by Matt Braun
“I could have killed him several times over and in each instance something stopped me. Some people would call it divine intervention, mercy accorded a merciful man. I simply believe Frank James was meant to live.”
Final arguments produced the only real fireworks of the trial. Jo Shelby and John Edwards, old soldiers that they were, followed the maxim that the best defence is a good offence. Instead of defending Frank James, they attacked the state of Missouri. Their technique was to raise the spectre of Jesse James. In summation, Major Edwards addressed himself to the life and death of the outlaw leader. His style of oratory was florid, and devastatingly effective.
“There was never a more cowardly murder committed in all America than the murder of Jesse James. Not one among those on the hunt for blood money dared face him until he had disarmed himself and turned his back to his assassins!
“If Jesse James had been hunted down, and killed while resisting arrest, not a word would have been said to the contrary. In his death the majesty of the law would have been vindicated. But here the law itself becomes a murderer! It leagues with murderers. It hires murderers. It promises immunity and protection to murderers. It aids and abets murderers. It is itself a murder!
“What a spectacle! Missouri, with a hundred and seventeen sheriffs! Missouri, with a watchful and vigilant marshal in all her principal towns and cities! Yet Missouri had to ally with cutthroats so that the good name of the state might be saved from further reproach. Saved! Why, the whole state reeks today of infamy!
“Tear the two bears from the flag of Missouri! Put thereon, in their place, a thief blowing out the brains of an unarmed victim, and a brazen harlot—naked to the waist—and splashed to the brows in blood!”
The jury deliberated ten minutes, and the verdict was unanimous. Frank James was acquitted.
Starbuck called on Frank early the next morning. Seated in the outlaw’s hotel room, they rehashed the trial and chuckled at the devious ways of politicians. Governor Thomas Crittenden had indeed delivered on his promise. The Gallatin case, of all those on the books, was the weakest of the lot. Acquittal translated into votes, and for a politician there was no more compelling motive. Those who fed at the public trough understood the nature of the game. Or perhaps, as Starbuck labelled it, the world’s second oldest profession.
“I never asked,” Frank said after a time. “But now that it’s over … who hired you?”
“When all’s said and done, does it matter?”
“I guess not.” Frank massaged his nose, thinking. “Only you’ll have a devil of a time explaining why you didn’t kill me.”
Starbuck smiled a cryptic smile. “The way it works out, I reckon he’ll get his money’s worth.”
“Well, all the same, I owe you more than—”
“Your credit’s good.” Starbuck extended his hand. “Stick to the straight and narrow, Frank.”
Frank grinned like a possum. “‘Read not my blemishes in the world’s report; I have not kept the square, but that to come shall all be done by the rule.’ You can bank on it, Luke.”
“I already did.” Starbuck shook his hand hard. “Down on the Pecos.”
Outside the hotel, Starbuck crossed the street and stepped into the post office. He bought stamps and pasted them onto a letter. The envelope was addressed to Otis Tilford, and inside was a bank draft for $10,000. The accompanying message was short and succinct: “No delivery, no charge. Refund enclosed.”
He smiled and dropped the letter through the slot. Then, whistling softly to himself, he strolled down to the depot. He caught the morning train for Kansas City and points west.
His assignment in Missouri was complete.
CHAPTER 21
The Alcazar Variety Theater was hushed and still. Starbuck stopped just inside the bat-wing doors. All eyes were fixed on the stage and the crowd appeared hypnotised. He joined them, thumbs hooked in his vest. A slow smile touched the corner of his mouth.
Lola Montana was bathed in the cider glow of a spotlight. She stood centre stage, her face lifted upward in a woeful expression. Her gown was teal blue and her hair was piled atop her head in golden ringlets. The overall effect was one of lost innocence, and smoky sensuality. Her clear alto voice filled the hall, pitched low and intimate. She sang a heartrending ballad of unrequited love. And her eyes were misty.
Starbuck watched her with a look of warm approval. Her performance was flawless, utterly believable. She acted out the song with poignant emotion, and her sultry voice somehow gave the lyrics a haunting quality. The audience was captivated, caught up in a tearjerker that was all the more sorrowful because of her beauty. She had them in the palm of her hand, and she played it for all it was worth. There was hardly a dry eye in the house, and even the pug-nosed bouncer looked a little weepy. She held them enthralled to the very last note.
