Tombstone / The Spoilers

by Matt Braun

  The newspapers of the day, never overly fond of robber barons, had characterized Crocker as “ruthless as a crocodile” and a man who believed in “the brute force of money.” Having briefed himself on the Big Four in general, and Crocker in particular, Starbuck saw no reason to be charitable. He had come to the meeting fully prepared to deal with a crocodile, and he hadn’t been disappointed. Then, too, having heard the assignment, he now had fewer qualms about holding Crocker’s feet to the fire.

  “One hundred dollars a day,” Starbuck said at length. “All expenses paid and a minimum guarantee of a thousand dollars. That’s my standard rate.”

  “Awfully steep, isn’t it?” Crocker complained. “The Pinkerton Agency only charges half that amount.”

  “The Pinkertons won’t do the job you want done, otherwise you would’ve hired them to start with.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

  “It’s simple enough,” Starbuck said in a deliberate voice. “You want your Judas and the gang leader killed. No arrest, no trial, just a couple of quick funerals and the less fanfare the better.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Naturally.” Starbuck cracked a smile. “If you had to say it, then I’d be the wrong man for the job. Tell me it’s not so and I’ll head on back to Denver.”

  Crocker gave him a faint nod of satisfaction. “Your terms are acceptable.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  Starbuck heaved himself to his feet. Crocker rose and they shook hands, staring gravely into each other’s eyes. Then, with no parting word, Starbuck turned and walked out. He closed the door softly behind him.

  Crocker slumped back into his chair. His palms were sweaty, and he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. There for a moment, looking into Starbuck’s eyes, he had experienced the sensation of fear. He knew it was justified, and he felt no shame.

  He had the distinct impression he’d just struck a bargain with the Devil himself.

  CHAPTER 2

  Starbuck arrived at the depot shortly before boarding time.

  The morning train for Los Angeles departed at seven o’clock, and by his watch he had a quarter-hour to spare. He purchased a ticket for Salinas, then crossed the waiting room to the departure gate. He carried no luggage, but he was nonetheless prepared to travel. A Colt sixgun, hidden by his suit jacket, rode comfortably in a crossdraw holster.

  Outside, he paused on the platform and pulled out the makings. He creased the paper, sprinkling tobacco, and rolled himself a smoke. A flick of his thumbnail struck a match and he lit the cigarette. Moving to one side, he propped himself up against a wall, quietly watchful. His eyes slowly scanned the crowded platform.

  The San Francisco-to-Los Angeles run was clearly profitable. A large throng of passengers had already boarded, and others were saying their last goodbyes to family and well-wishers. Everyone looked perfectly ordinary, businessmen and drummers, working stiffs and farmers, and a dithering assortment of women and children. None of them appeared to be packing a gun, and there wasn’t a suspicious face in the crowd. Insofar as he could determine, it was simply another day on the Central Pacific. Nothing out of place, no reason for alarm.

  His attention moved to the train itself. There were four passenger coaches, normal for the morning run to Los Angeles. Down the line, the locomotive chuffed and belched steam. The tender was freshly loaded with coal, and directly behind, the last of the mail sacks were being loaded aboard the express car. A mail sorter and two guards, both armed with pistols, were visible through the door. Coupled to the rear of the train was a slat-sided boxcar. While unusual, for livestock was normally hauled by freight trains, its presence today was wholly unavoidable. The boxcar was part and parcel of Starbuck’s plan.

  On the platform, near the open door of the boxcar, a man stood smoking a pipe. He was tall and lanky, almost cadaverous in appearance, and he wore the rough-garbed clothing of a stockman. He was watching the crowd with no apparent interest, puffing cottony wads of smoke. His manner was somewhat resigned, almost bored. The look of a hired hand stuck with an unpleasant chore.

  Starbuck sauntered over, the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. He stopped in front of the man, nodding amiably.

  “Howdy.”

  “Mornin’,” the man replied. “Do something for you?”

  “Well, neighbor, my curiosity’s workin’ overtime. Thought mebbe you’d oblige me by answerin’ a question.”

  Starbuck easily slipped into the lingo of the range. His boots and wide-brimmed hat, the roll-your-own dangling from his lips, all did the trick. The man brightened and responded in the slow drawl common to south Texas.

