by Matt Braun
Alvina, at Starbuck’s request, soon pried the details out of Ma Ferguson. The man’s name was Jim Cummins. A first cousin of Lamar Hudspeth—who in turn was related to the James boys—Cummins was privy to all the family secrets. Yet he was also a close friend of Ed Miller, and therefore guilty by association. Whether he had or had not talked out of turn was a moot point. Suspicion alone was enough to seal a man’s death warrant, and he’d gotten the notice late that afternoon. Jesse James had appeared at his sister’s house, where he was a full-time boarder and a sometime farmhand. The purpose of the visit was unmistakable.
His sister, when questioned, had denied any knowledge of his whereabouts. Understandably skeptical, the outlaw had bullied and threatened, but he’d done her no harm. Instead, he took her fourteen-year-old son into the woods and attempted to beat the truth out of him. When the boy refused to talk, Jesse James left him bloodied and senseless, and rode off in disgust. That evening, upon arriving home, Cummins realised he was in imminent danger. To run was an admission of guilt; to stay put, on the other hand, would merely get him killed. He needed refuge, and he needed it fast. He’d made a beeline for Ma Ferguson’s place.
Starbuck sensed opportunity. Cummins’ professed innocence had a false ring; anyone that close to the fire had to come away singed. The great likelihood was that Cummins knew too much for his own good, and the good of Jesse James. Starbuck thought he might be persuaded to talk.
Late that night, with Alvina asleep, Starbuck eased out of bed. He dressed in the dark and slipped quietly from the room. All the girls had retired an hour or so earlier, and the house was still. Fortunately, like all whorehouses, there were no locks on the doors, and that made his job simpler. He catfooted down the hall and let himself into Cummins’ room. He waited a moment, listening to the even rise and fall of the man’s breathing. Then he pulled his sixgun and crossed to the bed.
“Cummins.” He stuck the snout of the pistol in Cummins’ ear. “Wake up.”
“What the hell!”
Cummins jerked and started to sit up. Starbuck pressed the muzzle deeper into his ear, forcing him down. His eyes were wide and white, bright ivory in the dark.
“Listen close,” Starbuck said roughly. “I’m here to offer you a deal. So lay real still and pay attention.”
“Who’re you? How’d you know my name?”
“Who I am doesn’t matter. The only thing that counts is what I’ve got to say.”
“Awright,” Cummins said stiffly. “I’m listenin’.”
“You’re going to tell me where Jesse’s—”
“I ain’t gonna tell you nothin’!”
“Shut up and listen!” Starbuck ordered. “You will tell me where Jesse’s holed up. In return, I won’t tell any of his kinfolks where you’re hiding. That’s the deal.”
“I got no idea where Jesse’s at! I swear it!”
“Too bad for you,” Starbuck remarked. “That’s the only thing that’ll get you out of this fix alive.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean you’re no good to me unless you talk.”
“You’re bluffin’!” Cummins scoffed. “You wouldn’t shoot a man just ‘cause he don’t know nothin’!”
“Think so?” Starbuck thumbed the hammer to full cock. “Try me and see.”
Cummins took a deep breath, blew it out heavily. “Suppose I was to tell you? What happens then?”
“You go your way and I’ll go mine. So far as anybody knows, we never met.”
“Why you so set on findin’ Jesse?”
“That’s my business,” Starbuck said deliberately. “Cough it up or get yourself a permanent earache. I’m fresh out of time.”
“St. Joe,” Cummins mumbled hastily. “Took Zee and the kids, and moved to St. Joseph. That’s the straight goods!”
“What name’s he going by?”
“Howard. Thomas Howard.”
“Who told you so?”
“Lamar Hudspeth,” Cummins said weakly. “He’s my cousin, and he tried to do me a good turn. Jesse’s puttin’ a new gang together, and Lamar asked him to gimme a chance. I thought it was all set … up till today anyway.”
“Who else got tapped to join?”
“Besides me, there’s Dick Liddil, and Bob and Charley Ford. The Fords left for St. Joe yesterday. Liddil, and me were supposed to leave tomorrow.”
