Manhunter / Deadwood

by Matt Braun

“How so?”

  “Well, from what I’ve seen, there’re more men that deserve hanging than gets hung. Jesse James and his crowd would be prime examples.”

  “Ain’t it a fact!” Thomas paused, then laughed. “Sure you don’t want a job? We could use a man with your style over in the Nations.”

  “Thanks all the same.” Starbuck turned, his hand outstretched. “I’ll stick to Judge Colt. Never have to worry about the verdict that way.”

  “Hallelujah!” Thomas grinned and pumped his arm with vigour. “Good huntin’ to you, Luke.”

  Starbuck nodded and walked off in the direction of the street. Heck Thomas watched him a moment, wondering on the outcome with Belle Starr and her Cherokee lapdog. Then, as the spectators began dispersing, his attention was drawn to the gallows. The hanged men, one by one, were being unstrung. Somehow, though Thomas wasn’t all that superstitious, it seemed prophetic. A favourable sign.

  Starbuck ought to have himself a whale of a time at Younger’s Bend.

  CHAPTER 6

  By late afternoon of the following day Starbuck was some fifty miles west of Fort Smith. The horse he’d bought was a roan gelding with an easy gait and an even disposition. Along with a secondhand saddle and worn range clothes from his warbag, he looked every inch the fiddle-footed cowhand. Which was precisely the role he’d chosen to play at Younger’s Bend.

  Early on in his career Starbuck had discovered something in himself that went hand in hand with the detective business. He possessed a streak of the actor, and seemed to have a natural flair for disguise. Every assignment differed, and the range of roles he’d played would have challenged a veteran thespian. Over the past few years he had posed as a saddletramp and stockbuyer, con man and grifter, tinhorn gambler and sleazy whore-monger. Experience had taught him that outward appearance fooled most folks most of the time. The balance of the deception required the proper lingo and a working knowledge of the character he portrayed. For that, he had developed the habit of studying other people’s quirks of speech and their mannerisms. Operating undercover, his very survival rested on the skill of his performance. So it was he’d honed the trick of transforming himself, both outwardly and inwardly, into someone else. Once he assumed a disguise, he simply ceased to be Luke Starbuck.

  For Younger’s Bend, he already had a pip of a cover story in mind. All day, riding west from Fort Smith, he’d added a touch here and a touch there. Based on past assignments—the trial and error of mastering his craft—he knew that a credible cover story must always strike a delicate balance. A general rule was the simpler the better, with a guileless, straightforward approach. Yet an element of the outlandish—even something bizarre—added icing to the cake. A happy-go-lucky character who was half fool and half daredevil was the most convincing character of all. Somehow people never suspected a jester whose sights were set on the brass ring. A combination of down-at-the-heels cowhand turned bank robber seemed to Starbuck a real lulu for the task ahead. He thought it would play well at Younger’s Bend.

  Shortly before sundown Starbuck approached the juncture of the Arkansas and Canadian rivers. Farther west lay the Creek Nation and some distance south lay the Chocktaw Nation. Younger’s Bend, which was on the fringe of the Cherokee Nation, was ideally situated to the boundary lines of all three tribes. By rough calculation, he estimated Belle Starr’s place was some forty miles upstream along the Canadian. The general direction was southwest, and with no great effort he would arrive there around suppertime tomorrow evening. That fitted perfectly with his plan, for it was essential that he be invited to stop over at least one night. With no reason to travel farther, he decided to pitch camp on the banks of the Arkansas.

  A stand of trees was selected for a campsite. There, with deadwood close to hand, a fire would be no problem. Along with a Winchester carbine he’d bought in Fort Smith, Starbuck dropped his saddlebags and blanket roll at the base of a tree. After being unsaddled, the roan was hobbled and turned loose to graze on a grassy stretch near the riverbank. A fire was kindled, and as dusk fell a cheery blaze lighted the grove.

  All in keeping with his role, Starbuck was travelling without camp gear or victuals. He dined on a cold supper of hardtack, store-bought beef jerky, and river water. An hour or so after dark, he picketed the roan between a couple of trees at the edge of the grove. Afterwards, with an eye to comfort, he spread his blankets near the fire and covered them with a rain slicker. By then a damp chill had settled over the land, and he decided to call it a night. With his saddle for a pillow, he crawled between the blankets and turned up the collar of his mackinaw. Overhead the indigo sky was clear and flecked through with a zillion stars.

