by Matt Braun
The Manhunter also reveals Starbuck’s role in the death of Jesse James. A compelling tale, it was until now shrouded in mystery. Luke Starbuck told no one of the part he played. For he was a man of many parts and many faces. None of them his own.
CHAPTER 1
The men rode into town from the north. Their horses were held to a walk and they kept to the middle of the street. Unhurried, with three riders out front and two more trailing behind, they proceeded towards the centre of town. No one spoke.
The community, like many midwestern farm towns, was bisected by a main thoroughfare. The business district, small but prosperous, consisted of four stores, a saloon and a blacksmith shop, and one bank. There were few people about and little activity in the downtown area. A typical Monday morning, it was the slowest time of the week. Which, in part, accounted for the five riders. Their business was better conducted in confidence and without crowds.
The men were unremarkable in appearance. Neatly dressed, they wore drab woolen suits and slouch hats. Three were clean-shaven and the other two sported well-trimmed beards. All of them were above average height, but only one, somewhat large and burly, was noticeable for his size. Their mounts were an altogether different matter. At first glance, the animals appeared to be common saddle stock. On closer examination, however, a uniform sleekness and conformation became apparent. The horses were built for endurance and stamina, staying power over long distances.
In the centre of town, the riders wheeled to the left and halted before the bank. There was a military precision to their movements, smooth and coordinated, somehow practiced. The two bearded men stepped down and handed their reins to the third man in the front rank. Without hesitation, the two riders in the rear positioned their mounts to cover the street in both directions. A moment passed while one of the bearded men took a long look around. His bearing was that of a field commander and he subjected the whole of the business district to a slow, careful scrutiny. Then, followed by his companion, he turned and entered the bank.
Inside the door, he stopped and quickly scanned the room. The cashier’s window and the vault were to the rear. He noted that the vault door was closed and, to all appearances, locked. To his immediate left, seated behind a desk, the bank president was engaged in conversation with three middle-aged men. By their dress and manner of speech, they were gentlemen landowners and therefore no threat. He pulled a .45 Smith & Wesson revolver from a shoulder holster inside his suit jacket.
“Get your hands up! Keep ’em up and you won’t get hurt!”
There was an instant of leaden silence. The cashier froze, watching him intently. At the desk, the president stared at him with disbelief, and the three customers swiveled around in unison. Suddenly, eyes wide with terror, one of them panicked and bolted from his chair.
“Robbers! The bank’s being robbed!”
A gun exploded and the man staggered, clutching at his arm. His face went ashen, then he passed out, collapsing at the knees, and dropped to the floor. One eye on the cashier, the gang leader glanced over his shoulder. His companion, standing just inside the doorway, held a pistol trained on the men at the desk. A wisp of smoke curled upward from the barrel.
“Goddamnit!” he said gruffly. “Did you have to shoot him?”
“Seemed like the thing to do. Leastways it made him close his trap.”
“Maybe so,” the gang leader snapped. “But that gunshot will draw a crowd just sure as hell.”
“I don’t recollect that ever stopped you before.”
“All right, forget it! Keep them birds covered while I tend to business.”
With that, he walked to the rear of the bank and stopped before the cashier’s window. He casually rested the butt of the Smith & Wesson on the counter, and nodded to the cashier.
“What’s your name?”
“Martin,” the cashier muttered. “Robert Martin.”
“Well, Mr. Martin, how would you like to make it home to supper tonight?”
“I’d like that.”
“Then get busy and open that vault. No fool tricks or I’ll blow your head off. Hop to it!”
Martin eyed him steadily a moment, then turned towards the vault. A roar of gunfire, several shots in rapid succession, suddenly sounded from outside. The gang leader looked around and saw his companion peering out the door.
“What’s all that about?”
“Nothin’ serious. Some of the locals got nosy and the boys warned them to stay off the street.”
“Keep a sharp lookout.”
