Shawn Starbuck Double Western 1

by Ray Hogan

  The foreman grinned maliciously. “Yeah, a real pity, ain’t it?”

  Brock and Rufe Mysak wheeled to follow Rutter. Pete glanced back over his shoulder. “Grandpa, you be sure and call us when supper’s ready, hear?”

  “I ain’t calling nobody. When grub’s ready, the cook’ll hammer on his bar. If you don’t come, then go without.”

  “Sure don’t want that to happen,” Mysak said, shaking his head. “Boys, we’d better keep our ears open.”

  Gage watched them until they had reached the crew’s quarters and entered and then looked at Shawn. “If them three are what Sam calls his friends, I figure he’s a lot better off with his enemies.”

  “Could cause you a lot of worry,” Starbuck admitted. “Don’t let them get under your hide.”

  “Well, Sam or no Sam, I don’t aim to take no sass off them. Now, what I was about to say—you’re wanting to clean up a mite—”

  “Horse trough will do me fine.”

  “Horse trough, hell! There’s a sink and a pump in my cabin. Use it. Bring your gear along, too, since you’ll be bunking with me.”

  Restless, unable to sleep despite his weariness, Starbuck sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed. An arm’s length away, Tom Gage snored in deep cadence. He guessed it was because Henry Smith could be Ben that he was finding it difficult to settle down. But it was always like that—the waiting, the not knowing, was hard.

  Slipping into pants and boots, he rose, crossed to the door and stepped out into the cool night. One window showed light in the main house; over everything lay a heavy silence. The smell of sage was strong in the air and far off a coyote gave voice to his loneliness.

  Almost at once an ease began to fill Shawn Starbuck, release the tautness, soothe the raw ends of his nerves. A serene patience came over him bringing contentment.

  Maybe this was where the search would end—here on Sam Underwood’s ranch. Gage had seemed to think Henry Smith fit what little description he had given of his brother; and there was the fact that the name—Henry Smith—in itself, didn’t exactly ring true. Men, wishing to hide their real identities, usually adopted the simplest, most commonplace designation they could think of.

  It was as good as any lead he’d had yet, Shawn thought as he strolled toward the corral into which he’d turned the chestnut. The cattle buyer and Tom Gage had both given him cause for hope.

  He halted, suddenly aware of three figures standing in the half dark to his left. Rufe Mysak’s voice came to him.

  “Doing some spying on us, cowboy?”

  Starbuck’s muscles tightened. He hadn’t expected to meet anyone at that hour of the night, much less these three.

  “Getting some air,” he replied.

  Rutter’s comment was dry. “Sure, and you just happened to come after that air on this side of the yard.”

  The solitary light in the main house blinked out. The thought came to Shawn that Rutter and the others had been visiting with Underwood. Probably hashing over old times in the army. He failed to understand what difference it made whether he had seen them or not. Spying?

  Vaguely irked, he said, “Suit yourself. That’s the way it is.”

  “I’ve got a hunch,” Rutter continued in that same, level voice, “that you’re going to step out in front of us once too often. Might be a real smart thing for you to get your belongings, saddle up, and ride on—now.”

  Starbuck came about slowly until his back was against the pole bars of the corral. He’d been a fool to come out without his gun, but then he doubted if they’d try using theirs ... And if it came to fists again. . . .

  “Best you overlook that hunch,” he said. “Happens I’m not ready to pull out. Expect I’ll be around a couple a days or so—more if need be. After I’ve done what I came for, I’ll move on.”

  “Could be we’ll do a little persuading,” Mysak said insinuatingly. “Now, Pete here feels he’s got a call coming. Was we to step in, give him a hand—”

  “And raise the whole damned place!” Rutter finished in disgust. “Show some sense, Rufe.”

  “Then let’s herd him off into the brush,” Brock said eagerly. “He ain’t packing no gun—and nobody’ll hear.”

  “Then what? Comes daylight and somebody finds him—”

  “What difference that make?”

  “Plenty, goddammit! Get it in your head—we don’t want to stir up trouble around here. Draw too much attention. We’ll leave it up to him—give him till noon tomorrow. If he ain’t gone by then, well, there’s plenty of open country we can bank on. You savvy what I’m driving at, Starbuck?”

