by Matt Braun
“Who wouldn’t!” Bullock pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. “Course, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
Starbuck studied him a moment, eyes dark and vengeful. “I’m open to ideas.”
“One thing I didn’t mention.” Bullock leaned forward, very earnest now. “Eastlake’s a big muckamuck hereabouts in politics. There’s talk that he’s the bagman for Deadwood. I can’t prove it, but the word’s around if you listen close. He collects graft from the sporting crowd and funnels it to the governor.”
“Why would the governor take graft?”
Bullock laughed without mirth. “Guess you never heard of Nehemiah Ordway. He’s crooked as a barrel of snakes, always was! Some folks got fed up with it and organized a reform party. So now he’s in a door-die fight to save his hide.”
“Where does Horn come into it?” “He don’t want Deadwood reformed! That’d undercut his political base, not to mention all the property he owns in the vice district. So him and the governor are thick as spit!”
“What’s all that got to do with me?”
“You want Eastlake—Horn—don’t you?”
“I’m still listening.”
Bullock was suddenly very quiet, eyes boring into him. “I can’t nail them, but you could. You’re a pro at working undercover, and that’s the only thing that’ll turn the trick. You help me and we’ll send ’em to prison till their teeth rot out!”
“I don’t want Horn in prison.” Starbuck’s voice was edged. “I want him dead.”
“Half a loaf’s better than none,” Bullock said shrewdly. “I know Dakota Territory from A to Zizzard, and I could steer you to all the skeletons. Course, along the way, you might get a crack at Eastlake. He’d likely fight if you threatened to bust his bubble here in Deadwood—destroy what he’s built.”
There was a prolonged silence. Starbuck rubbed his jawline and gazed off into space. He seemed to fall asleep with his eyes open, lost in some deep rumination. Presently he blinked, took a couple of quick puffs on his cheroot, and swung back to Bullock.
“You want the governor real bad, don’t you?”
“Luke, just the thought of it makes my mouth water!”
“All right,” Starbuck said with a clenched smile. “You got yourself a partner.”
“All the way down the line … root hog or die?”
“All the way till the day we bury James Horn.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Fifty simoleons!”
“Bump you a hundred.”
“I fold.”
“Too rich for my blood.”
“I’m right behind you.”
“Call the raise!”
Starbuck turned his hole card. “Three ladies.”
“Bite my butt!” The miner who had called the raise tossed in three tens. “Pardee, it’s a gawddamn good thing yore on the level. That kinda luck just ain’t natural!”
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it.”
“Not that old chestnut!” the miner grumbled testily. “Poker ain’t a game of chance, it’s all skill—right?”
“Nope.” Starbuck smiled, raking in the pot. “The secret’s simpler than that … I pray a lot.”
The other players whooped and jeered, and the miner mumbled something inaudible under his breath. Starbuck’s mood was jovial and unruffled, the mark of a professional plying his trade. A gambling man always humored the losers and left them in a congenial frame of mind. He chuckled lightly at his own joke and began stacking the money on an already sizable pile of winnings. The next dealer gathered the cards and started shuffling.
The game was one of many under way in the Gem Theater. A combination saloon, gaming den, and brothel, the Gem was the most infamous dive in the Bad Lands. The owner, a loudmouthed slick named Al Swearingen, was something of an institution in Deadwood. His faro layouts and roulette tables were honest, and he served unwatered whiskey. Yet his square-deal policy stopped when it came to the bordello upstairs. He lured innocent girls out from the East, promising them stage jobs, and then converted them into dollar-a-trick whores. Everyone in town thought it all balanced out in the end. Honest games were preferable to cathouse morality.
Starbuck had made the Gem his unofficial headquarters. Over the past two weeks, he’d established himself as a gambler of some skill. He won consistently, working most of the dives in the Bad Lands, and he had made no enemies in the process. At the same time, he’d been at some pains to ingratiate himself with the sporting crowd. He was a free spender, quick to laugh, and always ready with a bawdy story. The man he’d cultivated more than any other was Al Swearingen. After hours, they frequently shared a bottle, and Swearingen had yet to realize he was being pumped for information. He considered Ace Pardee a prince of a fellow, one of the fraternity. And Starbuck slowly learned what made the wheels go round in Deadwood.
