. Wilbur X. Lott was holed up in Paso del Norte.

  According to Starbuck’s informant, Lott spent most of his time on the Mexican side of the Rio Grande. Paso del Norte was a sanctuary for gringo badmen, immune to the laws of extradition and the long arm of American peace officers. Lott lived across the border and apparently visited El Paso only after dark. He was known to prefer the company of gringa women, and his favorite hangout was the White Elephant Saloon, on the west side of the plaza. He was operating under the alias William Latham, and these days he sported a beard. He had no known associates in El Paso.

  Last night, upon arriving in town, Starbuck had checked into the hotel. Except for meals, he’d kept to his room throughout the day. His plan was simple and direct. He would stay out of sight during the day and thereby avoid the risk of alerting Lott. At sundown, he would take up a post on the hotel veranda and maintain a watch on the White Elephant. Sooner or later, his quarry would show. Then he would walk across the plaza and perform the job by the most expedient means. Tonight’s stakeout was the first of what might very well prove to be a marathon. Yet, however long it took, he had no qualms or reservations. He was prepared to wait for the chance to kill Wilbur Lott.

  Starbuck’s vigil paid off on his third cigarette. He saw Lott appear from Main Street, which angled off in the direction of the bridge connecting El Paso with Paso del Norte. The streetlamps were lighted and the former vigilante was easily recognizable. The beard he’d grown had altered his appearance, but his cadaverous frame and hooklike nose were impossible to disguise. He crossed to the west side of the plaza with the air of a man whose troubles are few and far behind. A moment later he disappeared through the doors of the White Elephant.

  No great believer in luck, Starbuck nonetheless took it as a good omen. To locate Lott on the first night seemed at the very least providential. He stood and ground his cigarette underfoot. Tugging his suit jacket over the Colt, he moved directly to the veranda stairs. The prospect of killing a man worked on him like some mystical anodyne. At such times, his heartbeat slowed, and his nerves, as though cauterized, simply ceased to function. He operated solely on instinct and reflex, some atavistic sense tuned not so much to survival as the need to kill swiftly. He crossed the plaza with no thought of personal danger. His whole attitude was zeroed on the task ahead.

  The White Elephant was a cut above most bordertown watering holes. A long mahogany bar dominated one side of the room. Behind the counter a massive French mirror, flanked by nude paintings, adorned the wall. Opposite the bar was a row of gaming tables, and toward the rear of the room was a small dance floor. A piano player and a fiddler provided the entertainment, while a bevy of saloon girls ministered to those with a taste for companionship. The crowd was boisterous and loud, the atmosphere congenial. No one paid Starbuck the slightest attention.

  Wilbur Lott stood with his elbows hooked over the bar and one foot firmly planted on the brass rail. He had a drink in one hand and a bosomy redhead attached to his arm. His mode of dress was still somewhat funereal, with a swallowtail coat topped off by a broad-brimmed hat. Beneath the coat, a bulge on his right hip betrayed the presence of a holstered pistol. His expression was that of a man with lechery on his mind. He looked as if he were swapping dirty ideas with the redhead.

  Starbuck wedged in beside him. Lott’s concentration was on the girl, and several moments passed without incident. Then, after a wayward glance in the backbar mirror, Lott suddenly stiffened. His eyes went wide with fright and he pushed off the counter. Starbuck nodded with a wry grin.

  “Ho
w’s tricks, Wilbur?”

  “I—” Lott faltered, his face ashen. “What do you want?”

  “Dumb question,” Starbuck needled him. “You’re a fugitive from justice.”

  “You have no authority in Texas!”

  “Why stand on formalities?” Starbuck quipped. “Kiss your lady friend goodbye and we’ll be on our way.”

  Lott glowered at him through slitted eyes. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

  “Yeah, you are,” Starbuck said evenly. “Way it works out, you’ve got a choice. Come along peaceable, and I’ll take you back to Montana. Otherwise, you and the undertaker are set for a one-way ride.”

  “No!” Lott said with sudden resolve. “I won’t fight and you won’t kill me in cold blood!”