  “Plain enough,” Shawn answered. “Only it doesn’t mean anything. I’ll pull out when I’m ready—and that’ll be after I’ve had a talk with the man I’m waiting for.”

  “I ain’t buying that,” Rutter said flatly.

  Mysak’s bulk shifted in the shadows as he turned to face the redhead. “You mean he ain’t hunting for no brother, like he claims?”

  “Just what I mean. I figure that’s a lot of bull, a way to hide what he really is.”

  Brock said, “What’s that?”

  “Let him tell you,” Rutter replied. “Talk up, Starbuck. You ain’t no plain cow-nurse. You don’t act like it and you don’t look like it. I’d say you was a lawman of some kind.”

  Shawn smiled into the darkness. “Done a lot of things moving round, looking for my brother. Never happened to take on a lawman’s job, though.”

  “More’n likely he’s some kind of hired gun,” Mysak said.

  “Wrong again.”

  A silence followed that, broken finally when Rutter said, “Anyway, can’t see as it matters none, one way or other. You got till noon tomorrow to haul freight, mister. If you’re still around then—well, you’d best start watching your back trail.”

  “I’ll be here,” Starbuck said in a soft voice, “unless I’ve finished with my business.”

  “Take my advice,” Rutter said. “Be finished.”

  Seven

  Starbuck said nothing to Tom Gage about his encounter with Rutter and his friends that next morning. The foreman was riled enough at being forced to add them to his already overloaded crew, and Shawn could see where little could be gained.

  As far as Rutter’s threats went, they meant nothing to him. He would stay, as he had declared, until Henry Smith returned and he was satisfied that the trail boss was or was not Ben.

  At the crew table in a room off the kitchen for the early meal, he sat next to Gage, acknowledged the introductions the older man felt inclined to make, and paid no attention to Guy Rutter, Brock, or Mysak who sat on the opposite side of the long counter. Gage introduced them also to the hands present grudgingly, and only out of necessity. As on most ranches, strangers riding across the open range were always suspect and required to identify themselves. It wouldn’t do to have Sam Underwood’s three army chums roped and ridden off the land by punchers bent only on doing their duty.

  Rutter finished the meal before Brock and Rufe. Rising, he sauntered over to where Gage and Starbuck were dawdling over a last cup of coffee. Most of the men had already moved on and were in the yard mounting up and heading out in the early morning light to assume their various jobs.

  “You got something special for us to do?” Rutter asked, picking at his teeth.

  Gage twisted half about on his chair. “Sure have. There’s a brake—four, maybe five miles south of here. Some of the boys are down there chasing strays out of the brush. Go down and give them a hand.”

  Brock and Mysak, finally through with their plates also, rose and moved to Rutter’s side. Brock assumed a pained expression, and said, “Now, that sounds like real hard work! I don’t calculate old Sam figured on us doing something like that.”

  Mysak grinned his wide, toothy grin. “Not us, no sir. We’re mighty close friends of his’n.”

  “I don’t give a hoot in hell who you are!” Gage roared, eyes blazing. “That’s what I’m telling you to do
, and if you don’t aim—”

  “What’s the trouble here?” Underwood’s voice came from the doorway.

  Gage jumped to his feet. “These here hands you hired—”

  “Never mind, Tom,” the rancher cut in soothingly. “I’ll see to them myself.” He hesitated and a forced smile came to his lips. “Don’t mind them, now. They always were great ones for joshing a man.”

  The old foreman stood in silence. Rutter and Brock wheeled, swaggered toward the waiting Underwood. Mysak nodded, said, “Sure, don’t you mind us none,” and followed his friends and the rancher into the yard.

  Gage, his face flushed to a bright red, swore deeply. “If that’s the way Sam Underwood wants this here ranch run, then, by damn, he can run it hisself,” he said, and started for the door.

  Starbuck caught him by the arm. “Don’t fly off the handle,” he murmured. “Just what they’re trying to do—get your goat. Let it ride. Underwood acts to me like a man who’s got himself some trouble. Worst favor you could do him is quit now.”

