by Ray Hogan
“Get him on his feet,” the lawman snapped, kicking the knife off into the darkness at the base of the building. “We’re taking a little walk to the calaboose.”
Only then did he turn to Starbuck. “You the one doing the singing out?”
Shawn nodded, feeling the man’s eyes take swift inventory of him and pause as they reached his holstered gun.
“There’s a law against wearing a weapon north of the tracks. You know that?”
Starbuck shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
The badge on the lawman’s shirt said Deputy Marshal. He studied Shawn for a long moment. “Just ride in?”
“About an hour ago.”
“First time in Dodge?”
“First time.”
“Reckon that explains it,” the deputy said. “Help me herd these jaspers to jail, and I’ll tell you what’s what around here ... Name’s Earp. Yours?”
“Starbuck,” Shawn replied, and stepped up to the lawman’s side.
Earp bobbed his head, reached out with an open palm, and gave the nearest of the three men a shove toward the corner. As they all moved off, he turned to Shawn, a dark, hard-faced man with a flowing, handlebar mustache.
“Obliged to you. I’d’ve dropped all three of them if you hadn’t hollered.”
Starbuck nodded. “Or they’d have got you.”
Earp considered Shawn again in that cool, level way of his. “Yeah, maybe there was a chance of that, too. Anyway, it’s a favor I owe you, and I’m paying a part of it now. Any lawman in Dodge could shoot you for wearing a gun on this side of the deadline. It’s the law. But I’m overlooking it, seeing as how you didn’t know.”
One of the outlaws laughed. Earp, tone hardening, said, “Maybe you’d like buffaloin’, same as your friend there got.”
The man wagged his head hurriedly. “No, sir, Mr. Earp—no, sir! I was only thinking the law seems to apply to us Texans, but it don’t to nobody else.”
“It goes for every man riding into Dodge no matter where he’s from.”
“Well, I ain’t so sure—”
“That’s coming close to calling me a liar!”
“No—no, sir! Just saying how it seems,” the man said hurriedly, stumbling a little in the dark.
“It does, no matter what you think,” the deputy said. He glanced at Shawn and shrugged. “Texans all feel like the law here in Dodge has it in for them. Not the truth. It’s just that they give us more trouble than anybody else.”
“Maybe that’s because there’s more of them. Lot of herds coming up from Texas.”
“Expect that’s the reason, all right, but that don’t give them the right to take over the town—which is what they’re always trying to do. So far they ain’t had much luck, but they’re sure working at it. A bunch of them’s got together and offered a thousand-dollar bonus for any man who’ll lay me out for Boot Hill. Reckon that’s what these jaspers were after—that bonus ... Calaboose is right over there ...”
An elderly man with a shotgun cradled in his arms met them at the doorway of the jail. He put his weapon aside and took charge of the prisoners.
“What’s the charge, Wyatt?” he asked as he clanged the cell door shut and turned the key.
“Disturbing the peace,” the deputy answered in an offhand way, and swung to Shawn. “Expect you’d best leave that iron of yours here.”
Starbuck reached for the ornate silver buckle with the superimposed ivory figure of a boxer on its polished surface, tripped the tongue, and handed the belt, holster, and weapon to the lawman.
Earp studied the buckle curiously. “You some kind of a champion fighter?”
Shawn’s shoulders moved slightly. “Belonged to my Pa. He was a boxer—got his training from some Englishman.”
“And you?”
“Taught me, too, same as he did my brother, Ben. That’s the reason I’m here, marshal. Looking for him. Could be going by the name of Damon Friend.”
“Ben Starbuck ... Damon Friend,” Earp murmured, continuing to examine the buckle. “Name ain’t familiar. What’s he look like?”
“Haven’t seen him in ten years or better. Chances are we look pretty much alike. Could be I’m some taller.”
The deputy shrugged, then glanced at the jailer. The older man shook his head.
Earp said, “I guess if he ever showed up around here, we missed him. You sure he did?”
“I’m not sure of anything—not even that he’s alive. I’ve been chasing back and forth across the country for quite a spell trying to find him.”
