Manhunter / Deadwood

by Matt Braun

  “Spare me the sermon!” Starbuck interjected. “Trot it on out and let me be the judge.”

  Cameron muttered something to himself, then turned to the workbench. He opened a drawer and removed a bundle wrapped in dark blue velvet. He crossed back to the counter and placed the bundle on the glass top. Gingerly, like a jeweler displaying a gemstone, he peeled away the velvet folds. His gaze shifted quickly to Starbuck.

  The pistol was a Colt’s Peacemaker. Chambered for .45 caliber, it had a 4¾-inch barrel with standard sights. The finish was lustrous indigo blue and the grips were gutta-percha, custom-made and deep brown in color.

  Apart from its handsome appearance, the gun had been stripped and completely overhauled inside. The sear, as well as the half-cock and full-cock notches on the hammer, had been honed with a fine stone. The result was a trigger pull of slightly more than three pounds, which required only a feathered touch of the trigger finger. The mainspring had also received expert attention, for in a gunfight it was vital that the hammer could be cocked swiftly and with ease. A specially tempered mainspring had been fitted to the gun, thereby enabling the hammer to be eared back with a flick of the thumb. Yet it would still strike the primer with sufficient force to ignite the cartridge.

  After a final polishing, all the parts had been re-hardened to guarantee strength and prevent excessive wear. The end product was a weapon of incomparable quality. The action was silky smooth, and operation, even under the most adverse conditions, was utterly reliable. The Colt mirrored the artistry of Daniel Cameron.

  Starbuck hefted the pistol. His eyes narrowed, and a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth as he tested it for balance. After assuring himself it was unloaded, he thumbed the hammer and touched off the trigger. Then his hand seemed to open and close in rapid succession—working hammer and trigger—and the cylinder made an entire revolution within the span of a few heartbeats. At last, with a look of muted wonder, he turned back to Cameron.

  “A helluva job,” he said softly. “Your best yet, Daniel.”

  “Yes, it’s special,” Cameron said with quiet pride. “I hate to see it go.”

  “Don’t worry.” Starbuck chuckled. “I’ll put it to good use.”

  “I never doubted it for a moment, Luke.”

  Starbuck swiftly loaded the Colt. The cartridges he scooped off the counter were Cameron’s handiwork as well. In effect, the slug had been turned upside down and loaded backward in the casing. The base of the slug, which was blunt and truncated, was now seated in the forward position. Upon impact, the slug would mushroom and expand to roughly half again its normal size. It was an instant manstopper, and a deadly killer.

  Holstering the Colt, Starbuck stuck out his hand. “I’m obliged, Daniel.”

  “Wear it in good health, Luke.”

  “I’ll sure do my damnedest!”

  With a wave, Starbuck turned and walked from the shop. Cameron waited until the door closed, then picked up the old Colt. He studied the gun at length, wondering how many men it had sent to the grave. Only Starbuck knew the true number, and he never talked. Which in the end was perhaps the best policy.

  A mankiller, Cameron told himself, was entitled to silence.

  Starbuck trusted Daniel Cameron as much as he trusted any man. Yet he would never entrust his life to another man’s judgment. Nor would he accept on faith alone the workmanship of any gunsmith. Not without performing his own rigorous test.

  Across town, he stopped by the hotel and collected a box of cartridges. His next stop was a saloon, where he came away with a bag of empty bottles. From there, he walked to the banks of the Platte River. No one was anywhere in sight and he was reasonably certain of privacy. He emptied the bag on the ground and selected five bottles. One at a time, with a high overhead toss, he pitched them far upstream. The bottles bobbed to the surface and floated toward him.

  Starbuck’s hand snaked inside his jacket and came out with the Colt. At such times, his mind closed down and his nerves went dead. He willed out all thought and reverted to some trancelike state where he operated on reflex and instinct. Time fragmented into split seconds, and yet there was an icy deliberation suspended within each moment. He simply saw and reacted. There was the gun and the thing he was shooting at and an overwhelming sense of calm. Nothing else.