  The foreman relented, his gaze on the four men swinging to the saddle. After a moment he wheeled.

  “You know something I don’t?”

  Starbuck downed the last of his coffee, rose to his feet. “Nope, only that it’s not hard to spot a man who’s got a cougar by the tail.”

  Gage nodded slowly. “Kind of got that idea about Sam myself. Ain’t never seen him act like this.”

  “It’ll blow over. Everything always does. You want me to ride down, help with those strays in the brake?”

  “Hell no, I don’t!” Gage barked testily. “Was sending them there just to rid myself of them, not because I was needing them. You do what you please. Maybe I can think up a chore or two later.”

  “Sing out when you do,” Starbuck said. “Like to pay for my keep. I’ll be at the corral. Think I’ll rub down my horse. Haven’t given him a good going over in quite a spell.”

  The foreman bobbed his head. “Get anything you need from Manuel, in the stable. He looks after the boss’s horses. Be seeing you later. There’s a few things I got to do.”

  Shawn moved into the yard with Gage, turned off to the corral where he had put the chestnut. Slipping a halter on the big gelding, he led him to a hitch rack near the barn, sought out the hostler, and obtained a steel comb and a stiff brush.

  The gelding was still a bit shaggy from his winter coat, and there was considerable mud caked on his shanks and fetlocks, accumulated during their passage along the several creeks they’d encountered. His tail also nested more than a fair share of cockleburs.

  Shawn set to work and kept at it steadily for better than an hour. Soon the chestnut began to take on a new look; his reddish coat glowed sleekly in the sunlight while his white-stockinged legs became trim and clean. However, the burrs were hard to pick out. Many were deeply entwined in the coarse hair and Starbuck worked at them diligently, not wanting to cut away any more of the black strands than necessary, but knowing the troublesome burrs had to be removed.

  “You’re going to a lot of bother. . . .”

  At the sound of the voice Shawn looked up. A girl of perhaps seventeen or eighteen, blond, with dark brown eyes, was standing at the end of the rack. She was nicely shaped and dressed in a white shirtwaist, corduroy riding skirt and soft, black boots. A bright blue scarf was around her head.

  Starbuck grinned. “If I don’t get them out he’ll be mad at me all the rest of summer.”

  The girl laughed, moved closer. “I’m Holly Underwood. Are you going to work for my father?”

  Shawn shook his head. “Just passing through. Stopped by to see a fellow.”

  “Oh—a drifter,” she murmured, a thread of scorn underlying her tone.

  “Not exactly,” Starbuck replied, his own voice somewhat stiff.

  Holly took an impulsive step toward him. “Oh, I don’t mean anything bad by that! It’s only—well—I think a man should be like my father—settle down, work hard, make something big of his life. You can’t do that wandering around, going nowhere—doing nothing. Can I help?”

  Without waiting for him to answer, she grasped a thick strand of the chestnut’s tail in her hands and began to pick at the burrs.

  “Not always easy for a man to be like your pa—father.”

  She nodded, said frankly, “He’s different from most men. Real smart. A fine person—good to everybody.” Holly broke off, smiled disarmingly. “I don’t mean that you’re not, Mr.—”

  “Starbuck. Shawn’s my first name—without the mister.”

  “All right, Shawn. I—I’m sorry for how I said that. I guess my father means so much to me that I’m always comparing him to other men without thinking.” She glanced toward the barn, called, “Manuel—will you get my horse, please?”

  Starbuck worked out the last of the burrs.

  “He’s certainly a beautiful horse,” the girl said admiringly. “How old is he?”

  “Around four. We’ve covered a lot of territory together. Never let me down yet.”

  “That’s because you take good care of him,” she said approvingly. “I like that. Show’s you’re not one of the ordinary cowhand kind.”

  “Reason for that maybe. Man puts in a full day’s work on the range, he doesn’t feel much like playing nursemaid to a horse when he comes in.”

  She was studying him closely. “You don’t talk like a cowhand, either.”

  “My mother was a schoolteacher. Took a lot of pains to see that I got some teaching. Guess a little of it stuck.”

