by Matt Braun
Starbuck laughed a wild braying laugh. “You’re not a politician, are you, Mr. Eastlake?”
“No,” Horn said shortly. “Why do you ask?”
“I heard there’s a freeze-out game in Yankton. Some of them crooked legislators and fat-cat railroad boys are gonna shoot for the moon! Figured I’d go have a look-see.”
“You don’t say?”
“Well, I don’t say it too loud!” Starbuck uttered a roguish chuckle. “I wouldn’t want to warn ’em Ace Pardee’s on his way!”
Horn abruptly lost interest. “I wish you luck, Mr. Pardee.”
“Say, looky here now!”
Starbuck produced a deck of cards from his inside coat pocket. He deftly shuffled on his knees and gave the deck a smooth one-handed cut. The other passengers were spellbound by his dexterity, and sat watching him with the expression normally reserved for sword swallowers. He riffled the cards with a flourish and gave them a come-on grin.
“Why wait till Yankton!” he said with a gleam in his eye. “Anybody play the game of poker?”
A couple of the drummers and one of the businessmen allowed themselves to be talked into a game. With a valise balanced on their knees, they hunched forward and a hand of stud was quickly dealt. Horn looked on with icy detachment for a moment, then went back to staring out the window. Starbuck suppressed a laugh and turned his attention to the cards.
He knew he’d passed the test.
Chapter Seventeen
John Eastlake spent two days in Yankton. He registered at the Dakota Hotel and went about his business in an open manner. No effort was made to conceal either his movements or the purpose of his trip.
Upon arrival, Starbuck checked into a seedy hotel across town. A nearby pawnshop, which sold used clothing, provided him with an outfit for yet another disguise. He chose a suit one size too large, a pair of worn brogans, and a battered slouch hat. The eyepatch and spit-curl mustache were retired to his valise, and replaced with a scraggly black beard. Though fake, the beard was a theatrical prop, crafted of real hair and genuine in appearance. To complete the masquerade, he adopted a shuffling gait and the stooped posture of a man aged by hard times. He looked very much the ragtag tramp.
Posing as a panhandler, Starbuck was all but invisible in the hustle and bustle of downtown Yankton. He shadowed Horn day and night, easily melding into the background. As John Eastlake, the Deadwood kingfish, Horn was warmly received by the political oligarchy. On the first day, he met with a succession of legislators from around the territory. Early the second morning he went to the capitol and met privately with Governor Nehemiah Ordway. There was no attempt at secrecy, and to all indications his meeting with the governor was by appointment. His business accomplished, he then returned to the hotel and checked out. He boarded the afternoon stage for Deadwood.
Starbuck was left in a maze of doubt. His surveillance had uncovered nothing incriminating and no hint of corruption. Nor was any damaging inference to be drawn from the meetings. Businessmen and lobbyists were constantly seeking favors from both the governor and members of the legislature. John Eastlake was simply one of a very large crowd.
Further obscured was the matter of graft. There was every reason to believe that Horn, in his meeting with the governor, had passed along the payoffs from Deadwood’s sporting district. Yet there was no proof—nor any glimmer of an eyewitness—that money had actually exchanged hands. In short, there was no evidence of illegality and no way to substantiate the existence of corrupt practices. The surveillance, start to finish, was a washout.
Following Horn’s departure, Starbuck was somewhat at a loss. He returned to his hotel room and flopped down on the bed. Hands locked behind his head, he stared at the ceiling in a brooding funk. His investigation had run up against a stone wall, and he saw no way to surmount the problem. Horn was on cordial terms with the governor and a gaggle of legislators, and clearly no stranger to the corridors of the capitol. Still, for all his high-placed connections, there was no crime involved. The business of Dakota Territory, as everyone readily admitted, was politics. Horn appeared as legitimate as the next man.
Starbuck nonetheless saw it through a prism of his own attitude. In his experience, those who tended the vineyards of government were by nature the worst of all bloodsuckers. He marked again that venal men in a political marketplace were corrupted by a system that thrived on skullduggery. Some men were corrupted by ambition and a thirst for power, and others were merely creatures of their own avarice. Almost all of them, however, were some strain of parasite. The few who weren’t inevitably suffered a fate similar to that of the original reformer. The mob spiked them to a cross.
