by Matt Braun
Starbuck had the seat to himself, and he sat for a while watching the mountains. Always a spectacular sight at sunrise, the Rockies seemed to mirror every color in the spectrum. There was a stately grandeur to the scene that never failed to impress him. Still, as the train chugged northward out of Denver, his thoughts slowly turned to the task ahead. He pulled the fedora down over his eyes and pretended to snooze. Yet his mind was very much on Cheyenne. And the Wyoming Stock Growers Association.
The plan formulated by Starbuck was necessarily sketchy. Mike Cassidy, the outlaw he’d been hired to track down, was almost a cipher. With no photo, and no positive means of identification, the assignment definitely posed a challenge. The problem was compounded by still another unknown, Hole-in-the-Wall. All of which meant Starbuck was operating largely in the blind. Yet he was by no means at a loss for a place to start. His investigation would begin with Nathaniel Boswell.
A mankiller of some repute, Nat Boswell was widely respected throughout Wyoming. His service as a peace officer began in 1868, when the Union Pacific was laying track west and Cheyenne was a lawless hellhole. Boswell aroused the citizenry and organized a vigilante committee, which was responsible for ridding the town of outlaws and troublemakers. Shortly thereafter, the territorial governor appointed him sheriff of Albany County. With the commission, he became the chief lawman of a vast region stretching from Colorado to Montana. After several terms in office, he went on to become a detective and undercover operative for the Union Pacific. Only recently, he had been appointed director of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association. Under his command was a force of five range detectives, and he was charged with routing bands of rustlers who preyed on association herds. He was, according to all reports, eminently good at the job. The number of cow thieves killed or hanged had risen dramatically in the last few months. His detectives were not noted for bringing wanted men in alive.
Over the past year, Starbuck had carried on extensive correspondence with Boswell. In organizing his rogues’ gallery, he had contacted the Wyoming lawman and requested assistance. Boswell readily cooperated, and in the intervening months, he had become an invaluable source of hard intelligence. The information he forwarded to Denver was concise and timely, and indicated a deep insight into the mentality of outlaws. Though they had never met, Starbuck considered him a top-notch detective. He was, moreover, a legend on the High Plains. No one purposely crossed paths with Nat Boswell.
Starbuck’s plan was simple, though somewhat devious. Without revealing his identity, or the nature of his assignment, he intended to pump the stock detective dry of information. His cover story was a corker, and he thought it would play well in Cheyenne. All the more important, he believed it would appeal to Nat Boswell’s sense of personal esteem.
And thereby open the door to Hole-in-the-Wall.
Cheyenne was a bustling plains metropolis. The capital of Wyoming Territory, with a population of nearly twenty thousand, it was a major railhead and center of commerce. As a stopover for those en route to the Dakota gold camps, it was also a beehive of trade. On the southside, bordering the railroad tracks, gambling dens and dance halls, variety theaters and bawdy-houses comprised a thriving vice district. Farther uptown, the business district was packed with stores and hotels, restaurants and saloons, several banks, and the territory’s leading newspaper. For good reason, Cheyenne had been dubbed the Magic City of the Plains.
Starbuck went directly from the depot to one of the uptown hotels. There he engaged a room for the night and left his valise with the bellman. Then he inquired the location of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association. The desk clerk obligingly pointed him in the right direction. On the street again, he walked toward the town’s main intersection.
Some minutes later he went past a bank and rounded the corner. An outside staircase led to an office on the second floor. Upstairs, he entered and found himself in a room with the plain look of a monk’s cell. There was a single desk, a couple of file cabinets, and several wooden armchairs. On one wall was a large map of Wyoming Territory. Seated behind the desk was a man who seemed fitted to the sparse accommodations.
Somewhere in his early forties, Nat Boswell was lynx-eyed and whipcord lean. He had gnarled hands, a straight, razored mouth, and features the color of ancient saddle leather. He assessed Starbuck in a single glance. The eastern clothes were duly noted, and his gaze lingered a moment on the gimpy leg. Then, without expression, he looked up and waited.