Earp handed Starbuck’s gear to the jailer, who hung the belt on a peg on the wall. Sauntering to the doorway, the deputy halted and threw his glance down the street, now bright with lamplight.
“What made you think he’d be here in Dodge?”
Shawn settled on the edge of the desk. “Wasn’t the reason I’m here. It was a fellow he worked with, I think, down in Texas, that I came to see. I wanted to ask him if he could tell me anything about Ben—where he went after he left Hagerman.”
“Hagerman?”
“A rancher down in southwest Texas.”
“I see. Who was this bird? Could be we’ll know him.”
“Winfield. Jim Winfield.”
Earp wheeled slowly, touched the jailer with his flat, dark eyes, came back to Shawn.
“Reckon we can tell you about him, all right.”
Starbuck pulled himself upright. The long ride to Dodge City had not been for nothing after all. “Good. I’d like to know where I can find him.”
A remoteness came over the deputy. He folded his arms across his chest, leaned forward slightly.
“He a friend of yours?”
“Nope, never met him. I was just told he might know Ben. He in town now?”
“Sure is. Permanently. We planted him up on Boot Hill.”
Two
“Boot Hill!” Starbuck echoed. “You mean he—”
“Buried him there a couple months ago. Leastwise, was a man of that name. Skinny bird, dark hair, scar on the left side of his face.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Shawn said in a falling voice. “Like I said, I never met him, only knew him by name. What happened?”
“Got hisself shot to death,” the jailer said. “It was right down in front of Zimmerman’s lumber yard.”
“Seems he had words with Tom Agar one night in Dog Kelley’s place. Agar’s a gambler,” Earp added. “Then next morning he jumped Agar. He had a pistol hid inside his shirt. Only thing, Tom was toting a gun, too. Derringer. Put two forty-one-caliber slugs in your friend before he could get off a shot.”
Starbuck stirred wearily. “I guess that finishes that,” he murmured.
The jailer moved in behind the desk and sank into the chair. “Why’d you say you was looking for him?”
“He’s hunting his brother, Frank,” Earp explained. “This Winfield knew him. Starbuck figured he maybe could tell him where he is.”
The older man bridged his fingers, nodding slowly. “I see ... Well, was I looking for somebody, I’d do it the easy way. I’d take me over to Babylon and just set there and wait. Whoever I was hunting’d be sure to drop by some day.”
Shawn shifted his attention to Frank. “Babylon? What’s that?”
The old jailer stared, dug into his pocket for a plug of tobacco. “You sure are new around here if you ain’t never heard of Babylon—or the Babylon Palace!”
“Only place with that name I know of was one in the Bible.”
Earp laughed. “This one probably ain’t much different. It’s a town about a day’s ride to the south.”
“Biggest, fanciest place you’ll ever set your peepers on,” Frank said, biting a corner off the plug. “All kinds of gambling—things a man ain’t never heard of. Then there’s drinking and dancing—and the women. Man and boy, they’re real lookers! Everyone there’ll bug out a fellow’s eyes like he was a tromped-on lizard!”
Starbuck’s shoulders moved again.
“Still never heard of it.”
“It ain’t been there too long. Couple of years, maybe,” the deputy said. “The whole works belongs to a couple of jaspers that blew in from the East, I heard. Built what they call the Babylon Palace, added some stores and houses for the help to live in, and named the town Babylon. Sure is quite a layout, all right. Mighty fancy. Somebody said they spent ten thousand dollars alone on just furnishing the place.”
“Which they get back every month,” Frank said. “Punchers, pilgrims, drifters—they just plain flock to it. Seems a man ain’t lived ’til he seen all them pretty women McGraw and Fisher’ve brung in or had his pockets cleaned out at the Palace’s tables.”
“Women are all young, too. It’s sort of the specialty of the house,” Earp said. “They keep fifteen or twenty on hand all the time just to draw business. McGraw brings them in from all over the country. He’s got an eye for the prettiest, they say, and once he spots one, she ends up sooner or later in the Palace.”