All of which served to infuriate Starbuck even further. There seemed little likelihood he would preside over the crucifixion of James Horn. Without hard evidence, his investigation was scotched and his odyssey of nearly two months was at a standstill. He had the sensation of a man sinking ever deeper into quicksand. He was going nowhere but down.
By late afternoon, he’d muddled the impasse from every angle. No workable plan presented itself, and a sort of sluggish pessimism crept over him. Then, ever so slowly, the germ of an idea took shape. The thought occurred that Horn would never entrust his well-being into the hands of other men. Nor would he hazard his fate to the vicissitudes of the political arena. Power brokers were forever jockeying for position, and today’s alliances were as ephemeral as a zephyr. When crooks parted ways, only a fine line separated the oxes from the foxes. Someone was always thrown to the mob, a sacrificial offering. And James Horn was not a man to get caught with his pants down.
One thought led to another in rapid sequence. Any equation involving Horn and political survival translated into only one possible answer: blackmail. The man had the character of an assassin and all the social virtues of a scorpion. In the event of political upheaval, he would emerge the high priest, the one who performed the sacrifice. To guarantee that outcome, it followed he would have some form of leverage, an insurance policy. Whatever the nature of that insurance, several things were beyond speculation. It would be in writing, documentation of some sort that would provide evidence of graft and corruption. Moreover, it would indict a wide spectrum of politicians, most especially the governor of Dakota Territory. A man with all that need never fear exposure, for the mere threat of blackmail would insure his own impunity. James Horn was just such a man.
The premise seemed to Starbuck almost a lead-pipe cinch. He sat bolt upright in bed, concentrating hard. The only questions that remained were where, and how, he might lay his hands on Horn’s insurance policy. He thought he knew where to look.
Hurrying out of the hotel, he walked directly to the train depot. He scribbled a short message to Verna Phelps, and passed it through the window to the station telegrapher. The wire was cryptic, worded in a code known only to himself and Verna. When deciphered, it read simply:
CONTACT TYRONE QUINN. HIRE HIM FOR A BLIND JOB AND PUT HIM ON THE FIRST TRAIN TO YANKTON.
STARBUCK
The telegrapher evidenced no great curiosity. He was accustomed to secret messages in the convoluted world of Dakota politics, and toted up the charge without a word. Starbuck waited while he hunched over his key and tapped out the wire. A schedule posted on the wall provided information on routes and arrival times. By way of Denver, there was only one connection to Yankton. Tyronne Quinn would arrive day after tomorrow.
Outside, Starbuck lit a cigar and strolled back uptown. He was confident Verna would handle the chore with dispatch and efficiency. He was equally certain Tyrone Quinn would accept the job without hesitation. He made a practice of obligating members of the Denver underworld, and only last year he’d saved Quinn from a long term in prison. The man was incorrigible, a professional thief and master safecracker. But when the marker was called, a professional always paid his debts. Quinn would be on the train.
Looking ahead, Starbuck formulated a loose plan. Time and distance were the critical factors, and he proceed
ed on the assumption Quinn would arrive in Yankton as scheduled. In that event, they would then board the stage for Deadwood the following morning. To all appearances, they would be fellow gamblers, traveling to the mecca of the Black Hills. By the end of the week they would pull into Deadwood, and the weekend seemed the perfect time for the job. Horn’s land-company office would be closed on Sunday, so that made Sunday night the target date. Some inner hunch told him the office safe, rather than Horn’s home, was the place to look. As to the safe itself, he foresaw no problems. Quinn would open it like a tin of sardines.
Which made Monday the day of reckoning. Between now and then, assuming the safe divulged. Horn’s secrets, he would decide on the next step. He figured there were a couple of options, one of them involving Seth Bullock.
The other was strictly lone hand … all the way.
