by Matt Braun
“Since you’re gonna tell me anyway, go ahead.”
“Just suppose—” She hesitated, her eyes bright as berries. “Now, hear me out before you say anything. Just suppose I took the job in Virginia City. I could—”
“No!” Starbuck cut her short. “Thumbs down, and that’s final!”
“Just listen, for God’s sake!” She scooted closer and went on in a rush. “I could be your ears and your eyes. You’d be amazed what a girl picks up around men! Not to mention what I could worm out of Stimson himself. He probably knows everybody who’s anybody in Virginia City!”
“I said no, and that’s that.”
“Aww c’mon, lover!” she cooed. “How many chances will we have to work together? It’s made to order, once in a lifetime!”
“You’re wasting your breath,” Starbuck said stonily. “I don’t need any help, and on top of that, it’s too dangerous. The people I’m after are cutthroats and murderers! One slip and you’d wind up with your neck on the chopping block.”
“Oh, don’t be silly!” she said, lifting her chin. “I’ve been twisting men around my little finger all my life. Do you really think I couldn’t do it in Virginia City? Do you?”
“I didn’t say that,” Starbuck mumbled. “I just said it’s too dangerous.”
“Have a heart, Luke.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I want to do it. And I’d be good at it! You know I would.”
“I still say no,” Starbuck murmured uneasily. “Besides, you can’t quit your job at the Alcazar. There’s no sense to it.”
“Forget Jack Brady!” she hooted. “If I want a week off, he’ll grin and bear it. Believe me, he will! He wouldn’t dare risk losing me to another joint in Denver.”
Starbuck was tempted. Her logic was indisputable, and the danger was far less than he’d claimed. No one would suspect a famous variety star of being an undercover operative. There was, moreover, the lack of hard intelligence about the gang. An extra set of eyes and ears would be a tremendous asset in Virginia City. At length, still not fully convinced, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His tone was tentative.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Hotdamn!” She laughed and clapped her hands like an exuberant child. “I’ll wire Stimson first thing in the morning.”
“Hold your horses!” Starbuck barked gruffly. “I said I’ll think about it. That’s all, nothing more!”
“Anything you say, lover.”
Lola let it drop there. He held out his arms, and she lowered herself into his embrace. She nestled close against him, warm and cuddly and submissive. Yet her eyes danced merrily, and inside she was jubilant.
She knew she had won.
• • •
Late the next afternoon Starbuck and Lola entered a shop on Blake Street. He still had grave misgivings about their plan, and his mood was somber. But she’d cajoled and wheedled, and an hour ago the last obstacle had been removed. Omar Stimson, owner of the Gem Theater, had replied to her wire. She was booked for a one-week engagement in Virginia City.
Inside the shop, they were greeted by Daniel Cameron. He was a master gunsmith and Starbuck’s personal armorer. Unknown to anyone but themselves, he had developed an advanced .45 cartridge that was a deadly manstopper. He advised Starbuck on weapon selection and kept the detective’s guns in superb working order. Wizened and gray-haired, he was considered the dean of western gunsmiths.
Starbuck trusted no man completely. A careless word, however inadvertent, might very well jeopardize the assignment. So he told Cameron only the salient details, omitting any mention of Virginia City. Cameron was momentarily stunned by what he heard. He knew the manhunter to be a loner; the idea of an assistant seemed somehow foreign. All the more so since the assistant was a woman, and one greatly admired by Cameron. He glanced at Lola a couple of times but kept his own qualms about the arrangement to himself. When Starbuck finished talking, Cameron nodded sagely and spread his hands on the showcase counter.
“How can I help you, Luke?”
“She’ll need a gun,” Starbuck said quietly. “A hide out of some sort, just in case she gets in a tight fix.”
Cameron sometimes joined them for a drink at the Alcazar. He was on a first-name basis with the girl, and he turned to her now with a frank stare. “The truth, Lola. How familiar are you with firearms?”
“No big mystery!” Lola cocked her thumb and forefinger. “All you do is point and pull the trigger!”
