Manhunter / Deadwood

by Matt Braun

  Ed Houk had revealed all these secrets and more last night. Starbuck was nonetheless leery; his cynicism had never betrayed him before, and a grain of salt seemed prudent where the rancher was concerned. For all his garrulous good humor, Houk hadn’t been totally forthcoming. The odds dictated that he knew exactly where to locate Mike Cassidy. But he’d evaded the question by steering Starbuck to the Bar C foreman, Hank Devoe. All that led to a reasonable assumption, and reinforced the need for caution. Houk was playing for time, and fully intended to warn Mike Cassidy. Before nightfall, the outlaw would have gotten the message. A stranger was inquiring about him—by name.

  Starbuck considered it a matter of spilt milk. He’d asked the question—taken a calculated risk—and there was nothing to be gained in regrets. For now, however, he’d lost the element of surprise. His next step would be determined largely by what he learned from Hank Devoe. He steeled himself to give a memorable performance for the Bar C foreman. He would underplay the role, thereby lending Arapahoe Smith a certain larger-than-life deadliness. The character of a mankiller was, after all, one he understood completely. With only minor variations, the part was very much made to order.

  He would play himself.

  The Bar C headquarters was impressive. Substantial log buildings within the compound included a main house, a large bunkhouse with attached cook shack, and several smaller outbuildings. Some distance beyond the bunkhouse was a log corral.

  The compound was situated on a stretch of grassland ten miles north of the outlaw cabins. Easily identified, the spot was located where Buffalo Creek emptied into the Middle Fork of the Powder. Across the creek was another landmark—Steamboat Rock—a massive chunk of sandstone shaped along the lines of a paddle-wheeler. A mile or so due north of the compound, the river made a sharp turn eastward through the Red Wall. This narrow gap, formed by erosion along the riverbed, was the true Hole-in-the-Wall. The valley itself extended northward for another twelve miles beyond the compound. There the Red Wall joined the Big Horn Range.

  Starbuck rode into the compound late that afternoon. By the size of the operation, he judged the Bar C would have a crew of no fewer than ten cowhands. The owners were a couple of wealthy cattlemen who seldom came anywhere near the ranch. He’d been told by Ed Houk that they lived in Cheyenne, and gave their foreman a free hand in running the outfit. If true, that made Hank Devoe a man of some stature in the valley. Operating a spread in the middle of Hole-in-the-Wall—while maintaining a neutral position toward the outlaws—would require the tact of a diplomat on foreign ground. And above all else, it would demand a tightlipped attitude toward outsiders.

  Several things indicated that Devoe was no slouch at walking on thin ice. When the outlaws went east of the Red Wall, into Powder River country, their raids were generally conducted at night. Allowing time for trailing the cows westward, that meant they would pass through Hole-in-the-Wall and enter the valley somewhere after sunrise. Which, in turn, meant the stolen livestock would be driven past the Bar C headquarters in broad daylight. It followed, then, that Devoe would have firsthand knowledge of the brands on the rustled cows. From there, it required no mental genius to deduce which ranches had been raided. He would, moreover, know the names of the outlaws who had pulled the job. All in all, it was dangerous information, especially if Devoe leaked it to the wrong people. Apparently he wore blinders and possessed the ability to button his lip. Otherwise, he would have long since taken a one-way trip to the boneyard.

  Starbuck dismounted outside the main house. A moment later an ox of a man stepped through the door and walked forward. He was a big, rawboned fellow, standing well over six feet, with not an ounce of suet on his frame. His jaw was stuffed with a quid of tobacco, and his eyes were impersonal. His gaze swept Starbuck’s grizzled appearance, lingering an instant on the conchas belt and the crossdraw holster. Then he stopped, and nodded.

  “Howdy.”

  “Hullo yourself.” Starbuck’s tone was low, slightly abrasive. “I’m looking for Hank Devoe.”

  “You’ve found him.” Devoe stuck out his hand. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  “Arapahoe Smith.” Starbuck shook once, a hard up-and-down pump. “I was told you’re the man to see at Hole-in-the-Wall.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Ed Houk.”