It was late evening. Gold Street was empty, gripped in a weblike darkness. A pale sickle moon dimly lighted the sky, and streetlamps flickered at the corner of Main. The sound of a raucous Sunday-night crowd carried distinctly from the Bad Lands.
Starbuck kept watch on the distant intersection. Tyrone Quinn took a locksmith’s pick from his vest pocket and inserted its slim, flat tip into the door lock. Gingerly, working by feel, he probed and tested; within seconds there was a soft click. He replaced the pick in his pocket and turned the doorknob. Without a word, they stepped inside the Black Hills Land Company. Quinn swiftly closed and locked the door.
A moment passed while Starbuck studied the layout of the outer office. Then he led the way to a door on the far side of the room. There seemed little question it was the entrance to Horn’s inner sanctum; a double set of locks had been installed in the door. Quinn went to work with his flat-nosed pick and the door quickly swung open.
The office was furnished with good taste. A large desk dominated the room, and grouped before it were three wingback chairs. Along the near wall was a leather sofa and the floor was carpeted. Yet, for all the expensive furnishings, security was quite plainly the overriding consideration. There were no windows, and the double-locked door was the only entrance. On the far wall stood a massive steel safe.
Closing the door, Quinn moved directly to the safe. A candle and a round metal disk appeared from his inside jacket pocket. While Starbuck watched, he struck a match and lit the candle. The snuffed match was returned to his pocket; he dripped hot wax on the metal disk and sealed the butt of the candle firmly in place. Expertly, he examined the safe, all the time muttering to himself. At last, he set the candle on the floor and knelt down. He glued one ear to the safe door and briskly rubbed his hands together. Then he began rotating the combination knob.
Tyrone Quinn possessed a magic touch. Somewhat esthetic in appearance, he was short and wiry, with the watery eyes of a sparrow. His hands were delicate, the fingers smooth and tapered. He oiled them daily with glycerine and before a job he lightly sandpapered the finger pads to create a sensitive feel no less acute than antennae. Tonight, his fingers were alive, the nerve endings like exquisite sensors. It took only seven minutes until the last tumbler rolled into position.
Quinn smiled, and rose to his feet. “Any idea when your man was born?”
“No,” Starbuck said shortly. “What the hell’s that got to do with anything?”
“A matter of curiosity,” Quinn replied in a reedy voice. “The combination is left 5—right 12—left 55. If he’s twenty-seven, then that’s when he was born. Lots of people use their birthdate as a combination … it helps ’em to remember.”
“Let’s get on with it.”
Quinn shrugged and turned the handle on the safe. Then he opened the double doors and stepped aside. Candlelight revealed several rows of shelves at the top and a large storage area at the bottom. Starbuck moved to the safe and began his search with the topmost shelf. The material he found was largely confidential files and accounting ledgers relating to the land company. On the last shelf were stacks of cash totaling something less than two thousand dollars. Hidden behind the money was a Colt double-action revolver. He turned his attention to the bottom storage area.
Outdated ledgers and files stuffed with old correspondence occupied most of the space. After pawing through it item by item, he suddenly stopped and leaned forward. He reached deep into the safe and pulled from the rear a wide leather satchel. Opening the clasp, he took out a small ledger and flipped through the pages. Listed there, with a page for every dive in the Bad Lands, were entries representing the graft collections. One column of figures noted the amount collected; a second column, calculated to the penny, represented seventy-five percent of the total. Neatly lettered above the second column was the name ORDWAY, and the conclusion was obvious. The governor got the lion’s share for his political war chest. The balance, a full twenty-five percent, was skimmed off the top by James Horn. Quite probably, it went to fund his county organization.
Starbuck dug farther into the satchel. Whatever he expected, he was amazed by what he found. Horn had gathered incontestable documentation on the governor’s corrupt practices. An affidavit by the publisher of the Deadwood Sentinel indicated Ordway had organized a wide-ranging conspiracy among the territory’s newspapers. Government printing contracts, which represented a substantial volume of business, had been awarded to a select group of publishers. In return, the newspapers supported Ordway and voiced his political sentiments in all press coverage. The effect was a propaganda machine of staggering proportions.