A moment slipped past, frozen in time. Then the crowd roared to life, the theatre vibrating to thunderous applause and wild cheers. Lola took a bow, then another and another, and still the house rocked with ovation. At last, she signalled the maestro and the orchestra segued into a rousing dance number. A line of chorus girls exploded out of the wings and went high-stepping across the stage. Lola raised her skirts, revealing a shapely leg, and joined them in a prancing cakewalk. The girls squealed and Lola flashed her underdrawers and the tempo of the music quickened. The audience went mad with exuberance.
Jack Brady, proprietor of the Alcazar, suddenly spotted Starbuck. He bulled through a throng of regulars at the bar and hurried towards the door. His bustling manner attracted attention, and other men turned to look. A low murmur swept back over the crowd as they recognised the manhunter. The threatre owner, enthusiasm written across his face, stuck out his hand. He gave Starbuck a nutcracker grin, and began pumping his arm.
“Welcome home, Luke!”
“Hello, Jack.”
“By God, you’re a sight for sore eyes! When did you hit town?”
“Couple of hours ago,” Starbuck said pleasantly. “Came in on the evening train.”
“No need to ask where from!” Brady laughed. “The whole town’s buzzing about you. Newspapers have been full of it for the last week!”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“Go on with you!” Brady hooted. “You made the front page, Luke! Headlines and a story as long as your arm. The whole ball of wax!”
Starbuck looked uncomfortable. “Well, I reckon it’s yesterday’s news now.”
“In a pigs eye! Every son-of-a-bitch in Denver wants to buy you a drink. You wait and see!”
“I guess I’ll pass,” Starbuck said matter-of-factly. “Got a table for me, Jack?”
“You damn betcha I do! Best table in the house!”
Brady wheeled about and cleared a path through the crowd. Starbuck tagged along, not at all pleased by the attention. Westbound on the train, he’d read news stories of the trial, which had created a furor in the nation’s press. Worse, he had found his photo prominently displayed in the papers, alongside that of Frank James. The publicity was unwanted, and the photo would definitely prove a liability on future undercover assignments. Still, despite the sensationalism, he’d thought his privacy would be respected in Denver. Jack Brady’s ebullient greeting dispelled that notion. An unobtrusive personal life appeared to be a thing of the past.
A spate of jubilant shouts erupted all around him. Men jostled and shoved, pushing forward to slap him on the back or try for a quick handshake. There was a curious note to their congratulations and the general tenor of the reception. For all his reputation as a mankiller, they perceived no weakness in the fact he’d spared Frank James. Instead, they were all the more awed, oddly fascinated and unable to hide it. There was something godlike in possessing the power to kill—within the law—and choosing instead to grant clemency. The very idea of it was scary and admirable, all rolled into one. To the sporting crowd of the Alcazar, it gave Starbuck even added stature. He was no longer merely a celebrity, the to
wn’s resident manhunter and detective. He was now a personage. A killer with class … and a touch of the invincible.
Onstage, Lola’s attention was drawn to the commotion out front. She stared past the footlights and saw Jack Brady unctuously seating Starbuck at a ringside table. In the midst of the dance routine she waved and blew him a kiss. The crowd roared with delight, and Starbuck bobbed his head in an awkward nod. Then the orchestra thumped into the finale with a blare of trumpets and a clash of cymbals. The chorus line, in a swirl of flashing skirts and jiggling breasts, went cavorting into the wings. Lola bypassed the curtain call, moving directly to the side of the stage. She went down a short flight of steps and swiftly circled the orchestra pit.
Starbuck stood as she approached the table. Her china-blue eyes were fastened on him as if caught in something sweet and sticky. She threw herself into his arms and hugged him fiercely. Then, oblivious to the onlookers, she gave him a long and passionate kiss. Clapping and stamping their feet, the audience broke out in rowdy applause. For the first time in his life, Starbuck blushed. He finally got himself disengaged from her embrace, and managed to plant her in a chair. He sat down fast.
