by Matt Braun
“You showed up just in the nick of time, Mr. Starbuck.”
“Oh?” Starbuck inquired. “How so?”
“That sorry bastard come all the way out here from New York! Since we busted up, his luck turned sour and he’s looking for a meal ticket. He’s got some damnfool notion I’ll take him back.”
“And you won’t?”
“Never!” Cody struck a dramatic pose. “Nothing personal, you understand. We had what might be termed an artistic difference of opinion. Ned always ignored the facts of my life on the Plains! He chose to write plays that presented me as some godlike creature. Absolute tommyrot!”
“Whereas you wanted to tell it the way it happened?”
“Exactly!” Cody said in an orotund voice. “I believe in realism, Mr. Starbuck. I want the public to experience it as though they were there. I have a reputation to maintain!”
For Starbuck, any lingering doubts were dispelled. Cody had clearly fooled himself, lost touch with reality. He genuinely believed that Bill Cody the scout and Buffalo Bill the legend were one and the same. He saw himself as that intrepid hero depicted in the dime novels. It was self-deception at its worst, and almost laughable. The man standing before him was no longer Bill Cody. He was, instead, an illusion. The product of some hack writer’s dizzy fantasies.
“I see your point,” Starbuck said with a straight face. “Too bad Buntline lives in a dreamworld.”
“Well, enough of my problems! Sit yourself down—can I call you Luke?—I never was much on ceremony.”
“Sure thing, Bill.” Starbuck smiled to himself, took a chair. “So far as I’m concerned, Mister was something folks called my dad.”
“My sentiments exactly!” Cody said, seating himself. “Now, what can I do for you. Luke? I’d guess you’re not here on a social visit.”
“Your manager—Burke—didn’t he tell you?”
“God, no! Burke wouldn’t say ‘boo’ in front of Buntline. No love lost between those two!”
“Tell you the truth, I didn’t want to say too much in front of Burke. What brought me here’s a little delicate . . . confidential.”
“I respect a confidence,” Cody intoned. “Anything you say goes no further!”
“Figured as much,” Starbuck said equably. “Just between us—I need to have a talk with Doc Carver.”
“By jingo!” Cody’s brow furrowed. “Is Carver in trouble with the law?”
“Nothing like that.” Starbuck dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “When I asked outside, Burke told me Carver’s not here. So I thought you could put me in touch.”
“I’m afraid Burke misled you. Carver’s not here—not on the property—but he’s in North Platte. He has a suite at the hotel.”
“The hotel?” Starbuck repeated. “Well, that takes a load off my mind. I started to think he’d flown the coop.”
“Flown—” Cody stopped, frowning heavily. “Then he is in trouble!”
“What makes you say that?”
“I was a lawman myself once! Guess I’ve still got a nose for it when something smells fishy.”
“I’ll be dipped!” Starbuck prompted him. “So you actually wore a star?”
“U.S. deputy marshal!” Cody said proudly. “That was back in Kansas, the spring of ’68. Some soldier boys deserted and stole a bunch of horses from the army. Bill Hickok and me tracked ’em all the way to Colorado and nabbed the whole gang. Killed three and brought back eleven prisoners!”
“You mean to say you worked with Wild Bill himself?”
“Other way around,” Cody corrected him. “Hickok worked with me! I asked the army to deputize him and send him along as my assistant. That’s how he got his start as a peace officer.”
“Think of that!” Starbuck marveled. “You and Wild Bill!”
Cody preened like a peacock. “A good man and a stout friend! I taught him everything I knew, and he went on to become one of the great marshals of the West. Yessir, we made quite a team in the old days!”
Starbuck suspected it was all a windy tale. Yet Cody’s garrulous bragging abruptly resolved another question in his mind. He’d been stalling, wondering how much he should reveal about Doc Carver. Now he decided the less said the better. No secret was safe with Buffalo Bill Cody.
“That’s a mighty interesting story, Bill. Wish I had more time to jawbone, but time’s awasting. I reckon I’d best be on my way.”