“It’s Fisher that looks after the gambling end of it,” Frank continued. “He’s mighty sharp, but folks all claim he’s honest. Never did hear no complaining from fellows who’d bucked him.
“And there’s a plenty of them. Expect just about every man this side of the Platte has been to Babylon and tried his luck at the tables and had his time with one of the girls—excepting you ... Now, was I hunting a man, that’s sure the place I’d go to look.”
Starbuck glanced at Earp. The lawman nodded. “Frank’s right. Chance of you finding this brother of yours in this part of the country will be better there than anywhere else I can think of.”
The jailer shifted his cud. “And if he ain’t there now, he’s been there or he’ll be coming by soon, can bet on that,” he declared confidently.
Earp signified his agreement. “I’d go there, and if you don’t spot him first off, ask around. One of the girls or maybe one of the dealers will recollect him. If they don’t, just hang around, wait. He’ll show up.”
“I was just thinking about the hitch rack in front of the place,” Frank murmured. “Longest one I ever drawed a horse up to. Must be two hundred foot from one end to the other. Man could picket a whole army at it!”
Shawn listened in silence. Babylon did sound as if it had good possibilities. “You say it’s a town?”
“More or less—anyway, I reckon you’d call it a town. But McGraw and Fisher own the whole shebang. They’ve got a hotel and a restaurant along with a stable and a few other stores. Have their own law—a town marshal, jail and all. And McGraw’s the judge. He got himself appointed, all legal, somehow. They keep things pretty straight, too, even if they do get some of the wild bunch right along.
“There was a big jasper wearing the badge when I was there once,” the jailer rambled on. “Meaner’n hell, he was. I seen him crack open two or three skulls right there in the Palace. Name was O’Neill, as I remember. One thing he sure done was keep order.”
“Left there and went to Wichita and got himself killed,” Earp said. “Somebody said a fellow he’d roughed up bad in the Palace was the one who done it.”
The lawman paused, cocked his head to one side as a staccato of gunshots echoed faintly in the night. The sound came from the area beyond the railroad tracks.
“Seems things are warming up down there,” the deputy murmured absently. Then, “Figure to try your luck in Babylon?”
Shawn shrugged. “Sounds like a good bet—and I’ve got no other leads to follow. Winfield was my only hope here.”
“I’m laying odds you’ll stumble across something there,” Frank said. Rising, he reached for Starbuck’s gun, paused. “Aiming to pull out tonight?”
“No. Been in the saddle all day. I think I’ll get myself a room in a hotel, leave in the morning.”
The jailer settled back. Earp made a motion with his hand. “Give it to him anyway,” he said. Then turning to Shawn, he added, “Don’t wear it. Keep it rolled up under your arm, and when you get to your room, leave it there—unless you’re planning to spend some time tonight below the deadline.”
Starbuck smiled. “I think I’ll pass that up. Right now all I’m wanting is a good meal and a soft bed.”
Earp nodded. “Glad to hear it. Strangers don’t do too good down there unless they know how to take care of themselves.”
Shawn turned toward the door. “Doubt if it’s any worse than Whiskey Row or Juarez City or a couple other places I’ve found myself in,” he said dryly. “Reckon I’d make out.”
Earp looked Starbuck up and down appraisingly, nodded. “Yeah, expect you would. You got some place special in mind to stay the night?”
“No, I have to find—”
“Come on with me then,” the deputy said, stepping out into the street. “I’ll take you to a friend of mine. He’ll put you up.”
Three
It had been an all-day ride across an endless pasture of buffalo grass that had been varied only here and there by needle-sharp yucca plants, scattered clumps of sage, and an occasional tree. A persistent wind, hot for that late in summer, had fanned his face, parching his throat, and he had looked forward to reaching Babylon with its reputedly fabulous Palace.
Now, finally, with the vast prairie behind him, no longer resounding to the thunder of buffalos’ hoofs but marked only by their bleaching bones, and the journey over, Shawn halted in the center of a wide clearing and stared at the edifice rising before him.
