by Ray Hogan
“Wasn’t as dead—as he figured,” he mumbled.
Starbuck lay back, probed the dust for his pistol, found it. Men were running toward them . . . several men. Shawn pulled himself to a sitting position, wondering at the absence of gunshots. The Box C crew wouldn’t let it end there. Ignoring the woodenness of his arm, the dull burning in his leg, he squared himself around, prepared to make a fight of it.
The first man he saw was Huckaby. Behind him came Kemmer, and the one they’d called Ike. On beyond them others of the posse were mingling with Canfield’s men. The old cook, hands wrapped in his apron, was standing nearby watching it all in a dazed sort of way.
Starbuck, throwing everything he had into it, worked himself to his knees, managed then to get on his feet. He saw a look of concern cross Mason’s face.
“It’s all right. It’s done with,” he said. “The posse’s here.”
“Thank God,” Lynch murmured, letting himself go limp.
“Drop that gun, Starbuck!”
At the sound of Huckaby’s harsh command, a bleakness settled over Shawn. He allowed his weapon to fall, watched as the lawman turned, looked to the upper end of the yard.
“Hayman—over here! Want these two patched up. They’ve got some answering to do.”
Huckaby moved in, scooped up Mason’s pistol and then Starbuck’s, held them in one hand by the barrels. Nearby Fred Kemmer was bending over the man lying behind the shed, while beyond Ike and another member of the posse were crouched beside Barney Canfield.
“Finished it, I see,” the marshal said in a dry, angry way to Mason Lynch. “You killed him—the last one of them—just like you aimed to.”
Starbuck stirred impatiently as an understanding of the lawman’s attitude and words filtered into his wearied and numbed brain.
“Can see there never was any doubt in your mind,” he said. “You had it pegged as Mason all the time.”
“Not hard figuring it out.”
“And you’re a man who’s never wrong—”
“That mean something?”
“Only that you think you’re so damned right that you’ll nail Mason and me to the cross without even trying to find out what happened.”
“I got eyes—I can see,” Huckaby said stubbornly.
“The hell with what you can see, you’d best be hunting for the truth! Looks don’t mean a thing, most of the time. You want to know something—I figured you for the killer because it seemed to me you had the best reason.”
Huckaby straightened in outrage. “Me! Why would I—”
“Anybody could see Kit Canfleld was riding you raw. Hate you had in your eyes yesterday said you’d as soon kill him as draw a breath.”
“Well, it wasn’t me—and you can mark that down in red chalk! And if this is all because you’re trying to cover over for your friend there, start something—forget it. I’ve got you both cold-turkey.”
“You’ve got nothing, marshal, far as we’re concerned. Man laying over there behind that shed is the one who killed Kit. Barney hired him. Mason was there, saw it happen.”
The lawman frowned, clawed at his chin as he turned to Lynch, now sitting up and being attended to by the man called Hayman. “You seen it?”
Mason moved his head slowly, weakly. The loss of blood was telling on him. “At the Frisco House. Fellow walked up to Kit, shot him. Then got away.”
Huckaby glanced at the men drifting in from the opposite end of the yard. “Damned funny you didn’t come tell me about it,” he said in a suspicious voice. “Why didn’t you?”
Mason managed a tired smile. “You know the answer to that—I’d never have got the chance to talk. Some of your good citizens would’ve strung me up before I got my mouth open.”
Fred Kemmer moved in to stand beside Huckaby. “Still no proof you’re telling the truth. Everybody’s dead that was mixed up in it except you two—and a dead man sure can’t tell his side of the story.”
“It’s the truth, just the same,” Starbuck said angrily. Hayman, who seemed to have some rudimentary skills in medicine, or possibly was a veterinarian, was working on his arm now. “If it wasn’t he’d never come back with me. He was headed for Mexico. I caught up, talked him into forgetting that, trying instead to clear his name.”
“A good yarn,” Huckaby said, indifferently. “Makes more sense, however, to think you both came here for one thing—kill Barney, finish what you started.”
“Barney ain’t dead yet, marshal,” one of the men hunched over the rancher called, looking up. “He can talk, maybe.”
“Make him,” Starbuck said bluntly, and then recalled something that had slipped his mind—something that should help convince Huckaby and the others of the truth. “Money he paid off with is inside the dead man’s shirt. Leather pouch. There’ll be a thousand dollars in it—gold and paper. We heard them talking about it.”
Huckaby, flashing a look at Shawn, wheeled away, crossed to where Barney Canfleld lay sprawled face up. Starbuck watched the lawman kneel, slip a hand under the rancher’s head, raise it slightly. Kemmer had returned to the shed, was rummaging about on the rider’s body for the pouch. He found it.
“Reckon he’s got hisself an answer,” Mason said as Huckaby lowered Canfield’s head to the ground, stood up. “Be like that bastard to say it was me, no matter if he was dying,” he added bitterly.
The lawman remained motionless, staring down at the rancher for several moments, and then slowly he turned, came back to where Starbuck and Mason Lynch waited.
“Guess you were telling the truth,” he said in a begrudging voice as he handed them back their pistols. “Barney wanted Kit out of the way so’s the ranch would be his. Hired the killing done. All there was to it.”
A surge of resentment shook Shawn Starbuck. All there was to it! That was a hell of a thing for a lawman to say! The affair had almost cost Mason and him their lives—and it would have meant a lynching for Mason if the posse had been able to catch him during those past few hours. Perhaps for him, too, if Canfield had been able to convince the men that he was Lynch’s hired gun.
But it was over now. Mason could go his way—either on to the Mescals or remain and see if he did have some claim on the Box C; and likely he could square things with the girl, Marie, go ahead with plans interrupted over ten years ago.