Turning back, he started and let loose a harsh grunt. Robert Martin had the cash drawer open and was clawing frantically at a revolver hidden beneath a stack of bills. The gang leader pulled the trigger and his Smith & Wesson spat a sheet of flame. The slug punched through Martin’s forehead and tore out the back of his skull. A halo of bone and brain matter misted the air around his head, and he stood there a moment, dead on his feet. Then he folded at the waist and slumped to the floor.
“Dumb bastard!” the gang leader cursed savagely. “Told you I’d blow your head off!”
Leaning across the counter, he began scooping bills out of the cash drawer and stuffing them into his pockets. Once the drawer was empty, he wheeled about and marched towards the front of the bank. He signalled the bearded man at the door.
“Let’s go! We’re all done here.”
“What about the vault?”
“No time! Another couple of minutes and the whole town’ll be up in arms.”
“The boys won’t like it. They rode a long ways for a payday.”
“Tough titty!” he barked. “You should’ve thought of that before you got an itchy trigger finger. C’mon, let’s clear out!”
The din of gunfire swelled as they moved through the door. Still mounted, the gang members outside were winging random shots through store windows along the street. The merchants and townspeople had taken cover, and as yet there was no return fire. Crossing the broad-walk, the bearded men hastily swung into their saddles. Then, with everyone mounted, the robbers reined about and rode north out of town.
A short distance upstreet the gang leader abruptly brought his horse to a halt. Where the business district ended, the residential area began, and both sides of the street were lined with modest homes. Outside one house, a teenage boy stood at the edge of the yard. His eyes were filled with a mix of fear and youthful curiosity. He watched with wonder as the rest of the robbers skidded to a stop and turned their mounts. The gang leader calmly drew his pistol and extended it to arm’s length. He stared down the sights at the boy.
“Come out to get an eyeful, did you?”
The youngster swallowed, licked his lips. “I didn’t mean no harm, mister.”
“Your mama should’ve taught you better manners.”
Thumbing the hammer on his pistol, the gang leader sighted quickly and fired. A brilliant red splotch appeared on the pocket of the boy’s shirt. He reeled backward, then suddenly went limp and fell spread-eagled in the yard. As he hit the ground, the other bearded robber kneed his horse forward, blocking the gang leader.
“Why’d you do that? Why’d you kill him?”
“I felt like it.”
“For God’s sake, he’s just a kid!”
“So what.”
“So what! You took your spite out on a kid. That’s what!”
“Watch your mouth.”
“The hell I will!”
The burly rider reined his horse closer. “What’s the matter, Frank?”
“Ask Jesse.”
“I’m askin’ you.”
“We didn’t finish the job! Jesse said there wasn’t time to clean out the vault, and now he’s mad at himself.”
“Wasn’t time?” The large man scowled, turned his gaze on the gang leader. “Then how come you had time to stop and kill that kid?”
“Don’t push me, Cole.”
“And don’t you try throwin’ your weight around! We didn’t ride to hell and gone just to
come away with chicken feed.”
“I told you to lay off! I won’t tell you again.”
“Well, I’ll damn sure tell you something! Me and the boys are gonna go back and empty that vault. You can come or stay as you please.”
“I’m warning you—!”
“Jesse, one of these days you’re gonna warn me once too often.”
A shot cracked and they instinctively ducked as a slug whizzed past their heads. Looking around, they saw a man standing in the middle of the street downtown. He had a rifle thrown to his shoulder, and as he fired the second time other men rushed to join him. The gang leader booted his horse and rapped out a sharp command.
“Too late now! Let’s ride!”
A barrage from downtown settled the matter. With lead whistling around their ears, the robbers bent low and kicked their mounts into a headlong gallop. Moments later they cleared the edge of town and thundered north along a rutted wagon road.
Their leader, well, out in front, never once looked back.
