Shawn Starbuck Double Western 3

by Ray Hogan

  Seventeen

  All the long days and nights, all the lonely trails, the endless miles, the countless times he’d asked his question—perhaps such was coming to an end. The search could be over.

  Shawn dared permit that thought to lodge firmly in his mind as he mounted the sorrel and rode from Babylon. Never before, after that first time when he had felt so certain he knew where Ben was and met disappointment instead, had he allowed himself the luxury of believing he had come to the end of the chase.

  This time it was different. Word had been brought to him, and his brother had been called by name—not Damon Friend or some other alias, but Ben. That alone seemed proof enough.

  He guessed the inquiries he had made at every opportunity had paid off after all. Time and again, when he had asked of Ben and received only empty stares and negative responses, he had felt he had simply wasted breath. But somewhere along the line someone had listened and remembered, and now he was on his way to meet the man he had sought for so long.

  Starbuck took a deep breath and looked out over the vast Kansas prairie undulating gracefully as it stretched off to the horizon. The sun was up and warming the land from a clean, blue sky; larks wheeled and dipped above the bronzed grass, and the freshness of the day was as a tonic to him.

  Forgotten were all the problems in Babylon: Jenny, Bart Fisher, Amos McGraw, and the killer he would one day have to face in the man’s behalf. Ben and the need to see him again, renew their acquaintance and persuade him to his way of thinking—that was the matter to be considered. Babylon and all its troubles would still be there waiting when he returned.

  Evidently Ben was working for some rancher. He likely would be surprised when he learned of their father’s death and that he had been the object of a long search. Too, Ben must be made to realize the importance of returning to Muskingum with him and settling the estate. Ben would agree. His quarrel had been with old Hiram, and he should bear no ill feeling toward anyone else ... Besides, if he was doing ordinary cowhand work, he would welcome his share of the estate.

  It could be, if they hit it off well, and there was no reason they shouldn’t as they had always gotten along, they might pool the cash they would be receiving—somewhat over thirty thousand dollars—and go into the cattle-raising business as partners.

  He knew of several fine spreads that could be bought at a reasonable price, or if they so decided, they could start from scratch and build their ranch from the ground up. Riding across country as he had been doing for so long, he had seen a lot of places, well watered and deep in rich grass, that would offer fine possibilities.

  Together they—Shawn grinned self-consciously as some of Hiram Starbuck’s hard-surfaced practicability reclaimed him, forced him to put such thoughts from his mind. What the hell—Ben could be one with not the slightest desire to become a rancher. He could prefer to take his share of the money and just drift about, seeing all the country he had missed, visiting towns he had never gone to, and living a life of ease.

  He himself had had enough wandering.

  He was ready to settle down on a place of his own and think about a wife and a family and the warm comforts and complete satisfaction of a home of his own. Too many times he had pulled up on the crest of a hill, with the quiet, dark night all around him, and looked down at the lighted windows of some man’s personal castle and felt the sharp stab of loneliness and the feeling of being cut off, of being apart—the only man in a vast, silent world. He had had his fill of that; once he received his share of the estate, that way of life was over.

  He was obligated to return to Babylon, and he reckoned the thing to do was set up plans for a meeting there with Ben. He would return then to the Palace, fulfill his promise to Jenny, and advise McGraw and Fisher that he was pulling out, that they should find themselves a new lawman.

  It was only right that he stay on the job until they located a replacement, however, but he guessed Ben would not object to hanging around a place like the Palace for a few days ... Hell—there was the answer as to how he could get Jenny to Dodge City! Instead of asking Red, he would get Ben to make the trip.

  Starbuck pulled up short. On a distant slope he caught sight of a broad, dark mass gliding slowly along under the bright sun. A lump crowded into his throat. He swallowed hard. There was the herd ... and Ben ...

  Roweling the sorrel, he broke the big gelding into a fast lope, angling toward the riders he could see near the front of the cattle. One of them would be the owner or the trail boss; time would be saved by going first to him, asking where Ben could be found.