  “You’re a long ways from home, ain’t you?”

  “For a fact,” Starbuck grinned. “Hail from the Panhandle, couple of days ride north of San Angelo.”

  “Damnation! Ain’t that one for the books! I’m from down around Laredo myself.”

  “Pegged you for a Texican! Yessir, I was standin’ over there and I says to myself, that feller’s got the look of homefolks. Figgered I’d just mosey over and see.”

  “Glad you did! Shore good to hear a man speak plain English again.”

  Starbuck held out his hand. “Name’s Joe Dobbs.”

  “Hank Noonan.” After pumping his arm, Noonan gave him a quizzical look. “What brings you out here?”

  “Aww, just rubber-neckin’,” Starbuck chuckled. “Fell into a little dinero and thought I’d take a gander at the ocean. Never seen one a’fore.” He paused, took a drag on his cigarette. “What about your ownself?”

  “Horse trainer.” Noonan puffed importantly on his pipe. “Feller name of Crocker—owns this here very railroad—come down to the King spread a few years back and bought hisself a string of thoroughbreds. I was head wrangler there at the time and he hired me to wetnurse his stock. Been out here ever since.”

  “Got a nice outfit, does he?”

  “Fair to middlin’,” Noonan allowed. “Thousand acres or so down along the coast. But he’s got an eye for racehorses, and the pay’s good too.”

  “That’s what got my curiosity whetted. Wondered why they had a stockcar hooked onto a passenger train.”

  “Have a looksee.” Noonan jerked a thumb at the boxcar. “Takin’ one of Crocker’s mares down to a breedin’ farm in the San Joaquin Valley. Him ownin’ the railroad, he can pretty damn much do what he pleases. That’s how come she wasn’t put on a regular freight run.”

  Starbuck crushed his cigarette underfoot, then stuck his head through the boxcar door. A chestnut mare, haltered and tied in a stall, stood munching hay. His gaze shifted quickly around the car and abruptly stopped. He spotted an old saddle and some bridle gear piled near a water barrel. He grunted softly to himself, satisfied.

  “Aboard! All aboard!”

  The conductor’s voice rang out in a last call to passengers. Starbuck turned, clapping Noonan on the shoulder, and gave him a parting handshake. Then, as the Texan scrambled into the boxcar, he hurried forward. Bypassing the rear coaches, he walked along the platform. The train lurched and he swung aboard the first coach, directly behind the express car. The conductor gave him a dirty look and signaled the engineer. Moments later, the train gathered speed and rolled southward out of the switching yard.

  Starbuck found a window seat toward the front of the coach. A sundries drummer was seated beside him, and they passed the next few minutes in idle conversation. Presently, a candy butcher came through hawking sweets and sandwiches. The drummer, commenting he’d missed breakfast, bought a ham and cheese that looked stale as sawdust. Then the conductor passed by, punching tickets, and announced an upcoming stop. Starbuck yawned a wide jaw-cracking yawn, and settled deeper into his seat. He pulled his hat down over his eyes, and left the drummer to his sandwich.

  Feigning sleep, he mentally reviewed all he’d learned over the past three days. Even now, he was looking for holes in his plan, something he might have missed. However careful, no man was inf
allible. He’d made mistakes before, and he would likely make some this trip out. But in his view, that was no excuse for sloppy planning. He especially wanted no miscues today.

  After his meeting with Crocker, he had holed up in a seedy Mission District hotel. There, sprawled out on the bed, he had analyzed the various approaches he might take. On balance, he’d concluded that the place to start was with the robbers themselves. To go undercover within Central Pacific would have proved time-consuming, and perhaps not all that productive. The railroad’s organization—the sheer number of people—was simply too vast and too segmented. It would have taken him weeks, maybe even months, to establish himself and work his way through the organization. The time span might have been shortened by limiting himself to upper-echelon departments; but that approach had serious drawbacks, as well. There were too many people, from clerks to vice-presidents, with access to express-car shipment schedules. And the Judas, obviously a slippery customer, would not be caught napping.