“Hello, lover,” Lola said breathlessly. “Did I embarrass you?”
“Some,” Starbuck replied with a shrug. “I’m not used to an audience.”
“Who cares!” She wrinkled her nose with an impudent smile. “You looked too yummy to resist.”
“Yeah.” Starbuck’s eyes dipped to the top of her peekaboo gown. “You might have a point there.”
“Why, Mr. Starbuck!” She fluttered her eyelashes. “I do think you missed me … or did you?”
Starbuck chuckled. “You crossed my mind now and then. Couple of times, I even had trouble getting to sleep.”
“I’ll bet!” She sniffed, lifting her chin. “You probably tapped half the farm girls in Missouri!”
“Who, me?” Starbuck looked at her with mock indignation. “I was so busy chasing robbers it kept me worn down to the nubbin. Don’t you read the papers?”
“Do I ever!” She threw her hand to her head with a theatrical shudder. “God, my heart was in my mouth when I read those stories. It’s a wonder you weren’t killed!”
“I can see you almost perished with worry.”
“Well, seriously, lover.” Her mood suddenly turned sombre. “Do me a favour and kill the bastard next time! I want you all in one piece.”
“If it was anybody else—” Starbuck stopped, weighing his words. “Let’s just say Frank James was a special case, and leave it at that.”
A waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne. He poured, then tucked the bottle into an ice bucket and hurried off. Lola lifted her glass and leaned closer.
“A toast.” Her voice went husky. “To you and me—and lots of long nights!”
“I’ll drink to that.” Starbuck sipped, then slowly lowered his glass. “Only we’ll have to hold it to a couple of long nights.”
“Ooo God!” She groaned. “Tell me it’s not so!”
“Wouldn’t lie to you,” Starbuck said cheerily. “I stopped by the office and there was an urgent message.”
“Just my luck,” she marvelled. “All right, break it to me gently. Where are you off to now, lover?”
“Wyoming,” Starbuck confided. “Some payroll robber named Cassidy was kind enough to leave his calling card. A client wants me to … return the favour.”
“It’s the story of my life.” She stuck out her lip in a little-girl pout. “Here today, gone tomorrow.”
“No,” Starbuck said, a devilish glint in his eye. “Day after tomorrow.”
“That’s right!” She brightened, sat straighter. “You said a couple of nights—didn’t you?”
“Play your cards right, and we might even squeeze in a matinée.”
Lola Montana laughed a deep, throaty laugh. Starbuck poured champagne, and gave her a jolly wink. He thought it was good to be home.
EPILOGUE
New Orleans
May 14, 1903
Starbuck stepped off the trolley car on a warm spring evening. Crossing the street, he went through a turnstile and entered the fairgrounds. He walked towards a candy-striped circus tent.
The sticky humidity made him long for Denver. After two days in New Orleans, he was feeling a bit worn and frazzled. Age had begun to thicken his waistline, and he’d ruefully come to the conclusion that he no longer had much tolerance for heat. Yet, for all the passing years, he was nonetheless an imposing figure of a man. He was still sledge-shouldered, with solid features and the look of vigorous good health. His eyes were alert and quick, and the force of his pale blue gaze was undiminished by time. Nor had age dimmed his zest for his work and the challenge of the chase. He still hunted men.
These days, Starbuck seldom worked alone. Over the years, his reputation as a detective had brought him national attention. At last, with clients begging him to go on retainer, the caseload had become too much for one man. In 1890, he had begun an expansion programme, establishing branch agencies throughout the West. By the turn of the century, he had offices in Denver, San Francisco, Portland, and Tulsa. The agencies were staffed with former law officers, and he’d given each of the branch superintendents a high degree of autonomy. His own time was spent in the field, working directly with the operatives. No armchair general, he led by example and on-the-spot-training, rather than issuing directives. Sometimes, just for a change of pace, he took off on an assignment by himself. And that had brought him to New Orleans.