The dossier he’d put together on John Eastlake was now complete. The composite drawn was that of an ambitious man, who was at once munificent with his friends and ruthless with anyone who opposed his will. Yet he was noted as a man of character, scrupulous in all his business dealings, and a civic booster without rival. On the surface, he was dedicated to the greater good of the community and the advancement of his own burgeoning empire. Beneath the surface, however, there was a darker undercurrent. Unveiled there was the man inside—James Horn.
An astute entrepreneur, Horn exhibited foresight and a flair for organization. His intellect was demonstrated in the manner in which he’d structured his business empire. All his holdings were sheltered under the umbrella of the Black Hills Land Company, with a manager responsible for each division. He leased out his mining properties, thereby avoiding capital expenditure, and took a hefty cut of the profits in lieu of a fee, The proceeds were then plowed back into added mining ventures and the acquisition of real estate. The constant reinvestment and expansion had made him the most influential businessman in Deadwood. He owned pieces of two banks, a couple of hotels, and mining properties throughout every camp in the Black Hills. His real-estate holdings in the vice district were a veritable money tree. There, following the same formula employed in the mining division, he acted as a partner rather than a landlord. His cut was twenty percent straight off the top.
Payoffs for political graft were uncovered with remarkable ease. Operating openly, with uncanny sleight of hand, Horn simply integrated the payoffs into his vice-district revenues. The dives quartered in buildings he owned were visited once a week by a collector and two bruisers riding shotgun. The initial tipoff came from Al Swearingen, who tended to consume a good deal of his own liquor. Over a bottle one night—with Starbuck all ears—he bemoaned the payoffs, which, added to the twenty percent rental fee, were driving him to the poorhouse. Starbuck confirmed the lead by tailing the collector and his goons; their route covered the whole of the Bad Lands, every whorehouse, dance hall, and busthead saloon. Without exception, everyone shelled out, and Horn was clearly unworried by loose talk or legal repercussions. The reason was patently obvious.
Horn controlled the political apparatus of Lawrence County. His power base was Deadwood, the county seat, and the courthouse was his fiefdom. He operated behind the scenes, a shadowy kingfish who handpicked all candidates for office. Those he selected represented themselves as champions of the working man, decrying the excesses of wealthy mine owners and the business community. As a result, the coalition he’d put together was made up of beguiled miners and the sporting crowd, who voted a straight ticket every time out. Opposition had gradually withered, until now there was only token resistance when elections rolled around. From a practical standpoint, it had ceased to be a contest in Lawrence County. He owned the ballot box.
On a higher plane, Seth Bullock had enlightened Starbuck regarding territorial politics. Dakota was a stewpot of corruption and graft. Elected officials operated on the theory of enrichment through legislation, passing laws that lined their own pockets or generated kickbacks from vested interests. Legisla
tors went to Yankton, the territorial capital, imbued not with honesty but with schemes for personal benefit. One newspaper editor, in a scathing editorial, indicted the lot: “We will match Dakota against all the world in ancient or modern times to produce as many official thieves and purchasable legislators.”
The division of spoils was never better illustrated than in the frauds involving Indian reservations. Syndicates composed of merchants and legislators seized on the opportunity for economic exploitation. The Sioux were shortchanged on rations and forced to endure privations that bordered on genocide. The profits were astronomical, and the practice was widely condoned. A few Indians more or less rated small attention.
A greater concern in the political arena was the struggle over statehood. One faction believed Dakota should remain a ward of the federal govenment. A coalition of vested interests, such as the railroads, and Washington politicos, who controlled the purse strings, had joined with the governor to maintain territorial status. The opposition, intent on self-rule, believed Dakota should sever the cord and petition for statehood. Under the banner of the Dakota Citizens’ League, its membership was a strange amalgamation of farmers, prohibitionists, and civic reformers. The battle was joined in the byways and corridors of the territorial capital.
