The Judas Tree

by Matt Braun

  “Why hasn’t he gone after Skinner?”

  “Why would he?” Hoyt responded. “Very few people even know that Skinner’s the kingpin. He operates through others and keeps himself insulated from the dirty work.”

  “What about the robbers Palmer caught? The ones you tried and hanged. Were they part of Yeager’s gang?”

  Hoyt gave him a dull stare. “Those men were just garden-variety bandits. So far as I know, Palmer doesn’t suspect an organized gang. He certainly doesn’t suspect Yeager! No one does.”

  “Palmer’s no dimdot,” Starbuck said doubtfully. “Are you saying he doesn’t suspect there’s a Judas working for the stage company?”

  “Judas?”

  “An inside man,” Starbuck elaborated. “Someone who supplies advance information on the gold shipments.”

  “Good Lord!” Hoyt’s mouth froze in a silent oval. “I always wondered how Yeager picked the right stages!”

  “You mean nobody ever said anything to you about an inside man?”

  “Not a word,” Hoyt said with a hangdog look. “But then, of course, I never asked. I didn’t want to know the details, especially beforehand. Too many express guards were being killed.”

  Starbuck read no guile in his face. “All right, we’ll let that pass. What about Doc Carver? How’d he get involved?”

  “He wasn’t involved,” Hoyt remarked. “He was just an innocent bystander.”

  “Then how come he took off running?”

  “He had no choice,” Hoyt said miserably. “His daughter—Alice—learned something she wasn’t supposed to know.”

  “What was that . . . just exactly?”

  “I have no idea.” Hoyt swallowed and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Skinner refused to discuss it with me.”

  “Did Skinner know you were sweet on the Carver girl?”

  “Oh, yes.” A look of anguish came into Hoyt’s eyes. “He knew how I felt. He knew it all along.”

  “Was Skinner the one who murdered her?”

  “She—” Hoyt faltered, his voice barely audible. “Alice wasn’t killed.”

  “She’s alive!” Starbuck was genuinely astounded. “The Carver girl’s alive?”

  “Alice and her father—”

  The window exploded and a trash can struck the floor in a shower of glass. Starbuck reacted on sheer instinct and threw himself backward in his chair. He crashed into the wall, pulling his Colt as the chair collapsed and he toppled to the floor. Hoyt jackknifed to his feet and gaped at two men dimly visible through the shattered window. Then the men opened fire with sawed-off shotguns; three quick blasts hammered Hoyt into the rear wall. The fourth blast ripped away the top of his head, and his knees buckled. He slumped forward beneath a mist of brains and gore.

  Starbuck levered himself up on one arm before the men could reload. He sighted on the shadowy figures and thumbed off a hurried snap shot. One of the men screamed and dropped his scattergun. Starbuck triggered another shot and then realized he was firing at an empty window. The men were gone, and in the sudden stillness he heard pounding footsteps on the boardwalk. He stood, moved swiftly to the window, and took a cautious look outside. He saw the men turn the corner of a building and disappear into the alley. Muttering to himself, he cursed the darkness and his own shooting. The man he’d hit wasn’t wounded seriously, for they were both running at top speed. He sensed there was nothing to be gained by chasing after them.

  A look around confirmed what he already knew. George Hoyt was dead, and with him had died any hope of a quick break in the case. Worse, the killing meant that Stimson had not been fooled. Someone had shadowed Starbuck tonight and trailed him to the lawyer’s office. The masquerade was over, and he no longer needed a disguise.

  His cover was blown.

  Chapter Eleven

  Starbuck waited near the door. A crowd of morbid onlookers was gathered outside the shattered window. To the rear of the office, Sheriff Palmer and a deputy were inspecting the corpse. Their features were grim, their voices a low murmur.

  In the aftermath of the shooting, several miners had collected on the boardwalk. Gunfire tended to draw spectators, and word of the killing quickly spread uptown. Starbuck had sent a man to fetch the sheriff and then kept the crowd at a distance. The shotgun and a splotch of blood on the boardwalk were his alibi. He’d thought it prudent to preserve the evidence.

  Henry Palmer had arrived shortly thereafter. Starbuck, still in the guise of Lee Hall, had related the details of the killing. But he had refused to explain his presence in the lawyer’s office. Only in private, he insisted, would he elaborate further. A quick look around convinced the sheriff that Starbuck had not participated in the murder. The fresh blood trail outside, along with the shotgun, indicated Starbuck had wounded one of the assassins. The condition of the deceased, riddled with four loads of buckshot, verified that two men had taken part in the shooting. Palmer had agreed to withhold judgment, pending a full explanation.

