Shawn Starbuck Double Western 3

by Ray Hogan

“Far as I’m concerned, it’s already stopped,” Starbuck said. “Starting tomorrow every man coming in will have to check his gun at the door. I’ll talk to you about that later.”

  He waited no longer, but moved hurriedly into the saloon, cut through the crowd that appeared either unaware or uninterested in the assault of the jail planned by Gannon’s friends, and passed through the doorway.

  Reaching the street, Starbuck threw his glance toward the end of the building. The Texans had halted in front of the feed store and were tearing a packing crate to bits for torches.

  Moving fast, he ducked into the livery stable, ran its length to the rear, and entering the alley, circled the structure to reach his own quarters. Walking through them, he came into the jail just as Gannon’s friends crowded up to the entrance. Snatching a shotgun from the rack, Shawn stepped forward to block them.

  “Back off!” he yelled, leveling the weapon.

  The dozen or so men hesitated, fell back a step, the flaming torches held above their heads flickering brightly, lending a ruddy glow to their angry faces.

  “We’re wanting Tom Gannon, marshal ... Turn him loose!” a voice cried.

  “I’m not about to,” Starbuck replied evenly.

  “What the hell you jug him for?” another demanded. “Man’s got a right to stand and draw.”

  “He can do it anytime he likes as long as he’s out in the open where nobody else’ll get hurt.”

  “Is it murder you’re holding him for?”

  “Disturbing the peace ... Move on—or you’ll all be in there locked up with him.”

  “Just you try locking—”

  The crowd parted. Amos McGraw, sided by Fisher, moved briskly up to the landing, halted just outside the doorway.

  “It’s all right, boys,” McGraw said, facing the muttering, threatening punchers. “No need for this ... The marshal’s only doing his job.”

  “Maybe—but we ain’t letting him keep Tom—”

  “He won’t,” McGraw answered, holding both hands aloft for silence. “I’m judge here in Babylon. I’ll straighten things out for you.”

  Starbuck, lowering his shotgun, turned angrily to the older man. “You want things kept under control around here, you claim. Interfering’s not going to make it—”

  “I’m not interfering,” McGraw responded smoothly. “Just speeding up justice a bit, holding trial now. What’s the charge?”

  “Disturbing the peace—”

  McGraw looked out over the Texans. “Charge against your friend Gannon is for disturbing the peace. I’m naming you the jury. Is he guilty?”

  There was no immediate answer. McGraw waited a long minute, then said, “Is there any doubt in your minds that he fired off a pistol inside the Babylon Palace?”

  “No, reckon not,” a rider in the front of the crowd said. “But you can’t—”

  “Then he is guilty as charged. It’s my duty to fine him twenty-five dollars—”

  A howl of disagreement went up. McGraw again raised his hands, palms out, for silence. Bart Fisher stepped up onto the landing. Reaching into a pocket, he produced a roll of currency. Peeling off several of the bills, he passed them to Shawn.

  “Here you are, marshal—money for Gannon’s fine. Now you can turn him loose.”

  Another shout echoed into the night.

  Starbuck stared at the money, baffled, for a brief time; then, wheeling, he turned back into his office. Dropping the bills on his desk, he stood the shotgun against the rack and, taking the keys, unlocked the cell and permitted the grinning Gannon to step out.

  “My iron,” the puncher said, halting in the center of the room.

  Shawn jerked open a drawer, recovered the Texan’s pistol, and handed it to him.

  “Keep it in the leather, long as you’re around here,” he warned quietly.

  Tom Gannon’s grin widened. “Sure will, marshal,” he said, and swaggered out to join his friends.

  Starbuck followed the man to the doorway. The Texans broke into cheers at once, some rushing forward to claim their member and pound him on the back. A little to one side of the milling men, Shawn caught sight of Red. The husky rider, arms crossed upon his chest, was watching it all with a look of dry amusement on his features.

  “You satisfied, marshal?”

  At Amos McGraw’s question, Starbuck came about. The two owners of the settlement were standing beside his desk.

  “Everything’s all settled—and no harm done.”