  “Wanna bet?” Starbuck let go a ferocious laugh. “The reward dodger says dead or alive. Open season on Wilbur X. Lott.”

  The redhead believed him. She gently disengaged her hand from Lott’s arm and eased away from the bar. For all his bravado, Lott too sensed his life was in imminent peril. He saw in Starbuck’s gaze a look of predatory eagerness. His attitude underwent an abrupt turnaround.

  “Listen to me, Starbuck!” His voice was heavy, stark. “I grant you we hung the wrong man. But we didn’t know that at the time. It was a mistake—an accident!”

  “How do you accidentally lynch somebody?”

  “He was on a stolen horse! We didn’t find out till later he’d bought it off the real thief. By then, it was too late!”

  “Pretty flimsy,” Starbuck said with a sardonic look. “The law don’t issue a dead-or-alive warrant on accidental homicide. Sounds like you hung one too many men, Wilbur.”

  “It wasn’t that!” Lott muttered vehemently. “I made too many political enemies, and they were out to get me. Any excuse would’ve done!”

  “Tit for tat,” Starbuck observed. “You hung a whole slew of men over nothing but politics. Why shouldn’t somebody hang you for the same reason?”

  “For God’s sake!” Lott implored. “It was an accident—I swear it!”

  “Tell you what,” Starbuck said in a musing tone. “I never was one to cause a man undue suffering. So I’ll give you the same break I gave Henry Palmer.”

  “Palmer!” Lott blanched. “You shot him!”

  “Square through the heart,” Starbuck nodded sagely. “Quick and painless, and it don’t spoil the looks of the corpse.”

  Sweat popped out on Lott’s forehead. “I don’t care much for that idea.”

  “Well, like I told you,” Starbuck said matter-offactly. “You’ve got a choice between me and Montana. Course, if I was you, I wouldn’t let nobody strangle me to death. That’s a goddamn hard way to cash out.”

  A vivid image of the Judas Tree flashed through Lott’s mind. His throat constricted and his face turned pasty white. “I guess I’ll have to chance it.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Starbuck deliberately turned his head sideways. He signaled the barkeep, seemingly unconcerned about Lott. Yet, alert to any movement, he watched the large mirror out of the corner of his eye. The barkeep bustled forward.

  “Yessir!”

  “Who’s your town marshal?”

  “Jim Gillett!”

  “Send somebody to fetch him—on the double!”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Get him over here and you’ll find out.”

  Lott listened to the exchange with mounting dread. His expression became immobile and dark, and the muscles in his jaw knotted. Then, suddenly, he decided to risk it all on one play. His eyes flashed with a formidable glitter and his arm swept the swallowtail coat aside. His hand closed over the butt of his pistol.

  Starbuck seemed to move not at all. The Colt appeared out of nowhere and in the same instant his head swiveled around. Lott’s eyes were marblelike with shock, and he somehow looked betrayed. As his pistol cleared leather Starbuck feathered the trigger and the Colt belched flame. Lott stood perfectly still, a great splotch of red covering his breastbone. Then the pistol slipped from his fingers and his legs buckled. He slowly slumped to the floor.

  Holstering the Colt, Starbuck knelt beside the fallen man. Lott lay with his head propped up against the brass rail, his hat tilted askew. A trickle of blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth and his breathing was ragged. He stared at Starbuck with a glassy expression.

  “You tricked me.”

  “You tricked yourself, Wilbur.”

  “Dirty . . . pool . . .”

  The words ended in a gurgled cough and Lott’s eyes rolled back in his head. Starbuck studied the face a moment, almost a clinical examination. Then he leaned forward and closed the eyelids with his fingertips. He stood and nodded to the barkeep.

  “Tell the marshal he’ll find me over at the hotel.”

  “Yessir, cap’n! I shorely will!”

  Outside, Starbuck crossed the plaza at a measured stride. He heard again the last words of Wilbur X. Lott. The thought occurred that what he’d done was indeed dirty pool. But, then, there were no rules on the killing ground. He smiled, not in the least troubled he’d sent a strangler to the grave. In the end, for those who held themselves above the law, only one code prevailed.

  Some men deserved to die.

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