  Holly glanced to the barn. The hostler was leading out a tall sorrel. “I’m going for a ride,” she said. “Why don’t you come along? I could show you some of the ranch, that is—if you’ve nothing better to do.”

  He had nothing better to do, Shawn decided quickly. “Be my pleasure. Just give me time to saddle up and we’ll be on our way.”

  Eight

  They rode south out of the yard, meeting Tom Gage a short distance from the ranch buildings. The foreman smiled, raised his hand in salutation, but did not stop.

  “It’s a fine place,” Shawn said some time later when they had topped a small rise and were looking out onto a vast, rolling plain green with grass.

  “Seventy thousand acres,” Holly said proudly. “Most of it just like that. There’s no better ranch in the whole Territory.”

  “Man would have no trouble raising prime beef here,” Starbuck admitted, and then pointed to a distant mound of dark earth and rock. “What’s that?”

  “An old Indian ruin. I used to go there a lot before I went away. I’d dig for arrowheads, things like that.”

  “Away? Where?”

  “Only to Santa Fe. I attended the Academy there. Graduated last year. I sort of had ideas about being a schoolteacher, too—like your mother.”

  “But you changed your mind.”

  “Yes—or maybe it was my father. He didn’t think it would be exactly proper for me to work.” Holly paused, smiled, looked squarely at Shawn. “I guess I’ve said the wrong thing again.”

  Starbuck shrugged. “Nothing wrong in that—or in your wanting to be a schoolmarm, either, far as I can see. But I reckon I know how your pa felt. Man in his position—guess it wouldn’t be right for his daughter to work.”

  “That’s the way he put it. I suppose it didn’t really matter to me—and I certainly didn’t want to embarrass him. Especially if he does become governor.”

  “The chances pretty good for that?”

  “He says they are, and he’s usually right. He’s well known, being half owner of the bank in Vegas, and President of the Cattleman’s Association, and all that.”

  “Expect he’ll make it then,” Shawn said, touching the chestnut lightly with his spurs. “Let’s take a closer look at your Indian ruin.”

  They rode off the rise at an easy lope, reached the flat and drew the horses down to a walk. Starbuck felt Holly’s eyes upon him and he turned to her questioningly.

  “Something�
�s wrong?”

  “I was thinking about your mother. What was she like?”

  “I was pretty much a kid when she died. I can remember she was tall, had a quiet way of speaking. Could be firm when she wanted to be, though. My pa always said I favored her—had the same eyes and looks while Ben, my brother, took after him. Always wished she’d lived a little longer. Things probably would have been different.”

  “It was different with me,” Holly said, her gaze fixed on the still distant ruin. “My father isn’t my real father, you know.”

  Shawn shook his head. “No, I didn’t know.”

  “My real father was killed in the war. Mother and I moved out here after his death—there was nothing left of the family plantation in Virginia—to live with some old friends.”

  “And that’s where he met your mother?”

  Holly nodded. “He was just getting his ranch started. He’d come to see Mr. Cameron who owns the bank—they’re the friends we came to live with—about buying up some property. Mr. Cameron brought him home to supper that night. Mother and he were married a month later. He was good to us. Everything has turned out so well.”

  “A fine thing for everybody all around.”

  “My own father couldn’t have done more for me,” Holly said. “Where do you come from, Shawn? Your original home, I mean.”

  “Farm up in the Muskingum country of Ohio. It was sold when my pa died.”

  “And you’ve been wandering ever since?”

  “Ever since.” He could see no reason to tell her of Ben, although he was finding conversation and being with her very pleasant.

  “Where will you go when you leave here?”

  “North, I reckon. Want to take a look at Colorado. Then head on up into Wyoming, maybe Montana.”

  “You could stay here,” she said impulsively. “I think my father likes you—and you said yourself that we have a fine ranch.”

  It would be wonderful to settle down and—he had to admit it—be near Holly Underwood. But that was not possible, unless his search for Ben came to an end with his meeting of Henry Smith. However, he could not make plans of any sort; that was a fact of life he’d learned to accept long ago. One day, perhaps—and if Henry Smith did prove to be Ben, then—