  “Doesn’t make much sense—”

  “Does to us,” the older man said flatly. “We don’t want anybody, especially the trail hands, going away sore. Business depends on them and their coming back to Babylon every chance they get. Paying Gannon’s fine makes everybody happy—them, you, and us.”

  “Nobody loses,” Bart Fisher added.

  Shawn admitted silently that such was fact. No one was out anything since the money collected as a fine went back into the pockets of McGraw and Fisher—but insofar as the law was concerned, it was a mockery.

  “Maybe so, but you might as well not have a marshal. Idea will get around fast that a man can get away with anything here as long as he’s a big spender.”

  “I suppose so—eventually,” McGraw murmured, wiping at the sweat on his face. “But you’ve got to bear in mind that Babylon is a place where trail hands—along with anybody else—can blow off steam. We’re willing to take our chances on how they do it, long as they blow their cash here, too.”

  “This the way you’ve been doing it all along?”

  “Mostly. Been a few times when we let the prisoner pay off himself. Try to avoid that, however, when it’s a bunch like those Texans. They’re usually pretty wild and don’t much give a damn what they do.”

  “In other words it’s all according to who it is. If the man’s not apt to fight back or doesn’t have a bunch of friends with him, you take his money. If it’s somebody like Gannon, you pay off for him yourself.”

  “About the size of it,” McGraw drawled. “And we’re still in business and going strong.”

  Starbuck looked down at the star pinned to his shirt. Little by little it was becoming less meaningful. To him the law was a living fact, a trust to be maintained and not circumvented. He shook his head slowly.

  “I don’t know about this. Maybe—”

  “I’ve been thinking about something you said,” McGraw went on. “I was talking it over with Bart.”

  “About making customers check their guns when they come into the Palace,” Fisher added, noting Shawn’s frown. “We think you’ve got a smart idea.”

  “I figure we could set up a rack just inside the door,” the older man said. “We’d keep somebody standing right there, maybe a deputy, to look after it.”

  “I thought we’d nail up a sign outside saying that anybody entering had to check his weapon,” Bart Fisher continued. “That ought to eliminate a lot of argument.”

  “It works in Dodge City,” Starbuck said. “Should here, too.”

  “No doubt will, especially if you’re standing around to see that it’s done—friendly like, of course.”

  “Of course,” Shawn repeated dryly. “We don’t want to rile anybody.”

  “Exactly. I can’t see as it’ll cause any problems. A man knowing every other man in the place is unarmed won’t buck at checking his gun.”

  “I was thinking, too,” Fisher said, staring off through the doorway at Gannon and his friends, now mounting their horses at the rack preparatory to riding on, “be one way of stopping whoever this fellow is who’s supposed to be coming after Amos—”

  “Supposed to be!” McGraw snapped. “No doubt in my mind about it!”

  “None in mine, either,” the gambler said hastily.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Anyway, making everybody coming into the Palace hand over his pistol ought to make it easier for you to spot him.”

  “How?” Shawn wondered.

  “Anybody refusing to obey th
e rule will bear watching.”

  “Unless McGraw’s outside—in the open.”

  “I never do much of that,” the older man said.

  “You came here—”

  “Could say this was an emergency. It won’t happen again—leastwise I’m hoping you won’t let it,” McGraw added pointedly.

  Starbuck made no answer, only shrugged.

  “Anyway, the plan’s bound to help. We’ll put it in effect tomorrow.”

  Abruptly McGraw turned for the door and, followed by Bart Fisher, moved out into the street. Shawn stepped to the opening, halted. The Texans were pulling away, all laughing noisily and shouting back and forth. As the owners of the Palace drew abreast, they raised their hands and yelled something that drew cheers from the drovers as they spurred off.

  Starbuck watched McGraw and Fisher gain the porch of the gambling house, then cross and disappear into its brightly lit interior. Coming back around, his eyes fell upon the money laying on his desk. Fisher had neglected to reclaim it.

