Manhunter / Deadwood

by Matt Braun

  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 knee and took a quick peek through the door. Then he slowly rose and moved into the bedroom. He saw that his instinct hadn’t played him false.

  Frank James lay slack and unmoving on the bed. Ugly lines strained his face, and his eyes were oddly vacant. His breathing was laboured, lungs pumping like a bellows. He looked worn and haggard, older than his years.

  “Frank.” Starbuck nodded, quickly holstered the Colt. “What ails you? You look a little green around the gills.”

  “Don’t worry.” Frank tried to smile, a tortured smile. “I won’t die on you. Got a touch of consumption, that’s ail.”

  “I’d say that’s enough.”

  “Yeah, it wouldn’t have been much of a fight, would it?”

  Starbuck had a sudden vision of hell. He saw himself killing a bedridden invalid, not a bayed outlaw. The sight turned his guts to stone.

  He silently blessed Frank James for throwing in the towel. And his gun.

  CHAPTER 20

  “‘Our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not.’”

  Starbuck smiled. “Before we’re finished, you’ll have me spouting Shakespeare.”

  “It’s like tobacco.” Frank gestured with his pipe. “Once you’ve got the habit, it’s hard to break.”

  “How’d you get the habit to start with?”

  “Well, I never had much formal education. But I got a taste of Shakespeare in school, and I was always impressed by his eloquent way with words. He said things lots better than I ever could.”

  “Like the one you just quoted?”

  “Yes.” Frank stared out the train window, silent a moment. “Believe it or not, I’ve always considered myself a virtuous man. Does that sound strange, Luke?”

  Starbuck considered the thought. Over the past month, he’d found Frank James to be a man of his word. After surrendering, the outlaw had convinced Tom Ruston to abide by his decision. The rancher acceded, and thereafter Starbuck had been treated like a guest. In time, Martha Ruston even forgave him the blow upside her jaw.

  Their common concern was Frank James. For some years, he had been afflicted with a mild case of tuberculosis. His condition worsened after Northfield, aggravated by the desperate flight and a bullet wound in the leg. When captured by Starbuck, he’d still been weak and frail. Travel was out of the question, and Starbuck had agreed to wait until he’d recuperated. Another month of bed rest—and Martha Ruston’s cooking—had put him back on his feet. He was wasted and stooped, a pale shadow of his former self; but he seemed somehow relieved that the running was over at last. Four days ago he had expressed the wish to get on with the business of formal surrender. Starbuck readily approved, and they had entrained for Missouri. Their destination was Jefferson City, the state capital.

  Tonight, rattling across the Missouri countryside, Frank James had turned reflective. Starbuck detected a melancholy note in his voice, and sensed he was filled with mixed emotions. With relief, there was also the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Under the circumstances, it seemed natural he would look backward in time. Tomorrow would mark the beginning of the end.

  “Virtue’s a funny thing,” Starbuck said at length. “I guess we all see something different when we look in a mirror.”

  “No need to ask how a jury will see it.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. I’d say the odds are fifty-fifty, maybe better.”

  Frank gave him a tired smile. “Well, however it works out, I’m just glad it’s over. I haven’t known a day of peace since the war ended. Always looking over my shoulder, afraid to sleep without a gun close at hand. No one could understand what that kind of life does to a man. Not unless he’d lived it himself.”

  “I’ve got a fair idea,” Starbuck said slowly. “Course, I was on the other side of the fence. So it’s not exactly the same thing.”

  “God!” Frank laughed suddenly. “When I think back to that night at Ma Ferguson’s! It’s still hard to believe you and that walleyed horse thief are one and the same.”

  Starbuck shrugged it off. “All part of working undercover … tricks of the trade.”

  “You fooled us good,” Frank confessed. “After Northfield, Jesse knew we’d been euchred somehow. But I wouldn’t have suspected you in a thousand years.”

  “No hard feelings?” Starbuck inquired. “I reckon you know by now there wasn’t anything personal involved.”

  “Perish the thought,” Frank said, grinning. “You were hired to do a job, and you did it. I’m just glad you never joined the Pinkertons.”

  “No chance of that,” Starbuck chuckled. “I’m not much for crowds.”

  “I’d be the first to admit you did very well on your own. I swore I’d never be taken alive—and look at me now!”

  Starbuck nodded, watching him. “You’re reconciled to it, then? No regrets?”

  “Only one.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Bard said it best.” Frank’s eyes took on a distant look. “‘For mine own part, I could be well content to entertain the lag-end of my life with quiet hours.’”

  “Like I told you, the odds are fifty-fifty.”

  “I wish I believed that as much as you do, Luke.”

  There seemed nothing more to say. Frank slumped lower in his seat and soon drifted off in an uneasy sleep. Starbuck sat for a long while staring out the window.

