Shawn Starbuck Double Western 3

by Ray Hogan

  At least a dozen of the card tables were occupied, no less than four players sitting in on each game. Groups surrounded the chuck-a-luck stand, the faro dealers, the blackjack table; more crowded about a sallow-faced man operating a roulette wheel. A balcony off which led a corridor and that was reached by a stairway curving up from the end of the mahogany bar overlooked the entire operation.

  Shawn smiled. As the two Dodge City lawmen had said, a fortune had gone into the building of the Babylon Palace and its adjoining enterprises, but the bread they had cast upon the waters was returning to them tenfold and then some.

  He moved away from the entrance, angling across the hard, bare floor toward the bar. A woman turned lazily from the foot of the stairs and raised her dark, full brows questioningly at him.

  She was undoubtedly young, attractive, almost beautiful in fact, or could be were she devoid of the rouge and rice powder that layered her face. The yellow dress she wore did little to conceal her well-proportioned body, and the circular, cardboard medallion suspended by a red ribbon about her neck and nestling in the deep valley of her well-developed bosom proclaimed her name to be Jenny.

  Starbuck smiled again, waved her off, noting then with interest that all of the women in sight were equally young and pretty as Frank had said, and that they also wore name tags. McGraw and his partner, Fisher, had matters down to a precise system, it appeared.

  Reaching the bar, Shawn took his place near the center of the two dozen or so men lined up before it. A middle-aged man, balding and with round, blue eyes, wearing a white bib apron and a name plate bearing the word Pete, eased up to him.

  “Yours?”

  “Make it rye,” Starbuck replied, nodding, and then added, “Pete.”

  The bartender’s expression did not change as he reached down to a shelf under the counter, procured a glass and bottle, and poured the drink.

  “Four bits,” he said, sliding the thick-bottomed container toward Shawn.

  Starbuck reached into a pocket for a coin. Prices were high in Babylon, but he supposed he should have expected it. A man partakes of luxury, he should be willing to shell out for it.

  “Keep it all,” he said, picking up the glass.

  Pete’s features responded to that. He nodded, grinned, revealed twin rows of yellowed, uneven teeth.

  “Much obliged, Mister—Mister—”

  “Starbuck,” Shawn supplied, and turned slowly on a heel.

  Elbows hooked on the rolled edge of the bar, he glanced out over the broad room. The crowd had increased around the roulette wheel where some fortunate gambler was evidently having a run of good luck. A man with a shock of snow-white hair and wearing a dark suit had settled at one of the pianos and was playing an old war tune. Somewhere upstairs in one of the corridors a woman laughed shrilly.

  Two men came through the doorway and paused briefly to stare about as if in search of someone. Smoke, unnoticed earlier, clung to the ceiling in a dense layer, muffling the steady racket and descending gradually as its mass thickened. Eventually it would submerge the glittering chandeliers.

  “First time in the Palace?”

  At Pete’s question Shawn came half around. “First time.”

  The bartender grinned widely, mopped at the polished surface of the counter with a damp cloth.

  “Sure a sight for sore eyes, ain’t it?”

  “For a fact,” Shawn agreed, draining his glass. “Been here long?”

  “Ever since the place was opened. Head bartender for the past year.”

  “You must’ve seen a lot of people come and go.”

  “A hell of a lot more’n I can recollect!”

  “I was hoping you might remember one—my brother. Probably looks something like me. Maybe called himself Damon Friend.”

  Pete ceased his scrubbing, studied Shawn intently. “Face of yours does look familiar. Name don’t ring no bells, howsomever. Didn’t you say yours was Starbuck?”

  Shawn nodded. “His is, too—Ben Starbuck, but he started calling himself Damon Friend. We had a family breakup.”

  “I see,” Pete murmured. After a moment he shook his head. “Wish’t I could help, but I can’t think of nobody looking like you or answering to either one of them handles. Let me study on it a couple of days ... You expect to be around for a spell?”

  “It’s what I’ve got in mind to do. I was told this would be a good place to look for him.”

  “The best. We get them all here—good ones and bad ones, heading north, south, east, and west. Could be you’ll find your brother somewheres in here right now, upstairs with one of the gals or maybe in there bucking the tiger, was you to look around.”