As for himself he could continue with his reason for being in the Rockinstraw Valley country. He turned to Kemmer, standing nervously by, looking down in that self-conscious way of a man caught in a bad mistake, pointed to the group of Canfield riders loitering in the yard.
“Which one is Jim Ivory?”
Kemmer’s brows drew together. He shook his head. “Ivory? He ain’t one of them—he’s the one laying dead there behind the shed.”
Twenty
Starbuck stood absolutely motionless, transfixed. Somewhere deep inside him his breath had locked and he felt as if he had been struck a powerful blow to the midsection. The man in the checked vest—the killer—he was Jim Ivory. His own brother, perhaps. . . .
Vaguely he heard Huckaby’s voice calling to several of the men to hitch up a surrey, a team and wagon. The words jarred him, stirred him from the paralytic lethargy that gripped him. He turned, moved slowly to the shed, halted. Jim Ivory lay on his back, face bared to the streaming sunlight, eyes half closed. His hat had come off, revealing a thick shock of dark hair. Lying under him, partly visible, was a scattered pack of worn cards, apparently having spilled from his pocket when he fell. A deuce of hearts . . . nine of clubs ... an ace . . .
A man always with a deck of cards on him.
Shawn recalled again what he had been told about Jim Ivory. Continually ready for a game . . . would play himself if no one else was willing or handy. Gambling had been his curse, it would seem; the debts Barney Canfield had mentioned had likely come from his losses. But the man was Jim Ivory, and Ivory—possibly—was Ben Starbuck, and if true, he had shot down his own brother.
Abruptly Shawn’s jaw c
ame to a hard line. The cool, practical streak that ordinarily governed him shook off all the speculating, all the conjecture, the weighing of probabilities. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his arm, favoring his stiffening leg, he stepped up to the lifeless body, knelt beside it, looked more closely at the flaccid features.
The hooded eyes were blue. The hair was dark, and there was a blockiness to the face. Taut, Starbuck reached out, placed his fingers on the left brow, pushed aside the thick growth.
There was no scar. No scar where Ben had one.
Relief shot through him. He hesitated a long moment, looked again, knowing that he must be absolutely certain or forever have his doubts. There was no telltale, identifying mark. Slowly he pulled back, painfully got to his feet, sweat clothing him in a solid sheet as a mountainous worry slid from his shoulders. He wheeled then to face the curious stares of the men gathered around.
“Is it him?” Mason Lynch’s voice was anxious.
Shawn moved his head. “No—it’s not him.”
He saw Mason’s shoulders go down in a relieved, exhausted sort of way, heard him murmur once more: “Thank God . . .”
Starbuck echoed the words silently. For the first time in his life he was glad the man he had hoped would be his brother—was not. A spring wagon rattled up from the rear of the barn, halted beside Barney Canfield’s body. As several men, directed by Huckaby, bent to lift the rancher into the bed, a second vehicle, a black surrey, came from the same direction, stopped near Mason.
Two members of the posse stepped up to Lynch, helped him aboard. Another beckoned to Shawn. Suddenly very tired, he moved toward the two-seater, idly listening to Lynch give instructions as to where their horses could be found, and directing they be taken to Pete Fortney’s livery stable for care. The voices responding to Mason were friendly, sounded pleased to be of help. Mason Lynch was home again, Starbuck realized; he had been taken back into the fold.
As for himself—he stared off into the hot blue of the empty sky to the east. Las Cruces lay in that general direction. He’d have to take it easy for a few days, allow his wounds to heal, then he’d head out. Maybe next time—next time he’d find Ben.
SHAWN STARBUCK DOUBLE EDITION
1: THE RIMROCKER
2: THE OUTLAWED
By Ray Hogan
First published by Signet Books
Copyright © renewed 1999 by Gwynn Hogan Henline.
First Smashwords Edition: January 2018
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Our cover features a detail from With a Shot from the Sharps, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.
Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with The Golden West Literary Agency.
About the Author
Ray Hogan is an author who has inspired a loyal following ever since he published his first Western novel Ex-marshal in 1956. Hogan was born in Willow Springs, Missouri, where his father was town marshal. At five the Hogan family moved to Albuquerque where Ray Hogan lived in the foothills of the Sandia and Manzano mountains. His father was on the Albuquerque police force and, in later years, owned the Overland Hotel. It was while listening to his father and other old-timers tell tales from the past that Ray was inspired to recast these tales in fiction. From the beginning he did exhaustive research into the history and the people of the Old West and the walls of his study were lined with various firearms, spurs, pictures, books, and memorabilia, about all of which he could talk in dramatic detail. Among his most popular works are the series of books about Shawn Starbuck, a searcher in a quest for a lost brother, who has a clear sense of right and wrong and who is willing to stand up and be counted when it is a question of fairness or justice. His other major series is about lawman John Rye, whose reputation has earned him the sobriquet The Doomsday Marshal. ‘I’ve attempted to capture the courage and bravery of those men and women that lived out west and the dangers and problems they had to overcome,” Hogan once remarked. If his lawmen protagonists seem sometimes larger than life, it is because they are men of integrity, heroes who through grit, character and common sense are able to overcome the obstacles they encounter despite often overwhelming odds. This same grit of character can also be found in Hogan’s heroines and, in The Vengeance of Fortuna West, Hogan wrote a gripping and totally believable account of a woman who takes up the badge and tracks the men who killed her lawman husband by ambush. No less intriguing in her way is Nellie Dupray, convicted of rustling in The Glory Trail. Above all, what is most impressive about Hogan’s Western novels is the consistent quality with which each is crafted, the compelling depth of his characters, and his ability to juxtapose the complexities of human conflict into narratives always as intensely interesting as they are emotionally involving.
Find out more about Ray Hogan here!
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