  His arm leveled and the Colt bucked in his hand. The first bottle erupted in a geyser of water and glass. With controlled speed, he swung the Colt in an arc and locked onto the next bottle. His eyes shifted along the barrel—caught within that frozen instant of deliberation—and he feathered the trigger. The second bottle in line exploded. Then the next and the next, and finally the last as the current swept it some yards below his position. From the time he pulled the gun until the moment he lowered his arm, less than five seconds had elapsed. The Colt was quick and smooth, and it shot where he pointed. He was impressed.

  Timing himself, Starbuck shucked the empty shells and reloaded. On a measured count of ten, he snapped the loading gate closed and lowered the hammer. His hand moved, and all in a motion he holstered the Colt.

  Then he selected five more bottles.

  A pale sickle moon lighted the sky. Somewhere in the distance a tower clock struck one as the carriage rolled to a halt before the Brown Palace. The driver jumped down and opened the door. He doffed his hat in an eloquent bow.

  Starbuck stepped from the coach. He extended his hand and assisted Lola Montana down. Her eyes were radiant, and in the silty light the mass of golden curls piled atop her head seemed to sparkle with moonbeams. She was attired in a long lavender cape and a full-length gown. For an instant, as she raised her skirts to descend the coach step, a delicate ankle was visible. She noted his appreciative glance and squeezed his hand. He chuckled lightly, depositing her on the curb. Then he tipped the driver a ten-spot and they turned toward the entrance.

  Together, arm in arm, Starbuck and the girl swept into the hotel lobby. The night clerk spotted them and hastily set aside the latest issue of the Police Gazette. The sight of Starbuck entering the hotel with a woman on his arm was by now commonplace. Yet the clerk was an ardent admirer of Lola Montana, and he secretly burned with envy that she shared the bed of the hotel’s most notorious resident. He quickly moved to a position behind the front desk. No word was spoken, but he met Starbuck’s sideways glance with a conspiratorial look. He dipped his head in a slow nod.

  Starbuck acknowledged the signal with a faint smile. He crossed the lobby, with Lola clinging to his arm, and entered the elevator. A sleepy bellman waited until they were inside, then closed the gate. The elevator shuddered, responding as the bellman rotated the control lever, and lumbered upward. When they disappeared from view, the night clerk sighed and walked back to his chair. He resumed leafing through the Police Gazette, but with dampened interest. He wondered to himself why some men had all the luck.

  Upstairs, the elevator rumbled to a halt and the bellman opened the gate. Starbuck bid him goodnight, then led the girl down the hall and unlocked the door to his suite. She preceded him through the foyer and stopped just inside the sitting room. A low table, positioned before the sofa, was laid with fine linen and gleaming silverware. Candles were lighted, and in the center of the table a single yellow rose arched from a stemlike vase. Serving dishes, artfully arranged around the vase, contained a light supper of cold roast squab, brandied pears, and marinated artichoke hearts. A chilled bottle of champagne stood glistening in an ice bucket.

  “Ooo Luke!” Lola slipped out of her cape and dropped it on a chair. “All this for me?”

  “Nobody else.”

  Starbuck hung his hat in the foyer and moved into the sitting room. She turned, her expression animated with a sudden verve. Her arms circled his neck and she kissed him soundly on the mouth. Then she pulled back, searching his face with a knowing smile.

  “I thought something was up! You and that desk clerk both looked like you had a mouthful of feathers!”

  “Don’t miss a trick, do you
?”

  “Not where you’re concerned.”

  “Well, you can thank Joe, the clerk. He’s the one who arranged it.”

  Lola vamped him with a look. “I’d rather thank you.”

  “You’re missing a bet,” Starbuck said in a jesting tone. “Joe’s sweet on you … regular case of puppy love.”

  “Honey, half the men in Denver are sweet on me!”

  Her statement was no idle boast. Lola Montana was the star attraction at the Alcazar Theater, and the toast of Denver’s night life. A singer, she was small but nicely put together, with a body like mortal sin. Her jutting breasts tapered to a slim waist and were offset by perfectly rounded hips. Her features were exquisite, with creamy skin and a lush coral mouth that accentuated her high cheekbones. Onstage or off, she was a vision of loveliness, a bawdy nymph bursting with vitality. She was every man’s fantasy, and Starbuck’s woman.