  All in all, it seemed to Starbuck that the fastest and most direct approach was the gang itself. Once he identified the ringleader, and had him under surveillance, it wouldn’t take long to isolate the Judas. Barring that, he could, as a last resort, pass himself off as a hardcase and infiltrate the gang. He’d done it with cattle rustlers and stage robbers, and he had no doubt it would work with train robbers. Yet that, too, would consume time—perhaps a month or longer—for outlaws were slow to accept a stranger into their ranks. By far, the better plan was to let the gang leader lay a trail to the Judas. Then, in a manner of speaking, he would kill two birds with one stone. Or at the very least, a couple of .45 slugs.

  That much decided, Starbuck had contacted Crocker the next evening, slipping unobstrusively into his mansion on Nob Hill. He obtained a map of the Central Pacific railway lines and pinpointed the exact location of all previous robberies. A detailed study of the map proved illuminating. While a few of the holdups had occurred on the run to Sacramento, the majority had taken place in the fifty-mile stretch between San Francisco and the Santa Cruz Mountains. He put himself in the robbers’ boots—a feat of mental gymnastics he’d learned as a manhunter—and arrived at a gut-certain hunch. The gang was quite probably operating from a hideout within a twenty-mile radius of Los Altos, a sleepy whistlestop some thirty miles south of San Francisco. Telegraph had improved communications among law officers, and the gang leader was clearly no dimwit. After pulling a holdup, the robbers had never been sighted, much less pursued. That strongly indicated they had a hideout that was within two hours’ ride of the jobs they’d pulled to date. He determined that the first step was to unearth their hideout.

  The following night he had again contacted Crocker and outlined his plan. An unusually large express shipment was to be arranged two days hence, on the morning train to Los Angeles. Everything was to appear routine, and standard security measures were to be employed. Crocker had bellyached long and loud, demanding extra guards to prevent loss of the money. Starbuck remained adamant, arguing that the gang must be lured into a holdup and thereby afford him the advantage of a fresh trail. In the end, common sense prevailed and he’d got his way. His last request, more so than the money, had brought on a fit of near apoplexy. Using some plausible cover story, one of Crocker’s racehorses was to be shipped south on the same train. A hot shouting match ensued, but in that, too, he had prevailed. He left Crocker to work out the necessary subterfuge.

  Now, scrunched down in his seat, he concluded he’d left nothing undone. All was in readiness, and it remained only for the gang to take the bait. Some inner voice told him he wouldn’t be disappointed. He closed his eyes and almost instantly, like an animal, he was asleep.

  The train passed through Los Altos an hour or so later. Awake and watchful, Starbuck began to wonder if he’d bet a loser. The next stop was San Jose, some twenty miles down the line. The gang, according to the information provided by Crocker, had never robbed a train south of San Jose. Which meant it had to happen soon or not at all.

  Long ago, Starbuck had determined that outlaws were essentially lazy. For all their cunning, those who rode the owlhoot were unimaginative and generally possessed more balls than brains. Unlike high-class crooks, such as con men and grifters, the average desperado was a creature of habit. Unwittingly, because he was shiftless and indolent, he took the path of least resistance. Once he stumbled upon a method that worked, he seemed to fall into a rut, seldom attempting anything new or novel. A pattern invariably emerged, and his actions thereafter became somewhat predictable. All of which gave Starbuck reason for concern.

  Unless the gang struck soon, his plan would very likely prove a washout. There was always tomorrow, and another plan, but he much preferred today. He prided himself on outguessing crooks—the first time around.

  Starbuck’s judgment was vindicated some five miles south of Los Altos. On a dogleg curve, a tree had been felled across the tracks. The engineer set the brakes and the train jarred to a screeching halt. The sudden jolt caught the passengers unawares, and there was a moment of pandemonium in the coaches. Women screamed and men cursed, and luggage from the overhead racks went flying down the aisle. Untangling themselves, the passengers were dazed and not a little fearful. Their voices verged on panic.