“In other words,” Starbuck said in a resigned voice, “she doesn’t know beans. So the simpler the better—something foolproof!”
“A tall order,” Cameron observed. “But if we’re talking about a tight fix, then it would probably be at point-blank range.”
Opening the showcase, he took out a Colt New Line Pocket Revolver. Some six inches long, it was single-action, chambered for .41 caliber, and held five rounds. He laid the Colt on the counter and next brought out an over/under-barreled Remington Derringer. A stubby weapon, roughly half the size of the Colt, the derringer was .41 caliber and held two shots. He tapped one, then the other, with his finger.
“Both are effective at close range,” he noted. “The Colt has the advantage of five shots. Otherwise, there’s little to choose between.”
“You forgot something, Daniel.” Starbuck looked Lola up and down. “Her stage clothes don’t leave much room for concealment. Leastways, they don’t conceal a helluva lot of her.”
“Very funny!” Lola gave him a sassy grin. “I don’t recall any complaints before!”
“No, Luke’s right,” Cameron agreed. “The Colt would never do. It’s much too large, and your costumes are much too . . . revealing.”
Starbuck inspected her with a clinical eye. “How about that garter you always wear? The big wide one, just above your knee. Any chance you could pull it up higher?”
“How high?”
“High enough so it wouldn’t show when you flash your legs.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Here.” Starbuck handed her the derringer. “Stick that in your garter, and you’re all set. It goes where you go, and nobody the wiser.”
Lola hefted the stubby pistol. “I only see one problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Hidden way up there”—a devilish smile played at the corners of her mouth—“it’ll sure slow down my draw!”
“Well, if it comes down to it,” Starbuck deadpanned, “you could always fake ’em out. Nobody’d expect you to show ’em a gun—up there.”
Lola blushed, and Cameron suppressed a laugh. Then, still chuckling to himself, Starbuck took the derringer and demonstrated how it worked. Thumbing the tiny hammer back, he pressed the trigger; repeating the process emptied both barrels in quick succession. He next explained the loading mechanism and the method of gingerly lowering the hammer once the gun was loaded. Lola got the knack of it in short order and was soon handling the derringer with practiced ease. Satisfied, Starbuck finally allowed her to load it and stuff it into her purse. Cameron threw in a box of shells on the deal, and after Starbuck paid him, he walked them to the door. There the two men shook hands and Lola gave the gunsmith a peck on the cheek.
Outside, arm in arm, Starbuck and the girl strolled off toward the center of town. Cameron paused in the doorway, watching until they rounded the corner. He had no idea where they were headed or what their assignment entailed. Nor was he interested in learning the particulars. Certain things about the manhunter were best left unknown. Yet one thing was uppermost in his mind. A new thought that brought with it a sly, wrinkled grin.
Starbuck and Lola Montana made the perfect team. A mix of nerve and spunk, with an added dash of deadliness. A tough act.
Chapter Three
Starbuck crossed into Montana a week later. From Denver to Salt Lake City, he had taken an overnight train. There he’d switched to the narrow-gauge Utah Northern, which was the only line north through the mountains. He was traveling in disguise,
and his cover name was Lee Hall.
The Utah Northern crossed the Continental Divide at Monida Pass. The elevation was almost seven thousand feet, and the tracks then dropped sharply into the Beaverhead Valley of Montana. West of the valley, the Bitterroot Range rose majestically into the clouds. To the east, the battlements of the Rocky Mountains towered skyward. The terrain was rugged, with thick pine forests and sheer canyons, all interlaced with a dizzying network of streams and rivers. It was a land of bitter winters and short summers, at once inhospitable and alluring. Yet no man went there without feeling the pull of something elemental. A sense of having stepped backward in time.
The town of Dillon was a mountain way station. Crude and windswept, it consisted primarily of warehouses and freight outfits. There the goods and supplies hauled in by the railroad were off-loaded; lumbering Studebaker wagons then completed delivery to the mining camps and settlements of southwestern Montana. For those traveling to the hinterlands, Dillon was also the rail terminus. While the Utah Northern continued on to Butte, outlying areas were accessible only by stagecoach. The Gilmer & Salisbury line was the principal carrier.