  Under other circumstances, Starbuck would have taken matters into his own hands. Cyrus Skinner was clearly the man he’d been hired to kill. Yet he realized that any attempt to call Skinner out would accomplish nothing. There was no hard evidence, and the assayer would simply refuse to fight. No assassin, Starbuck could hardly kill Skinner in cold blood. He always gave a hunted man a chance, however slight. The fact that he’d blown his cover further complicated the situation. So the alternative, at least for the moment, was to work through the law. He saw it as the only way to build a solid case.

  Palmer’s examination took less than a half hour. He dispatched someone with a message for the undertaker and left his deputy to guard the murder scene. Once the body was removed, he ordered that the window be boarded up and the door locked. Then, motioning to Starbuck, he led the way outside. The crowd parted, and they walked toward Wallace Street. Neither man spoke.

  All the way across town Starbuck weighed various options. He wondered how little he could tell Palmer and still obtain the lawman’s cooperation. The fly in the ointment was Cyrus Skinner. He had only circumstantial evidence, and he needed hard-and-fast proof before he could act. Then there was the additional factor of the Judas. He still had no positive identification, and he’d lost all chance of operating undercover. So it was vital that the sheriff commence an immediate investigation. In the end, he decided to tell Palmer everything.

  A short while later they entered the sheriff’s office. The furnishings were sparse, with a single battered desk and several wooden armchairs. Off the main room, several barred cells were visible along a corridor. To all appearances, there were no prisoners in the lockup and they had the place to themselves. Palmer hooked his hat on a wall peg and circled around the desk. He waved Starbuck to a chair.

  “Let’s get down to cases.” He dropped into a swivel chair, elbows on the desk. “What was your business with George Hoyt?”

  Starbuck lit a cigarette, exhaled smoke. “It’s a long story, and no need to cover the same ground twice. Why don’t I start at the beginning?”

  “Start anywhere you please.”

  “Well, first off, I’m not Lee Hall. The name’s Luke Starbuck. I’m a private detective, operating out of Denver.”

  “I assume you can prove that?”

  “Check with Munro Salisbury and John Duggan. They hired me, and they’ll vouch for the fact that I’ve been working undercover.”

  “If you are Starbuck”—Palmer fixed him with a stern look—“you’ve got a rep as a mankiller. Were you sent here to put somebody away?”

  “I was hired to bust up a gang of stage robbers.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Starbuck hesitated, chose his words with care. “I’ve never killed a man unless he was trying to kill me.”

  “All right, skip it for now.” Palmer’s frown deepened. “What’s this about a gang of robbers?”

  Starbuck briefly recounted the details of his assignment. He covered the salient points leading to his infi
ltration of Yeager’s gang. Then he went on to relate how he’d tied both Stimson and Skinner to the robbery ring. He finished by repeating everything George Hoyt had told him.

  “That’s pretty much the story,” he concluded. “Hoyt’s confession nailed it down tight.”

  Palmer merely listened, coldly silent, eyeing him with a mixture of dismay and surprise. He drummed the desktop with his fingers, digesting what he’d heard. Then he leaned back in the creaky swivel chair.

  “If it’s true, that would mean Skinner rigged Alice Carver’s death. What was the purpose?”

  “Hoyt was just about to tell me when the shooting started. So I never found out.”

  “What would it have to do with the stage robberies?”

  “Good question,” Starbuck admitted. “I frankly don’t know.”

  “Maybe Hoyt was feeding you a line.”

  “How so?”

  “Somebody with a score to settle was out to get him. They tried once before and got the Carver girl instead. Sounds to me like he was trying to mislead you—throw you off the track.”

  “Why would he invent a story about the girl?”

  “Beats me.” Palmer massaged his jaw, considering. “But there’s one thing I can tell you for a fact—Alice Carver is dead!”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  “I saw it myself! Hoyt sent for me the night she was killed. Her dress was covered with blood and she was cold as a mackerel. No maybe about it!”

  “Did you feel her pulse?”

  “Hell, no!” Palmer said sharply. “I know a corpse when I see one!”

  “Hoyt told me it happened late at night. In the dark, it’d be easy to fake something like that . . . wouldn’t it?”

  A strange light came into Palmer’s eyes. “I still don’t buy it. We buried her the very next day! I was standing right there when they put her in the grave.”

  “Where was her father?”

