Shawn Starbuck Double Western 3

by Ray Hogan

  “I realized that a time back. Figured it would be a cinch at first. Thought I knew right where Ben would go and hightailed it for that place. I was right—or partly so. Ben had been there, only he’d moved on.”

  “And you’ve been in the saddle ever since.”

  “Except when I have to pull up, work a spell to get some traveling cash ... What brings you here?”

  Red’s thick shoulders stirred. “Oh, just to see the elephant, I reckon ... Sure is some layout.”

  “For a fact. Never heard of Babylon being here until yesterday when I was in Dodge. The marshal and his jailer told me about it. Said it was one place where my chances of running into him or finding out something about him would be good.”

  “They were right. Expect it’s true what they say about every man in the country riding by here sooner or later.”

  Starbuck looked out over the room. The crowd had increased, and smoke was now a wavering blanket hovering in a layer that was even with the chandeliers. The table Dallman and his friends had occupied was deserted, the outlaws either having departed or moved into and become lost in the throng milling about in the gambling area.

  “You run into any leads yet?”

  “Only one I’ve talked to about it is Pete, the bartender, and you. Pete couldn’t remember, but he said he’d think about it.”

  “Try the women. They always remember a man.”

  “Aim to talk to them ... Sure some fine-looking ones here.”

  “They’re the big drawing card. Hear there ain’t a one of them over twenty years old—except old Bessie. She runs the cafe.”

  “Looks like this McGraw and his partner had the right idea. Never saw so much gambling and the like in one place before in all my life. It go on around the clock?”

  “They close down for the mornings. They can damn sure afford to. Place is a mint. Considering the size of it and all the fancy decorating and equipment, it cost McGraw and Fisher a pretty penny, but I’m betting they’ve got it all back by now.”

  “Takes money to make money,” Shawn murmured.

  “Ain’t no doubt of that—and speaking of the ramrods, we’re about to be visited by one.”

  Following Red’s glance, Shawn saw a dark, well-dressed man with the immobile features of a gambler moving toward them from the bar. He carried a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other.

  “Which one—Fisher or McGraw?”

  “Bart Fisher,” Red replied. “McGraw ain’t around.”

  Fisher, lips set to a fixed smile beneath a carefully trimmed mustache, stepped up to the table, nodding genially.

  “I just want to offer my congratulations,” he said, looking at Starbuck. “The way you handled those toughs was a caution. I’m Bart Fisher, half owner of Babylon. I’d like to treat you to a drink.”

  The gambler’s voice was cool, low, bespoke an education. Shawn nodded. “Sure, why not? You know Red?”

  Fisher settled onto a chair, glanced at the redhead. “I’ve seen him around.”

  “I’m mighty glad he was today,” Starbuck said. “Got to admit I’d had about enough.”

  “I can’t say that it showed,” Fisher replied with a short laugh as he filled his glass along with the redhead’s and the partly empty one in front of Shawn. Putting the bottle aside, he lifted his drink in salute. “Here’s how!”

  Starbuck downed his liquor, then returned his glass to the table and covered it with his hand. He shifted his attention to the gambler, feeling the man’s sharp eyes drilling into him.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in the Palace before.”

  “No, first time.”

  “Pete tells me you’re hunting for a brother.”

  Shawn bobbed his head. “I have been for quite a time. I’m hoping he’ll turn up here—if he hasn’t already.”

  “Odds are all for it.” Fisher refilled his glass, looked questioningly at Starbuck and then at Red. Both declined. “Where you from, mostly?”

  “Just about any place you can mention. Home was in Ohio.”

  Fisher eased back into his chair. “Then you’re not tied down to any one place?”

  “No—not specially.”

  “Then maybe you’d be interested in a job.”

  Starbuck frowned. “Here?” Bart Fisher smiled his artificial smile. “Yeah, here. We’re needing a marshal.”