  “You a friend of Ed’s?”

  “Nope,” Starbuck said bluntly. “Never set eyes on him before yesterday.”

  “Why’d he send you to me?”

  “Mostly because he’s a piss-willie.”

  Devoe hesitated, clearly surprised. “Ed wouldn’t take kindly to anybody talkin’ like that.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn whether he would or not.”

  “You might if it got back to him.”

  “Nothing I wouldn’t say to his face.”

  “Suppose I told you Ed’s a friend of mine?”

  “That’s your problem.”

  “And if I took exception to you callin’ him names?”

  “Then you’ve bought yourself a bigger problem.”

  Starbuck’s manner was cold, and deadly. He’d learned early in life that confidence counted far more than the odds. A man assured of himself bred that same conviction in other men, and as a result, forever held the edge. His performance was calculated to create an impression, one that left no room for doubt. Arapahoe Smith was a man with an explosive temper and a short fuse. A killer.

  Devoe’s appraisal of him was deliberate. After a time, the foreman turned his head and spat a brownish squirt of tobacco juice. He watched as it hit the ground and kicked up a puff of dust. Then he looked around.

  “What makes you think Ed’s a piss-willie?”

  “I asked him a simple question,” Starbuck said flatly. “He gave me a song and dance, and passed it along to you. I got the impression he don’t hardly take a leak without asking permission.”

  “All depends on the question.” Devoe paused, shifted the quid to the other side of his mouth. “Around here, there’s some questions better left unanswered.”

  “I’m not one for loose talk, myself. All I want’s a civil answer and no ring-around-the-rosy.”

  “Awright, go ahead and ask your question.”

  “Whereabouts would I find Mike Cassidy?”

  Devoe hawked as though he’d swallowed a bone. “Judas Priest! It’s no wonder Ed gave you the fast shuffle.”

  Starbuck’s eyes took on a peculiar glitter. “I rode five hundred miles to hear the answer. So do yourself a favor, and don’t hand me another dummy routine.”

  “Mr. Smith,” Devoe said hesitantly, “if I was to talk out of school about Mike, I wouldn’t last long anyway. To get answers, you got to give a few. Otherwise my lips are sewed shut.”

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  “For openers—” Devoe stopped, met his gaze. “Who are you and where’re you from?”

  “I already told you.” Starbuck looked annoyed. “The name’s Arapahoe Smith.”

  “So you did,” Devoe agreed. “But you left out the where from.”

  “Robbers Roost.”

  “Are you wanted?”

  “I sure as hell didn’t ride all the way up here for the scenery.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “Murder.” Starbuck grinned crookedly. “A fellow asked me one too many questions, and I put a leak in his ticker.”

  Devoe eyed him in silence a moment. “You a friend of Mike’s?”

  “A secondhand friend,” Starbuck noted dryly. “Somebody down at Robbers Roost gave me his name.”

  “Why so?”

  “I had to light out pretty sudden, and Hole-in-the-Wall seemed the natural place to come. He told me Cassidy was a square shooter.”

  “That’s it?” Devoe persisted. “You’re lookin’ for a place to lay low—nothin’ more?”

  “Nothin’ more?” Starbuck rocked his head from side to side. “I don’t get your drift.”

  “Lemme
say it another way,” Devoe rumbled. “If you’re a lawman—or you’ve got some personal score to settle with Mike—then I’d advise you to make dust and not look back. It’s the only way you’ll ever leave here alive.”

  “I’m no lawdog!” Starbuck bristled. “And I never even met Cassidy. So how the Christ could it be anything personal?”

  “All I’m tryin’ to do is warn you.”

  “Don’t do me any favors.” There was a hard edge to Starbuck’s voice. “You’ve had your answers and now I’ll have mine. Whereabouts do I find Cassidy?”

  Devoe looked down and studied the ground. “I hope you’re who you say you are, Mr. Arapahoe Smith. If you’re not, then take my word for it—we’re both dead men!”