  Yet she was not Starbuck’s only woman. She accepted the fact with a certain resignation, and cleverly concealed jealousy. She possessed the wisdom and experience to understand their affair would end if ever she attempted to clip his wings. He slept with other women, but she prudently overlooked those minor lapses; he always returned and she was confident he always would. He was an emotional nomad, wanting no strings and asking none in return. All the same, to the extent he was any woman’s man, he was hers. A bond had developed between them, and he let her know in small ways that the attachment was an important part of his life. She cherished the thought.

  The champagne and supper were one of those small gestures. Earlier that evening he had appeared at the theater and waited until she finished her midnight performance. Then, without explanation, he’d come backstage and rushed her into changing clothes. At the time, he had been very mysterious, and evaded her questions with a charm normally hidden beneath layers of reserve. Now, suddenly, she understood. The candlelight and rose, all the little added touches, were by way of an affectionate goodbye. He would be gone when she awoke in the morning.

  “You sly devil!” Her voice was light and mocking. “You’re taking off on a case—aren’t you?”

  “Damn!” Starbuck watched her with an indulgent smile. “I thought I had you fooled.”

  “Fat chance!” Lola gave him a bright, theatrical smile. “Would it do me any good to ask where you’re headed?”

  “I never fib to ladies”—Starbuck smiled gently—“unless I’ve got no choice.”

  Lola wrinkled her nose. “Any idea how long you’ll be gone?”

  “No longer than it takes.”

  “Well, don’t take too long, lover. I’m liable to start drinking alone, or biting my nails.”

  “No cause for worry,” Starbuck said lightly. “I generally get it done one way or the other.”

  All of which was true. Lola was concerned but not overly alarmed by the nature of his work. She knew every inch of his body, and she’d personally satisfied herself that it was unmarred by bullet or knife wounds. Added to the number of men he’d killed, it revealed much about his ability to survive. She believed him immune to harm.

  “Let’s forget I asked.” Her lips curved in a teasing smile. “I’ll know you’re back when I see you. How’s that?”

  “Sounds fair.” Starbuck met her gaze, found something merry lurking there. “How about some champagne? I had this spread laid out special.”

  “Not now.” A vixen look touched her eyes. “Later.”

  She stretched voluptuously and held out her arms. Her low-cut gown dipped lower, exposing the swell of her breasts. Her laughter was musical and her expression suddenly gleamed with mischief.

  “I want my dessert first.”

  Starbuck marveled again at her almost total lack of inhibition. Her passion was wild and atavistic, and her a sexual appetite was easily a match for his own. He lifted her in his arms and carried her toward the bedroom. She playfully nibbled his earlobe, laughed a low throaty laugh.

  A spill of light from the door flooded the darkened room. He lowered her onto the bed and within a few moments they were naked. She snuggled close in his embrace, her lips moist and inviting. Her hands cupped his face, caressing the hard line of his jaw, and a strange thing happened. She trembled, staring intently into his eyes, and almost spoke. Then she shuddered and her fingernails pierced his back like talons. She pulled him to her.

  Their tongues met and dueled. His hand covered one of her breasts, and the nipple swelled instantly. Then his fingers drifted downward, probed the curly delta where her thighs forked. She was damp and yielding, and she uttered a low moan, thrusting against him. Her hand went to his manhood, grasped that hard questing part of him, and stroked it eagerly. For several moments they kissed and fondled, until finally, aroused and aching, she could wait no longer. Her mouth opened in a gasping cry of urgency.

  “Ohhh Luke! Now! Now!”

  Chapter Four

  Starbuck left the hotel shortly before sunrise. He took the backstairs and made his way unseen to the basement furnace room. There he exited through a rear door into the alley.

  The purpose of his secrecy was twofold. By leaving the hotel unobserved, his departure from Denver would go unnoticed. Only after he’d been gone a few days would he be missed. There was, additionally, an even more critical factor. He was traveling in disguise.

