Shawn Starbuck Double Western 3

by Ray Hogan

  Price Hagerman was beginning to sound like his old self again. Shawn glanced to the girl. She shrugged.

  “I guess there’s no harm—and it will be cooler.” She smiled, waggled a finger at the rancher. “One thing, you’re coming in at sundown—and no argument ... I won’t have you overdoing it.”

  “Overdoing it!” Hagerman scoffed. “Ain’t no man ever overdone anything yet by just setting, far as I know.”

  Rhoda made no reply. She gathered up one of the quilts and the two pillows, nodded to Starbuck and headed for the door. Shawn moved the rancher to the edge of the bed, slipped his arms under the man’s body and lifted him. Faint surprise ran through him. In the few days Price Hagerman had been confined to his room, he had dwindled to a mere shell.

  Mrs. Salazar appeared at that moment, showing her great displeasure of the idea, but she quailed before the rancher’s glare, and, stepping ahead, held back the door and assisted in making him comfortable in one of the big chairs on the gallery.

  Settled, Hagerman waved both Rhoda and the elderly woman off. “Ain’t no sense fussing over me now. Go on about your business. I got some talking to do with Starbuck.”

  The rancher’s voice again dragged, and some of the color had faded from his cheeks, bespeaking the toll of his strength the move had taken. Shawn, watching him closely, wondered if it would not have been better to deny his wish, then decided it would make little difference. Likely, any pleasure Price Hagerman took now was on borrowed time.

  “Feels right, just setting here looking and seeing things,” the rancher said after the women had disappeared into the house. “Seems to me now I never took time for such.”

  Starbuck moved to the edge of the porch, swept the edge of the yard with a sharp gaze. Hagerman was an easy target there in his chair, and that realization set his nerves to points, stirred a worry within him. If the killer chose this hour to make his play he could easily—with a rifle—accomplish his purpose from the shelter of the brush beyond the yard.

  “Makes me kind of warm inside, knowing Ron’s going to be all right,” Hagerman continued, his words slow and spaced. “Wondering now about that gal of mine. There anything between the two of you?”

  Starbuck drifted slowly down the length of the porch to its end where he could have a closer look at the side of the house.

  “No, afraid not.”

  “Too bad ... Sure wish’t there was. You and Ron taking over Hash Knife would be a fine thing for you both.”

  “Know that. Expect a man couldn’t ask for better, but the day won’t come when I can settle down until I find my brother. Once that’s behind me, I can think about a wife and a home.”

  Hagerman was thoughtful for a full minute. Then, “Just don’t wait too long, son. Take a little advice from me—don’t let your life get away from you. It can mighty easy. I’m seeing that now.”

  “Some things a man has to do.”

  “Sure. Felt that way myself,” the rancher said, his eyes traveling slowly over the yard, the buildings, the flats beyond. “Know now I should have taken a bit of time for living ... Sun just come up and went down every day. I was so dang busy doing what I thought was needful that I never even noticed it.”

  Hagerman paused, reached for the light quilt Rhoda had draped about him, masked a spasm of coughing with a corner.

  “Talking’s not resting,” Shawn said, frowning.

  The rancher dismissed the protest with a wave of his hand. “Missed the sun these last few days when I was laid up and couldn’t see it. Same as I missed a lot of other things—little things like stopping by the creek for a cool drink, and watching quail run and setting a horse with saddle leather rubbing the insides of my legs....

  “Seems a lot of things I plain overlooked—but I reckon the biggest was letting my own flesh and blood grow up with me paying them no mind. I just let it happen—but a man gets hisself so caught up in what he’s doing that he forgets there’s others around ... I sure wish’t their ma hadn’t died. They’d had her, maybe things wouldn’t have been so hard for them.”

  Again Price Hagerman broke into a rash of coughing. Rhoda appeared in the doorway, alarm tightening her features. The rancher managed a grin, winked broadly at her.

  “Choking on my own damned spit!”

  The girl smiled back, touched Shawn with her glance and disappeared.

  “Watched you tramping back and forth like a shyster waiting on a jury. You still expecting that killer to show up?”

  Starbuck nodded. “He’ll have to be reckoned with. Nothing’s changed there.”