  Early next morning the train pulled into Jefferson City.

  From the depot, Starbuck and Frank James took a hansom cab to the state capitol. A domed structure, the building stood on a bluff overlooking the Missouri River. The view was panoramic, and under different circumstances would have rated a second look. Neither of them paid the slightest attention. Together, they mounted the marble steps and entered the main corridor.

  A capitol guard directed them to the second floor. Upstairs, they circled the rotunda and walked directly to the governor’s office. An appointments secretary, seated at a desk in the anteroom, looked up as they entered. His smile was at once pleasant and officious.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.”

  “Morning,” Starbuck said, removing his hat. “I’d like to see Governor Crittenden.”

  “And your name, sir?”

  “Luke Starbuck.”

  The man consulted his appointment book. “I’m sorry, Mr. Starbuck. I don’t seem to find your name on today’s calendar.”

  “He’ll see me,” Starbuck said firmly. “Tell him I’ve brought Frank James here to surrender.”
<
br />   The man’s eyes darted to Frank, then back to Starbuck. “Are you serious?”

  “Dead serious,” Starbuck said with a steely gaze. “So hop to it—now!”

  The man bolted from his chair and hurried through the door to an inner office. Several minutes elapsed, then the door creaked open. The appointments secretary poked his head into the anteroom.

  “Mr. Starbuck,” he said weakly. “The governor wants to know if Mr. James is armed?”

  “No.” Starbuck fanned his coat aside, revealing the holstered Colt. “But I am, and I know how to use it. Tell the governor he’s in no danger.”

  “Very well.” The door swung open. “You may come in.”

  Governor Thomas Crittenden was seated behind a massive walnut desk. A tall man, with glacial eyes and a hawklike nose, he appraised them with a cool look. Then he glanced past them, nodding to his appointments secretary. The door closed, and he motioned them closer.

  “You should be informed,” he said curtly, “that I have sent for the capitol guards. In the event you attempt violence, you will never leave this room alive.”

  Starbuck, with Frank at his side, halted in front of the desk. He fixed the governor with a wintry smile. “You can call off the dogs. Frank means you no harm.”

  “Are you a law officer, Mr. Starbuck?”

  “Private detective,” Starbuck said levelly. “I was hired to locate Frank.”

  “Indeed?” Crittenden sized him up with a lengthy stare. “By whom were you retained?”

  “That’s privileged information,” Starbuck replied. “Let’s just say I’m here as an intermediary.”

  “An intermediary on whose behalf?”

  “On behalf of my client—” Starbuck paused for emphasis. “And on behalf of Frank James.”

  “Oh?” A puzzled frown appeared on Crittenden’s face. “I understood you were here to effect a surrender.”

  “I am,” Starbuck acknowledged. “So long as you agree to certain conditions.”

  “Conditions!” Crittenden repeated with a sudden glare. “What conditions?”

  “For openers,” Starbuck ventured, “you agree to announce that Frank surrendered voluntarily. I have his gun in my possession, and you can say he handed it over of his own free will. That ought to carry a little weight when he goes before a jury.”

  Crittenden made an empty gesture. “Next?”

  “You agree that he’ll be tried on only one charge. One murder, one bank job, or any combination thereof. But it ends there, whatever the outcome. One trial—and that’s it!”

  “Anything else?”

  “Nope.” Starbuck dusted his hands. “Those are the conditions.”

  Crittenden shook his head from side to side. “Now tell me why I should honour your request?”

  “I’ve got a better question.” Starbuck gave him a straight hard look. “Why shouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t bargain with murderers, Mr. Starbuck.”

  “You killed Jesse.” Starbuck’s voice was suddenly edged. “Don’t you think the state’s had its pound of flesh?”

  “I killed no one!” Crittenden said abrasively. “Besides, I fail to see how that constitutes grounds for leniency.”

  “How about politics?” Starbuck suggested. “Would that get your attention?”

  “Politics?” Crittenden appeared bewildered. “What earthly connection does that have with”—he flung out a hand at Frank—“a murderer?”

  Starbuck eyed him with a steady, uncompromising gaze. “You lost lots of votes when you had Jesse assassinated. By giving Frank a square deal, it might just balance the ledger.” He let the governor hang a moment, then went on. “Or aren’t you interested in serving another term?”

  Crittenden threw back his head and laughed. “Are you seriously suggesting that I would barter with a villainous killer merely to enhance my position at the polls?”

  “Look at it this way, Governor. A practical man knows when to bend! Frank will be tried in a court of law, and a jury will decide his fate. Which means you’ve done your duty, and at the same time you’ve shown yourself to be a man of fairness and compassion. You’ll come out smelling like a rose!”

  There was no immediate reply. Starbuck sensed then he’d struck the right chord. Experience had taught him that all politicians justify unconscionable deeds in the name of noble ends. Thomas Crittenden was just such a man.

