Manhunter / Deadwood

by Matt Braun

  In the back room of the shop, Cameron lined up three Colt .45 shells on a table. The first was a factory loading, with the standard round pug-nosed bullet. The next shell, loaded with Cameron’s new design, had a slug with shoulders which gradually tapered to a flat nose. The last shell was unlike anything Starbuck had ever seen. In effect, Cameron had turned his new slug upside down and loaded it backwards. The nose of the slug was now inside the casing, and the base, which was blunt and truncated, was now seated in the forward position. After a brief explanation, Cameron loaded the shells into a Colt sixgun.

  Along the rear wall were arranged three bales of wet newspaper that had been tightly bound with rope. The distance was less than five yards, and each of the bales was marked with a bold X in the centre. Cameron aimed and fired, shifting from one bale to another, splitting the X with each shot. Then he walked forward, followed by Starbuck, and cut the bales open with a jackknife. The experiment spoke for itself.

  The standard pug-nosed bullet had penetrated three-quarters of the way through the first bale. The bullet was virtually unmarred and still retained its original shape. The flat-nose slug, which was slightly deformed, had penetrated more than halfway through the second bale. Within the third bale, the reverse-loaded slug had penetrated scarcely one-third of the way through the wet newspaper. Yet the truncated base, upon impact with the bale, had been deformed beyond recognition. The entire slug had expanded, squashed front to rear, and emerged a mushroom-shaped hunk of lead.

  “Quite an improvement,” Cameron said, holding the slug between his fingertips. “The factory load expended all its energy drilling through the bale. Even my new design did much the same thing. But the reverse load! As you can see, the mushroom effect caused the bullet to impart its energy quickly and with massive shock.”

  Starbuck was impressed. “Would it work the same way on a man?”

  “Much better,” Cameron assured him. “The shock effect on human tissue would be far greater than it is on wet newsprint.”

  “Would it stop him cold?” Starbuck persisted. “Dead in his tracks?”

  “Good question.” Cameron’s expression was abstracted. “I suppose we won’t know that until you shoot someone, will we?”

  “What about accuracy?”

  “Now there we have a slight hitch. At long range, it’s not as accurate as a factory load. On the other hand, most of your work is fairly close up. What would you estimate … five yards, ten at the outside?”

  “I reckon it’d average that or less.”

  “Then you have no problem.” Cameron tossed him the slug. “Go try it on someone, Luke! I’m willing to bet it’s a manstopper.”

  Starbuck left the shop with a box of the new shells in his overcoat pocket. His faith in Daniel Cameron, however, rode in the crossdraw holster on his belt. The Colt was now loaded with blunt-nosed slugs.

  Starbuck’s next stop was his office. Located around the corner from the Windsor Hotel, the office was a second-floor cubbyhole, with no sign on the door and spartan as a monk’s cell. Essentially it was a clearinghouse, with a secretary to handle correspondence and light bookkeeping chores. All else, especially matters of a confidential nature, Starbuck committed to memory.

  His secretary, Verna Phelps, greeted him with prune-faced civility. Her desk and chair, along with a battered file cabinet, were the only furnishings in the room. Her cool manner stemmed from the fact that she hadn’t seen Starbuck in almost two weeks. Though Denver was a cosmopolitan city—with a population approaching 100,000—one of the holdovers from its frontier days was an active and highly efficient gossip mill. Almost from the start, she had known the unsavory details of Starbuck’s latest dalliance. And in her most charitable moments she considered Lola Montana nothing short of a wanton hussy.

  With no great urgency, Starbuck sifted through a stack of mail now several days old. One by one he dropped letters from various railroads, stagecoach lines, and mining companies on the desk. A man of means—with investments in commercial real estate and a portfolio of major stocks—he had no compelling financial need to work. Then, too, his reputation allowed him to accept only those assignments that piqued his interest.

  Several of his previous cases were celebrated for the notoriety of the outlaws involved. He had been instrumental in ridding New Mexico of Billy the Kid and largely through his efforts Wyatt Earp had been run out of Arizona. Apart from his eminence as a detective, he was also noted as a mankiller. By rough calculation—since he never discussed the topic—journalists estimated he had killed at least eighteen men. As a result, his fame had spread across the West, and he could now pick and choose from among the jobs offered. Yet fame, with the attendant publicity and newspaper photos, had destroyed the anonymity he’d once enjoyed. These days, he operated undercover, and always in disguise.

  One letter caught his interest. Postmarked St. Louis, it was signed by the president of the International Bankers Association. Short and somewhat cryptic in tone, it requested his presence in St. Louis at the earliest possible date. He studied the letter a moment, then stuck it into his pocket. Looking up, he indicated the stack of mail he’d dropped on the desk.

  “Write those outfits and tell them I’m unavailable till further notice.”

  A spinster, Verna Phelps had plain dumpling features and her hair was pulled severely away from her face into a tight chignon. She heartily applauded Starbuck’s work as a detective, and took a certain grim satisfaction in the number of outlaws he’d killed. Yet she disapproved of his personal life, and viewed his conduct with women as reprehensible. Now, with a dour nod, she shuffled the letters into a neat pile.