“What’s he planning?” Starbuck pressed. “Another bank job?”
Cummins nodded. “Only nobody never told me when or where.”
“St. Joe’s a big place.” Starbuck let the thought hang a moment. “Where would I find him … just exactly?”
“Search me,” Cummins said lamely. “Lamar was gonna give me and Liddil the address just before we started out.”
“One last thing,” Starbuck said, his tone quizzical. “What made you think you’d be safe this close to home?”
“Hell, that’s easy!” Cummins chuckled softly. “Jesse wouldn’t be caught dead in a whorehouse, Safest place on earth!”
Starbuck marked again a phenomenon he’d noted before in certain outlaws. Family men, curiously God-fearing, they never blasphemed or cheated on their wives. Yet they thought nothing of robbery and cold-blooded murder. Their morality was not only selective, but took more twists than a pretzel. It was a paradox he’d never quite fathomed.
“You lay real still.” Starbuck backed to the door. “One peep before I make it downstairs and you won’t have to worry about Jesse. I’ll fix your wagon myself.”
“Wait a minute!” Cummins called out quickly. “Just for kicks, answer me a question. Who the hell are you, mister?”
“The name’s Billy Pinkerton.”
Starbuck smiled and stepped through the door.
CHAPTER 17
The train chugged into St. Joseph late the next afternoon. To the west, a brilliant orange sun dipped lower over the Missouri. The depot, which was situated above the waterfront, afforded a spectacular view of the river. Chuffing smoke, the locomotive rolled to a halt before the platform.
Starbuck stepped off the lead passenger coach. He was attired in a conservative grey suit and a dark fedora. His four-in-hand tie was funeral black, and a gold cross hung from the watch chain draped across his vest. He was clean-shaven, but his jaws were stuffed with large wads of cotton wool. The effect broke the hard line of his features and gave him the appearance of an amiable chipmunk. He was carrying a battered suitcase and a worn leather satchel. He looked very much like an itinerant preacher.
St. Joseph was located some forty miles northwest of Ma Ferguson’s bordello. By horse, Starbuck could have ridden through the night and arrived early that morning. Yet he was confident that Jim Cummins—fearful of being branded a Judas—would reveal nothing of their conversation. With some leeway in time, he had walked from the bordello and ridden straight to Kansas City. There, in a whirlwind of activity, he had purchased all the paraphernalia necessary for a new disguise. Once more checking into a hotel, he’d rinsed the dye from his hair and temporarily laid Floyd Hunnewell to rest. By noontime, when he emerged onto the street, he was someone else entirely. After a quick lunch, he’d caught the afternoon train for St. Joseph. A milk run, the trip had consumed the better part of six hours.
Outside the depot, Starbuck paused and slowly inspected the town. A historic spot, St. Joseph was settled on the east bank of the Missouri River. Originally a trading post, it later became the jumping-off point for westward-bound settlers. Shortly before the Civil War, it served as the terminus for the Pony Express, with riders crisscrossing the continent between there and California. Following the war, it developed into a major rail centre, with one of the largest livestock and grain markets in Missouri. Now a hub of commerce, its population was approaching the thirty thousand mark. Which greatly compounded Starbuck’s most immediate problem.
Before he could kill Jesse James, he must first locate a man named Thomas Howard. In a burgeoning metropolis the size of St. Joseph, that loomed as a task
of no small dimensions.
All afternoon, staring out the train window, Starbuck had pondered the problem. However grudgingly, he’d felt a stirring of admiration for the outlaw. At best unpredictable, Jesse James had exhibited a whole new facet to his character. On the run, fresh from the defeat at Northfield, he’d performed a turnaround that was a marvel of ingenuity. By quitting the backwoods of Clay County, he had broken the pattern established over his long career of robbery and murder. And in the process, he’d left no trail, no clue to his whereabouts. Instead, displaying both imagination and flexibility, he had taken up residence in Kansas City. A clever ruse, it had all but turned him invisible. He’d simply stepped into the crowd, joined the hustle and bustle of city dwellers. And vanished.