“Hold on!” Cody said quickly. “I got myself sidetracked, and you never told me about Carver.”
“Now that you mention it,” Starbuck countered, “a minute ago you said you smelled something fishy. What’d you mean?”
“Oh, call it a hunch,” Cody said with a shrug. “Carver’s been off his feed lately. I just figured it had something to do with Virginia City.”
“Virginia City?” Starbuck’s look betrayed nothing. “I don’t follow you.”
Cody spread his hands in a bland gesture. “Carver finished an engagement there last month. I jumped to the conclusion he’d got himself in Dutch with the law.”
“Couldn’t prove it by me,” Starbuck said, rising to his feet. “I’m here to get a deposition in a civil suit. Course, I’m not at liberty to disclose the details. You’ll have to ask Carver about that.”
“Maybe I will,” Cody said absently. “I only asked because I wanted to make damn sure he’ll be available next summer.”
“What happens next summer?”
“Great thundering cannonballs!” Cody boomed jovially. “You haven’t heard, have you? That’s when the world gets a gander at my new Wild West Show!”
Starbuck appeared confounded. “What’s a Wild West Show?”
“I’m quitting the stage!” Cody beamed. “P. T. Barnum has shown me the light! Last year he merged with James Bailey, and they’re calling their circus the Greatest Show on Earth. Their first engagement was Madison Square Garden—and it was a sellout!”
“Yeah?” Starbuck was still bemused. “So what’s that got to do with the West?”
“Spectacle!” Cody thundered gleefully. “The public wants spectacle and pageantry! That’s exactly what I plan to give them. After this season, we’re through with theaters. We’ll play in outdoor arenas and circus tents, anywhere masses of people can be brought together. We’ll make Barnum and his goddamn midget look like hayseeds!”
“Are you talking about a western circus?”
“Not bad, Luke!” Cody was caught up in a tempest of imagination. “Only it’ll be more on the order of the old Roman circus. We’ll have wild animals and trick-shot artists and all these new rodeo events. We’ll have savage redskins and cavalry charges, and pitched battles on horseback. I tell you, it will revolutionize the show business!”
“A Wild West Show?” Starbuck shook his head, considering. “Yeah, I suppose something like that would go over big with easterners.”
“It damn sure better!” Cody said with a rolling laugh. “Otherwise, I’ll be scratching a poor man’s ass. I’ve hocked my soul to put this show on the road!”
“Well, I wish you luck, Bill.”
“I’m obliged, Luke. Good wishes from a man of your caliber means a lot! Wherever we’re playing, you’ll always be welcome. Buffalo Bill’s personal guest!”
Starbuck thought it unlikely. He’d never had much use for showoffs and braggarts, men who forever sought the limelight. Their ways were foreign to him, and beneath their bravado he’d always detected something of the phony. Yet he found himself curiously ambivalent about Bill Cody. A scout who had won the Medal of Honor was no counterfeit hero.
Upon reflection, Starbuck decided the theatrics and the tall tales were a pardonable offense. He supposed there was room in the world for one See Me Bill.
And a Wild West Show.
Chapter Six
On the way uptown Starbuck scarcely noticed passersby. His thoughts turned from Cody to Doc Carver. He mentally reviewed all he knew about the sharpshooter.
William Carver was an easte
rner and a former physician. Some years earlier he had abandoned his medical practice for a more lucrative career in show business. Shooting exhibitions were all the rage, and Carver possessed a natural gift with firearms. In 1878, using a rifle, he had captured the coveted title World’s Champion Marksman. Glass balls were thrown into the air, and he’d broken 5,500 out of 6,211 tries. From there, he had gone on to exhibitions throughout America and Europe. He billed himself as the Evil Spirit of the Plains, trading on the world’s fascination with the West. While he claimed to have fought in the Minnesota Sioux uprising, he had never fired a gun in anger. He was a sawbones turned showman.