  Stuffing it into his shirt pocket, he turned down the lamps and started for the door. He would take it to the gambler, spend a few more hours in the Palace, and then make his rounds of the business houses—sparing time to drop by and visit Jenny and to tell her that she was free to depart whenever she felt physically able. After that he was turning in—not so much because he was tired. It was simply that he wanted to be alone to do some serious thinking about this job as the marshal of Babylon.

  Sixteen

  There were three patrons in the cafe that next morning when Shawn, after a somewhat restless night, entered. All were cowhands en route to some distant point, up early in the interests of getting a good start. As Starbuck moved across the room to his customary table near the window, he nodded to them. They responded coolly.

  The hell with all of you, he thought, and settled down. Bessie emerged from the rear of the establishment bringing coffee and setting it before him. “You waiting for your friend?”

  “No, expect he’ll be along shortly,” Shawn replied. “Bring me the usual.”

  “Jenny’s doing fine,” the older woman said grudgingly.

  “I know that. I saw her last night. Obliged to you.”

  Bessie’s thick shoulders moved. “Ain’t nothing,” she said, and headed back for the kitchen. A solitary rider came in on the east road, paused to stare at the Babylon Palace, and then swung into the livery stable. Somewhere back of all the buildings a dog barked nervously. The three punchers arose, dropped coins on the table for their meal, and stamped out heavily, looking neither right nor left as they walked toward the hitch rack.

  Bessie reentered the room and crossed to him with his order of bacon and eggs. Placing it before him, she pulled back a chair opposite, sat down, her overripe features drawn into a frown.

  Shawn gave her a close look. “Something wrong?”

  “I’ve been thinking about Jenny.”

  He paused, a forkful of meat and eggs halfway to his mouth. “What about her?”

  “She’s planning strong on leaving here.”

  Starbuck nodded. “I told her she could when she was ready.”

  “You for sure meaning it?”

  “Hell, yes, I mean it!” he replied impatiently, hesitating again.

  The woman shifted her bulk. “What about McGraw?”

  “I already told him. Be no problem.”

  “That’s sure mighty funny. He ain’t never let one of them go before unless he figured they wasn’t no good to him no more ... Then he run them off himself.”

  “It could be that’s all going to change.”

  Shawn felt that woman’s eyes drilling into him. After a moment she said, “There some reason you’re doing this for Jenny—some private reason, I mean—like maybe you’re wanting her for yourself?”

  “No, just lending a hand.”

  A long sigh slipped from Bessie’s lips. “Jesus,” she murmured, “I guess I plumb forgot there was still folks like you around ... Just helping her ... Hard to believe.”

  “That’s the way it is. Figuring how to do it is the next thing. Not being any stagecoach running through here makes it a problem. She wants to go to Wichita.”

  “That was what she told me. Best thing’s for her to go to Dodge first. Be easy from there on.”

  Starbuck nodded. “Heard of anybody making the trip?”

  “Only drovers and cowhands—all riding horseback. Not many around here ever use a buggy except McGraw.”

  “I doubt if she’s in shape to fork a horse that far. Got to find some other way.”

  Bessie pursed her lips. “How about your friend Red? Maybe you could talk him into driving her. Kiefer at the stable’s got a buggy he rents out now and then.”

  Shawn’s head came up. “That’s the answer! Red’s just loafing around. I’m pretty sure he’ll be willing to do it. When’ll Jenny be able to leave?”

  “Better give her a couple more days. That Fisher beat her something fierce. The back side of her is nigh solid black from all the kicking he done.”

  “I had a little talk with him and McGraw both about that,” Starbuck said, his face hardening. “Maybe it won’t happen again—not to any of the women.”

  Bessie laughed. “You’re funning yourself, mister! Them two don’t know no other way to treat a woman. Beating just comes natural to them ... And you telling me they’re letting Jenny go still don’t sound right. I’m betting they stop her.”

  “And I’ll lay odds that they don’t even try,” Shawn said, smiling, but there was a firmness in his tone that belied any humor.

  Bessie studied him briefly, then rose. Going to the kitchen, she obtained a small pot of coffee. Returning it to the table, she again sat down.