  Six

  Shawn, surprised, remained silent. Old Hiram Starbuck, in setting forth the requirement that his younger son first find his brother before the estate could be divided, had neglected to provide funds for the search. Thus Shawn, periodically, when cash ran low, was compelled to stop and seek work to replenish his capital.

  He was not in that particular position at the moment, just having come off a job in Texas, but there was an attraction in Bart Fisher’s offer; he intended to hang around for a while anyway, and by assuming the lawman chore, he could for once since it all began be searching and earning at the same time. But it could prove to be quite a task—keeping law and order in a place like Babylon.

  “Take that as a compliment, Mr. Fisher—”

  “Bart—”

  “Bart ... What happened to the marshal you had?”

  “Elmo? He was a good man, but he got himself involved with one of the girls, and they ran off together. Last I heard was that they got married in Dodge and he went to work for some cattle outfit ... You aren’t thinking of marriage, are you?”

  Shawn grinned, shook his head. “Not for quite a spell.”

  The desire, the need for a home, a wife, and a family had come upon him several times, and often the opportunity for such had presented itself, but he had quickly put it from his mind; he could plan no life of his own until the matter of finding Ben was concluded.

  “That’s good. We don’t want any more Elmos around. Oh, you’re free to get friendly with the girls! No rule against that—just don’t get yourself sold on one of them. We’ve got twenty-three of them in the Palace, and you’ll have your choice any time. Living quarters and meals go along with the deal, too.”

  Starbuck glanced at Red. The man was looking off toward the gambling area, seemingly uninterested in the conversation.

  “What about a deputy? Any need for one?”

  The co-owner of Babylon poured himself another drink. His shoulders stirred. “Never had one before. We get all kinds here—good, bad, and worse—but one badge-toter has always been able to do the job. Think, perhaps, it’s the place itself. Being plenty high-class, they sort of hold themselves in and don’t break loose like they might in some ordinary ragtag saloon.

  “And that’s the way we expect our marshal to keep it. The brawlers have to be put outside. That ruckus you had with those men today is the first that’s broken loose inside in months—and it wouldn’t have happened if we’d had a lawman on the job.

  “The badge is legal, by the way. We’ve been given authority by the state to appoint our own marshal, run a jail, and hold court. Your authority is good, so there’s no need to feel that you’re a jackleg lawman.”

  Shawn considered Fisher’s words. “When do you want me to start—if I take it?”

  “Immediately—tonight if possible. Not later than tomorrow.”

  “What about your partner?”

  “It’ll be all right with Amos. He’s away on business, but what I do is always jake with him. We’ve got a big investment here, and we’ve got to protect it.”

  “I can understand that. Does the job mean looking after everything else around here, too—the stores and all?”

  Bart Fisher nodded. “Amos and I own it all, every square foot. We bought the land, built the buildings, put in the stores and businesses. We hire people to run them for us—that way we’ve got no competition, not in anything. Anybody wants to buck us, they’ll have to set up outside the town limits, which covers a square mile.”

  “Sure got it all your own way,” Red murmured, coming into the conversation.

  “That’s how it should be. We
put up the cash to build Babylon. We’re entitled to a big return on our money.”

  “I’m not saying you ain’t, but I’m bleeding for them in places like Dodge who don’t have it your way. Heard when I was there that there’s nineteen saloons and only twelve hundred people in the town. Bar owners there sure ain’t going to get rich.”

  Irritation stirred through Fisher as he considered the redhead. “It’s the truth, and you’ll find just about the same situation everywhere else. It’s the reason Amos and I decided to do it this way—build our own town so’s we could control it.” Abruptly the gambler turned to Shawn. “What’s your answer? Job pays a hundred a month and keep. You want it or not?”

  Starbuck shrugged. “I done a time as a deputy sheriff once. I don’t expect this will be much different.”

  Fisher extended his hand, enclosed that of Shawn. “We’ve got a deal. Like for you to start tonight if you can.”

  “No problem.”

  “Fine. The marshal’s office is open. You’ll find your badge in the desk drawer, and I’m officially swearing you in as of now. Living quarters are off the jail. Put your horse in the stable next door ... Now, anything else you want to know?”