“Hello there!” Starbuck fixed his face in a jaunty smile and limped across the room. “By any chance, would you be Mr. Nathaniel K. Boswell?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Edward Farnum.” Starbuck beamed. “I’m with the Police Gazette.”
“A reporter?”
“Chief correspondent and associate editor.”
Boswell seemed to thaw a little. “What can I do for you?”
“You’re Mr. Boswell!” Starbuck grabbed his hand and pumped vigorously. “It’s an honor and a pleasure, Mr. Boswell. I simply can’t tell you how delighted I am!”
“That a fact?” Boswell waved him to a chair. “What brings you to Cheyenne?”
“Why, you do, Mr. Boswell I’m writing a series of articles on western lawmen, and the paper sent me here expressly to interview you.”
“Do tell.” Boswell sounded flattered. “What sort of series?”
“The crème de la crème!” Starbuck struck a dramatic pose. “Bill Tilghman of Dodge City. Heck Thomas in Indian Territory. John Armstrong of the Texas Rangers. And Nat Boswell—the Wyoming Avenger!”
“Wyoming Avenger, huh?” Boswell grinned, clearly pleased with the ring of it. “You’ve got me traveling in pretty fancy company.”
“Not at all!” Starbuck observed grandly. “You are too modest by far, Mr. Boswell. In the East your name is legend—without peer!”
“Well—” Boswell tried for humility. “I’m just doing my job, that’s all.”
“Indeed you are! And that is precisely the angle I wish to explore in the article. A man of noble purpose battling the western Visigoths!”
“Who?”
“Marauders!” Starbuck explained. “Cattle rustlers and horse thieves and gunmen. The outlaw element!”
Boswell nodded wisely. “Wyoming’s got its share, no two ways about it.”
“Well, now!” Starbuck pulled out a pad and pencil. “Perhaps we could get down to cases. Would you say, Mr. Boswell, that cattle rustlers are Wyoming’s principal problem at the moment?”
“I would,” Boswell affirmed. “That’s why the big ranchers got together and formed the Stock Growers Association.”
“A classic citizens’ action”—Starbuck scribbled furiously—“when organized law enforcement fails to mete out justice. And might I assume your results to date are encouraging?”
“I reckon you could say that.”
“Perhaps some figures,” Starbuck said with an expansive gesture. “How many have you hanged or killed in gun battles? Our readers do love the blood and gore of western expediency.”
Boswell eyed him warily. “I’d like to accommodate you, Mr. Farnum. But there’s certain things the association don’t want bandied about. Might give folks the wrong idea.”
“A pity.” Starbuck feigned disappointment. “However, in general, it would be fair to say you have depleted their ranks. Is that correct?”
“Mostly.” Boswell wrestled with himself a moment, then shrugged. “Course, you no sooner weed out one bunch and another crop springs up. It’s a job that never gets done.”
Starbuck paused, thoughtfully tapped the pencil on his notepad. “Perhaps we could draw an illustration between today and how it was when you were appointed director. In your own words, how would you characterize the situation, Mr. Boswell?”
“Under control,” Boswell said firmly. “We’ve got ’em on the run and that’s the way we aim to keep it. Where there’s cows, there’ll always be rustling, and nobody’s gonna stop it cold. But we do a
damnsight better job than most.”
“Bully!” Starbuck chortled, writing it all down. “I can see it now! A bold headline! Boswell Routs Wyoming Rustlers! Capital stuff, Mr. Boswell. Really first-rate!”
“Hmmm.” Boswell studied him with mock gravity. “Well, don’t go overboard, Mr. Farnum. Like I said, we’ve still got our work cut out for us.”
“Now that you mention it,” Starbuck inquired innocently, “we’ve heard some rather strange reports about a place—I believe I have the name correct—Hole-in-the-Wall?”
Boswell studied him with some surprise. “What about it?”
“I’m asking you!” Starbuck appeared bemused. His gaze was inquisitive, oddly perplexed. “Are the rumors true? Is it a haven for outlaws and desperadoes?”
“Yes and no.” Boswell regarded him dourly. “We get ’em when they come out of Hole-in-the-Wall. Once they’re in there, we bide our time and play a waiting game.”
