Manhunter / Deadwood Read online

  “You weren’t far off,” he said, staring across the table at Cassidy. “The name’s Luke Starbuck. I’m a detective, working out of Denver.” .

  “I’ve heard the name.” Cassidy fixed him with an evil look. “You’ve got yourself quite a reputation as a man-killer.”

  “No argument there,” Starbuck said slowly. “No apology, either. It’s part of the detective business.”

  “And you were sent here to kill me—weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I was,” Starbuck nodded soberly. “The price was ten thousand dollars and no questions asked.”

  “Ten—” Cassidy glowered at him with pop-eyed amazement. “Christ on a crutch! Somebody wanted me dead real bad.”

  “Unless I’m wrong, the whole scheme was cooked up to get me. You were just a bonus prize.”

  “Scheme?” Cassidy repeated blankly. “What d’you mean by that?”

  Starbuck briefly explained. He related the gist of his meeting with the lawyer William Dexter. He next detailed the reason behind the assignment—robbery of the Butte mining company—and the client’s name, Ira Lloyd. Then he recounted the gunfight in Cheyenne and the ambush on the trail to Hole-in-the-Wall. He saw now that neither of those incidents was happenstance. He’d been waylaid both times, and tonight was merely a last-ditch effort in an elaborate assassination plot. Somebody had sandbagged the odds to make triple certain he would wind up dead. And that somebody’s name was Ira Lloyd.

  “In other words,” Starbuck concluded, “he figured if his own boys missed, then you’d get me. That’s why you were warned I was on my way to Hole-in-the-Wall. He wanted you primed and ready to shoot the minute a stranger asked your name.”

  “Maybe.” Cassidy examined the notion. “Least-ways it’d explain why I got the warnin’ so roundabout.”

  “I heard Butch mention Davis and the girls. Who’s Davis?”

  “Al Davis,” Butch said with a wide, peg-toothed grin. “He owns the saloon and cathouse down at Cheever’s Flats.”

  “What’s Cheever’s Flats?”

  “A tradin’ post,” Butch replied. “North of Ed Houk’s place, about a day’s ride.”

  “Exactly what kind of warning was it?”

  “Cut and dried,” Cassidy informed him. “The fella said a hired gun was gonna settle my hash.”

  “No explanation?”

  “None a-tall.”

  “Well, the reason’s pretty clear now.”

  “Yeah?” Cassidy said shortly. “Like what?”

  “Vengeance.” Starbuck rocked his hand, fingers splayed. “Or maybe double vengeance. Lloyd probably figured we’d kill each other.”

  “Don’t make no sense!” Cassidy gave him a baleful look. “I never been to Butte and I never pulled no payroll job. And I damn sure don’t know nobody named Ira Lloyd!”

  “All the same,” Starbuck insisted, “there has to be a link, something that connects us together. Lloyd didn’t just pull our names out of a hat.”

  “What link?” Cassidy crowed. “You and me ain’t exactly got a lot in common!”

  “Maybe.” Starbuck rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “Maybe not.”

  “No maybe about it! You’re upwind of the law and I’m downwind. Where’s the connection?”

  “Well, in a manner of speaking, we both wallow at the same mud hole.”

  “You just lost me.”

  “Look at it this way,” Starbuck suggested. “It’s possible we know some of the same people. Don’t forget, I spend a lot of time with men in your … line of work.”

  “Then how come we never crossed paths before?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Starbuck corrected him. “I’m talking about an indirect link. Somebody we both had dealings with at one time or another.”

  “Hmmm.” Cassidy considered a moment. “You mean somebody I might’ve rode with?”

  “That wouldn’t be a bad place to start.”

  “Won’t take long, either,” Cassidy observed. “Not countin’ Butch, I’ve only had two partners in my whole life. One was Latigo Spence. We worked together close to four years down in Utah. The other was Dutch Henry Horn. We used to steal horses and pull a few holdups, mostly in Texas.”

  A strange light came into Starbuck’s eyes. “When was that?”

  Cassidy’s brow seamed in concentration. “Near as I recollect, we busted up the summer of ‘75. We had a fallin’ out—bastard wouldn’t divvy the split proper—and I winged him.”