Yet, for all his cleverness, Jesse James had been unable to sever the cord. He was bound to wife and children, family and friends, and seemingly to the very earth of Clay County itself. In the end, those ties had proved his undoing. For no man disappears unless he cuts the knot with his past.
Still, given the nature of the man, Starbuck was not all that surprised. Apart from wife and children, Jesse James had been drawn back for perhaps the most elemental of reasons. He was a robber, and since early manhood he’d known no other livelihood. Northfield had destroyed his gang; the Younger brothers, following their capture, had quickly pleaded guilty in return for a life sentence. Then, too, the disaster at Northfield had left the outlaw leader virtually penniless. He desperately needed funds, and for that he had no choice but to form a new gang. Under the circumstances, it was only natural that he would return to Clay County. There, among family and friends, he could recruit men who were eager to ride with the notorious Jesse James. Untested but trustworthy, they would provide the cadre for a new guerrilla band. And above all else, because they were Clay County men, they would follow him with blind loyalty. His roots were their roots, and no stronger bond existed.
Even now, standing outside the depot, Starbuck had to give the devil his due. St. Joseph, although smaller than Kansas City, was yet another shrewd stroke. By not drawing attention to themselves, the gang could assemble anywhere in the town, and no one the wiser. The fact that he knew the names of the new members—Dick Liddil and the Ford brothers—was informative but of no great value. Today only one name counted—Thomas Howard.
Hefting his bags, Starbuck strolled away from the train station. On the walk uptown, he mentally conditioned himself to undertake a new role. From childhood he dredged up long-forgotten quotes from the Scriptures, and silently practiced the orotund cadence of a zealous Bible-thumper. By the time he bustled through the door of the town’s largest hotel, he was wholly in character. He positively glowed with a sort of beatific serenity.
“Praise the Lord!” His voice boomed across the lobby with sepulchral enthusiasm. “And a good afternoon to you, brother!”
Halting before the registration desk, he dropped his bags on the floor. His face was fixed in a jaunty smile. The room clerk looked him over like something that had fallen out of a tree.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Indeed you may!” Starbuck said affably. “I wish to engage accommodations. Nothing elaborate, but something nonetheless commodious. A corner room would do nicely.”
“How long will you be staying with us, Mr.—?”
“Joshua Thayer,” Starbuck informed him grandly. “Western representative for the Holy Writ Foundation.”
“Beg pardon?”
“The Good Book!” Starbuck struck a theatrical pose. “‘I am not come to call the righteous, but rather the sinners to repentance!’”
“Oh.” The clerk seemed unimpressed. “A Bible salesman.”
Starbuck looked wounded. “We all labour in the vineyards, brother. Each in our own way.”
“I guess.” The clerk turned towards a key rack. “Would you care to sign the register, Mr. Thayer?”
“Delighted!” Starbuck dipped the pen in the inkwell, scribbled with a flourish. “I plan to stay the week, perhaps longer. Your fair town looks hospitable, and promising. Very promising, indeed!”
“We’re not shy on sinners.” The clerk handed him a key. “Room two-o-four, Mr. Thayer. Up the stairs and turn right. The bellboy’s out on an errand just now. He’ll be back directly if you care to wait.”
“‘Pride goeth before the fall,’” Starbuck intoned. “I can manage quite well, thank you.”
“Suit yourself.”
“By the way.” Starbuck spread his hands on the counter, leaned closer. “An old acquaintance resides in St. Joseph. I haven’t his address, but perhaps you might know him. His name is Thomas Howard.”
“Sorry.” The clerk shook his head. “Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“A pity,” Starbuck observed. “But, then, ‘the grains of sand are beyond counting,’ are they not?”
The clerk gave him a blank stare. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“One last question.” Starbuck lowered his voice. “Where might I find a peaceful spot for a mild libation?”
“A saloon?” The clerk eyed him with a smug grin. “I wouldn’t have thought a man in your line of work would take to demon rum.”
“On the contrary!” Starbuck beamed. “‘Let us do evil, that good may come.’ Romans, Chapter three, Verse eight.”