“Are you saying”—Starbuck peered over his glasses with owlish scrutiny—“you never follow them into Hole-in-the-Wall?”
“Yeah.” Boswell’s frown deepened. “That’s about the size of it.”
Starbuck looked thoroughly mystified. “May I ask why not?”
“’Cause there’s only one way in and one way out. And there’s men guarding the entrance night and day. It’d take an army to get through, and even then they’d be cut to ribbons.”
“So the reports are correct?” Starbuck asked. “It’s a stronghold, some sort of mountain fortress?”
“Close enough,” Boswell grated. “What you’ve got is a valley surrounded by mountains. The mountains are impassable and there’s only a narrow canyon leading into the valley. Call it whatever you will, it’s a tough nut to crack.”
“How perfectly astounding!” Starbuck marveled. “You’ve seen it for yourself, then?”
Boswell blinked, sat erect. “No, not just exactly.”
“I don’t mean the valley,” Starbuck added hastily. “I was referring to the canyon … the Hole-in-the-Wall itself.”
“Answer’s still the same,” Boswell said flatly. “I never looked it over personal.”
“Never?” Starbuck repeated incredulously. “Why on earth not?”
Boswell pulled in his neck and stared across the desk with a bulldog scowl. “Mister, I don’t care much for your tone. You’re just a mite too goddamn pushy for my taste.”
“Pleeeze!” Starbuck fluttered weakly. “I wasn’t questioning your courage, Mr. Boswell. Good Lord, no! I was merely asking why you’ve never gone there … just taken a peek?”
“Suicide’s not my game.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Tell you a little story.” Boswell’s voice dropped. “Back in the summer of ’78 a couple of Union Pacific detectives trailed some robbers into Hole-in-the-Wall. They never been heard from since. The same thing happened to a deputy sheriff who was long on grit and short on brains. You get my drift?”
“Indeed I do!” Starbuck looked properly impressed. “You’re saying those who tried sacrificed their lives in the effort. So, as a result, peace officers very prudently avoid it altogether.”
“I think you got the picture, Mr. Farnum.”
“Out of curiosity”—Starbuck glanced at the large wall map—“exactly where is Hole-in-the-Wall?”
Boswell rose and moved around his desk to the map. He traced a route north to Fort Laramie, then indicated a stretch along the Oregon Trail, and finally stopped at the foothills of the Big Horn Mountains. He rapped a spot on the map.
“That’ll give you a rough idea.”
“Good heavens,” Starbuck breathed softly. “It really is godforsaken, isn’t it?”
“Smack-dab in the middle of nowhere, and that’s a fact.”
“What about ranchers?” Starbuck scanned the map. “Or homesteaders? Has anyone dared settle up there?”
“Oh, there’s some,” Boswell allowed. “The closest one to Hole-in-the-Wall is a fellow named Ed Houk. He’s got a fair-sized spread on Buffalo Creek. That’s just south of the canyon I told you about.”
Starbuck made a mental note of the name. Then, playing to Boswell’s touchy pride, he went on with the interview. He jotted down every word in copious detail, acting the part of a journalist hot on the trail of a story. At last, with much handshaking and profuse thanks, he took his leave. On the way out the door, he had to suppress a smile. His hunch had proved dead on the money. Lawmen, solely for their own devices, had joined fact and fable in an unholy alliance.
Nobody knew beans about Hole-in-the-Wall.
Chapter Five
Early next morning Starbuck emerged from the hotel. He was still attired in the tweed suit and fedora, and he stood for a monet surveying the street. Then he turned and walked toward the train depot.
Cheyenne was a sprawling hodgepodge of buildings. Hammered together on the windswept plains, it was a curious admixture of cowtown and citified elegance. The Union Pacific had transformed it into a hub of trade and commerce, with an ever expanding business district. As the territorial capital, the city had slowly assumed an aura of respectability and cultivation. Yet it was also the major railhead for Wyoming’s vast cattle industry.
Every summer herds were trailed into Cheyenne from ranches all across the High Plains. After being sold to cattle brokers, the cows were shipped east for slaughter. A great deal of money exchanged hands, and in the process, the town prospered. However progressive, the political bigwigs and local merchants catered to cattlemen for the best of reasons. Cows were big business, the mainstay of Cheyenne’s economic growth.