Other documents revealed that patronage had been used in a criminal manner. Ordway, as territorial governor, was empowered to appoint county commissioners throughout Dakota. An affidavit from a Lawrence County commissioner indicated Ordway had transformed patronage into a scheme to line his own pockets. The appointments were conducted somewhat like an auction, with the office going to the highest bidder. The commissioners, moreover, served at the governor’s pleasure. He could remove them from office as quickly as he had appointed them. The result was a stranglehold on the men who dispensed government funds at the county level. Ordway owned every commissioner throughout the whole Dakota Territory.
Starbuck was grimly amused by his discovery. The contents of the satchel were indeed an insurance policy. Horn, with one stroke, could send the governor and a phalanx of county commissioners to federal prison. The conspiracy with newspaper publishers, while not so serious, was also an indictable offense. Whether or not the affidavits had been obtained by coercion was a moot point. In a court of law they would prove irrefutable, and reduce the political structure of Dakota to a shambles. Despite himself, Starbuck felt a grudging sense of admiration. Horn was a crafty infighter, and he played for keeps.
Hefting the satchel, Starbuck turned toward the door. Quinn closed the safe and spun the combination knob. The candle was extinguished and returned to the safe-cracker’s pocket. On the way out, both the door to Horn’s office and the street door were once more locked. There was no sign of their entry and nothing was disturbed. The job had consumed not quite an hour.
Starbuck was silent as they walked toward the corner. Then, nearing the intersection, he glanced sideways at Quinn. His eyes were stony.
“I want you on the morning stage to Cheyenne. Take the train from there to Denver.”
Quinn bobbed his head. “Whatever you say, Luke.”
“One last thing,” Starbuck said flatly. “You never heard of Deadwood or the Black Hills Land Company, Savvy?”
“Never fear!” Quinn laughed nervously. “Mum’s the word!”
“I’ll hold you to it,” Starbuck warned him. “Don’t let me hear any rumors floating around the Tenderloin when I get home.”
Quinn understood perfectly. Only the bare details of the job had been revealed to him, and he had no idea whose safe he’d just cracked. Nor was he interested in pursuing the matter further. He owed a debt and he’d paid off, and that was that. Silence was part of the bargain, not so much professional courtesy as common good sense. For he also understood his life was forfei
t if he developed a loose lip. Starbuck tolerated no man who broke an agreement, and there was no court of appeal. The verdict stood.
At the corner, they stopped in a pool of light from the streetlamp. Starbuck was once again in the guise of Ace Pardee. The black eyepatch and the mustache intrigued Quinn, but he wisely suppressed his curiosity. He’d asked no questions over the past several days and he asked none now. All he knew about Starbuck’s work was what he read in the papers, and that was all he wanted to know. A mankiller who operated undercover was best left to his own secrets.
“I’m obliged, Tyrone.” Starbuck extended his hand. “You haven’t lost your touch.”
“It’s a gift,” Quinn said modestly, pumping his arm. “I play tumblers the way some people play a piano. We all have our calling.”
“Maybe so.” Starbuck let go his hand. “Just make sure you hear the call for the Cheyenne stage.”
“Why, I wouldn’t miss it for the world! No, indeed, I surely wouldn’t!”
Quinn waved and walked off in the direction of the hotel. Starbuck watched him a moment, then turned downstreet. From the Bad Lands, he heard laughter and shouts, and the discordant blare of a brass band. Sunday night was always a big night in the sporting district, and he saw throngs of miners on the boardwalk outside the dives. Uptown was deserted, and a look around revealed he had the street to himself. His pace quickened.
A block farther on he approached Seth Bullock’s hardware store. At the corner, he paused and slowly inspected the street in both directions. There was no one in sight, but he took a moment longer to scan the darkened doorways of shops and businesses. Then, satisfied he wasn’t being followed, he turned onto Wall Street. The lamplight faded and he moved through the night to the rear of the building.
He ducked into the alleyway behind Bullock’s store.
Chapter Eighteen