CHAPTER 2
Starbuck wiped his razor dry and walked from the bathroom. He selected a fresh linen shirt from the bureau, then took a conservative brown suit from the wardrobe. After knotting his tie, he slipped into a suit jacket and checked himself in the mirror. No dandy, he was nonetheless particular about his appearance.
Turning from the mirror, he moved to the bed and took a .45 Colt from beneath the pillow. He shoved the gun into a crossdraw holster worn on his left side, positioned directly above the pants pocket. The holster was hand sewn and wet-moulded to the Colt, crafted in such a manner that his belt snugged it flat against his body. The natural drape of his jacket concealed the entire rig and eliminated any telltale bulge. Only those who knew him well were aware that he went armed at all times.
Fully dressed, he walked towards the door leading to the sitting room. His suite in the Brown Palace Hotel was comfortable, though modest in size, and handsomely appointed. Off and on, after establishing headquarters in Denver, he had debated buying a house. His detective business kept him on the move—often for months at a stretch—and the cost of maintaining a suite on a permanent basis sometimes seemed exorbitant. Yet a house would have tied him down, and he wasn’t a man who formed attachments easily. Besides, the hotel provided room service and laundry, not to mention a certain freedom of movement. All things considered, he was satisfied with the arrangement. It somehow suited his style.
Entering the sitting room, he nodded to the girl and took a seat beside her on the sofa. A singer, her stage name was Lola Montana, and she was the star attraction at the Alcazar Variety Theater. She was also his current bed partner, and for the past few weeks she had slept over almost every night. Still, in his view, she was a pleasant arrangement, with no strings attached.
A room-service cart was positioned beside the sofa. Earlier, they had shared a breakfast of ham and eggs, topped off with sourdough biscuits and wild honey. Now, luxuriating over a cup of coffee, Lola sat with her legs tucked under the folds of a filmy peignoir. The swell of her breasts was visible through the sheer fabric and she noted his appreciative glance. She vamped him with an engaging smile.
“You look real spiffy this morning, lover.”
“I sort of like your getup, too. Hides just enough to give a fellow ideas.”
“Ooo?” She slowly batted her eyelashes. “I thought by now you knew all my secrets.”
“Let’s just say you showed me a few surprises last night.”
She laughed a low, throaty laugh. “The way I remember it, you rang the bell a couple of times yourself.”
“Worked out even, then, didn’t it?”
“How so?”
“’Cause you rung the ding-dong clean out of mine.” His bantering tone delighted her. Normally reserved, he was a man of caustic wit but little natural humour.
Like everyone else in Denver, she knew he was a man-hunter—by some accounts, a mankiller—and a detective of formidable reputation. Danger intrigued her, and from the outset she’d been captivated by the fact that he looked the part as well. Corded and lean, with wide shoulders and a muscular build, he stood six feet tall. His eyes were pale blue, framed by a square jaw and light chestnut hair, and he gave the uncanny impression of seeing straight through another person. She thought his look not so much cold as simply devoid of emotion. The quiet, impersonal look of a man who would kill quickly, and without regret.
Today, however, his manner seemed light, almost chipper. She took that as a good sign, and wondered if he’d decided to unbend a little, let her have a glimpse of the man beneath the hard exterior. She felt no real conviction that it was true, and yet … a girl could always wish.
“Why not take the day off?” She stretched like a cat, and gave him a beguiling grin. “We could just loaf around, and who knows—maybe I’d show you some more surprises.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Starbuck said genially. “The day’s already half gone, and I’ve got some errands that won’t wait.”
“You know what they say, all work and no play.”
“That’s a laugh! You’ve kept me so busy, I haven’t hardly had time to tend to business.”
“Detective business?” she inquired innocently. “Or monkey business?”
Starbuck cocked one ribald eye at her. “I’ll give you three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”
“Mr. Mysterious himself!” She mocked him with a minxlike look. “Got a hot case cooking, honeybun? C’mon, you can tell Lola.”
“Strictly back burner,” Starbuck said vaguely. “Nothing worth the telling.”