  “About covers it unless you’ve got some special orders.”

  “None,” the gambler said, rising. “I’ll leave it up to you to arrange your rounds—bearing in mind that the biggest part of your time is to be spent inside the Palace. Just keep things in hand, that’s what we’re interested in—but do it without hurting business.”

  Starbuck gave that a moment’s thought. “You mean you don’t want any arrests made?”

  “Not necessarily. I’ll leave that up to you, and if it’s something that needs a trial, Amos is the judge. He’ll hold court and pass sentence ... Oh, maybe there is one thing I ought to tell you—keep an eye on the Flophouse.”

  “Flophouse?”

  “Place out back,” Red explained. “Like a bunkhouse. Man goes broke in here, he can throw his bedroll down in there—no charge, free for nothing.”

  “Simply good business,” Fisher said stiffly. “We figure it’s better to give a man a place to sleep than have him go to the hotel, rent a room, and then not have the money to pay for it. Only one rule: We won’t stand for any gambling there—not any kind. If a man’s got some cash, we want it spent in here, not forked over to some two-bit cardsharp.”

  “Which boils down to a man’s being welcome to spread his blanket in the Flophouse if he’s dead broke,” Shawn said.

  “Exactly,” Fisher replied. “Be seeing you later.”

  The gambler moved off toward the bar. Starbuck watched him hand the bottle of liquor, apparently his own private stock used for special occasions, to one of the bartenders and head on into the crowded casino area.

  “You need a job that bad?” Red asked in a disgusted tone of voice.

  Shawn turned to face the husky man.

  “No,” he said quietly. “Fact is, I don’t need a job at all, but since I figure to hang around for a spell, I might as well get paid for doing it.”

  Red grinned. “Makes sense,” he admitted, his manner changing. “Fellow has a chance to get money out of this place would be a fool not to grab it ... Sure about the only way you’ll ever see any of their cash.”

  “I was trying to line you up for a little of it—as my deputy.”

  “Not me. Be glad to pitch in, give you a hand if it’s ever needful, but I ain’t wearing no star.”

  “It don’t hurt much ... How about bunking in with me? Expect my quarters’ll be big enough for two.”

  “No thanks—again. Got myself a good room in the hotel. As soon stay put.”

  “Suit yourself, but if you go busted, offer stands. Be better than moving into the Flophouse.”

  The redhead smiled, nodded. “Appreciate that.”

  Starbuck pushed back from the table. “I think I’d better see to my horse and move my blanket roll into my new home. What time you aim to eat?”

  “Six o’clock or thereabouts.”

  Shawn drew himself upright, bobbed his head. “Fine. Meet you at the restaurant.”

  It was not until Starbuck had reached, and was passing through, the ornate doorway that the realization came to him; Red had never, during their conversation, stated his real name. Such could only mean there was a reason why he wished his identity to remain hidden.

  There was nothing unusual in that, however. Likely a third of the men in the Babylon Palace at that very moment were using a name other than the one they were christened with—and it was neither polite nor safe to dig into the reason why.

  And Shawn had no intentions of doing so. He liked the husky redhead, and while he had encountered and become associated with many other men during his wandering across the land, Red was the first to strike so deep a responsive chord within him. He could furnish himself with no good explanation as to why; certainly he had known other men for longer periods of time, had even undergone higher stress and weathered greater danger with some, but he had never permitted any of them to become a close friend.

  With Red it was different. It seemed they had been acquainted for years although the actual length of their friendship barely bridged an hour. Starbuck frowned as a thought came to him: Could it be that the redhead reminded him of old Hiram? Of Ben?

  Seven

  There was little noticeable difference between day and night in Babylon. The wheels of chance continued to whirr and click, the dice to roll. The card tables remained occupied while the women plied their trade and the barmen served their drinks as sundown came and darkness clothed the land.