Centered around the train depot were various enterprises related to the cattle trade. The vice district, where a carnival atmosphere prevailed during trailing season, was devoted exclusively to the rough tastes of cowhands. Nearby were holding pens and loading yards, along with several livestock dealers. Horses, usually trailed overland from Texas, were yet another flourishing business in Cheyenne. Wyoming cattlemen found it easier to buy than breed, and thereby created a market. Good saddle mounts were in constant demand.
Starbuck chose one of the larger livestock dealers. He entered the office, and was greeted by a paunchy, whey-faced man with muttonchop whiskers. The dealer gave his eastern clothes a slow once-over, but asked no questions. A sale was a sale, and he expressed no curiosity as to why a greenhorn wanted a saddle horse. He led the way to a large stock pen outside.
Something more than a hundred horses stood munching hay scattered on the ground. Starbuck circled the fence, checking conformation and general condition. After several minutes, he selected a blood bay, with black mane and tail. A gelding, the animal was barrel-chested, standing fifteen hands high and weighing well over a thousand pounds. His hide glistened in the sun like dark blood on polished redwood, and he looked built for stamina.
A stablehand roped the bay and led him from the pen. Starbuck inspected his hooves and teeth, then asked to have him saddled. Stepping aboard, he rode the horse to the edge of town and brougt him back at a full gallop. The bay was spirited, though not high-strung, and exhibited an even disposition. He possessed speed and catlike agility, and plenty of bottom for endurance over a long haul. Starbuck decided to look no further.
“Nice pick.” The dealer nodded sagely. “You got an eye for horseflesh.”
“Thank you.” Starbuck took out a handkerchief and began wiping dust from his glasses. “What price are you asking?”
The dealer quoted a figure nearly double the going rate. Starbuck acted gullible, but dickered awhile merely for effect. At last, when the dealer offered to throw in a saddle, he allowed himself to be cheated by some fifty dollars. He paid in cash, and rented a stall in the dealer’s livery stable. With a bill of sale in his pocket, he headed back uptown. The dealer looked pleased as punch.
Starbuck’s next stop was a store frequented by cowhands. He’d already worked out a disguise and a plausible cover story for Hole-in-the-Wall. Now he needed a wardrobe to f
it the part. Since outlaws traveled light, he planned nothing elaborate in the way of camp gear. His purpose was to create yet another illusion—a man on the run.
The store was on the order of a general emporium. Apart from clothing, the stock included saddles and tinned goods and a wide assortment of firearms. The interior smelled of leather and gun oil and musty woolens. A clerk bustled forward, eyeballing Starbuck’s eastern getup with a quizzical look. He gave the impression he was biting his tongue. Yet, like the livestock dealer, he asked no questions.
With some care, Starbuck selected an outfit. He stuck to serviceable range duds, nothing fancy. To a linsey shirt and whipcord trousers, he added a mackinaw, plain high-topped boots, and a dun-colored Stetson. Then he picked out a blanket and bedroll tarp, along with the bare essentials in camp gear. A supply of tobacco and some victuals completed his shopping list.
The clothing was new and looked fresh off the shelves. Still, he saw that as no insurmountable problem. By necessity, he’d long ago perfected the knack of aging clothing so that it had a worn appearance. Then, too, he would be several days on the trail, and sleeping on the ground. By the time he arrived at Hole-in-the-Wall, the problem would have resolved itself. His clothes would look as rank as he smelled.
On impulse, he bought a belt studded with silver conchas and a leather vest. The combination added a showy touch, suitable to the character he had in mind. Then, turning toward the counter, his eye fell on a rack of long guns. He abruptly recalled one last item.
“I’ll need a rifle,” he said, motioning to the clerk. “Let me see something with a little range to it … no carbines.”
“Oh, you’re a hunter!” the clerk said brightly. “I wondered what you were outfitting yourself for.”
“You guessed it.” Starbuck smiled. “Thought I’d try my hand at some big game.”