  The men halted, wheeled to face him as he pounded across the last draw and raced toward them. One, an elderly individual with a handlebar mustache, considered him with puzzled blue eyes as he drew up.

  “Name’s Starbuck,” Shawn said, nodding. “Looking for my brother.”

  The older man bobbed his head. “And mine’s Wilson, and I sure don’t know nobody named Starbuck.”

  The two punchers siding him laughed. Wilson favored them with a slow glance, then said, “Better keep after them cows, boys ... I’ll be along.” He came back then to Shawn. “What makes you think this brother of your’n’s around here?”

  A tightness filled Starbuck as the edge of anticipation dulled. “I was told he was. Name’s Ben—Ben Starbuck. Or he could be calling himself Damon Friend.”

  The rancher gave the names deep thought. Finally, he shook his head. “Somebody must’ve been funning you. Ain’t nobody by them handles working for me.”

  The stiffness in Shawn’s throat made his words sound harsh. “I was sure he’d be here—”

  “Well, he ain’t.”

  “Yours the only herd moving across here?”

  “Only one,” Wilson said. “Marketing’s all done with. This is some stock I bought from a fellow down in New Mexico. Got ’em cheap or I sure wouldn’t be making no drive this time of year. Too dang dry ... Who was it said you’d find your brother with my outfit?”

  Starbuck shifted wearily on his saddle. He had acted like a kid. He had jumped and run without asking any questions of the man who had brought him the message.

  “I never got his name. Just told me a fellow had stopped him on the trail, asked him to carry word to me. I’m the marshal in Babylon.”

  Wilson grinned. “I know the place. Been there once, and I sure ain’t ever going back. Cost me nigh upwards of a thousand dollars to find out I couldn’t beat that chuck-a-luck game ... Sure a passel of mighty pretty females hanging around there, howsomever.”

  Shawn was barely listening. As the first surge of bitter disappointment, tempered fortunately by many previous and similar experiences, began to dwindle and cold reason take over, the wonder of why he had been sent on a long, useless ride crowded into his mind. Who had gone to such pains—and for what reason? Was it only that someone was playing a joke on him?

  Perhaps, but he doubted it. Those who knew of his intense search for Ben would realize he would not take kindly to such a hoax and forego the idea ... Of course there were those like Tom Gannon who might like to get back at him, but Starbuck’s thoughts came to a standstill. Could it have been a plan to get him out of Babylon? Could that be the purpose underlying his fruitless ride? If so, who was responsible for it?

  The answer to that came quickly: Amos McGraw’s killer.

  Eighteen

  Starbuck brought his attention back to the rancher. “I think I know what this is all about,” he said. “It was just a trick.”

  Wilson leaned forward on his saddle, resting his muscles. “Well, one thing I sure know. I ain’t never had nobody with them names riding for me. What’s this here brother of your’n look like?”

  “Probably some like me. He could be shorter, maybe heavier.”

  “Don’t help none, either. Was I to run into a fellow like that, what’ll I tell him?”

  “That I’m looking for him,” Shawn answered; then he paused, giving the matter thought. After a moment he continued. “I d
oubt if I’ll be around Babylon much longer. You do come across Ben, say I’ll be in Santa Fe, to look me up there.”

  “Sure will,” the rancher said. “Luck.”

  Shawn nodded and swung around, the belief that he had been purposely drawn away from the settlement now a conviction with him. It was the only logical explanation for what had happened. Digging spurs into the gelding, he pointed the big horse west. He could only hope that his return would not be too late.

  He rode into Babylon around midday, the sorrel breathing hard and showing sweat from the fast ride. A dozen or so men were gathered on the gallery of the Palace, and as he swept up to the rack, all wheeled to meet him.

  “Been a killing, marshal!” a man in the front shouted as he swung from the saddle.

  “McGraw?”

  The rider’s face showed surprise. He bobbed his head. “How’d you know?”