  Unable to sleep, he soon tired of counting stars. His thoughts drifted to Younger’s Bend, and the reception he might reasonably expect. Then, item by item, he began a mental review of all he’d learned about Belle Starr. With everything contained in the Pinkerton file, added to the rundown by Heck Thomas, it made a hefty package. None of it was good—a sorry account of an even sorrier woman—but revealing all the same. And damned spicy in spots.

  Myra Belle Shirley was born in Jasper County, Missouri. Her father, who owned a blacksmith shop and livery stable, was widely respected and prominent in politics. At the proper age, like all proper young ladies, Myra Belle was enrolled in the Carthage Female Academy. There she was taught grammar and deportment, and learned to play a passable tune on the piano. But she was something of a tomboy, and more interested in horses and guns than ladylike refinement. By the time abolitionist Kansas and pro-slavery Missouri went to war, she was an accomplished horsewoman and no slouch with a pistol.

  The border states were savaged during the Civil War, at the mercy of guerrilla bands on both sides. Only fifteen when Quantrill pillaged and burned Lawrence, Kansas, Myra Belle was impressed by the way he had raised a band of volunteers and turned them into a small army of bloodthirsty raiders. Among them was her idol and secret lover, Cole Younger.

  In 1863, Myra Belle’s older brother was killed when federal troops razed Carthage. Wild with grief, she fled home and rode off to join Cole and the guerrillas. For the balance of the war, crazed with revenge, she served as an informant and spy for Quantrill. Then, with the South’s surrender, Cole and the James boys took off on their own. She had no choice but to return to her family.

  The summer of 1865 Myra Belle’s father pulled up roots and moved the family to Texas. Outside Dallas, he bought a farm and dabbled in horse trading. Once more enrolled in school, Myra Belle seemed to have settled down and lost her taste for excitement. Then, early in 1866, Cole Younger rode into the farm with his three brothers and the James boys. Fresh from their first bank robbery, they were flush with money and lavished extravagant gifts on the family. A month or so later, when the gang rode back to Missouri, Cole left an even more lasting memento of the visit. Myra Belle, now a ripe eighteen, was pregnant.

  When the child was born out of wedlock, the scandal rocked the farm community. Branded a hussy, Myra Belle left her daughter with her parents and fled to Dallas. There, working as a dance-hall girl, she dropped Myra from her name and became known simply as Belle. There, too, she met and married a young horse thief named Jim Reed. Several years were spent on the run, flitting about from Texas to California, with the law always one step behind. At last, with no place to turn, Reed sought refuge in Indian Territory. Belle shortly joined him, and her career as a lady bandit began in earnest.

  The Reeds were given sanctuary by Tom Starr, a full-blood Cherokee. Starr and his eight sons were considered the principal hell-raisers of the Cherokee Nation. Their land was located on a remote stretch of the Canadian River, and considered unsafe for travel by anyone not directly related to the Starr clan. Nonetheless, those who rode the owlhoot were welcome, and even white outlaws found haven there. Belle, the only white woman present, was accorded royal treatment by the Starrs. Then, in the summer of 1874, she abruptly became a widow. Jim Reed, trapped following a stagecoach robbery in Texas, was s
lain by lawmen.

  Never daunted, Belle soon shed her widow’s weeds and married Sam Starr. The fact that Sam was a full-blood gave Belle no pause whatever. By the marriage, she gained dower rights to her husband’s share in the communal lands of the Cherokee Nation. For the first time in her life she was a woman of property; being white, she was also queen bee of the ruffians who found refuge with the Starr clan. Together she and Sam formed a gang comprising renegade Indians and former cowboys. All were misfits, none of them too bright, and Belle easily dominated the entire crew, her husband included. She promptly dubbed their base of operations Younger’s Bend.