  Starbuck laughed. “I aim to live awhile yet.”

  “I’m mighty relieved to hear it.”

  “And I’m still waiting for directions.”

  Devoe considered a moment, then gave him a slow nod. “I take it you come in by way of Buffalo Creek Canyon?”

  “You take it right.”

  “Head back that direction,” Devoe said, motioning down the valley. “You recollect them cabins, on the west side of the creek?”

  “I got pretty good eyesight.”

  “Try the third cabin headed south. Last time I heard, that’s where Mike called home.”

  “He bunk alone?” Starbuck asked. “Or does he have a pardner?”

  “Search me.” Devoe shrugged noncommittally. “I stick to this end of the valley.”

  Starbuck walked to his horse. He stepped into the saddle, then his gaze settled on Devoe. His mouth quirked and he bobbed his head.

  “I always remember a favor, Mr. Devoe.”

  “That’s a comforting thought, Mr. Smith.”

  Starbuck chuckled and rode off down the valley.

  Chapter Eight

  A sky of purest indigo was flecked through with stars. On the creek bank, Starbuck stood lost beneath the shadow of the trees. His eyes searched the patchwork sky, as though some magical truth were to be found there. He found instead the tangled skein of his own thoughts.

  By any assessment, the situation was a mess. Starbuck prided himself on being a realist, and there was no avoiding the fact that he’d worked himself into a corner. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and everyone in Hole-in-the-Wall knew he was there. Worse, he was trapped in a quagmire of his own integrity. He thought it a pretty pickle for a man in the detective business.

  One source of concern was Hank Devoe. Starbuck was under no illusions about the Bar C foreman. Hardly a fool, Devoe would hedge his bet. He was concerned for his own life, and with good reason. He’d broken faith with Mike Cassidy, and the consequences were not difficult to imagine. Within Hole-in-the-Wall, such a breach would be considered the cardinal sin; and the penalty was death. His fear of the hardcase named Arapahoe Smith was a momentary thing, quickly come and gone. His fear of retribution from the outlaw quarter was deeply entrenched, an overriding imperative. By now, he would have done the sensible thing and warned Cassidy. An old and widely practiced diplomatic ploy, it was known as covering your ass. And diplomacy was Hank Devoe’s game.

  Upon riding away from the ranch, Starbuck’s bravado had abruptly vanished. He had bullied Devoe into talking, and thereby furthered completion of his assignment. At the same time, he had compounded an already dicey situation. He now knew where to find Cassidy; but Ed Houk’s warning would have alerted the outlaw. So he was expected, and his cover story would never withstand close questioning by Cassidy. To approach the cabin in daylight—without the element of surprise—was no longer an option. He’d lost the edge.

  A mile or so from the ranch, Starbuck had forded Buffalo Creek. Thereafter he stuck to the treeline as he made his way down the valley. The sun was dipping westward toward the mountains when he halted opposite the outlaw cabins. He left the bay to graze, tied by a slack length of rope to a tree. Then, moving through the wooded grove, he found a vantage point where he could smoke and think without being seen. His guess was that Hank Devoe had wasted no time in getting a message to Cassidy. On top of the warning from Houk, that would make the outlaw doubly vigilant. All of which made a sorry state of affairs even sorrier.

  Starbuck’s original plan was a washout. As he’d done on past cases, he had thought to infiltrate a gang of outlaws by passing himself off as a man on the dodge. Once his credentials were established, he would have bided his time and awaited an opportune moment. On one pretext or another he would have then picked a fight with Cassidy and killed him. An unknown who called himself Arapahoe Smith would have been credited with the killing, and no one the wiser. At that point he would have gotten on his horse and vanished without a trace. Assignment completed.