Last night, glancing through the newspaper, his eye had been drawn to an advertisement. The James-Younger Wild West Show was currently playing a limited engagement at the fairgrounds. Some months ago, he’d heard that Frank James and Cole Younger had formed a road company and were touring the country. Since the Gallatin trial in 1882, he and Frank had never crossed paths. Now, by happenstance, they were in New Orleans at the same time. His curiosity got the better of him.
Hopping a trolley, he’d gone to the evening performance. Like other Wild West extravaganzas, the show featured savage redskins and trick-shot artists and various specialty acts. The star attraction, however, was the two old outlaws. Between acts, they took turns lecturing the crowd. Frank spoke on the evils of crime, and recounted details of the life he’d led with his infamous brother. Cole spun windy tales about their outlaw days, and dwelled at length on the horrors of life in prison. The finale was a reenactment of the Northfield raid. Short on facts and long on melodrama, it dealt mainly with the bloody gun battle outside the bank. There were running horses and an earsplitting barrage of blank gunfire and lots of dying men. The audience gave them a standing ovation.
Watching from the bleachers, Starbuck was struck by the men’s general appearance. Neither of them had aged well, and theatrical makeup did little to hide the ravages of time. Frank was stooped and bony, almost cadaverous, with the mark of years etched in his features. Cole was little more than a bookmark of his former self. His colour was jaundiced and his jowls hung like wattle around his neck. Time lays scars on men, and in their case the journey had been a cruel one. Both of them looked long overdue for the old soldiers’ home.
After the show, Starbuck went back to say hello. Frank was genuinely delighted to see him, eager to renew an old friendship. Cole’s greeting was civil but cool, and he quickly excused himself. Later, seated in Frank’s dressing room, the reason became obvious. Cole’s outlook, Frank explained, had been darkened by nearly twenty years in prison. Then, too, he’d lost both his brothers. Bob, after contracting tuberculosis, had died a convict in 1889. Early in 1901, Cole and Jim had at last been paroled. But the next year, despondent and unable to find a job, Jim had locked himself in a hotel room and committed suicide. Thereafter, Cole had worked as a tombstone salesman and sold insurance, living from hand to mouth. Not until they’d teamed up and formed the Wild West Show had he begun to come out of his shell. He still had a long way to go.
As for himself, Frank had no qua
rrel with life. His wife had stuck by him, and he’d always managed to earn an honest livelihood. His notoriety had made him an attraction, and he’d had no qualms about cashing in on the James name. Down through the years, he had worked as a race starter at county fairs, lectured in theatres, and even tried his hand as an actor in travelling stock companies. At times he felt himself an oddity—something on the order of a circus freak—but all in all he had no complaints. His only regret was that he’d never had the gumption to kill Bob Ford. Someone else had done the job—gunning down Ford in 1892—and his one consolation was that the “dirty little coward” had got it in the back. As for the future, Frank was relatively sanguine. The Wild West Show was booked into next year, and the money was good. When it finally folded, he thought he might try horse breeding, or perhaps go back to farming. He was now sixty years old, and sometimes felt a hundred. Clay County beckoned, and a rocker on the porch of the family farm had a certain appeal. There were worse ways for an old outlaw to end his days.
Starbuck considered the statement a small pearl of wisdom. Upon reflection, after returning to his hotel last night, he’d come to the conclusion it was typical of the man. Frank James was no phony, and he never tried to fool himself or anyone else. Even in the old days, he had possessed that quality so rare among gunmen. He saw things in the cold light of truth, without distortion or whitewash. And he never deluded himself about the romantic nonsense published in penny dreadfuls and dime novels. He was brutally honest about the life he’d led, and his statement summed it up in a nutshell. There were, indeed, worse ways for an outlaw to end his days.
Tonight, the thought was very much on Starbuck’s mind. As he walked towards the rear of the circus tent, he marked again the wisdom of some men and the folly of others. Late that afternoon he had concluded his business in New Orleans, and the outcome was anything but satisfactory. He would have preferred a different ending altogether. Something more along the lines of that day, nearly twenty years ago, down on the Pecos. Yet some men, unlike Frank James, were bound and determined to go out the hard way. He took no pleasure in the fact that he was still able to accommodate them. Dead or alive somehow seemed an anachronism. Not at all suited to the twentieth century.