  “Very well.” Crittenden nodded with chill dignity. “I will instruct the attorney general to proceed accordingly.”

  “The people of Missouri won’t forget you, Governor. It’s a decision worthy of Solomon himself.”

  “One question, Mr. Starbuck.” Crittenden studied him with a keen, sidewise scrutiny. “Why have you interceded on this man’s behalf?”

  Starbuck grinned ferociously. “I went out of my way to save his life. I figure it’d be a waste to let him hang now.”

  Words appeared to fail the governor. Starbuck turned and shook Frank James’ hand with mock solemnity. He gave the outlaw a broad wink.

  The charge was murder.

  A trial date was set, with the proceedings to be held in the town of Gallatin. There, some thirteen years previously, the state alleged that Frank James had participated in looting the Gallatin Merchants’ Bank. The actual date was December 7, 1869, and in the course of the robbery the bank cashier had been killed. Frank James was charged with having fired the fatal shot.

  Missourians rallied to the cause. Though there was sharp disagreement about Jesse, the barometer of public opinion heavily favoured the elder brother. For an outlaw, Frank James was held in high regard and treated with singular respect. His mild manner and frail health evoked widespread sympathy, and there was an outcry to spare him the hangman’s noose. Under the tightest security, he was taken by train from Jefferson City to Gallatin. Yet, at every stop along the way, the train was met by cheering crowds. The journey, duly reported by the press, was a triumph. The last of the James boys had come home.

  Clay County led the way in establishing a defence fund. Contributions poured in from throughout the state, and the groundswell of support steadily gained momentum. Several attorneys volunteered their services; but Frank James shrewdly selected his own legal counsel. Heading the defence team was General Jo Shelby, a Confederate war hero reverently admired by all Missourians. The second member of the team, famed for both his courtroom oratory and his battlefield exploits, was Major John Edwards. The prosecutor, heavily outgunned, was Robert Spooner of Gallatin. His privately expressed opinion of Governor Thomas Crittenden was not fit for print. Publicly, he theorised that in the event of a conviction he himself might be lynched. The press agreed.

  The case went to trial on a Monday morning. Prosecutor Spooner, vainly attempting to resurrect evidence, was handicapped from the outset. His only eyewitness to the killing was a former bank teller, William McDowell. Unfortunately for the state, McDowell had suffered a fatal stroke earlier in the year. By default, the star witness then became a local grocer, Fred Lewis. At the time of the robbery, Lewis was seventeen years old, and his memory had apparently dimmed with age. Upon hearing the gunshot, he testified, he had dashed into the bank and spotted two robbers exiting by the backdoor. Following close behind, he saw the men approach their horses, which were tethered in the alley. One robber was thrown to the ground when his horse bolted as he attempted to mount. He then swung up behind the other robber, and they galloped out of town on one horse. On direct examination, Lewis tentatively identified Frank James as the man who had taken the spill. On cross-examination, he admitted he’d been somewhat hysterical at the time of the holdup. He thought the robber was Frank James—but he couldn’t be positive.

  The second witness called to the stand was a farmer, Dan Smoot. On the morning of the holdup, he testified, he was riding into town as the robbers rode out. At gunpoint, they forced him to dismount and commandeered his horse. Then, with a polite goodbye, they thundered away and left him standing in the middle of the road. When
asked to identify the accused, he squinted across the courtroom through store-bought spectacles. He finally muttered a reluctant “Maybe.” On cross-examination, Major Edwards inquired whether he’d been wearing his glasses on the day of the robbery. With a look of profound relief, he admitted he hadn’t. Major Edwards smiled knowingly at the jurors, and asked no further questions. On that note, the prosecution rested its case.

  The defence called only two witnesses. The first was Frank James. He testified he’d taken no part in the robbery, and before being brought to Gallatin in irons, he had never set foot in the town. Prosecutor Spooner, attempting to rattle him on cross-examination, was unable to shake his testimony. Frank James left the witness stand to an ovation from the packed courtroom.

  With order restored, Starbuck then took the stand. Presented as a character witness, his testimony was compelling stuff. Counsel for the defense wisely allowed him to tell his story in his own words. He recounted the highlights of his undercover work and the results of his investigation. He dwelled at length on the low morals of the Younger brothers and their general disregard for human life. Then he went on to testify that, in his opinion, Frank James was a man of high Christian principles and the most unlikely outlaw he’d ever encountered. He stated emphatically that Frank had welcomed the chance to surrender, and had freely embraced the opportunity to atone for his crimes. On cross-examination, he refused to divulge the name of his client. He admitted, however, that he had been hired to track down and kill the James boys. When asked why he had spared the life of Frank James, his reply left the spectators spellbound and all but reduced the jurors to tears.