  Overall, his appearance was that of an easterner. He was attired in a sedate, expensively tailored tweed suit, topped off by a fashionable beige fedora. He wore spectacles, with heavy wire frames and lenses of plain glass. His shoes were kid leather, polished to a high gloss, and specially constructed. The instep of the left shoe had been built up slightly more than an inch, which had the immediate effect of shortening his left leg. The result was a pronounced limp and a somewhat halting gait. All in all, he looked like a bookish intellectual with a mild deformity.

  The publicity surrounding many of his past cases had robbed Starbuck of anonymity. His photo, which had appeared in newspapers throughout the West, made his face known wherever he traveled. Working undercover, it thereby became imperative that he operate in disguise. Early on, when he’d begun his career as a range detective, he had discovered a certain gift for subterfuge and guile. He possessed a streak of the actor, and over the years he had played a wide variety of roles. By turn, he’d posed as a whore-monger and grifter, Bible salesman and drummer, and an assortment of outlaws ranging from horse thief to bank robber. Every assignment offered a unique challenge, and his natural flair for disguise enabled him to create a character suitable to the occasion. He was, in a very real sense, a one-man stock company.

  Not unlike a sleight-of-hand artist, Starbuck used misdirection to great effect. The externals—outward appearance and physical quirks—created an illusion. What people saw was the superficial, the obvious; their eye was misdirected from the reality underneath. The deception was then rounded out with mannerisms and speech patterns peculiar to the character he portrayed. A general rule was the simpler the better, with just a touch of the bizarre. Added to the disguise, a credible cover story provided the final twist. His survival rested on the skill of his performance, and once he’d assumed a role, Luke Starbuck simply ceased to exist. He submerged himself, mentally and physically, within the character of the moment.

  To enhance security, Starbuck followed still another cardinal rule. He never divulged professional secrets to anyone, whether client or friend. His disguise, the cover story, even the alias he employed, was a matter of strictest confidence. Verna Phelps, whose loyalty was unquestionable, knew only the broad outlines of his assignment. Lola Montana and Daniel Cameron, while trustworthy, were told nothing. What they didn’t know couldn’t be repeated; the most innocent remark, whether about the case itself or his destination, would find a ready audience in Denver’s Tenderloin. From there, the word would spread by moccasin telegraph to every corner of the underworld. The upshot would jeopardize not only the assignment, but perhaps his life as well. He operated on the principle that a secret, once shared,
was no longer a secret.

  Nor was he any less closemouthed with clients. He operated on his own terms, take it or leave it. Once he’d accepted a case, there was seldom any further communication. He submitted no reports, and revealed nothing with regard to his methods or his strategy. To the extent possible, he kept the client in the dark until the assignment was concluded. He was paid to get results, and when the final tally was taken, the results spoke for themselves. How he went about it was his own business.

  The assignment undertaken today was no different. Beyond Starbuck’s terse note, there had been no further communication with William Dexter. The lawyer had doubtless notified Ira Lloyd, the mine owner in Butte, as to the disposition of the case. That seemed reasonable to assume since Dexter’s check for five thousand dollars had arrived at the office late yesterday afternoon. Yet, from this point onward, the lawyer would know nothing. He might surmise Starbuck had departed for Wyoming, and in that he would be correct. Anything else would remain privileged information.

  The morning train for Cheyenne was scheduled to depart at six o’clock. A cautious man, Starbuck allowed himself an hour’s leeway. Upon emerging from the alleyway, he crossed the street and walked west from the hotel. He spent the next thirty minutes circling and doubling back, constantly looking over his shoulder. There was no reason to believe he was being followed; but the practice was by now a deeply ingrained habit. He never took anything for granted, and unless unavoidable, he never left anything to chance. Today was no exception.

  By sunup, he felt confident he wasn’t being tailed. He reversed course as an orange ball of fire crested the horizon. The city was slowly coming to life, and street traffic increased markedly as he hurried toward Union Station. Less than three minutes before train time, he moved through the depot and walked directly to the passenger platform. The locomotive was chuffing steam, and late arrivals were rushing to scramble aboard. He’d cut it close, but he knew there would be no problem purchasing a ticket from the conductor. Stepping onto the last coach, he stowed his valise in an overhead rack and took a window seat. The train got under way within a matter of moments.