  “Are you accepting the St. Louis offer?”

  “Maybe,” Starbuck said noncommittally. “All depends on what they’ve got in mind.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  Starbuck shrugged. “Look for me when you see me.”

  “Very well.” Her voice was tinged with reproach. “And the hotel suite? Shall I look after it as usual, or will your lady friend be staying on while you’re gone?”

  “Never give up, do you, Verna?” Starbuck smiled, and shook his head. “Follow the usual routine. Have the suite spruced up and tell the desk to send any messages over to you.”

  “Just as you wish, Mr. Starbuck.”

  “Hold down the fort.” Starbuck waved, turning towards the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Verna Phelps gave a rabbity sniff and watched him out the door. She marvelled at his devilish ways and his taste for cheap, tawdry women. Then, blushing beet red, she was jolted by a sudden thought.

  She wondered how it might have been … if she were younger.

  Starbuck arrived at the Alcazar Variety Theater late that evening. The owner greeted him warmly, and escorted him to his usual table down front. A complimentary bottle of champagne materialised, and he settled back to enjoy the show.

  Several men, seated at nearby tables, exchanged friendly nods. But no one attempted to approach Starbuck, or engage him in conversation. A private man, he tolerated few questions. Nor would he indulge drunks or the idly curious. He was known on sight, and what he did for a living was no secret. Still, though he was widely admired, he never spoke of his business to anyone. That too was known, and while some people considered it eccentric, his wishes were respected. The sporting crowd of Denver had long ago learned to take him on his own terms. Or not at all. Which suited him all the way around. He was alone even in the largest crowd.

  Tonight, a solitary figure lost in his own thoughts, his mind centred wholly on the moment. Tomorrow he would entrain for St. Louis, and whatever happened would happen, all in good time. Before tomorrow, there was one last night with Lola, and not an hour to be wasted. His anticipation was heightened all the more as the curtain rose and the orchestra struck up a catchy tune. Lola went prancing across the stage, her legs flashing and her breasts jiggling over the top of a peekaboo gown. The audience roared and she gave them a dazzling smile. Then her husky al
to voice belted out across the hall.

  “Oh, don’t you remember sweet Betsy from Pike,

  Crossed the great mountains with her lover Ike,

  With two yoke of oxen, a large yellow dog,

  A tall shanghai rooster and one spotted hog!”

  CHAPTER 3

  St. Louis itself was worth the trip.

  Starbuck arrived on a blustery January evening. From Union Station, he took a hansom cab to one of the fashionable hotels on Olive Street. There he registered under an assumed name and gave San Antonio as his hometown. To all appearances, he was a well-to-do Texan visiting the big city on business.

  A precautionary measure, the deception had by now become second nature. Only a couple of months past, the Police Gazette had done an article that labelled Starbuck the foremost mankiller of the day. He had no idea whether his notoriety extended as far eastward as Missouri. Yet he was a man who played the odds, and assumed nothing. Outside Denver, he always travelled under an alias.

  After supper in the hotel dining room, he went for a stroll. St. Louis, with a population exceeding the half-million mark, was the largest city he’d ever visited. The downtown district was a hub of culture and commerce. Theatres and swank hotels, office buildings and banks and business establishments occupied several square blocks between Market Street and Delmar Boulevard. A sprawling industrial section, which had gravitated early to the riverfront, lay stretched along the levee. Steamboats were rapidly losing ground to railroads, and the city had developed into a manufacturing centre for clothing, shoes, and various kinds of machinery. Still, for all its advancement, St. Louis remained a major market for hides and wool, horses and mules, and a wide assortment of farm produce. However cosmopolitan, it had not yet fully made the transition from its frontier origins.

  On the waterfront, Starbuck stood for a long while staring out across the Mississippi. The Eads Bridge, completed only eight years before, spanned the great river like a steel monolith. Far in the distance, he saw the lights of towns ranged along the Illinois shoreline. Not easily impressed, he was nonetheless taken with the sight. He had travelled the West from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific Coast, but he’d never had occasion to look upon the Mississippi. The breadth of the river, with girded steel linking one bank to the other, seemed to him a marvel almost beyond comprehension. He thought back to his days on the Rio Grande, and slowly shook his head. Age and experience, he told himself, altered a man’s perception of things.

  A nomadic westerner, Starbuck had grown to manhood in Texas. The Civil War, which had left him without family or roots, taught him that killing was a matter of expediency. Thereafter, he accepted abuse from no man, and quickly accommodated those who overstepped themselves. For a time he drifted from ranch to ranch, a saddletramp beckoned onward by wanderlust. Then, all within a period of a few years, he went from trailhand to ranch foreman to range detective. Quite by coincidence, one job leading to another, he discovered his niche in life.

  Once his reputation as a manhunter spread, Starbuck branched out from chasing horse thieves and common rustlers. Offers from stagelines and railroads afforded greater challenge, and there he came into his own as a detective. Despite his renown, however, he was never really satisfied with yesterday’s accomplishments. He enjoyed what he did for a livelihood, and he took pride in his work. Yet something of the old wanderlust still remained. He forever sought greater challenges, and he was cursed with an itch to move on to the next case. A blooded hunter, his quarry was man. And only when the chase was joined was he truly content.

