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 experienced 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.”
“Then that makes you an even bigger liar.”
“Wait a minute!” Davis said indignantly. “You got no right to come in here and start calling me names!”
Starbuck’s smile seemed frozen. “I’ll call you dog and you’ll wag your tail! ’Cause if you don’t, I’ll kick your lardass right up between your shoulders. You begin to get the picture?”
Davis’ eyes went round as saucers. “I think I got it.”
“You’re smarter’n you look.” Starbuck studied his downcast face a moment. “Now, we’ll make this quick and painless. I want a description of whoever it was that left the warnin’.”
“Description?”
“You ain’t deaf, are you?”
“No.” Davis averted his eyes, darted a quick glance along the bar. “I don’t know as I could do that.”
Starbuck got the uncanny impression he was being told something without words. He leaned into the counter, motioned Davis closer. “You afraid to talk?”
“Yessir, I am,” Davis said in a hoarse whisper. “Mortally afraid.”
“Why so?”
“That’s him!” Davis hissed. “The one at the end of the bar!”
“You’re sure?” Starbuck demanded. “No mistake?”
“None,” Davis muttered softly. “He come in not ten minutes ago. Asked me if I’d had any news from Hole-in-the-Wall.”
“How come you suddenly remembered him?”
“Just did,” Davis said weakly. “When he asked me that, I placed his face from last time.”
“If you’re lyin’,” Starbuck growled, “I’m gonna turn your blubber into worm meat.”
“Honest to Christ, I’m telling you! It’s him!”
Starbuck was still leaning on the bar. He casually dropped his hand below the counter and eased it inside his vest. His fingers closed around the butt of the Colt and he slipped it from the crossdraw holster. Then he turned his head just far enough to rivet the man with a look.
“Mister, I’d like a word with you.”
The man was unremarkable in appearance. He wore soiled range clothes and a battered slouch hat. He was of average height, trimly built, with the kind of face lost in a crowd. The only thing noteworthy was the pistol positioned close to hand. It looked well oiled, and much used. He straightened slightly, then turned. His gaze settled on Starbuck.
“You talking to me?”
“Nobody else,” Starbuck said with a wintry smile. “I understand you’ve been askin’ questions about Hole-in-the-Wall?”
“What’s that to you?”
“All depends.”
“On what?”
“On who you know at Hole-in-the-Wall.”
“Try me and see.”
“How about Mike Cassidy?”
“Never heard of him.”
“You’re plumb certain?”
“Positive.”
“Then how come you’re back here checkin’ on things?”
“What things?”
“The warnin’ you left Cassidy … about me?”
“Hold off a—”
The gun appeared in the man’s hand and he fired a hurried snap shot. The slug plowed a furrow in the counter at Starbuck’s elbow. He shifted, swinging the Colt from beneath his vest, and touched off the trigger. The pistol roared, spat a sheet of flame.
A surprised look came over the man’s face. He dropped the gun and raised both arms, like a preacher warding off evil spirits. Then a splotch of red widened across his chest and his legs went rubbery. He sat down heavily on the floor.
Starbuck approached and knelt beside him. “You’re dead, so it don’t matter now. Tell me about Ira Lloyd.”
“Who’s he?”
“The man who hired you to kill me.”
“That’s a … laugh.”
“Quit stalling!” Starbuck commanded. “You don’t owe Lloyd nothing. Spill it while you got time!”
“Nothing … to … say.”
“C’mon, talk! What’ve you got to lose?”
“Starbuck”—the man smiled and a trickle of blood leaked out of his mouth—“you fool.”
His grin became a wet chuckle, then a strangled
cough. Suddenly he choked and vomited a great gout of blood down across his shirtfront. His eyeballs rolled back in his head and he dropped dead.
Starbuck passed a hand over the man’s eyes. Then he rose to his feet and stood staring down at the body. He heard again those last words and any lingering doubt was dispelled. Proof positive lay dead at his feet. The bastard had called him by name! And hammered him to the cross with one last breath.
He was indeed a fool!