Shawn Starbuck Double Western 1

by Ray Hogan

  The Canfields stared at Shawn, a puzzled look on their slack faces. His words were over their heads and completely beyond understanding. A man at the bar said something in a low breath and the one next him laughed. Kit Canfield’s eyes flashed with anger and his face darkened. He flung a furious glance in that direction, rocked forward toward Shawn, began to jab at him with a forefinger.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, buddy,” he snarled, “but whatever it is, I don’t like it! Now, you and that yellow-bellied killer sidekick of yours harness yourself up and be on your way inside thirty minutes or, by God, I’ll—”

  The anger within Shawn Starbuck surfaced. He came to his feet in a smooth, deceptively fast motion, knocked the rancher’s hand aside. The points of his jaw showed white through his short stubble of beard and a hard glitter filled his eyes. He had tried to avoid trouble—but a man can take only so much.

  “No need waiting, Canfield—you can start the ball right now. We’re not leaving until tomorrow.”

  “The hell you ain’t!” Canfield yelled, and swung a looping right at Starbuck’s head.

  Shawn blocked the blow easily with his left forearm—remembered suddenly that he had in plain words promised Virg Huckaby that he’d sidestep trouble—and catching the rancher by the shoulders, threw him back into the crowd.

  “Go on home, Canfield,” he said. “I don’t want to fight you.”

  “You’re sure as hell going to anyway!” Canfield shouted, beside himself with rage, and lunged.

  Starbuck stepped quickly away from the table and chairs, wanting no encumbrances underfoot. He could hear the crowd yelling encouragement to the rancher, and there was a steady swishing of the batwings as more onlookers poured in from the street.

  “Give him a lick or two for me, Kit!” Fred Kemmer called from behind the bar. “I’m owing him.”

  Canfield rushed in. Wheeling fast, Shawn halted him with a stiff left that spun the man half around. As Canfield struggled to regain his balance, Starbuck stung him sharply with several jabs to the face, crossed with a right that smacked loudly, and then danced away.

  The rancher, hands dangling loosely at his sides, looked about stupidly as if not certain what had happened. The hard blows had fallen swiftly, seemingly from nowhere. He continued to hang motionless, as if listening to the yelling of the crowd, and then Barney Canfield stepped in, swung him around to where he could see Starbuck waiting patiently.

  Shaking his head to clear away the webs, Canfield shuffled forward, his boots making dry, scraping sounds on the bare floor. Abruptly he swore, lowered his shoulders, charged.

  “Goddam you!” he shouted, boring in with both arms flailing.

  Shawn gave way before the furious rush, taking several retreating steps. He felt hands against his shoulders, realized he had backed into the crowd—into someone.

  “Here he is, Kit!” Barney Canfield said, and pushed.

  Starbuck stumbled forward, went head-on into a hail of rocklike fists. He weathered the onslaught, danced aside, feeling the sting and throb where the rancher’s knuckles had smashed into him. He tossed a side glance to Barney Canfield, regarded him with a grim, promising smile, and then squared away to meet the encouraged redhead rushing in once more.

  “One of them fancy dans!” a voice cried as Shawn dropped into a stance. “Look at the way he’s holding his fists!”

  “Show him how a real man fights, Kit!” another added.

  Canfield slowed, shuffled to a halt, smirking broadly as he regarded Starbuck. “One of them show kind, eh? Always did want to try my luck.”

  “Now’s your chance,” Shawn murmured, and flicked the rancher lightly across the eyes.

  Canfield bellowed, plunged forward. Starbuck feinted, shifted fast, crossed with a right that brought Kit to a flat-footed halt. Smooth and quick, Starbuck cut back, stabbed a straight left into the rancher’s face. A trickle of red began to flow from Canfield’s nose. Not delaying, Shawn struck again, this time with a right that thudded.

  The blow was too high on Canfield’s head to do any great amount of damage, only caused him to blink, take a staggering step sideways. Starbuck, weaving, dodging, shifted to the man’s right watching for another opening.