  “That’s what I aim to do. Be obliged if you’d do some thinking back, see if you can remember.”

  “I’m remembering—”

  At the sound of the familiar, grating voice, Starbuck’s jaw clicked shut. Setting the empty glass on the bar, he wheeled. A grimness moved into him as he faced the three men ranged before him, and his memory flipped back to a time in far-distant New Mexico—an attempted stagecoach robbery, an alley behind a saloon in the small settlement of Las Cruces, a stuffy, heat-ridden jail. i

  Dallman and his friend, the pimple-faced, straw-haired boy he’d called the Kid. Now there was a third partner—a stranger with a scarred chin. The outlaw had promised they would someday meet again. That time was at hand.

  Four

  Only those standing at the bar were aware of the sudden, breathless tension that had descended so abruptly. Elsewhere in the Babylon Palace the wisp of cards, the click of gambling wheels, the mutter of voices, the thump of a piano, continued uninterrupted.

  Starbuck leaned back against the mahogany counter, hands hung loosely at his sides, head thrust forward. Dallman, a dark stubble of beard on his broad face, arms crossed, considered him with narrowed eyes.

  “I told you I’d be looking you up. I ain’t a man to ever forget nothing.”

  “Maybe this time you should,” Starbuck drawled. “Healthier.”

  “He’s a wise one, ain’t he?” the scarred stranger commented, doubling his ham like fists. “Come on, let’s take him.”

  “No big rush, Al,” Dallman said. “Like to make this last. I owe this jasper plenty—me and the Kid. He left us sweating it out in a goddam lousy jail once. Now it’s my turn to make him sweat.”

  Farther along the bar a voice murmured, “Somebody better fetch the marshal.”

  “Ain’t got one,” Pete replied. “Elmo quit, rode out more’n a week ago.”

  Starbuck, a half smile cracking his long lips, stirred. “I’m a bit surprised you’re out of that Cruces jail. Seems the law sure slipped up there.”

  “Law ain’t cornered me yet—”

  “Day’ll come ... Now, if you’ve got something on your mind, get on with it. I’m beat and I aim to find myself a bed.”

  “Sure,” Dallman said softly, and reaching out quickly, caught the Kid by the arm and swung him straight at Shawn.

  Starbuck jerked aside. The Kid thudded into the long counter, the impact setting up a rattle of glasses and bottles. Lunging forward, Shawn clamped a hand upon that of Dallman as the outlaw drew his gun and smashed a hard right to his jaw.

  Al swore and rushed in, arms swinging. Starbuck spun away from the staggered Dallman and took a hard blow in the ribs from the scar-faced man as he fell back.

  Al yelled again and crowded in close.

  Shawn halted, dropped unconsciously into the cocked stance of a trained boxer drilled into him so deeply by old Hiram Starbuck in the far-gone days on the Muskingum. As Al surged in, Shawn rapped him sharply across the nose with a stinging left that brought a flush of blood, followed with a right to the jaw that cracked like a muleskinner’s whip when it connected.

  The scarred man halted flat-footed, arms sagging to his sides while a look of pained surprise crossed his features. Shawn touched him with a glance, saw he would have no further problems with him for the next few moments, and piv
oted to Dallman. In that same instant the Kid came at him from the left, throwing himself upon his back, wrapping his arms about his waist, and pinning his hands to his body. Immediately Starbuck hunched forward, braced himself on spraddled legs as he sought to remain upright under the Kid’s weight.

  “Get him! Get him now!”

  At the Kid’s desperate plea, Shawn swung around, striving to block Dallman with the younger man’s body. The outlaw moved in quickly. Fists poised, he was grinning broadly. Shawn took a blow to the belly, jerked his head to one side as he avoided another aimed at his jaw.

  “Get him, Hake!” the Kid yelled again.

  Whirling, side-stepping, bobbing, Starbuck struggled to dislodge the burden on his back and free his arms. The Kid clung like a leech, his weight refusing to budge. Starbuck winced as Dallman smashed another knotted fist into his ribs, once more managed to duck a second try for his jaw.