  Starbuck swore quietly. He had been right. It had been a plan to get him out of the way; by his leaving he had left Amos McGraw at the mercy of the killer ... He had failed the man—regardless of what he thought of him, he had failed him, had fallen down on his job.

  “Guessed,” he replied in a wooden voice, and hurried up onto the gallery.

  “That ain’t all,” another voice called after him. “Fisher’s bad shot up, too. Doc says he ain’t going to make it.” Fisher ... He hadn’t been one marked for death. Evidently he had gotten in the way. “Anybody know who did it?”

  The man who had spoken first said, “It was that redheaded friend of yours—we think,” he replied, and then, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, fell silent.

  Red—McGraw’s killer!

  Shawn felt the impact of that information as forcibly as if he had been struck across the face. He shook his head. We think, the rider had said. They weren’t sure.

  He turned again to the crowd intending to ask another question, but hesitated as he read the suspicion on their faces. They were wondering if he and the redhead had arranged the matter, if he had conveniently absented himself from Babylon in order for Red to have a clear opportunity.

  “You can forget what you’ve got in your minds,” he snapped. “I had no part in it. Where’s Red now?”

  “He got away, riding south. Think maybe he’s got lead in him. The bartender—Pete Dison—got off a shot when he run for it.”

  “Anybody go after him?”

  “Nope. Weren’t nobody that anxious to get hisself shot. Besides, we was all waiting for you—you being the marshal.”

  Shawn moved on into the strangely dark and silent Palace. He crossed the deserted floor, heels echoing hollowly on the boards, and made his way to the office in the rear where he could see several men and women gathered. At his approach they all pulled back, allowed him to enter. Pete greeted him with a solemn nod.

  “Glad you’re back. Reckon you’ve heard what happened?”

  “I was told. How’s Fisher?”

  “Dying slow. Ain’t got a chance ... You find your brother? Bessie told us where you’d gone.”

  “It was only a trick to get me out of town. McGraw do any talking before he died?”

  “Wasn’t in no shape to. Three slugs—killed him right off.”

  Shawn glanced about at the sullen, accusing faces turned to him. McGraw was not liked, was even hated by most, but he was dead, and they blamed him. And in the eyes of some he saw also the same suspicion he had recognized outside on the Palace’s porch. Shrugging, he pushed that disturbing realization to the back of his mind and wheeled to Dison.

  “They told me it was Red who did it—or that you think it was.”

  “Pretty sure, marshal,” the barman replied. “Didn’t get no good look at him. Reckon nobody did. I was the only one that seen the killer riding off down the alley. Grabbed up McGraw’s pistol, got me off a shot. Either hit him or his horse.”

  “Then you’re not sure ... Know what happened?”

  “Can’t say much about it. Was just after we closed down this morning. I expect you’d just rode off, judging from what Bessie said. I was behind the bar doing some fixing and heard somebody start shooting back upstairs in McGraw’s room.

  “I run up there in a hurry. About halfways up the stairs I heard a couple of more shots. I sort of hung back then a bit, not knowing what I was getting into. Some of the girls was yelling, too, and a bunch of the customers was coming in from the street.

  “I went on then, and the first thing I seen when I got up on the balcony was Bart laying there at Amos’s door. Seems he heard the shooting, too, went to see what was going on, and got himself plugged.”

  “Red—or whoever it was doing the shooting—was he still in McGraw’s room?”

  “No, he’d jumped out the window and dropped to the ground. He had his horse waiting right below, I guess. I seen Amos was dead so I grabbed up his iron and run to the window. Fellow was legging it out fast. I shot at him, but like I said, I ain’t for sure I hit him.”

  “And you couldn’t tell for certain that it was Red?”

  “No, I can’t swear it, but I think so.”

  “Anybody looked around town to see if he’s still here?”

  The bartender shook his head. “Ain’t nobody seen him ... And they say his horse is gone.”