  None of that had happened for the simplest of reasons. His plan, from the very outset, was based on a false premise. There was no gang at Hole-in-the-Wall. There was, instead, a loose confederation of outlaws. Which left him with nothing to infiltrate, no way to worm his way into a collection of loners. Forced to ask too many questions too fast, he’d alarmed Ed Houk and inadvertently alerted Cassidy. The upshot was not unlike entering the valley at the head of a brass band. The thump of a bass drum and the clash of cymbals would hardly have attracted more attention. So now he had no choice but to improvise as he went along. There was no alternative plan, and no way to resurrect the original scheme. He was playing it fast and loose—one step at a time.

  The immediate problem was Mike Cassidy. Not how to kill him, but rather how to kill him in an acceptable manner. Starbuck was no assassin. He believed certain men deserved to die, and he felt no twinge of conscience about hurrying them along to the grave. Yet he operated by a code that allowed him to live with himself in the aftermath. He never back-shot a man, and in all the years he’d worked his trade, he had never bushwhacked anyone. His gun was for hire, but his soul wasn’t for sale. He took a wanted man from the front or not at all.

  Expediency was nonetheless central to his code. A manhunter was no paladin of social conduct, and killing men was by no means a game. Only one rule existed: survive the encounter and live to fight another day. Starbuck gave the other man a chance—a very slim chance—but he gave no man the edge. His customary practice was to get the drop on an outlaw and order him to surrender. Barring that, he openly challenged a wanted man and shot him down on the spot. He killed quickly and cleanly, and without remorse.

  Tonight, he would kill again in a similar fashion. His position in the trees afforded him an unobstructed view across the valley. From dusk until dark, he had watched Cassidy’s cabin like a hawk zeroed on a barnyard hen. The distance was not quite a mile, and he’d had no trouble spotting the lone figure of a man. At sundown, a couple of horses in the corral had been grained and watered, and afterward the man had split some firewood. With darkness, a lamp was lighted in the cabin and a tendril of smoke drifted upward from the chimney. None of the other outlaws came near the cabin, and the sign seemed plain enough to read. Cassidy was a loner.

  Starbuck saw it as an exercise in stealth. His approach to the cabin would be made quietly, without spooking the horses. Once there, he would make positive identification through the cabin window. He’d memorized Cassidy’s description from his rogues’ gallery, and there would be no mistake on that score. Then, with his gun drawn, he would kick in the door. The outcome was a foregone conclusion. Cassidy’s instinctive reaction would be to fight, make a try for his gun. He would die trying.

  Under cover of darkness, Starbuck would then make his way back to the creek. It was a tossup whether the shooting would draw the other outlaws from their cabins. They might come to investigate, or they might consider it none of their affair. Either way, it made little difference in the overall scheme of things. By that time, Starbuck planned to be well on his way downstream. He would lead the bay a mile or so into the canyon before he mounted. Then he would ride through the night and on into the next day. Arapahoe Smith would be roundly cursed at Hole-in-the-W
all. And seen no more.

  Which was a fitting end to an assignment properly executed.

  Satisfied it would work, Starbuck walked back through the woods. He made supper on creek water and jerky from his saddlebags. He suppressed the temptation for a cigarette, unwilling to risk the operation on the flare of a match. Later, when the job was done, would be time enough. He watered the bay at the creek, and afterward snubbed him tight to a tree. Then he turned and moved swiftly into the pale starlight.

  He drifted across the valley quiet as woodsmoke.

  Starbuck crept along an arroyo that snaked westward behind the cabin. Some thirty yards away, he halted and slowly surveyed the corral. He was alert to any sound, any telltale indication the horses had winded him or sensed his presence. The animals stood hipshot in the silty starlight. He quit the shadows and scrambled out of the defile.

  Skirting the corral, he catfooted across the open ground. At the rear of the cabin, he stopped and let his heartbeat slow. Then, icy calm restored, he peered cautiously around the corner. A cider glow filtered through the window, casting puddled light on the earth. A few steps farther on was the door. He heard nothing, and he quickly scanned other cabins in the near distance. There was no one in sight.

  Stepping around the corner, he flattened himself against the wall and inched toward the spill of light. He removed his hat and eased to a halt beside the window. Then, with the utmost care, he edged one eye around the casement. He burned every detail of the room into his mind.