“Well, the quietest place in town is O’Malley’s. Out the door and turn right. Couple of blocks down, on the corner.”
“By that, I take it you mean a respectable clientele?”
“You might say that.”
“I thank you kindly for the advice.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Peace be with you, brother!”
Starbuck collected his bags and crossed the lobby. As he mounted the stairs, his mind turned to the evening ahead. Saloons were the gossip mills of any river town, and he doubted St. Joseph would prove the exception. A question here and a question there, and anything was possible. Even the present whereabouts of one Thomas Howard.
He thought it looked to be a long night.
Starbuck rose early the next morning. His head thumped, and he regretted now what had seemed a workable idea last night. From the uptown saloons to the waterfront dives, he had toured St. Joseph until the early morning hours. He’d talked with a succession of bartenders and townsmen, and everywhere he had posed the same question. The sum of his efforts was zero.
No one had ever heard of Thomas Howard.
Through the window, a bright April sun flooded the room. One hand shielding his eyes, Starbuck rolled out of bed and padded to the washstand. He vigorously scrubbed his teeth and took a quick birdbath. After emptying the basin, he laid out a straight razor and mug, and poured tepid water from the pitcher. Then, with dulled concentration, he lathered his face and began shaving. The image in the mirror was reflective, somehow faraway.
Somewhere in St. Joseph, he told himself, Jesse James was staring into a mirror and performing the same morning ritual. The outlaw, with his family to consider, would have rented a house in a quiet residential neighbourhood. A newcomer to town, travelling light, he would have likely rented a furnished house. His starting point would have been—
The newspaper! The classified ads. Houses for rent!
Starbuck’s hand paused in midstroke. Then, careful not to nick himself, he finished shaving. Wiping his face dry, he next stuffed his jaws with fresh wads of cotton wool. Turning to the wardrobe, he dressed in his preacher’s suit and clapped the fedora on his head. The Colt sixgun, fully loaded and riding snug in the cross-draw holster, was hidden by the drape of his jacket. A last check in the wardrobe mirror satisfied him all was in order. On his way out the door he collected the worn leather satchel.
By eight o’clock, Starbuck was standing in front of the St. Joseph Herald. He’d taken breakfast in a café down the street, and casual inquiry had produced the name of the newspaper’s editor. Once inside, he bypassed a woman at the front counter with a chipper wave. Several men, reporters and clerks, l
ooked up from their desks as he moved across the room. At the rear, he halted before a glass-enclosed office and straightened his tie. Then he plastered a grin on his face and barged through the door.
“Good morning, Brother Williams!”
Edward Williams was a frail man, with moist eyes and a sour, constipated expression. He laid a sheaf of foolscap on his desk, and frowned.
“Who are you?”
“Joshua Thayer,” Starbuck said in high good humour. “I represent the Holy Writ Foundation, and discreet inquiry informs me that you are one of St. Joseph’s more upstanding Christian gentlemen.”
Williams nodded wisely. “Bible peddler, huh?”
“No indeedee!” Starbuck trumpeted. “‘I give light to them that sit in darkness.’”
“That a fact?”
“Allow me.” Starbuck opened the satchel and took out a leather-bound, gilt-edged Bible. He placed it in front of Williams and stood back proudly. “‘Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness!’ Wouldn’t you agree, Brother Williams?”
Williams studied the Bible. “If they do, I’ll bet they pay an arm and a leg for it.”
“According to Job,” Starbuck said genially, “‘The price of wisdom is above rubies.’”
“Spare me the sermon.” Williams tilted back in his chair. “What can I do for you, Mr. Thayer?”
“A small favour,” Starbuck announced. “A good deed by which your fellow Christians will profit mightily.”
“What sort of favour?”
“By chance, do you publish the names of newcomers to your fair city? A list—perhaps a column—devoted to some mention of those recently settled in St. Joseph?”
“Once a week,” Williams replied. “People like to see their names in the paper; helps build circulation. We collect the information from realtors and landlords. Why would that interest you?”