  The eldest of Old Tom Starr’s sons, Sam had a parcel of land located farther downstream on the Canadian. From here, the gang rustled livestock, robbed backwoods stores, and occasionally ran illegal whiskey across the border. Belle was the planner—the brains—and shrewdly brought the men together only when a job was imminent. Afterwards, the gang members scattered to Tulsa and other railroad towns to squander their loot. Meanwhile, back at Younger’s Bend, Belle and Sam were virtually immune to arrest. Their home was surrounded by wilderness and mountains, and the only known approach was along a canyon trail rising steeply from the river. So inaccessible was the stronghold that lawmen—both Light Horse Police and federal marshals—gave it a wide berth. After ten years in Indian Territory, Belle was riding high and in no great danger of a fall. She was living the life Myra Belle Shirley had sought since girlhood. And she gloried in the notoriety accorded the Nation’s one and only lady bandit, Belle Starr.

  To Starbuck, it was a challenge with an unusual twist. Yet tonight, warmed by the embers of the fire, he concluded the lady bandit was vulnerable on several counts. Aside from the vanity normal to any woman, there was the added vanity of a woman who had made her mark in a man’s world. A woman who ruled her own robbers’ roost and considered herself the femme fatale of the James-Younger gang. Such a woman, unless he missed his guess, was likely to have chapped lips from kissing cold mirrors. And a man who played on her vanity might very easily induce her to brag a little. Or maybe a lot, particularly where it concerned an old beau and lingering sentiment. A sentiment expressed in the name itself—Younger’s Bend.

  Worming deeper into his blankets, Starbuck turned his backside to the fire. He closed his eyes and drifted towards sleep, thinking of tomorrow. And the lady who was no lady.

  In the lowering dusk Starbuck emerged from the canyon trail. Before him, surrounded by dense woods, lay a stretch of level ground. Not fifty yards away, a log house stood like a sentinel where the trail ended. One window was lighted by a lamp.

  A flock of crows cawed and took wing as he rode forward. From the house a pack of dogs joined the chorus, and he smiled to himself. On horseback or on foot, there was little chance anyone would approach Younger’s Bend unannounced. He noted as well that trees had been felled in a wide swath from the clearing around the house to the mouth of the canyon. The purpose—an unobstructed field of fire—was obvious. He felt a bit like a duck in a shooting gallery.

  The door of the house opened and a woman stepped onto the porch. Her features were indistinct, but the lines of her figure and the flow of her dress were silhouetted against lamplight from inside. She hushed the dogs with a sharp command, and stood waiting with her hands on her hips. Starbuck reined to halt in the yard, mindful he wasn’t to dismount unless invited. He smiled politely and touched the brim of his hat.

  “Evenin’, ma’am.”

  “Evening.”

  “You’d likely to be Miz Starr.”

  “Who’s asking?”

  “Clyde Belden.”

  “I don’t recall we’ve met, Mr. Belden.”

  “No, ma’am,” Starbuck said briskly. “I was steered to you by a mutual friend.”

  “Would this friend have a name?”

  “Sure does,” Starbuck said with the slow whang of a born Missourian. “None other than Jim Younger his-self.”

  There was the merest beat of hesitation. “Come on inside, Mr. Belden. Just be careful to keep your hands in plain sight.”

  “Anything you say, Miz Starr.”

  Starbuck stepped down out of the saddle and left the gelding ground-reined. From the corner of the house, a man materialised out of the shadows. He moved forward, holding a double-barrel shotgun at hip level. In the spill of light from the window, Starbuck immediately pegged him as Sam Starr. He was lithely built, with bark-dark skin, muddy eyes, and sleek, glistening hair. His pinched face had an oxlike expression, and he silently followed along as Starbuck crossed the porch and entered the house. Lagging back, he stopped halfway through the door, the shotgun still levelled.

  When Belle Starr turned, Starbuck got the shock of his life. Based on her long string of lovers, he’d expected at the very least a passably attractive woman. Instead, she was horsefaced, with a lantern jaw and bloodless lips and beady close-set eyes. Her figure was somehow mannish, with wide hips and shoulders, and almost no breasts beneath her drab woolen dress. While his expression betrayed nothing, Starbuck thought she looked like a cross between ugly and uglier. He’d seen worse, but only in a circus tent show.

  Inspecting him, Belle’s eyes were guarded. He figured the chances of being recognised were slight. It was unlikely the Police Gazette had any wide readership in the Nations; only through a fluke would she have seen the issue bearing his photo. Then, too, his face was now covered with bearded stubble, which tended to alter his appearance. At length, watching him closely, she put him to the test.