  Then, suddenly, a collective hush fell over the coaches. A gang of masked riders burst out of the woods bordering the tracks. Four men rode directly to the express car, pouring a volley of shots through the door. The three remaining men, spurring their horses hard, charged up and down the track bed. Their pistols were cocked and pointed at the passengers, who stared open-mouthed through the coach windows. No shots were fired, but the message was clear: Stay on the train or get killed. Which made eminent good sense to the passengers. The Central Pacific, like most railroads, was not revered by the public. A holdup, according to common wisdom, was a matter between the railroad and the bandits. Only a fool would risk his life for the likes of the Big Four. And there were no fools aboard today.

  Starbuck had a ringside seat. From his position in the front of the coach, the four men outside the express car were plainly visible. Watching them, he had to admire their no-nonsense approach to train robbery. One of the riders produced a stick of dynamite and held the fuse only inches away from the tip of a lighted cigar. Another rider, his voice raised in a commanding shout, then informed the express guards that they had a choice: Open the door or get blown to Kingdom Come!

  The guards, much like the passengers, were unwilling to die for the Central Pacific. The door slid open and the guards dutifully tossed their pistols onto the track bed. Three of the robbers dismounted and clambered inside the express car. The other three, still menacing the passengers with pointed guns, held their positions outside the coaches. The seventh man, the one with the foghorn voice, directed the operation from aboard his horse. His tone had the ring of authority, brusque and demanding. His attitude was that of a man accustomed to being obeyed.

  Starbuck immediately tagged him as the gang leader. He looked to be of medium height, powerfully built, and he was dressed in the nondescript workclothes worn by the other men. A slouch hat covered his head, and a wide bandanna, pulled up over his nose, effectively masked his features. Yet, upon closer observation, Starbuck spotted something that couldn’t be hidden. A thatch of red hair, brilliant orangey-red, spilled out from beneath the slouch hat. Bright as a sunset, it was a head of hair that would stand out in any crowd.

  From start to finish, the holdup took less than five minutes. The robbers inside the express car emerged with mail sacks stuffed full of cash and quickly mounted their horses. On signal from their leader, the gang opened fire and raked the length of the train with a barrage of lead. The shots were purposely placed high, but windows shattered and wall panels splintered and the angry snarl of bullets ripped through the coaches. Everyone dove for the floor and prudently stayed there. A moment later the gunfire ceased and the thud of hoofbeats drummed the earth.

  Starbuck peeked over th
e windowsill just as the gang disappeared into the woods. He jumped to his feet, hopping over the drummer, and moved through the door. Outside, he went down the coach steps and sprinted toward the rear of the train. Not ten seconds elapsed from the last gunshot to the time he pulled up in front of the boxcar. He hammered on the door with his fist.

  “Noonan! Hank Noonan! Open up!”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Joe Dobbs! C’mon, get the lead out! It’s life or death!”

  “Hold on, Joe!” The door flew open and Noonan gaped down at him with a look of fright. “Lord God A’mighty, they didn’t shoot you, did—”

  Starbuck showed him a cocked sixgun. “Hank, I want you to listen real close and do exactly what I say. Savvy?”

  Noonan bobbed his head, eyes popped out like a pair of fried eggs. Following Starbuck’s instructions, he muscled the loading ramp to the door and dropped it into place. Starbuck climbed inside, noting out of the corner of his eye that a crowd of men had gathered around the express car. He ordered Noonan to saddle the mare. The Texan suddenly pulled up, his features twisted in a mulish frown.

  “No sir!” he muttered hotly. “You ain’t gonna steal—”

  Starbuck wagged the snout of the sixgun. “Don’t play hero, compadre. Just get it done—muy pronto!”

  Grumbling under his breath, Noonan went to work. He saddled the mare, afterward fitting the bit into her mouth and slipping the bridle over her head. Then he backed her out of the stall and walked her to the door. With an unpleasant grunt, he tossed the reins to Starbuck.

  “I dunno your game, but you shore picked the wrong horse. Old man Crocker’s gonna hang your ass a mile high.”

  “Obliged for the warning, Hank. Now step aside and don’t make any sudden moves.”

  Starbuck holstered his gun and looped the reins around the mare’s neck. He stepped into the saddle, tugged at the brim of his hat, and gave Noonan a sardonic smile. Then he feathered the mare in the ribs and reined her down the loading ramp. Once clear of the track bed, he gigged her hard and rode off at a gallop.