  From the tail of his eye he saw motion, ducked away, spun. Barney Canfield was stepping in behind him once again. At the same instant Mason Lynch yelled a warning to that effect, Shawn came full around, unleashed a cocked fist. It caught the dark-haired Canfield on the ear, sent him sprawling to the floor.

  “Stay there, damn you,” Starbuck muttered through clenched teeth and wheeled to face the brother.

  The rancher had taken advantage of the interruption. He was closing in fast. Shawn rocked back on his heels as a fist drove into his midsection, winced when a knotted fist grazed his jaw. Sucking for wind, he instinctively dropped low, getting beneath the piston like action of the man’s arms, pivoted on a heel and spun away. Before Canfield could adjust to the swift change, Starbuck wheeled again, bobbed to the side, and came in, his left jabbing viciously, right shaped into a lump hard as granite, poised like a rattlesnake waiting to strike. Abruptly he found the opening.

  The streaking blow found the point of Canfield’s jaw. The rancher’s head flew back, his arms dropped limply to his sides. Eyes rolling wildly, he staggered to one side, halted. Strength deserted him. He sank to his knees, braced himself with extended arms to prevent complete collapse.

  Shouts came from the crowd, urgent cries to get up, to finish the fight, show the fancy dan. Shawn, sweat pouring off his face, waited. He slid a glance to Barney Canfield, half expecting him to make some sort of move. The younger Canfield, hand clapped to his ear, seemed content only to watch.

  Kit Canfield shook his head, pulled himself laboriously to an unsteady, upright position. Rubbing at his eyes, he turned about, faced Shawn. As their glances locked, the rancher’s slack jaw tightened, his arms came up with great effort, and he stumbled forward, game but almost out on his feet.

  Starbuck dropped his guard, moved away, permitted the rancher to reel by. Commotion in the crowd drew his attention. Looking up, he saw Virg Huckaby pushing into the center of the cleared area. As Kit Canfield righted himself, wheeled awkwardly, and started again for Shawn, the lawman caught him by the arms, pushed him back.

  “Be enough of this!” the marshal snapped.

  “Leave me be—damn you—” Canfield mumbled thickly. Wrenching free, he threw himself at Starbuck.

  Shawn avoided the wildly swinging fists, maneuvered about to where he was behind the dazed rancher, and again taking him by the shoulders, propelled him toward one of the chairs and shoved him into it. Turning, Shawn motioned to Barney Canfield.

  “He’s your kin—look after him.”

  The younger brother’s eyes flashed. “He’s full growed—let him look after himself.”

  Continuing on, Starbuck returned to the table where Mason Lynch waited. He was breathing hard and several places in his body ached dully from the blows he’d taken from Kit Canfield. Picking up his mug of beer, he slaked the dryness in his throat, nodded crisply to Mason.

  “Let’s get out of here—get something to eat.” His voice was taut, reflected the anger that still rolled through him.

  Mason, smiling broadly, unable to hide his admiration, said, “Sure, sure—any time you’re ready. Man, what a trimming you gave Kit! He’ll be healing up from that one for a long time.”

  “Expect he’ll live through—”

  “What started this?”

  At Huckaby’s harshly put question, Shawn turned. He was expecting to be crawled by the lawman for becoming involved in the fight—but he was in no mood to take a tongue lashing for it.

  “Kit—ordering us to ride out tonight,” Lynch said, replying for Starbuck.

  “I told you to stay out of trouble—”

  “You should have told Canfield that!” Starbuck countered.

  The lawman’s lips pulled into a thin line and his s
mall eyes sparked. Shifting his glance, he looked to where Kemmer’s bartender was pouring a tumbler full of whiskey for the battered rancher. A subtle expression of satisfaction stole across Huckaby’s features—and Shawn had a fleeting wonder as to his inner feelings—wondered, too, how long the marshal might have stood outside, beyond the swinging doors, and observed the fight before putting in his official appearance.

  “Reckon Kit got more’n he bargained for,” Huckaby said. “You’re a real handy-andy with them fists of yours.”

  “His pa was a sort of champion,” Mason volunteered. “Shawn learned from him.”

  A glass crashed to the floor, shattered, as Kit Canfield swept the table before him clean, struggled to his feet. Eyes blazing, he glared at the men surrounding him.