  “You shot him?”

  “Damn right!” Cassidy trumpeted. “He pulled a gun on me!”

  “What happened then?”

  “Nothin’ much.” Cassidy shrugged, remembering. “I went on to Utah and started workin’ out of Robbers Roost.” He paused, suddenly aware of Starbuck’s expression. “Why all the questions about Horn?”

  “Because he’s our link.”

  “How so?”

  “I killed Dutch Henry the summer of ’76.”

  Starbuck quickly related the story. On his first job as a range detective, he’d been hired to track down a gang of horse thieves. Some months later, at a desolate spot in No-Man’s-Land, the gang had been wiped out by a posse of ranchers and cowhands. The leader escaped, however, and Starbuck had trailed him to Colorado. There, in the town of Pueblo, the chase had finally ended. Starbuck killed Dutch Henry in a gunfight.

  For a long while no one spoke. Cassidy stared down at the table, and Starbuck gazed off into space with the look of a man who had stumbled upon an unexpected revelation. Then, with a coarse grunt, Cassidy shook his head.

  “So we both knew Dutch Henry? What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “It’s a link.” Starbuck regarded him with a level gaze. “Unless I miss my guess, it’s the only link.”

  Their eyes locked, and after a moment Cassidy slowly nodded. “You figgerin’ what I think you’re figgerin’?”

  Starbuck cracked a smile. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “You’re gonna pay this Ira Lloyd a visit?”

  “I’d say it’s time … way past time.”

  Chapter Ten

  A dingy haze lighted the sky at false dawn. Cassidy and Starbuck stepped from the cabin and stood talking quietly. Between them was the unspoken respect of one hard man for another. There was nothing akin to friendship, and under different circumstances each would have killed the other without a moment’s hesitation. Only a common danger united them, and it was more a mutual pact than a bond. Today they were allies.

  Starbuck’s features were puffy and discolored. Several hours’ sleep had restored his vitality, but the shellacking he’d taken was certain to leave scars. He looked vaguely as if he’d had his face shoved into a meat-grinder. His nose was now crooked at a slight angle and his left eye was a kaleidoscope of black and blue. His eyebrow was caked with dried blood, as was the scabbed-over cut on his bottom lip. For all that, he nonetheless thought himself the luckiest of men. He was still alive.

  Last night his position had been touch and go for a long while. Even though Cassidy bought his story, the undercurrent of hostility hadn’t entirely disappeared. He sensed his life was forfeit at any moment; Cassidy’s normal reaction would have been to kill him and personally settle the score with Ira Lloyd. Neither of them was comfortable with the thought of another man doing their killing. Yet he’d argued far into the night that he was the natural choice for the job. Cassidy was known—and wanted—fair game outside Hole-in-the-Wall. Starbuck, on the other hand, was at liberty to move about at will. He was, moreover, the man with the larger grievance. The whole scheme had been rigged with his death in mind. That gave him first rights—prior claim.

  With some reluctance, Cassidy had finally agreed. He was by no means content with the arrangement; but he felt Starbuck’s argument had merit. Fair was fair, and the one with the bigger bone to pick was the one who deserved a crack at the job. Then, too, he was something of a realist himself, and willing to give credit where credit was due. Starbuck was the more exp
erienced mankiller, and experience counted. All the signs thus far underscored what seemed an indisputable point. Killing Ira Lloyd would be no simple chore.

  The bargain struck, they’d left it there. Starbuck’s sixgun was returned, and he’d been offered a bunk for the night. Butch was sent to fetch his horse from the creek, and Cassidy went back to his bottle. Before drifting off to sleep, Starbuck had decided the new alliance would stand only so much strain. He intended to start the hunt at Cheever’s Flats, and it was a point he’d neglected to mention. He had no idea whether Cassidy would object, but he wanted no more words, no further argument. He wanted to be gone from Hole-in-the-Wall. And the sooner the better.

  Standing now with Cassidy, his attention was drawn to the corral. Butch had the bay gelding saddled, and was leading him through the gate. Starbuck was intrigued, his curiosity aroused. The youngster was happy-go-lucky, with a sunny disposition and no evidence of a mean streak. He was the exact opposite of Cassidy, and seemed an unlikely outlaw, aspiring or otherwise. For partners, the man and the kid were an odd match, hardly birds of a feather. It was something to ponder.