She laughed spontaneously, in sheer delight. “You’re one of a kind. Luke! I’ve just been told to butt out and damned if you didn’t make me like it. That’s real talent!”
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”
Starbuck understood it was a game, lighthearted and meant in jest. Unlike many women he’d known, she wanted nothing of him. A good time and a few laughs—along with their romps in bed—were all she sought from the liaison. She possessed a kind of bursting vitality, and she seemed to have discovered the instant recipe for fun. Then, too, there were her physical attributes, which amounted to an altogether stunning package. She was smallish and compact, with coltish grace and a dazzling figure. Her features were mobile and animated, with a wide, sensual mouth, and her hair hung long and golden. She was impudent and puckish, with a sort of mischievous verve, and the tricks she brought to his bed never failed to amaze him. All in all, she was his kind of woman, sportive and undemanding, with no claims on tomorrow or the future. He thought it might last awhile.
“All right, lover,” she said cheerfully. “Off to the races! Get your business done and we’ll save our playtime for tonight.”
“That sounds like a proposition.”
“There’s one way to find out.”
“Then I reckon I’d better drop around to the theatre tonight.”
“You miss my show and you’ll never find out! How’s that for a proposition?”
“Best offer I’ve had today.”
She leaned forward and brushed his lips with a kiss. “See you there?”
“Count on it.”
Starbuck rose and walked to the foyer. He took a wide-brimmed Stetson from the closet, jammed it on his head, and then shrugged into his overcoat. When he stepped into the hall, Lola poured herself another cup of coffee and lounged back on the sofa. A slow kittenish smile touched the corners of her mouth.
Outside the hotel Starbuck turned onto Larimer Street. It was a bitter cold day, with savage winds howling down from the northwest. A metallic sky rolled overhead and snow flurries peppered his face. As he passed the police station, he pulled up the collar of his coat and stuck his hands in his pockets. With the wind pushing him along, he rounded the corner and headed directly across town.
Several minutes later he crossed Blake Street. His destination was a small shop wedged between a pool hall and a hardware store. On the window wa
s a neatly lettered sign, chipped and fading with age.
DANIEL CAMERON
GUNSMITH
PISTOLS—RIFLES—SHOTGUNS
An overhead bell jing-a-linged as Starbuck hurried through the door. The walls along both sides of the shop were lined with racks of long guns, and towards the rear a glass showcase was filled with pistols. Beyond the showcase, a grey-haired man turned from a workbench at the sound of the bell. Starbuck brushed snow off his coat and moved down the aisle.
“Afternoon, Daniel.”
“Well, Luke!” Cameron warmly shook his hand. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten our project.”
“No,” Starbuck said equably. “Too many irons in the fire, that’s all.”
“So I’ve heard.” Cameron let a sly smile cross his face. “Apparently Lola Montana is a full-time … avocation.”
Starbuck grinned. “If that means she keeps me busy, you’re right. Course, I wouldn’t exactly call it a chore.”
“No need to explain.” Cameron lifted his hands in an exaggerated gesture. “A man needs diversion! Enjoy it while you’re young.”
“I’m doing my damnedest,” Starbuck said with heavy good humour. “How’re things with you? Any luck?”
“Luke, I think I’m onto something. Not precisely what we’re after, but close. Very close.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’ll do better than that. Come along and judge for yourself.”
A master gunsmith, Cameron possessed an innovative mind and an unquenchable thirst to explore. Always receptive to a challenge, he had agreed to tackle a problem posed by Starbuck. The bullets commonly available were efficient killers but poor manstoppers. An outlaw, though mortally wounded in a gunfight, would often live long enough to empty his pistol. What Starbuck wanted was a bullet that would stop the other man instantly, neutralise him on the spot and take him out of the fight. For the past several weeks, engrossed in the project, Cameron had experimented with radical new bullet designs. Today, he proudly demonstrated the end result.