The train arrived in Dillon shortly before noon. Starbuck stepped down from the lead coach, carrying a battered warbag. He wore rough clothing—woolen jacket and linsey shirt—and his pants were stuffed into mule-eared boots. His face was covered with whiskery stubble, and he smelled as rank as a billy goat. A handlebar mustache, one of many theatrical props he employed, was glued to his upper lip with spirit gum. His overall appearance was that of a toughnut, someone who managed a livelihood without actually working. He might have been a grifter or a thimblerigger or a robber. He looked vaguely predatory and dangerous.
Operating undercover demanded a certain gift for subterfuge. Early on in his career, Starbuck had discovered in himself something of the actor. That trait, combined with a flair for disguise, allowed him to assume a variety of roles. Over the years, his ability to transform himself into someone else had played a vital part in his survival. Articles in national publications—which invariably carried his photo—had robbed him of anonymity. His face was known and his reputation as a mankiller was widely circulated. So the characters he portrayed were crafted with an eye to outward appearance. Then he worked out a cover story, added a few quirks and mannerisms, and Luke Starbuck simply ceased to exist. His life rested solely on the skill of his performance.
Walking away from the train depot, his thoughts centered on guile and subterfuge. Lola had preceded him to Virginia City by one day. She would be playing herself, the visiting celebrity and headliner at the Gem Theater. Yet a worm of doubt still gnawed at him regarding her performance offstage. How well she handled herself, and how subtly she asked questions, would prove the critical factors. Then, too, her manner toward him would require a performance in itself. He’d told her that he would make the initial contact; whether openly or in secret would depend on the situation. For all his coaching, she was nonetheless a tyro, inexperienced at undercover work. A smile, even a familiar look, might easily tip their game. There was no margin for error, and no second chance in the event something went wrong. He worried about that a lot.
The noon stage was about to depart when he arrived at the station. He purchased a ticket, casually inquiring about the route. The agent informed him Virginia City was some thirty miles east of Dillon and there was one stop along the way. Barring the unforeseen, the stage would pull into Virginia City before sundown. Outside again, he tossed his warbag to the driver and climbed aboard the coach. Then he pulled his hat down over his eyes and settled back in the seat.
His thoughts immediately returned to Lola.
• • •
Alder Gulch wound through hillsides choked with pine and quaking aspen. Daylight Creek coursed down the gulch in an easterly direction and eventually emptied into the Madison River. A short distance up the gulch lay one of the great gold bonanzas of the western frontier. It was called Virginia City.
Wallace Street, the town’s central thoroughfare, was a seething anthill. Some fifteen thousand men were working claims along the gulch, and more were arriving daily. Knots of miners crowded every corner, and the boardwalks were a shoulder-to-shoulder jostling match. The general hubbub of shouts and drunken laughter was deafening and constant. Above it all rose the strident chords of rinky-dink pianos mixed with the wail of fiddles and the sprightly twang of banjos. The rowdy throngs and the discordant sounds were somehow reminiscent of a circus gone wild.
The street itself was little more than a hurdy-gurdy collection of saloons, gambling dives, and dance halls. There were hotels and cafés, along with a couple of banks and an assortment of business establishments. But the town’s commerce was devoted largely to separating the miners from their gold dust. Sin was for sale, and every joint, from the rawest busthead saloon to the dollar-a-dance palace, had a bevy of rouge-cheeked charmers. The girls were decked out in spangles and short skirts, and their faces were painted brighter than a carnival Kewpie doll. Their one mission in life was to beguile the customers with sweet talk and snakehead whiskey. Anything extra was negotiable.
Darkness had fallen over Virginia City when Starbuck pushed through the doors of the Gem Theater. The crowd inside was a mixed bag, mainly teamsters and miners. Men were standing three deep at the bar, and every table in the place was occupied. The gambling layouts—everything from faro to chuck-a-luck—were ranged along the wall opposite the bar. Toward the rear of the room there was a small orchestra pit, directly below the footlights of a wide stage. No musicians were in sight, and the stage curtain was drawn.