  Shawn, his horse stabled, pleased with his quarters—which were separate from, but connected to, his office in the jail—and wearing the badge of his calling, stood at the foot of the stairway in the noisy, glittering Palace and marveled at the shifting, surging crowd.

  He had expected to see a decrease in the number of men at the ending of day. The exact opposite appeared to be true. Those already present seemed uninterested in departing, or in even taking time out for a meal, while a steady, if thin stream of newcomers continued to arrive. It was as if each man feared the days of the fabulous Palace were numbered and was frantically determined to partake of its offerings as fully as possible before Armageddon prevailed.

  Moving off the lower step of the stair, Shawn cruised slowly through the throng, speaking to those acknowledging him, searching the faces of all. Occasionally he would pause, and if someone chose to engage him in conversation, he fell into the exchange willingly—and eventually brought up the subject of his missing brother.

  He learned nothing of value, however, but such dismayed him little. Many previous disappointments had hardened him to possibilities, and he had come to accept failure with a brief shrug of his broad shoulders. That he would find Ben when he found him was a philosophy aptly suited to the situation, and he left it at that.

  A fight broke out at the blackjack table near the middle of the evening. Two riders in disagreement over some personal matter and deciding to settle it where they stood squared off. Starbuck stepped between them before the first blow was struck and, taking each by an arm, propelled them into the street.

  The desire for combat ended there. The two men, scowling darkly, singled out their horses at the rack, mounted, and swung west on the road that led to Raton Pass and New Mexico.

  The disturbance created no more than a ripple in the Palace’s swirling existence. Shawn’s re-entry into the building was noted only by Red, who was again at his same table near the end of the bar where he was content to nurse a drink in solitude. Favoring Starbuck with a faintly derisive smile, he nodded his approval nevertheless as the tall rider passed by.

  Minutes later there was a dispute at one of the poker tables. Fisher beckoned hurriedly to Shawn over the heads of the men crowded about, and he moved in quickly. At his appearance belligerence faded from the manner of the narrow-faced player involved, and the matter was settled. The mere presence
of a lawman in the Palace did much to keep things on an even keel, it seemed, and Starbuck reckoned that such was as it should be.

  Moving on, Shawn turned his steps toward the bar and then paused. Two men standing beyond one of the faro tables caught his attention. Both looked familiar, and then he realized they were part of the gang that had been with Hake Dallman. Evidently all had not left Babylon after the encounter. It could mean more trouble later on.

  He discarded his intention to return to the stair from which he had a good, overall view of the establishment’s activities and pushed on through the crowd looking for Dallman himself and others of his party. After an hour or so he gave it up. Either they were not present or they were aware of his interest and were skillfully avoiding him.

  Around midnight he had a cup of black coffee in a room behind the bar with Pete and one of the dealers. A small kitchen had been set up where light snacks could be had without going outside the Palace to the cafe.

  “Pretty good night,” Pete said. Then remembering, he added, “Marshal, this here’s Ollie Cates. Works the tables ... Ollie, the new marshal’s name is Shawn Starbuck.”

  Cates was a quiet-faced man with a pinched mouth. He took Starbuck’s hand into his own, squeezed it limply.

  “Shawn? Sounds Indian,” he observed with no particular interest.

  “It is,” Starbuck replied. “My ma once taught some kids of the Shawnee tribe—she was a teacher. Took the name from that.”

  Cates bobbed his head. “Didn’t think you looked much Indian.”

  Shawn sipped at his cup of the strong, black liquid and listened as Pete explained to the dealer his search for Ben. When he had finished, Cates shrugged his thin shoulders.

  “Hell, I don’t pay no mind to the suckers I’m dealing to. Just faces, that’s all they are to me—and they all look alike. If I ever hear that name, however, I’ll remember and let you know. Pretty good at names.”

  Two of the girls came into the room, one a plump brunette in a shiny green dress and wearing a tag with Anna printed upon it, the other a slim Mexican with large, doe like eyes and smooth, dusky skin that glowed in the lamplight. She was called Chica.