  Butch walked the gelding to the front of the cabin. He stopped and handed the reins to Starbuck. Then he grinned with brash impudence.

  “You stick around”—he ducked his head at the bay—“and somebody’s liable to steal him out from under you.”

  Starbuck smiled. “That somebody’s name wouldn’t be …” His voice trailed off, and he cocked his head to one side. “I guess I never thought to ask. What is your name, anyway?”

  “Cassidy!” Butch swelled with pride. “Same as Mike’s!”

  “You two related?”

  “Naw!” Butch’s grin widened. “Lots of folks think that ’cause of us being partners. We’re not kin, though. I just took Mike’s name when we teamed up.”

  “How’d you get together?”

  “Blind luck,” Butch confessed. “I got in a little scrape and lit out for Robbers Roost. Mike took me in and taught me the business. Owe it all to him!”

  “Quit braggin’,” Cassidy ribbed him. “You ain’t no great shakes as a horse thief … not yet.”

  “Says you!” Butch laughed. “I got the natural touch—born to it!”

  “What you got,” Cassidy said with grumpy good humor, “is a gift for gab.” He paused, glanced at Starbuck. “Never knowed a squirt to toot his own horn so much.”

  “From what I hear,” Starbuck said wryly, “he’s got a good teacher. Your wanted dodger’s still plastered all over Utah.”

  “Now that you mention it”—Cassidy squinted at him—“that brings us around to some unfinished business.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You being a lawman.” Cassidy looked uncomfortable. “Or leastways a detective.”

  A vein pulsed in Starbuck’s forehead. “So?”

  “Well, first off, lemme say I ain’t too proud of the way I roughed you up last night. Except for Butch crackin’ you on the head, you’d’ve probably dished out as good as you got.”

  Starbuck brushed away the apology. “I reckon you had cause. In your position, I would have done the same—or worse.”

  “I come close to that, too.”

  “So I remember.”

  Cassidy paused, regarding him with a dour look. “I let you off the hook, and I’d like a favor in return.”

  “Unfinished business means you’re calling the marker?”

  “Guess it does,” Cassidy said, deadly earnest. “I want your word you’ll keep what you learned about Hole-in-the-Wall to yourself.”

  Starbuck stared at him a long time, finally drew a deep breath. “You ask a lot.”

  “No more’n I gave,” Cassidy said grimly. “Would’ve been lots easier to send you up the flume and end it permanent.”

  A moment passed, then Starbuck shrugged. “All right, you’ve got my word.”

  “That’s good enough for me.”

  “How’d you know I would go along?”

  “I didn’t.” Cassidy’s eyes burned with intensity. “’Course, without your word, you wouldn’t never have made it through the canyon.” He gestured toward the other cabins. “Some of the boys would’ve dry-gulched you.”

  Starbuck nodded, digesting the thought. “What’s to stop them from doing it anyhow?”

  “A handshake.” Cassidy extended his hand. “That’s the signal we’ve come to an understandin’.”

  Starbuck pumped his arm vigorously. “Let’s make sure they get the message.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself.” A slow smile spread over Cassidy’s face. “You’re in the clear … now.”

  “We’re square, then.” Starbuck forcefully stressed the point. “The marker’s paid in full.”

  Cassidy made a small nod of acknowledgment. “You don’t owe me nothin’.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Starbuck said quietly, “if we ever meet again.”

  “Hope we don’t!” Cassidy suddenly chuckled. “Got an idea it’d wind up a double funeral!”

  “No argument there, Mike.”

  Starbuck waved to Butch and swung aboard the gelding. He rode toward the creek, aware he was being closely scrutinized by men in the other cabins. The first rays of sunrise broke over the sandstone ramparts as he turned into the canyon. He gigged the bay and left Hole-in-the-Wall behind him.

  All the way through the canyon Starbuck examined various possibilities. He mentally rehashed what he’d uncovered and played the devil’s advocate with himself. He arrived at only one conclusion.