Apart from those details, Starbuck possessed little in the way of hard intelligence. He knew Carver’s daughter had been murdered, and he knew Carver had hastily departed Virginia City. The rumors surrounding those events were unsubstantiated and therefore of limited value. Few men broke under interrogation unless confronted with cold facts. So today’s game of wits would rely largely on bluff. A liberal amount of conjecture flavored with a dab of truth.
At the hotel, Starbuck inquired Carver’s room number. The desk clerk informed him it was a suite and pointed him upstairs. On the second floor, he turned left and walked to the end of the hall. He rapped on the door marked 230 and waited. Then he rapped harder.
Some moments passed before the door opened. The man facing him was slim and lithely built, with a brushy mustache. His eyes were steady and phlegmatic, and his features were hawklike. He looked anything but the coward.
“May I help you?”
“Dr. W. F. Carver?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Luke Starbuck.” Starbuck smiled genially. “Bill Cody said you might be able to spare me a few minutes.”
“For what purpose?”
“A private matter.”
“I see.” Carver hesitated a beat, then swung open the door. “Come in.”
“Thank you.”
The suite was large and comfortably furnished. On other side of the parlor there were doors leading to separate bedrooms. A bay window provided a southern exposure, overlooking the river. The parlor was well appointed, with a sofa and three easy chairs. Vases filled with wild prairie flowers were scattered around the room.
Carver closed the door and turned into the parlor. He motioned Starbuck to a chair. “What business do you have with Cody?”
“None.” Starbuck placed his hat on a table, sat down. “I’m a private detective.”
“Starbuck?” Carver took a seat on the sofa, suddenly nodded. “Why, of course! You’re the investigator from Denver. I’ve read about you in the Police Gazette.”
“Don’t believe a word of it,” Starbuck said affably. “Their reporters seldom bother to check the facts.”
Carver chuckled politely, crossed his legs. “Well now, what brings you to see me, Mr. Starbuck?”
“Virginia City.” Starbuck let him hang a moment. “I’m investigating a series of murders.”
“I—” Carver paused, his expression guarded. “I don’t believe I understand.”
“Are you familiar with Mr. Wilbur X. Lott?”
“Anyone who’s been to Virginia City has heard of Wilbur Lott.”
“Then you know several miners have been murdered there recently. He hired me to look into the matter.”
“I understood Lott was the moving force behind the vigilante movement. Why would he hire a private detective?”
“He needs proof,” Starbuck lied, deadpan. “Before he hangs anybody, he wants the evidence to back his play.”
“I find that rather astounding . . . to say the least.”
“Why so?”
“Lott’s a scoundrel!” Carver informed him stiffly. “Nothing more than a demagogue with political ambitions!”
“You seem well informed about Virginia City.”
“A man like Wilbur Lott attracts attention. In fact, he takes great pains to keep himself in the public eye.”
“I never judge a client,” Starbuck observed neutrally. “I just do the job I was hired to do.”
“In that case”—Carver’s eyebrows drew together in a frown—“why have you come to me?”
“Your daughter was murdered there last month.”
Carver blinked, licked his lips. “I fail to see the connection.”
“Lott thinks the murders and the stage holdups are the work of one gang.”
“What has that to do with my . . . daughter?”
“Everything,” Starbuck said pointedly. “There’s talk around Virginia City that your daughter got herself mixed up with the stage robbers.”
“That’s preposterous!” Carver laughed, but it didn’t ring true. “The most absurd thing I’ve ever heard!”
“Some folks say your daughter was murdered because she learned too much for her own good.”
“Idle gossip and speculation, nothing more!”
“It gets worse.” Starbuck fixed him with a piercing look. “I don’t know how to say it tactfully, Dr. Carver. Your daughter was having an affair with somebody—”
“A lie! A damnable lie!”
“—and that somebody was responsible for her death.”
“How dare you!” Carver shouted. “Nothing of the sort ever happened. Never!”
“No?” Starbuck’s tone turned curt and inquisitorial. “Then how come you took off running?”
“What?”
“You almost set your pants on fire getting out of Virginia City! Who scared you off?”