  Breath was coming hard, and the weight he was supporting was taking toll of his strength. From the tail of his eye he saw Al shaking off the inertia that had gripped him, realized that he would shortly be moving in, getting his licks ... He realized he must do something fast or he would find himself at the mercy of the three outlaws.

  Staggering, he pulled back, came up against one of the bystanders. The man pushed him off, sent him stumbling toward one of the ceiling support pillars as Hake Dallman shouted and stepped closer. But Starbuck had recognized his salvation.

  Mustering his strength, he continued on for the column, a foot-square timber of solid oak beneath its coat of paint. He reached it, pivoted fast, smashed the Kid against it. The man yelled in pain and released his locked hands. Starbuck lunged him against the pillar again as Dallman’s fists began to pound at him. The load fell from his back, and sucking for wind, he ducked and spun off as Dallman, now sided by Al, crowded in.

  Shawn took a half a dozen blows on the arms and shoulders as he stalled to recover breath and balance. The two outlaws were pressing him hard, both grinning their confidence.

  Starbuck took a step backward, came up against something rigid. He had collided with a chair. Reaching down, he gripped it by its curved top and swung it at the pair. The chair splintered on Al’s head and shoulders, slid off onto Hake Dallman. Both men halted briefly.

  But it was long enough for Shawn to get himself squared away, and when the two outlaws had recovered from the interruption and resumed their advance, he was ready.

  He caught Dallman with a stiff left to the eyes, danced away, and then, swift as a striking rattler, darted in, tagged the blood-smeared Al with a solid right to the ear.

  Both men wheeled, seemingly uncertain of where they were. Shawn rocked Hake with a vicious crack to the head, followed it with an uppercut that missed but skimmed across the man’s cheek and drew red.

  Al, roaring his rage, bent low and with arms outstretched, big hands spread wide, rushed in. Starbuck waited until the last possible instant, feinted right, and brought down a sledging fist. It struck the outlaw just below the temple and dropped him spread-eagled to the floor.

  Sucking for wind, he pivoted to Dallman, who was once again rushing toward him. Beyond the man Shawn could see the Kid. He still lay at the base of the ceiling support, red-smeared features lax, eyes glazed and unseeing. The crowd surrounding them had grown, too, he saw, and the noise coming from the casino area had ceased.

  He let Dallman come to him, backing away to lead the man on, to purposely infuriate and draw him in to carelessness. Abruptly Hake took the bait, threw caution aside. Yelling a curse, he plunged forward, arms swinging.

  It was the opening Starbuck had been hoping for. As the outlaw crowded in close, he blocked a long, right-handed swing with his left forearm. Dallman rocked back, off balance from the abrupt checking of his momentum, and left himself wide open. Starbuck’s knotted fist, brought up from the knees, caught the man flush on the point of the jaw.

  The blow raised Hake Dallman to his toes. He seemed to hang there suspended for a long time, and then he buckled, collapsed to the floor in a heap.

  A growl went up behind him. Shawn wheeled, hand dropping to the forty-five on his hip ... He had had enough. He was tired and had no stomach for further conflict with additional friends of Hake Dallman.

  “Reckon three-to-one odds is plenty for any man.”

  Shawn’s eyes halted on the speaker, a burly redhead dressed in ordinary range clothing. He held a cocked six-gun in his freckled hand, had it leveled carelessly at a knot of hard cases who apparently had decided to cut themselves into the fight.

  “Now, supposing the four of you back away—keep out of it.”

  “That’s right!” someone in the crowd added. “If you sage-hoppers is looking for a free-for-all, why I reckon some of us’ll be glad to oblige!”

  The men hung quiet for a long breath, and then the one slightly forward shrugged, turned away. Immediately his companions swung about, and all pushed through the circle of bystanders, headed for a table where they had apparently been sitting.

  Starbuck glanced at the outlaws on the floor. Only the Kid was making any effort to gain his feet. Dallman and Al were still out cold and unquestionably finished.

  Shawn turned to the redhead as men nearby began to clap him on the back and shout their congratulations. He nodded to the husky rider.

  “Thanks ... I’d like to buy you a drink.”