  “What makes you think I know Jim Younger?”

  “He told me so!” Starbuck beamed. “Course, I haven’t seen him in a spell, but that don’t make no nevermind. The day I headed west he told me all about you and Younger’s Bend.”

  “Then you’re from Missouri?”

  “Born and bred,” Starbuck said with cheery vigour. “All us Beldens come from over around Sedalia way.”

  Belle gave him a veiled but searching look. “I suppose you rode with Jim during the war?”

  “No such luck! I got called up and served with the regulars. Jim and me didn’t make acquaintance till after the shootin’ stopped.”

  “You mean you rode with him afterwards?”

  “Naw,” Starbuck said sheepishly. “Jim and me was just drinkin’ pals. He used to talk to me about it some, but I didn’t have the sand for it in them days.”

  “So how did he come to mention me?”

  “Well, like I said, I decided to cut loose and head west. Wanted to be a cowboy, and I shore got my wish! Been up the trail from Texas ever’ year since the summer of ’78.”

  “You left out the part about Jim.”

  “Ain’t that just like me!” Starbuck rolled his eyes with a foolish smile. “I get started talkin’—well, anyway, Jim told me if I ever got in a tight fix to look you up. So here I am!”

  Belle studied him in silence a moment. “What sort of fix?”

  “Robbed me a bank!” Starbuck lied heartily. “Walked in all by my lonesome and cleaned ’em out!”

  “Where?”

  “Vernon,” Starbuck informed her. “That’s a little burg on the Texas side of the Red River. Figgered it was a good place to get my feet wet.”

  “Wait a minute.” Belle blinked and looked at him. “Are you saying that was your first job?”

  “Shore was.” Starbuck gave her a lopsided grin. “Pulled it off slicker’n a whistle, too. Got pretty near two thousand in cold cash!”

  “Why now?” Belle appeared bemused. “After all this time what changed your mind?”

  “Got tired of workin’ for thirty a month and found. Thought it over and decided ol’ Jim was right. There’s easier ways to make a livin’, lots easier.”

  “So what brings you here?”

  “By jingo!” Starbuck boomed out jovially. “Where’s a better place to lose yourself? The way Jim talked, you’re the soul of Christian charity. I just figgered I’d hightail it into the Nations and make your acquaintanc
e. Better late than never!”

  Belle seemed to thaw a little. “Clyde, I’d say you’ve got more sand than you gave yourself credit for.”

  “Why, thank you, ma‘am.” Starbuck swept his hat off. “Comin’ from you, I take that as a puredee compliment.”

  “Do you now?” Belle sounded flattered. “What makes you say that?”

  “Why, you’re famous, Miz Belle! Ole Jimbo thinks the sun rises and sets right where you stand. And it ain’t just him either! I’ve heard Jesse and Cole brag on you till they plumb run out of wind. That’s gospel fact!”

  “Ooo, go on!” Belle cracked a smile. “I don’t believe a word of it!”

  “Miz Belle, I do admire a modest lady. You make me proud to say I’m an ol’ Missouri boy. Yessir, you shorely do!”

  From the doorway Sam Starr cleared his throat. Belle glanced in his direction and he jerked his head outside. Then he backed away and turned out of the lamplight spilling through the door. Belle frowned, clearly displeased by her husband’s presumptuous manner. After a moment, her gaze shifted to Starbuck and she smiled.

  “Have a seat.” She waved him to a crude dining table. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “Thank you kindly.” Starbuck took a chair and tossed his hat on the table. “Don’t rush on my account, Miz Belle. I got time to spare.”

  Belle merely nodded and walked swiftly from the room. Outside, she wheeled right and strode to the end of the porch. Sam was stationed where he could watch the door, the shotgun cradled over one arm. His view through the window was partially obstructed by the angle, but he could see the edge of the dining table and Starbuck’s hat. Belle stopped, fixing him with an annoyed squint. Her voice was harsh, cutting.

  “What the fuck’s your problem?”

  “Not me,” Sam grunted coarsely. “That feller in there’s the problem.”

  “If you’ve got something to say, why don’t you just spit it out?”

  “You ain’t gonna like it.”