The Palace was all that Deputy Marshal Earp and his jailer friend had said it would be—and more. Lifting its two-storied bulk off the flat upon which it had been erected, it squared itself against the clean Kansas sky in a flamboyant flourish of Gothic windows, scrolled cornices, mirrored insets, carved corbels, and Corinthian columns, all accented with red, gold, and glaring white paint.
A broad porch ran its full width, but there were no chairs available—an unspoken invitation for all to enter and do their loafing inside, it would appear. As Frank had noted, the hitch rack matched, perhaps even exceeded the building’s reach, offering station for numberless horses. The three dozen or so dozing hip-shot before it now required but a fraction of its capacity.
At the right and connected to the imposing structure with plain, unpretentious countenance was a livery stable, a feed store, and last in line, the marshal’s office and jail. Beyond those Starbuck could see a wagon yard, a low-roofed, rambling affair resembling an ordinary ranch bunkhouse, and still farther yet, where a stream cut a narrow path across the flat, a scatter of small huts all looking exactly alike in a bleak, neglected way.
Off the opposite end of the Palace came first a hotel that, like all other business concerns, was nameless. It devoted one corner area to a restaurant. Adjoining it was a barber shop offering, besides expert tonsorial attention, a hot tub-bath and painless dentistry. At the end of the connected row was a saddle-and-gun store that also carried a stock of trail grub and other supplies.
Starbuck’s gaze absorbed it all while he marveled at the thought of two men alone giving birth to such a phenomenon in so incongruous a place; and viewing such splendor recalled to his mind the great cathedrals and kingly mansions depicted in the books Clare Starbuck would read from to him and Ben during the long winter evenings on the Muskingum farm.
The accomplishments of man had awed him then just as did this mingling of many distinct and separate architectural styles, and while such would be an abomination to the purist, Starbuck nevertheless recognized in its conglomerate grandeur a victory over the desolate sameness that typified the false-fronted buildings of the frontier.
Brushing his hat to the back of his head, Shawn grinned. Babylon—the place was aptly named and likely no less wicked than its biblical counterpart. At the crossways of trails running north to south, east to west, it undoubtedly drew men of all kinds—and among them would be Ben.
He sobered, his square-cut face darkening, his gray-blue eyes filling with a remoteness as he thought of his brother. Although a man still young in
years, the mark of experience lay upon him, and as he sat his sorrel horse with an unconscious ease, the presence of cool capability shrouded him like a cloak of caution.
He was tall, his six-foot height evident even while yet mounted, and there was a leanness to him, but it was a trail-acquired, muscular leanness rather than a thinness. The suppleness of his muscles as he spurred the gelding into the hitch rack and swung down bespoke the perfect coordination of his being.
Again he glanced about. He would get something to cut the dryness in his throat, then check in at the hotel, he decided. Later, when the night’s activities were in full swing, he would visit the Palace and make his inquiries. Securing the sorrel, he stepped up onto the porch, crossed to the embellished double doorway, aware now of the hubbub of sound within the building, and entered.
Starbuck halted abruptly. The interior of the Babylon Palace was as awe-inspiring as the exterior. It appeared to be one huge room, the colorful ceiling of which was supported by countless, garishly decorated columns. Dozens of chandeliers laden with glowing lamps dispelled any darkness and shadow while multiplying their number in the solid bank of mirrors behind a mahogany bar extending almost the entire width of one wall.
Well to his right he could see a small stage affair near which were two pianos, a drum, and several musical instruments. Close by was a door painted bright red and upon which was lettered the word Office. Similar entrances adjoining went unmarked.
The casino area dominated all. Extensive, with more chandeliers, it was crowded with tables devoted to card playing, gaming wheels, tip baskets, and many other devices dedicated to extracting money from those with the inclination to try their luck.
There were many. Despite the early hour, the Palace was well filled, which led to the conclusion that in Babylon there was no day, no night—only a time for gambling and drinking and the pursuit of any other purpose available within its high-windowed walls.