  Starbuck looked down. There could be an explanation for the redhead’s absence, of course; he could have ridden out early on some errand, or possibly he had simply decided to move on, but Shawn found such reasoning thin and hard to accept. Everything pointed to the redhead, and if true, then he had been in Babylon all the time, had just waited until McGraw, feeling safe again, had returned ... And Red, feeling the ties of friendship and not wanting to involve him in a shoot-out, had arranged for the message that had taken him out of town and away from trouble.

  “You’re going after him, ain’t you, marshal?” one of the dealers asked. “It was murder, no matter how you look at it—and you’re the law.”

  “I’ll go after whoever did it,” Starbuck replied. “I first got to know who the man was. I’d like to talk to Fisher if—”

  Gilman came into the room, his features stern. “Bart Fisher’s dead,” he announced in a businesslike tone, facing Starbuck. “Regained consciousness near the end. He said to tell you the killer was Red—your friend.”

  Shawn drew up slowly. It was true then. There could be no doubt since Fisher barely knew the redhead and would have no reason to lie.

  “Something else he told me, said to pass on,” the physician continued, transferring his attention to the others. “It wasn’t known, but Bessie is Amos McGraw’s lawful wife. He hasn’t had anything to do with her for years, but he let her hang around so’s she wouldn’t starve—as long as she never told anybody about the connection ... She’s owner of Babylon now, and you’re all working for her.”

  Starbuck heard the murmur that ran through the crowd, felt a start of surprise as he turned away. He understood Bessie now—her harsh words and defiant attitude. But the thought was fleeting. Foremost now in his mind was Red and the obligation he had to go after the man who was his friend and bring him to justice.

  “You want some help, marshal?” Dison asked as he walked off. “I can get up a posse real quick.”

  “No, best I do it alone.”

  There was a long breath of silence, and then a voice in the crowd said, “You sure you aim to bring him back?”

  Shawn halted, came around slowly. His features were set, grim.

  “I’m sure,” he said quietly, and moved on.

  Nineteen

  The sorrel had been tired from the morning’s trip, and Starbuck fearing the possibility of a hard chase, took time to draw a fresh horse from the stable. Mounting he rode from Babylon, pointing south, the direction that all agreed Red had taken.

  He was finding it hard to accept the facts—that the redhead was the killer, that he had been duped by him. But there was no avoiding it; Pete Dison had been fairly sure, and Fisher’s dying statement had made it positive.

  W
hen he really thought about it, he guessed he had no valid reason to question it. He scarcely knew Red, had met him more or less by accident in the Palace that evening when he had been braced by Hake Dallman and his crowd. After that they had spoken together, had a few meals in Bessie’s cafe—and that was it.

  He could see now that Red had intentionally held their friendship to a minimum, knowing that he would kill Amos McGraw at the first good opportunity; aware that Shawn was paid to prevent the very act he planned to commit, he made certain their acquaintanceship did not grow into one of proportions.

  Starbuck appreciated that, but it could make no difference in what he must do. The badge he wore was real, one recognized by the county and by the state of Kansas as well. With it came the duty all lawmen accepted: An outlaw must be brought to justice regardless of identity or circumstances. If an exception was to be made, the law would make it. Such was not up to the discretion of the man wearing the star.

  Perhaps Red had good reason to kill. Fisher’s, of course, was unplanned and came about when the gambler sought to interfere. McGraw had died for something out of the past, and his death had certainly been carefully plotted.

  The reason, whatever its nature, might have a bearing on a judge’s final decision, once Red stood trial. It could be that he was justified in killing Amos McGraw, and possibly Bart Fisher, also—both of whom undoubtedly had done much in their lifetimes to deserve such fate ... But Red’s reason would need to be a good one—and again, it was the law that would make that determination.

  Shawn’s thoughts were dark as he rode steadily south on the tough little buckskin he had chosen. The prints of Red’s horse had not been hard to pick up. He had spotted the marks—a deep-set trail made by a fast-running mount—coming out of the alley and leading south almost at once.

  A mile or so below the settlement, Red had veered onto the main road, apparently realizing that his horse could travel faster on its firm, well-beaten soil than on the less solid footing of open country.