  “Well, I’ll be hoping for the best,” she said, refilling his cup. “But dealing with them two’s like playing patty-cake with a couple of rattlesnakes. Just can’t ever be sure of anything.”

  Starbuck took a sip of the hot coffee. “You known McGraw a long time?”

  “Longer’n anybody around here, I suspect.”

  “Maybe you’ve got some idea then who it is that’s coming to kill him.”

  “Sure—ten, maybe twenty different men. Could be even more, considering all the places he’s been and the enemies he’s made.”

  “Not much help there. Way it is, I don’t know who to watch for.”

  “And you probably won’t until it’s too late.”

  “Something I’d like to avoid. Got him and Fisher to agree to make every man check his gun when he comes into the Palace. Ought to help some.”

  “Ain’t you never heard of sleeve guns and belly guns, marshal? Be a plenty of them walking around armed just the same as if they was packing a pistol in a holster.”

  “I realize that, and it’s the big reason why I need some kind of an idea who the killer might be.”

  Bessie stared out through the window. The man who had ridden in earlier was coming out of the stable, bending his steps toward the restaurant.

  “I’d like to help, marshal, but I sure don’t have no ideas. Like I said, Amos’s made a passel of enemies—and that’s a God’s fact. The Palace ain’t the first big, fancy house he’s put up and run. Been three, maybe four just like it in other towns—and a man can’t spit and tromp on folks like he’s done all his life and get away with it forever.”

  “You with him in the other places?”

  The woman nodded, her gaze now reaching out across the prairie. “Yeah, I was,” she said in a faraway voice. “There was a time when I was like Jenny, all the other girls ... Young and pretty—just as pretty as that one he brung in from Dodge—”

  “Expect you were.”

  Bessie turned to him at once and gave him a wide smile. “I’m obliged to you for saying that—even if maybe you are just being polite ... You must’ve had a fine upbringing.”

  Shawn sloshed the coffee in his cup about absently. “They were fine people. I owe them a lot.”

  �
��They gone now?”

  “Yes, only my brother and me are left—and I’m not sure about him. Sometimes I think he’s dead, too.”

  “But being the kind you are, you just go right on hunting him,” the woman said, a note of admiration in her voice. She twisted about and looked up at the rider entering the doorway. “Have yourself a seat, mister, I’ll be right with you.”

  The man, dusty from what had evidently been a long ride, pulled off his hat. “No hurry, ma’am,” he said as Bessie pulled herself upright. He shifted his attention to Starbuck. “Marshal?”

  Shawn bobbed his head. “Something I can do for you?”

  “Nope, it’s something I can maybe do for you—if you’re the one looking for a brother.”

  Starbuck came to quick alert. “That’s me. What about my brother?”

  “Well, was this’a way. I bumped into a fellow heading south last night, a piece east of here. About twenty mile or so. He asked me was I coming by here. I said yes, I sure was. He said I could do him and you a mighty big favor.”

  Starbuck nodded, waited impatiently for the rider to get to the point.

  “He said when I got here to look you up first thing, tell you that this brother of your’n—Ben, I recollect he called him—was with a trail drive about ten mile north of where we was.”

  “Trail drive—this time of year?”

  The rider grinned. “Same thing hit me, and I said so. Fellow went on to say it weren’t no drive to Dodge or nothing like that. Was some rancher moving his herd ... anyway, that’s what I was to tell you, and I’ve done it.”

  Starbuck got to his feet, pulse quickening with each passing second ... At last a direct lead on Ben—and a seemingly definite one at that. He extended his hand to the rider.

  “Obliged to you, friend. I’ll head out right now—about twenty miles east and ten north. I sure do appreciate your taking the trouble.”

  “Glad to help, marshal,” the man replied, and moved on to a table.

  Shawn wheeled to Bessie. “When Red shows up, tell him what happened and say I’d like for him to sort of look after things for me until I get back. It ought to be around noon.”

  The woman smiled, her eyes bright with the same excitement that was rushing through him. “Sure thing—and good luck!”