  For a detective, he was the prize bonehead of all time. He’d outsmarted himself, and he had underestimated everyone involved in the case. Worse, he had violated the supreme rule by which a manhunter lived. He’d let them do it to him—not the other way around.

  There was no denying the facts. It all fit together like a template, events dovetailed one to the other with unquestionable timing. Despite himself, he had to admit he’d been gaffed by William Dexter. He had swallowed the lawyer’s story—bait and all—leaping at the challenge of infiltrating Hole-in-the-Wall. Then, with his judgment already clouded, he had ignored one coincidence after another. He was cocky and overconfident, and only from the vantage point of hindsight had he paused to evaluate the situation. That lapse had almost gotten him killed.

  Now, with a grudging sense of realization, he knew he couldn’t afford another mistake. He had no idea why Ira Lloyd wanted him dead. He hadn’t the faintest clue to the mine owner’s connection with Dutch Henry Horn. A connection out of the past, moldering with age and the unmistakable smell of revenge. Yet one thing was very certain. Ira Lloyd was slippery and shrewd, and possessed an absolute genius for treachery. Not a man to be taken lightly, or allowed an even break. The game was dirty pool, no rules and winner take all. The loser got buried.

  Late that morning, Starbuck emerged from the canyon onto the plains. His thoughts were hardened around indrawn resolve. He was determined to regain the edge, and force the fight on ground of his own choosing. Then he would kill the man who had tried to kill him.

  He rode north into the Big Horn Basin.

  Cheever’s Flats was a crude collection of three buildings. A trading post, owned by John Cheever, stocked supplies for ranchers and outlaws and those traveling the old Bridger Trail. Next door was a blacksmith shop, and across the way was what people charitably termed a road ranch.

  A combination saloon and whorehouse, the establishment was operated by Al Davis. His customers were only slightly rougher than his girls, and he considered himself a High Plains entrepreneur. He sold snakehead whiskey and rented his soiled doves by the trick or by the hour.

  The last streamers of light dipped below the horizon as Starbuck rode into Cheever’s Flats. Then the sky turned dusky mauve and the buildings suddenly lay cloaked in shadow. He angled across to the road ranch and stepped from the saddle. Tying the bay to a hitch rack, he walked directly to the door and banged it open. He entered with a bluff air of assurance.

/>   The interior was dimly lighted and silent as a tomb. A pair of harridans, both of them ugly as sin, had a table staked out at the rear of the room. Neither of the girls appeared anxious for business, and they scarcely glanced at him as he stepped inside the door. On the opposite wall was a plank bar, and a lone customer stood bellied up to the counter. The barkeep was heavyset, with a ginger-colored walrus mustache and a mail-order toupee. He looked like an overstuffed Kewpie doll with tusks.

  Starbuck crossed to the bar. He picked a spot at the far end of the counter, away from the solitary drinker. The barkeep ambled over, and he nodded. “Whiskey.”

  “Dollar a shot, friend.”

  “I didn’t ask the price,” Starbuck said curtly. “Just bring me a bottle and a glass.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I generally do.”

  While he waited, Starbuck rolled a smoke. He struck a match on the counter and lit up, inhaling a long drag. The barkeep returned with a bottle and glass, and poured. He blew smoke in the fat man’s face.

  “You Al Davis?”

  “I was the last time I checked.”

  “Keep it short and simple,” Starbuck ordered. “I ain’t here to be entertained.”

  “No offense.” Davis’ voice was phlegmy, with the hoarse rasp of a boozer. “What can I do for you?”

  “Mike Cassidy sent me.” Starbuck blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. Then, waiting for it to widen, he puffed a smaller one straight through the center. “You’re gonna gimme some information Mike wants. He said to tell you he’d count it a personal favor.”

  Davis gave him a blank stare. “What sort of information?”

  “A week or so back,” Starbuck said stolidly, “somebody wandered in here and left a warnin’ for Mike. You recall that, don’t you?”

  “I—” Davis’ face went pale, and he couldn’t seem to keep his hands still. “Why do you ask?”

  “You told Mike you couldn’t remember the jasper or what he looked like.”

  “No, I didn’t either,” Davis protested. “I told Mike I never knew who said it.”