Governor Nehemiah Ordway stood to lose the most if Dakota was granted statehood. Appointed to office two years ago, he had undertaken a Byzantine plan to create a vast political machine. Only after the fact, when it was much too late, did the opposition realize the full extent of his scheme. By controlling federal patronage, Ordway had established alliances with powerful leaders throughout Dakota. Not the least of those aligned with the governor was John Eastlake.
Statehood, in Eastlake’s view, was bad for Deadwood and Lawrence County. Territorial status was a looser form of government, with less control exerted from Yankton. The county political apparatus, not to mention patronage jobs and public funds, was more easily managed when left in the hands of a few men. Then, too, the Dakota Citizens’ League was the kiss of death for the wide-open mining camps of the Black Hills. Once reformers got control of Yankton, the whorehouses, saloons, and gaming dens would quickly become a thing of the past. In the end it boiled down to self-interest, and what was bad for Deadwood was equally bad for John Eastlake. He’d thrown his support to Governor Ordway.
Nor were the motives of Seth Bullock derived wholly from altruism. Starbuck had learned that the lawman was seeking revenge of a different sort. In the county elections of 1877, Bullock had been turned out of office as sheriff. His opponent had been backed by Horn, who at the time was making his first bid to assume the reins of power. In concert with Yankton politicians, Horn had engineered a stunning victory. Bullock, despite his reputation as a town tamer, went down to defeat. A proud man, he was also one who never forgave an affront. He considered Horn an enemy, and he was out to settle an old score. By toppling the governor, he would bring the political structure of Lawrence County tumbling into ruin. And leave Horn—John Eastlake—standing amidst the rubble.
Only one thing in the investigation had given Starbuck pause. By listening more than he talked, he’d uncovered a curious revelation. Some years ago Horn had married a refined eastern lady, who divorced him not six months after the wedding. There was speculation among the sporting crowd that she couldn’t take the rough life of a mining camp. Yet there were other rumors afloat in the gossipy world of the Bad Lands. Horn reportedly had some kinky sex habits, involving leather straps and the infliction of pain. Among the whores of the vice district he was known as the Marquis de Eastlake. Starbuck was amused but hardly surprised. It was a window into Horn’s character.
In subsequent days, it became apparent to Starbuck that he’d done all the spadework possible in Deadwood. There was nothing of any substance left to learn about Horn and the local political ring. Nor was anything unearthed to date particularly incriminating in itself. He had devoted considerable thought to the problem, and he always returned to the graft payoffs. It seemed unlikely Horn would entrust the transfer of the money to anyone else; the fewer witnesses the better when illegal funds were passing hands. Then, too, Bullock had told him that Horn made periodic trips to Yankton, generally once a month. So he saw only one recourse, the logical next step. He must somehow tie Horn and the graft payoffs to Governor Nehemiah Ordway.
The plan he evolved was larded with risk. Horn most certainly had his photograph, and might very well see through his disguise. Over the past two weeks, all quite unobtrusively, he had observed Horn from a distance. On one occasion he had loitered across from the land company, and on another he had discreetly tailed Horn through the business district. Yet he’d cautiously avoided any face-to-face meeting. As a result, his disguise had never been tested. That worried him more than he cared to admit.
While it was extreme, there seemed no alternative to shadowing Horn on his next trip to Yankton. Only in that manner could he establish a direct link to the governor. The stage ride to the territorial capital took several days, and he would be caged with Horn inside the coach the entire time. The chance of being recognized was not to be discounted; even a slip of the tongue could destroy his cover. Still, however calculated the risk, the option was to sit on his thumb and do nothing. He was determined to see the case through, and he at last made the decision to go for broke. Ace Pardee would accompany Horn to Yankton.