“Nobody!” Carver shook his head wildly. “Nobody scared me off!”
“You’re lying!” Starbuck said roughly. “Somebody killed your daughter, and you hauled ass before he could kill you.”
Carver went ghastly pale. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come off it!” Starbuck pressed him. “Don’t you want your daughter’s murderer caught and hung?”
“I refuse to listen any longer! I want you to leave, Mr. Starbuck. Now!”
Starbuck gave him a jaundiced stare. “You’ll listen till I’m done talking, Carver. If you’re not concerned about your daughter, then maybe you ought to worry about yourself. You’re living on borrowed time.”
Carver regarded him with profound shock. “What do you mean?”
“Stop and think about it!” Starbuck’s voice was harsh, insistent. “Wherever you are, you’re still a threat to the killer. Distance doesn’t mean a damn thing! One of these days he’ll wake up to the fact that you could still identify him and put his head in a noose. That’s the day he’ll track you down and kill you.”
“You’re wrong.” Carver averted his gaze. “That will never happen.”
“Stop kidding yourself!” Starbuck persisted. “You’ve only got one hope—and that’s me!”
“You?” Carver made an empty gesture with his hands. “How can you help?”
“Tell me his name,” Starbuck said grimly. “I’ll find him and kill him. That way, you’re off the hook for good.”
A shadow of anxiety clouded Carver’s features. He passed a hand across his eyes and swallowed hard. He opened his mouth to say something, then appeared to change his mind. Finally he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“There’s a lawyer in Virginia City.”
“What’s his name?”
“George Hoyt.”
“He killed your daughter?”
“No,” Carver said hesitantly. “But he can tell you things . . . names.”
“Whose names?” Starbuck asked. “Your daughter’s killer? The stage robbers?”
“I won’t say any more, Mr. Starbuck. I’ve already said too much. Go back to Virginia City and talk to George Hoyt. He knows everything . . . all of it.”
“You’re talking in riddles!”
“I’m sorry.” Carver screwed up his features in a tight knot. “I won’t involve myself any further. That’s all I have to say.”
Silence thickened between them. After long deliberation, Starbuck’s face to
ok on a sudden hard cast. His tone was offhand, almost matter-of-fact.
“One last thing.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t shoot off a wire to anybody in Virginia City.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Who knows?” Starbuck said coldly. “But if you warn anybody about our little talk . . . you’re a dead man.”
“You have no need to threaten me, Mr. Starbuck.”
“Let’s just call it a word to the wise.”
The hallway door opened. A young girl stepped into the parlor, her arms laden with packages. As she turned to place the bundles on a nearby table Carver bounded off the sofa and hurried across the room. His expression was instantly jocular and his voice lighthearted.
“There you are, my dear!” He kissed her soundly on the cheek. “How was your shopping?”
“Oh, fine, considering the selection—”
“We have a visitor!” Carver took her elbow and steered her forward. “One of the West’s most respected private investigators. Permit me to introduce Mr. Luke Starbuck.”
Starbuck stood. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
The girl was in her early twenties. She was slender and quite attractive, with hazel eyes and glossy auburn hair. Though built along dainty lines, she carried herself erect and proud. Her smile was like a cameo come to life. She met Starbuck’s gaze with a charming nod.
“Luke, this is Sally Devlin.” Carver put his arm around the girl’s waist and gave her a hug. “She’s my new assistant. Joined the act after I returned from Virginia City.”
“I’d say you did your act proud, Doc.”
“Quite a bundle, huh?” Carver laughed and squeezed her tighter. “Don’t know what I’d do without Sally! A pretty girl makes all the difference—in lots of ways!”
The girl blushed and dropped her eyes. Starbuck noted Carver’s possessive attitude and thought it a cozy arrangement. She was easily half the sharpshooter’s age, and he wondered how they’d got together. Then, just as quickly, he dismissed it from mind. Saloons and whorehouses were overrun with girls looking for escape. Sally Devlin wouldn’t be the first to find it with an older man.
“Guess I’ll be on my way, Doc.”