  Now, his gaze fixed on the Mississippi, he wondered what tomorrow would bring. His wire had confirmed the time and place for the meeting. Otis Tilford, president of the International Bankers Association, was expecting him first thing in the morning. An assessment would be made, and assuming he passed muster, an assignment would be offered. The only imponderable was whether or not he would accept. He was looking for tomorrows, not yesterdays, and nothing else would turn the trick. Nothing and no-damn-body.

  He turned from the wharves and walked towards his hotel.

  The Merchants & Farmers Bank Building stood on the corner of Fourth and Delmar. Starbuck entered the lobby shortly before nine o’clock and took an elevator to the third floor. At the end of the hall, he spotted a door with frosted glass and gilt lettering. He moved directly along the corridor, observant and suddenly alert. The lettering on the door was sparkling fresh.

  Inside the waiting room he closed the door and doffed his hat. A mousy-looking woman, with grey hair and granny glasses, sat behind a reception desk. She looked him over, stern as a drill sergeant, and nodded.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m Luke Starbuck. I have an appointment with Mr. Tilford.”

  “Yes, of course.” She rose, bustling around the desk. “Please have a seat, Mr. Starbuck. I’ll inform Mr. Tilford you’re here.”

  Starbuck watched as she hurried down a hallway. Then, still standing, he slowly inspected the waiting room. All the furniture, including the receptionist’s desk and a couple of wingbacked chairs, looked as though it had been delivered only that morning. A door on the opposite side of the room was open, and through it he saw several clerks in what appeared to be a general office. Their desks and a row of file cabinets along the far wall also looked fresh off a showroom floor. Whatever he’d expected, something about the layout put him on guard. He made mental note to do lots of listening, play it close to the vest. And volunteer nothing.

  The receptionist reappeared, motioning him forward. “Will you come this way? Mr. Tilford can see you now.”

  “Much obliged,” Starbuck said pleasantly. “I was just admiring your offices. Got a real handsome setup.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Been here long?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, everything looks so new and all. I thought maybe you’d just opened for business?”

  “No.” She did not elaborate. “This way, Mr. Starbuck.”

  Starbuck followed her down the hall. She ushered him into a spacious office and stepped aside. The room was panelled in dark wood, with ornately carved furniture and a plush carpet underfoot. A coal-burning fireplace glowed cherry red, and directly opposite was an imposing walnut desk. Behind it, seated in a tall judge’s chair, was a man who looked like a frog perched on a toadstool. He was completely bald, with a wattled neck and beady eyes, and his oval face was peppered with liver spots. When he rose, extending his hand, his posture was shrunken and stooped. Yet, oddly enough, his voice was firm and lordly.

  “Welcome to St. Louis, Mr. Starbuck.”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Tilford.”

  “Please be seated.” Tilford let go his hand, and dropped into the judge’s chair. “I trust your trip was without incident.”

  “More or less.” Starbuck took an armchair before the desk. “One train ride’s pretty much like another.”

  “No doubt.” Tilford appeared to lose interest in the subject. “I appreciate your quick response to our request.”

  “When a man says ‘urgent,’ I take him at his word.”

  “Commendable,” Tilford said, no irony in his tone. “All the more so since your services are much in demand these days.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the Police Gazette .”

  Tilford’s laugh was as false as an old maid’s giggle. “On the contrary, Mr. Starbuck! I. found the article most informative. Few men have your zeal.”

  “Oh?” Starbuck asked casually. “How so?”

  “Once you accept a case, you display a remarkable tendency to see it through to a conclusion. Would you consider that a fair statement?”

  “I generally finish what I start.”

  “Precisely.” Tilford gave him an evaluating glance. “And more often than not you finish it permanently. Correct?”

  Starbuck regarded him thoughtfully, “Why do I get the feeling you know the answer before you ask the question?”

/>   “I too am a man of zeal,” Tilford replied loftily. “I had you checked out thoroughly before sending that wire.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” Starbuck smiled humourlessly. “Hope you got your money’s worth.”

  “The queries were of a personal nature. A man in my position develops certain alliances, and we often exchange information. All on a confidential basis, of course.”

  “Anyone I know?”

  “What’s in a name?” Tilford spread his hands in a bland gesture. “Suffice it to say you come highly recommended by the Central Pacific and Wells Fargo.”

  “I reckon they had no room for complaint.”

  “Indeed!” Tilford wagged his head. “You are too modest by far, Mr. Starbuck. I am reliably informed that you have no equal when it comes to meting out justice to outlaws.”

  “There’s all kinds of justice.”

  “True.” Tilford pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. “But only one kind of any lasting value. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Starbuck?”

  Starbuck took out the makings and rolled himself a smoke. He struck a match, all the while watching Tilford, and lit the cigarette. Then, inhaling deeply, he settled back in his chair.

  “Suppose we get down to cases?”

  “By all means.” Tilford leaned forward, stared earnestly at him. “I presume you are familiar with the James-Younger gang?”

  Starbuck looked at him without expression. “Jesse James?”