  Hagerman laughed quietly, coughed, laughed again. “Joke’s sure on him if he does. Another man’s gone and done his job for him ... One thing, I’m kind of anxious to know who hates me so bad he’d pay to get me killed.”

  Starbuck swept the brush once again in a careful probe. The day was beginning to end. In a short time the sun would drop behind the low hills to the west and coolness would start setting in. Rhoda would insist that her pa return to his bed then—and that would take a load off his mind.

  “Probably somebody you forgot about long ago,” he said. “Man can walk around with a hurt chewing at him for years before he finally takes it on himself to do something about it.”

  Price brushed at his eyes unsteadily. “Reckon there’s a plenty of them doing just that. But I never done no man dirt—not the mean, crooked way. Always paid my score, and I never cheated. Maybe was times when I ramrodded my way a little strong, but I was Bible honest about it.”

  Rhoda appeared, carrying a cup of coffee. She crossed to where Hagerman sat, pressed it into his hands.

  “Here, Pa, drink this. Mamacita laced it with brandy. Ought to do you good.” She frowned, drew back. “You’re cold! I think we’d better get you back to your bed.”

  “In a minute,” he said patiently, gulping the coffee. “Ain’t seen the sun go down for quite a spell. Kind of like to watch it tonight.”

  “All right, but soon as it’s gone Shawn’s to carry you back up stairs.”

  The rancher handed the empty cup to her. “Just what he’ll do ... And you be thanking Mamacita for me. The coffee tasted real good.”

  Rhoda studied him for a long breath, her soft, lovely features gentle and strangely stilled. Abruptly she leaned down, kissed him on the forehead.

  “I’ll tell her, Pa.”

  Hagerman watched her move off, a distant loneliness in his eyes. Suddenly garrulous, he had been emptying himself and now he was growing tired.

  “A fine girl ... woman,” he murmured, after Rhoda had entered the house. “A real looker ... like her ma only she’s got more spunk. Know what I seen her do once? We was in town together, getting something. Don’t recollect what. There was this here stranger and he up and says, sort of smart like, to me, ‘So you’re the big kingpin they call Mr. Texas!’

  “Well, sir, she turned on him, slapped him so hard his hair rattled. That’s just what she done.”

  Twenty-Two

  “That’s me!” The rancher’s voice, filled with some of its old warlike quality, was surprisingly strong. “Who’re you?”

  The drawling reply was soft, amused. “Not your best friend for sure.”

  Shawn, unnoticed in the shadow-filled doorway, spun swiftly, gained the edge of the gallery in a single stride. There was no humor in his tone, only a grimness.

  “You’re dead if you move—and that’s for sure!”

  The gunman, still on his horse, was lean and small. He had apparently come in from the lower side of the house, working his way through the brush until he reached the yard. He had chosen his moment well, one when none of the crew were about and he was only a dim shape in the hot stillness of sundown.

  “I misdoubt that,” he murmured, betraying no concern at Starbuck’s unexpected presence.

  “What is it?” Rhoda asked, stepping into the open. She halted abruptly, caught up by the tense hush, the poised, coiled figure of Starbuck, the vague outline at the fringe of the cha
misa.

  “The deal’s off;” Shawn said, hand hovering above the gun on his hip. “Keep riding.”

  “Reckon I can’t do that—Don’t move, lady!”

  Rhoda, taking a step toward Price Hagerman, halted. “Is he—”

  Starbuck nodded. From the depths of his chair the rancher said: “You’re a mite late. Dave Archer beat you to it.”

  “You’re still breathing.” The killer’s hat was pulled low on his head and his voice had a muffled timbre, as if he were partly masked.

  “Maybe not for long ... Mind answering me something? Who was it that hired you?”

  “Don’t see as it matters none to you, old man.”

  Only the gunman’s head moved as he brought his attention back to Starbuck. “I got to go through you, that it?”

  “You do.... I’m telling you again to forget it.”

  “Ain’t the way I work, mister,” the killer said quietly, and threw himself off the saddle into the close-by brush.

  The pistol in his hand blasted through the silence. Starbuck, drawing and lunging to the side, felt the bullet rip through the slack in his shirt sleeve. He squeezed off a shot as he went prone, aiming at the blur in the brush.