  The redhead smiled, holstered his weapon. “It was a pleasure, friend ... And I’ll take that drink. Got myself a table over here.”

  Five

  “Name’s Starbuck,” Shawn said as they settled down, a shot glass of whiskey in hand.

  The husky man bobbed his head to the introduction. “Folks mostly call me Red,” he replied, the words having the faintly rounded edges of the South to them. “You sure do take on a crowd when you decide to fracas.”

  “Not my idea,” Shawn grinned ruefully, probing a tenderness along his face where he had taken a stiff blow. “One at a time’s generally a plenty.”

  Red shifted his attention to the floor. The crowd had melted, each man returning to whatever had occupied his attention before the interruption. The Kid and Al were upright and helping Hake Dallman to the table where the remainder of their party awaited them.

  “Was a plenty for that bunch,” Red observed dryly. “What was it all about?”

  Starbuck shrugged. “Little trouble I had down in New Mexico. I was there looking for my brother, stumbled onto them. We didn’t part friends.”

  “I gathered that. You say you’re looking for a brother?”

  “Yeah—Ben, or maybe I ought to call him Damon Friend. Think that’s the name he’s going by, but I’m not sure. Best bet I’d say is that we probably look alike.”

  “Probably?” Red echoed, sipping at his drink.

  “I haven’t seen him in quite a few years. He left home one day after a row with my pa.”

  “I see. Where’s home?”

  “Ohio. Farm on the Muskingum River. There’s a town there with the same name.”

  “That where you learned to use your fists? I seen that belt you’re wearing—”

  “Belonged to pa. He was good at boxing. He could have been a champion, I expect, if he’d wanted it that way. He liked farming more.”

  “Well, he done a mighty fine job of teaching you, I’ll say that!”

  “He taught Ben and me both. One way I hope to find him. I know he’s put on a couple of exhibition matches, and I’m on the watch for one. You ever see a match?”

  “Nope, never did ... Finding him’s pretty important to you, I take it.”

  Starbuck twirled his half-empty glass between a thumb and forefinger. “It is. When pa died, he left a will. He said I had to run Ben down, bring him back home before the estate could be settled ... It runs to a pretty fair amount of money. I don’t get my share until I find him.”

  “I thought you said they parted in a row?”

  “They did, only pa was sorry afterwards. He kept hoping Ben
would come back—right up to the day he died. Ben was sort of his favorite, I suppose.”

  “And you was your ma’s fair-haired boy.”

  Shawn grinned. “Guess so.”

  “Same in my family, only was the other way around.”

  “You got a brother you’re looking for, too?”

  “Nope. He’s dead now. Me—I’m just drifting.”

  Starbuck continued to toy with his glass. One drink had been sufficient to satisfy him; he had ordered a second from Pete only to be sociable.

  “I sometimes think that’s where Ben is—dead—and that I’m riding trails for nothing.”

  “Ain’t you ever got close enough to even see him?”

  “Nope. Once or twice I’ve hit a town where somebody who might’ve been him was just there—but being sure is always only a guess. Like Las Cruces—where I bumped into Dallman and the Kid. A man had put on a boxing exhibition there. Description could have fit Ben. The boxing part, that fit, too. Another thing, the man called himself Damon Friend.

  “One of the favorite stories that my ma—she was a schoolteacher—used to read to Ben and me when we were kids was about Damon and Pythias—you know, the two good friends—”

  Red nodded. “I remember it.”

  “Well, it would’ve been natural for Ben to take some of the name, use it.”

  “Maybe, but if it was only a family fuss, why would he change? Why wouldn’t he just call himself Ben Starbuck?”

  “It was part of the squabble—or maybe I ought to say it was a result of it. When he left, Ben was boiling mad. Said he was changing his name, that he didn’t want to ever hear it again, long as he lived ... Knowing Ben, I’m pretty sure he stuck to his word.”

  Red finished off his drink, stared into the empty shot glass. “And you been hunting him ever since.”

  “Only since pa died, of course, but seems like I’ve been at it all my life.”

  “Way it adds up,” Red said, leveling his cold, blue eyes at Shawn, “that’s about what you’ll likely end up doing. This is one hell of a big country to find one man in.”