  “Leave me alone! Don’t need none of you—hear?”

  His brother, Barney, the side of his face now swollen and discolored, moved in closer as the bystanders fell back. “Let’s be getting back to the ranch, Kit. Supper’ll be waiting, and we’ve got to—”

  “The hell with the ranch—the hell with you!” the redhead shouted, stepping back. Colliding with a chair, he kicked it aside savagely. “The hell with every goddam one of you!” he added, and crossing to the doorway, knocked the batwings aside and disappeared into the street.

  Nine

  Silent and chagrined, Barney Canfield followed his brother into the falling darkness. Huckaby shook his head. “He ought to take Kit home. Be trouble around here tonight sure as hell, if he don’t.”

  “Lock him up,” Starbuck suggested indifferently.

  The lawman brought his attention back to Shawn, squinted at him narrowly. “Just might do that, if it gets needful. Was a mighty fierce working-over you gave him. Did I hear Mason say you were some kind of a champion?”

  “No, it was my pa—and he wasn’t a champion, just plenty good at it.”

  “That buckle you’re wearing, it yours or his?”

  “His.” Shawn glanced at Lynch. “We going after something to eat?”

  Mason started to rise, hesitated as the marshal laid a hand on his shoulder, pressed him back.

  “Was a man killed down in Las Cruces, over New Mexico way, about a year ago. Was by a fellow fighting the way you were doing—boxing as you call it.”

  Starbuck came to attention, not sure of what the lawman was getting at but instantly alerted, as always, when someone with training in scientific fisticuffs was mentioned; there was always the possibility that the person involved could be Ben.

  “So?”

  “Seeing you at it there set me to wondering—you ever in Las Cruces?”

  Shawn laughed, the blunt accusation showing through the question. “Wasn’t me, marshal. Been through the town a couple of times but I never got in any fights. This man you’re looking for, he charged with murder?”

  “That’s what it is—murder.”

  “How’d you hear about it?” Starbuck asked, sitting down and shoving a chair at Huckaby. “You get a wanted dodger on the man?”

  Ordinarily such a poster would carry a picture of the sought-for criminal, or if none was available, a description would be given. Evidently the latter was true, otherwise Huckaby wouldn’t have asked his question; but a detail of the boxer’s appearance, and a name, could prove of great value in providing a lead on Ben.

  “Nope, nothing like that,” Huckaby said, settling onto the chair. “Sheriff of that county rode through asking about such a man. Asked me to keep my eyes peeled.”

  Shawn’s hopes withered. “Well, sure wasn’t me.”

  He let it drop there, not wishing to mention the name of Jim Ivory and the possibility of him being Ben. He was not certain if the lawman was acquainted with Ivory and he would as soon not point suspicion in that direction until he had met and talked with the man.

  Huckaby said, “Didn’t much think you were. Seems the fellow he was talking about was short, and he’d be older’n you, by several years, if I recollect rightly. You’re sure going to need some helping going out to the Canfields now. What time in the morning you want to leave?”

  Shawn was only half listening, was already laying plans to visit the old settlement of The Crosses and make inquiries as to the boxer being sought for murder—should his meeting with Jim Ivory prove unproductive. It was not a comforting thought that Ben could be wanted by the law, but there was that possibility, since skilled boxers were not plentiful along the frontier.

  “You hear me?”

  Shawn became aware of the lawman’s raised voice, said: “Sorry, marshal, guess I was thinking hard. You ask me something?”

  “Want to know what time we’re riding out to the Box C.”

  “Any time suits me. How about nine o’clock? Feel like I’m going to be real lazy once I crawl into a bed.”

  “All right, nine o’clock,” Huckaby said, and got to his feet. “Be seeing you then—”

  “Marshal,” Lynch broke in, “something I’d like to ask before you go.”

  Huckaby frowned, rested both hands on the back of his chair. “Let’s hear it.”

  “The Hope family—they had that little place down by the creek—they still around?”

  A stillness came into the lawman’s features. “No, they moved away a long time back—leastwise, Tom and his missus did.”