  “Who was it hired you?” Price Hagerman’s high-pitched voice cut through the echoes. “I’m asking you—who was it?”

  Shawn lay motionless, weapon leveled at the now unmoving blur. He could hear Rhoda sobbing quietly on the porch but there were no sounds coming from the brush. Somewhere back on the hard pack, in the vicinity of the bunkhouses, boot heels rapped. The crew, attracted by the gunshots, were coming.

  Rising slowly to a crouch, finger snug against the trigger of his extended weapon, Shawn edged forward. He reached the brush fringe, straightened. A low sigh slipped from his compressed lips. The gunman’s draw had been faster, but his own aim had been truer.

  The killer lay flat on his back. A broad stain covered his chest. The corners of his mouth were pulled down and a puzzled, defiant frown was on his narrow face.

  “Who ... the hell... are you?” he mumbled.

  Starbuck shook his head. Kicking out he dislodged the pistol from the gunman’s lax fingers, sent it skittering off into the brush. Voices were shouting questions in the yard, overriding the thudding of running boots, and somewhere near the cook-shack one of the dogs had set up a frantic barking.

  He turned away, paused, a tall lean shape in the fading light, momentarily stilled by the fact of death at his own hand, and then moved on, stepping up onto the porch where Rhoda was crouched beside Price Hagerman.

  The rancher stared up at him from deep-set, filming eyes. “Who ... he tell you who it was ... hiring him? Got to know ...”

  Shawn felt Rhoda’s glance upon him. He leaned over Hagerman, shook his head. “Didn’t catch the name. Was dead before I could get it out of him.”

  Price stirred weakly. “Sure would like ... to know.”

  “No matter,” Starbuck replied. “All over with now.”

  “Yeah … reckon so …”

  Shawn turned to the men gathered around the dead gunman. “Load him up and take him in to Blackburn. Tell him he’s the one we’ve all been waiting for.”

  He came back around. Rhoda was tucking the quilt around her father. “He’s ready,” she said, stepping back. “I don’t want him to get cold.”

  Starbuck gathered the rancher into his arms, hesitated, looked closely into the man’s face. A peacefulness had come over it. His half-closed eyes were unseeing … It would make any difference to Price Hagerman. He would again feel the cold, the heat or anything else.

  ~*~

  Dodge City—that’s where Jim Winfield was going, Ron had said.

  Starbuck, lashing down his blanket roll to the saddle, paused, stared out over the flat lying north of Hash Knife … Dodge was a long way off. He heaved a sigh, finished with the tarped bedding, and brushed at the sweat collected on his brow. It would be a hot ride, too, but it didn’t matter—nothing did if the trail, even though cold, led eventually to Ben. Sometimes, however, the burden of the search grew a bit heavy and the failures discouraging.

  It would be easy to quit, to accept one of the offers being made to him, as here at Hagerman’s, and forget about his brother and Muskingum and old Hiram’s legacy. Hell, he would have ten times the amount coming to him if he would stay on at Hash Knife, become a member of the family. Such would be easy to do, and the refusal became more difficult each time he looked at Rhoda standing nearby, hopeful, waiting.

  But it wouldn’t be right. Ben, wherever he was, could be finding life less generous; he could be in dire need of his share of the Starbuck estate, and if he quit now, permitted the money to be forever lost, Shawn knew the knowledge of what he had done would haunt him for all time to come ... It was the same old story; finding Ben came first, his own needs and desires must wait.

  Gripping the sorrel’s headstall in his hand, he glanced about the yard. Ron had said his goodbye and thanks, was already on the range. He had taken over as Price Hagerman had always wished and finally admitted that he could. The rancher had died contentedly with that knowledge in his mind.

  Only Rhoda remained.

  He led the gelding up to the porch, halted, his sober gaze on the girl who stood quietly looking down at him.

  “I had hoped you’d change your plans,” she said, her voice low and wistful.

  He nodded. “A thing I’d do—if I could.”

  “Maybe you’ll find Ben in Dodge. If you do ... will you come back?”

  Shawn reached a hand to her, drew her off the porch to his side. No woman he’d ever met had stirred him as deeply as did this Rhoda Hagerman.