There were two stages a day to the capital. One departed early in the morning and the other at noon. The date of Horn’s next trip, and which stage he would board, were known only to Horn himself. So Starbuck hedged his bet by arising every morning at the crack of dawn. He would then stroll casually past the stage line shortly before departure time. The ploy was repeated again at noon, always with a quick visual check of the passengers. Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, he got a break. As he stepped out of the hotel, he spotted Horn walking along the street, suitcase in hand. He hurried back to his room, collected his valise, and settled accounts with the desk clerk. Then he made a beeline for the stage office.
Purchasing a ticket was the first test. Horn was waiting outside with several other passengers, standing somewhat apart. He glanced in Starbuck’s direction, then his eyes moved on. Encouraged, Starbuck went inside and paid the fare to Yankton. When he emerged, the passengers were already in the process of boarding. He hoisted himself into the coach and took the only vacant seat, directly across from Horn. A few moments later the luggage was loaded and the driver popped his whip over the rumps of the six-horse hitch. The stage began the long climb out of Deadwood gulch.
The morning passed uneventfully. The passengers were for the most part drummers and businessmen. Some caught a catnap while others talked quietly as the coach jounced and swayed through the mountains. If Horn knew any of them, it was not apparent by his actions. He made no attempt to join in the conversation, and none of the men addressed him directly. He sat wrapped in silence, withdrawn into the privacy of his own thoughts. His visage was meditative.
Starbuck felt as though he were in the presence of a dead man. What seemed a lifetime ago—after he’d infiltrated the gang of horse thieves—he had once spoken briefly with Dutch Henry Horn. The recollection was vivid, and today it was as if he found himself seated across from a specter. Horn was the very image of his father, both in looks and in manner. There was something impenetrable about him, an aura of personal insensitivity. His composure was monumental, and he seemed not just aloof but genuinely comfortable with his own company. Only his eyes moved, alert and penetrating, the color of carpenter’s chalk. He stared out at the countryside, his mouth a tight gashlike line. He looked every bit as dangerous as his father.
On the outskirts of Rapid City, the stage stopped for a late noon meal. While a fresh team was being hitched, the passengers trooped inside the relay station. The meal consisted of fried fat pork, beans and biscuits, and muddy coffee. Starbuck avoided Horn, taking a place at the opposite end of the table. After the meal, however, there was
no way to keep his distance. Courtesy of the road dictated that each passenger resume his original seat. When the stage pulled out, they were once more across from each other. He slowly became aware that Horn was covertly watching him.
A mile or so out of town, Horn suddenly faced him directly. The full impact of his strange, dispassionate gaze was unsettling. His features were expressionless.
“Have we met?” he asked. “You look familiar.”
“Don’t think so.” Starbuck went into his tinhorn routine. “Course, we could’ve bumped into one another at the Gem. I hang out there pretty regular.”
“Then you must know Al Swearingen?”
“Why, sure thing!” Starbuck said with dazzling good humor. “Al’s the salt of the earth, none better! He a friend of yours too, Mr.—?”
“Eastlake.” Horn smiled without warmth. “Swearingen’s a business acquaintance, not a friend. I take it you’re a gambler?”
“Bet your boots!” Starbuck hooked his thumbs in his vest, grinned broadly. “Ace Pardee’s the name and poker’s my game. Open for business six days a week and all day on Sunday!”
Horn regarded him with an odd, steadfast look. “Are you new to Deadwood, Mr. Pardee?”
Starbuck sensed it was no idle question. For all the dyed hair and eyepatch, Horn clearly detected some similarity to his photo. He nerved himself to give a sterling performance.
“Got in a couple of weeks ago,” he said affably. “By way of Frisco and points west.”
“What brings you to Dakota Territory?”
“The root of all evil!” Starbuck boomed out jovially. “Heard there was gold in them thar hills! And I’ll tell you true, Mr. Eastlake”—he lowered his one eyelid in a sly wink—“it surely weren’t no rumor!”
“I thought a gambler never quit a winner.”
“Don’t believe I exactly follow you?”.
“If Deadwood’s so lucrative,” Horn inquired in a reasonable tone, “why travel all the way to Yankton?”