  “The girl—Marie. What became of her?”

  The lawman shrugged. “Reckon I’d forgot about Marie and you.” He studied the backs of his weathered hands. “She’s one of the women at Frisco’s—bawdy house at the edge of town.”

  Mason’s eyes closed slightly as if he had been struck with sudden and intense pain. He lowered his head. “How—what happened?”

  “Same thing that usually happens to a lone woman. Her folks were around here for six, seven year after you left. Marie lived with them, had herself a job table-waiting at the old Elite Cafe, and then later on at Ma Chuckson’s. Then she up and got herself married, and right after that her folks pulled out. Went back to Nebraska, somebody said.”

  “Who’d she marry?” Lynch asked with no great interest.

  “Don’t recollect his name now—didn’t know him, actually. Was a cowhand working on a ranch east of here. Decent sort of fellow, I reckon, but he went and got himself killed—gored by a steer. Well, they didn’t have no money, of course, so Marie came back here after it was all over, got herself a job in Newt Duckworth’s saloon. Was all she could find.

  “Then she up and quit there, sort of, well—dropped out of sight for a time. Next thing I knew she was at the Frisco House—and I didn’t know that until she come in one day to bail out some drummer she’d been laying up with.”

  “God—I never thought . . .”

  “Don’t you go faulting her none!” Huckaby said sharply. “Was what she had to do, I reckon.”

  “Not blaming her,” Lynch replied in a lifeless tone.

  “Well, you want to see her, she’ll be at the Frisco House. You know where it is.”

  “I know,” Mason said.

  The lawman nodded his head at Starbuck, turned away, and moved for the swinging doors. Shawn studied his friend’s dark, bitter features for a long minute, and then realizing the man’s trend of thought should best be changed, pushed back his chair.

  “We were heading for a square meal,” he said, “one that won’t have a cupful of sand mixed in it. You know where this Ma Chuckson place is?”

  Lynch stirred, got to his feet. “Next to the hotel.”

  Starbuck said, “Lead the way,” and throwing a glance at the men still in the saloon, trailed Mason to the bat-wings and out onto the gallery that fronted the building. Again he looked over the room; no one had made a move to follow. He sighed gratefully, guessed the affray with Kit Canfield had generated no other challengers honing to try their skill, as was quite often the case; he was dog-tired and he had enough aches and bruises to last for a while.

  “There it is,” Lynch said, pointing to a low-roofed structure squatting alongside the Mog
ollon Hotel.

  They crossed over, entered a clean, well-lit room where a dozen or so small tables with complementing quartettes of hard-backed chairs were distributed in a precise arrangement that made the most of all available space. Three were occupied, and Shawn and Mason selected a vacant one near the window. The street was quiet now as darkness had settled over the town, dispelling some of the heat and bringing a softness to the hard lined structures along the dusty way.

  An elderly woman appeared, gave them an impersonal appraisal, took their orders for steak, potatoes, biscuits, and coffee without unnecessary comment, then returned to the rear of the establishment where the kitchen evidently lay, walking with the heavy-footedness of one sick to death of her work.

  The meal was excellent in Starbuck’s estimation, and Mason, now more silent and withdrawn than ever, laconically agreed. Finished, they went back to the street, stood for a time in the cool shadows, enjoying the break in the heat as the settlement gradually awoke to the night. But the day had been a long, hard one, and Starbuck began to consider the comforts of a soft bed. He glanced at the hotel.

  “I’m about to get myself caught up with, so I think I’ll turn in. You ready?”

  Mason was staring off down the street toward a small, white church where a bell was tolling the members to evening prayer meeting.

  “No—you go ahead. I’m kind of jumpy. Don’t think I could go to sleep was I to try.”

  “You got something special in mind to do?”

  Mason shook his head. “Thought maybe I’d mosey around a bit, just looking. Might visit Ma and Pa’s graves, do a little listening to the church services.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll get a room for the both of us. The clerk’ll tell you which one.”

  “Fine,” Lynch said and moved off into the soft darkness. “See you later.”

  Starbuck turned to the steps leading up onto the Mogollon’s porch. “Good night,” he answered.