  “Plans—promises—they’re something I can’t afford. All I can say is that I’d like to.”

  “With Pa gone—”

  “I know, but you’ll do fine ... you and Ron. And Hash Knife will get bigger, if that’s what you want.”

  She looked down. “Not what I want, Shawn. I ... I want you.”

  He grinned at the frankness of her, at the boldness of her words. But that was Rhoda, an honest chip off old Price Hagerman, and he’d not expected her to be any other way.

  “I feel the same toward you, but it’s not in the cards. Someday ... maybe.”

  “Will you come then?”

  “Could be years—”

  The girl shook her head. “It won’t matter. Hash Knife will be there, and so will I ... waiting.”

  “No,” he said firmly, almost roughly. “Don’t do that. Don’t waste your life.”

  Leaning over he kissed her lightly on the lips, wheeled and swung onto the sorrel. Touching the big red horse with his spurs, he moved out of the yard, holding his eyes straight ahead. When he reached the first rise he looked back. She was still standing at the corner of the house.

  Raising his hand in a final salute, Starbuck rode on.

  The Marshal of Babylon

  Shawn Starbuck has ridden endless dusty miles through the Southwest searching for his lost brother Ben. Now, on a tip from Wyatt Earp himself, he comes to Babylon, a glittering gambling town where vice and violence flourish unchecked. When Starbuck signs on as town marshal, he vows to bring law and order to the streets of Babylon . . . until a stranger rides in with a message from Ben. Is it a trap—or does Ben really need him?

  One

  Shawn Starbuck, halting in a pool of deep shadows, allowed his gaze to run the dusty, weathered facades of the structures standing shoulder to shoulder along Dodge City’s Front Street.

  He had just ridden in, had stabled his horse, and was now beginning a tour of the town’s many saloons in search of one Jim Winfield, a man he hoped might give him information as to the whereabouts of his missing brother, Ben—known also as Damon Friend.

  Winfield was only a slim lead, one picked up back in southwest Texas where the man had been employed as a cowhand on Price Hagerman’s Hash Knife ranch. It was thought that Ben Starbuck also worked there, but no one presently riding for the
outfit could be sure. Only Winfield could be positive, and he had moved on to Dodge when Shawn, doggedly following a cold trail, arrived.

  Starbuck had ultimately ridden on, having discovered long ago that any clue to Ben, however small, must be tracked down as traces of his brother were few. Thus, locating Winfield and having a talk with him was more important.

  He would go first to the Long Branch. The bartenders there were said to know everyone, to be virtual directories of all those who came to, and spent any amount of time in, the brawling cow and buffalo town at the end of the railroad.

  Hitching at the pistol slung low on his left thigh, Shawn moved away from the wall of the building near which he had paused and struck off down the boardwalk. There were few persons abroad at that early evening hour since it was just supper time and the night’s activities were yet to begin. It was Shawn’s hope to make as many inquiries concerning Winfield—and Ben—as possible before the saloon men became too busy to engage in conversation.

  Starbuck’s steps slowed—halted. A tall, lean individual dressed in dark trousers and broad-brimmed hat and wearing a star on the pocket of his white shirt had emerged from one of the structures immediately ahead and was moving slowly away.

  Almost immediately three dark figures stepped in behind him from the adjoining building. Light glinted dully on the blade of a knife held poised to strike by one.

  Shawn reacted quickly. He stepped off the walk, gained the center of the street in a half a dozen strides, stopped.

  “Marshal!” he called into the closing darkness. “Behind you!”

  The lawman threw himself to one side, wheeled. Starbuck’s hand swept down to the forty-five on his hip, hung there as the lawman’s arm lashed out. Using one of the long-barreled pistols he carried as a club, he smashed it into the head of the man with the knife and dropped him to his knees.

  As the two others jerked back, spun, and started to run, he brought them to a hasty stop.

  “One more step and you’re dead!”

  Shawn, hand still riding the butt of his own weapon, eyes on the pair frozen in their tracks, crossed to the sidewalk. The lawman did not turn to him, simply continued to stare at the two men. They were unarmed, Shawn noted, as was the one on his hands and knees now shaking his head groggily.