Starbuck shouldered through the mob at the bar. He ordered whiskey and paid the barkeep. Then he turned one elbow hooked over the counter, and inspected the room. The evening had only begun, and he assumed it was still too early for the night’s opening stage show. Yet the place was already jammed, with more men crowding through the door every minute. All the signs indicated that Lola Montana would be playing to standing room only. In the meantime, while the men waited for the show, there was no scarcity of entertainment. An ivory-tickler was pounding an upright piano near the end of the bar. A small dance floor was packed with miners and house girls, whooping and stomping in a wild swirl. It looked curiously like a wrestling match set to music.
Looking past the dancers, Starbuck suddenly spotted Lola. She was seated at a table down front, close to the orchestra pit. Beside her was a barrel-gutted giant of a man. He was wide and tall, and despite his girth he appeared solid as a rock. His face was pitted with deep pockmarks, and he had flat, muddy eyes. He was talking with expansive gestures and staring at Lola with a wolfish smile. On the table was an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne, and their glasses were full. The man paused to quaff a drink, then went on talking. Lola merely sipped, listening attentively.
On impulse, Starbuck decided to take a chance. His plan, loosely formulated, was to establish himself as a hardcase and somehow infiltrate the gang of stagecoach robbers. Before then, however, he needed to make contact with Lola and determine what she’d learned thus far. But it had to be done without arousing suspicion, and the moment at hand appeared made to order. He thought he might easily bring down two birds with one stone.
Starbuck chugged his whiskey and placed the glass on the bar. Then he walked straight to the table where Lola and the man were seated. She looked up, genuinely surprised and somewhat startled. Still, she kept her wits, and no sign of recognition passed between them. Starbuck ignored the man.
“How about it, little lady?” He grinned broadly. “Wanna take a twirl around the dance floor?”
“Shove off!” the man rumbled. “Miss Montana don’t dance with strangers.”
“Lee Hall’s the name.” Starbuck’s grin widened to a smirk. “I take it you’re Mister Montana?”
“You take it wrong!” The man glowered at him through slitted eyes. “The name’s Pete Johnson, and you’d better mark it down. Around here, I’m better know as bull o’ the woods.�
��
“Well, don’t that take the cake!” Starbuck laughed, spread his hands. “Folks generally allow I’m cock of the walk.”
“Lemme tell you something, sonny.” Johnson hitched his chair back and stood. He jabbed Starbuck in the chest with a thorny finger. “Close your flytrap and make tracks, or I’m gonna stunt your growth!”
Starbuck hit him without warning. Johnson went down like a poled ox, blood seeping out of his mouth. Yet he was clearly a scrapper of some experience, and uncommonly agile for all his bulk. He rolled away, scattering tables and chairs as he came to his feet. Then he advanced on Starbuck, snarling a murderous oath.
Coldly, with the look of a man who was enjoying himself, Starbuck waited. Johnson launched a haymaker, and he easily slipped inside the blow. Shifting slightly, his shoulder dipped and he sank his fist in the big man’s underbelly. A whoosh of air burst out of Johnson, and he doubled over, clutching himself with a breathless woofing sound. Starbuck exploded two splintering punches on his chin.
Johnson reeled backward into the orchestra pit and sat down heavily. He shook his head, groggy from the punishment he’d absorbed but not yet done for. He planted one arm on the floor and started to lever himself upright. Starbuck took a couple of steps forward and methodically kicked him in the head. The impact collapsed him, and his skull bounced off the floor like a ripe melon. Then a shudder swept through his massive frame and he settled onto his back. He was out cold.
Starbuck dusted his hands and turned toward the table. He saw three housemen headed in his direction, all of them carrying bungstarters. Lola idly waved them off and beckoned to him. A nervous ripple of laughter went through the crowd as the bruisers veered around him and approached the orchestra pit. He waited until they’d dragged Johnson away, then walked to the table. He doffed his hat in an elaborate bow.
“Little lady,” he said in a loud, cheery voice, “I shorely hope I haven’t caused you any trouble.”