  “He vamoosed sometime during the night.”

  “Gets curiouser and curiouser, don’t it?”

  Palmer was silent for a time. At last, as though to underscore the question, he looked Starback squarely in the eye. “What are you after? Let’s quit beating around the bush and get to it.”

  Starbuck flicked an ash off his cigarette. “I want to exhume the Carver girl’s coffin.”

  “Dig her up?” Palmer’s expression turned to blank astonishment. “Why, for Chrissake?”

  “A couple of reasons,” Starbuck said with dungeon calm. “If the coffin’s empty—or there’s someone else in it—that means Hoyt was telling the truth. In other words, somebody went to a lot of trouble to make the girl’s death believable. I intend to find out why.”

  “What’s the other reason?”

  “If the murder was a fake, then it substantiates everything Hoyt told me about Skinner. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Not necessarily.” Palmer steepled his fingers, peered across the desk. “We’d still have only Hoyt’s word that Skinner was behind it. And a dead man’s word—especially secondhand—isn’t admissible in court.”

  Starbuck’s mouth curled. “You seem to forget the daisy chain I mentioned. Yeager to Stimson to Skinner. All in one night—the night of the robbery.”

  “Still inadmissible,” Palmer growled. “You’re just guessing what Stimson had in that satchel. You couldn’t swear to it under oath.”

  “You surprise me, Sheriff.” Starbuck looked at him questioningly. “Hoyt led me to believe there’s no love lost between you and Skinner. Maybe I heard him wrong.”

  Palmer brushed away the thought with a quick, impatient gesture. “We’re in opposite political camps, but that’s neither here nor there. So far as I know, Cyrus Skinner just dabbles in politics. He’s no king-fish or power behind the throne! And I’ll eat your hat if he’s involved in these robberies. He’s just too god-blessed straight!”

  “That’s the whole point,” Starbuck noted. “He wears a starchy collar and acts holier than thou. Nobody would ever suspect he’s behind the robbers and the vice payoffs. Not to mention the political shenanigans.”

  “Hard to swallow.” Palmer lowered his head, tightlipped. “Stimson’s a different ball of wax. I wouldn’t put anything past him! But I’ll lay odds Skinner’s no part of it.”

  “Why would Hoyt accuse an innocent man?”

  “Who knows?” Palmer paused, jawline set in a scowl. “Maybe him and Stimson were splitting the vice payoffs. For that matter, they might’ve had you pegged as an undercover man from the start. Maybe the whole idea was to lead you to Skinner—put you on a blind trail.”

  “It won’t wash.” Starbuck’s voice was firm. “I had them fooled down the line. It was business as usual—and nobody gave me a tumble.”

  “If you had them fooled”—Palmer’s eyes burned with intensity—“then how come George Hoyt’s dead? You slipped up somewhere, and probably more than once. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have a quart of buckshot up his gizzard.”

  Their eyes locked. Starbuck gave him a straight, hard look, challenging him, and there was an awkward silence. He marked again that the sheriff was a cool customer, but nonetheless susceptible to spite and petty intolerance. At last, his expression stoic, he broke the impasse.

  “What’s your problem?” he asked bluntly. “Are you pissed off because I worked my own game in your bailiwick?”

  “Wouldn’t you be?” Palmer said with a flare of annoyance. “Even the Pinkertons make it standard practice to work with local law officers.”

  “Maybe that’s why the Pinks lose so many men. I operate on a real simple principle, Sheriff. The fewer people who know about me, the longer I’ll live.”

  “Say what you mean!” Palmer said crossly. “You didn’t trust me enough to take me into your confidence. That’s it in a nutshell, isn’t it?”

  “Nothing personal,” Starbuck observed. “Until tonight, I had to play it close to the vest. All that changed after my talk with Hoyt.”

  “What’s Hoyt got to do with me?”

  “He gave you a clean bill of health . . . told me you’re not involved with Skinner.”

  “How come you put so much faith in what a jackleg lawyer has to say?”

  Starbuck dropped his cigarette on the floor, crushed it underfoot. “I had him by the short hairs, and Hoyt was no dummy. He saw a way to make a deal and save his own hide. So there was no reason for him to lie to me about Skinner. The truth was his only way out.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Palmer said without conviction. “But I’m still not entirely sold. Cyrus Skinner just don’t seem like the type.”

  “Would you stake your reputation on it?”

  “No,” Palmer said grudgingly. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “Then I take it you’ve got no objection to starting an investigation—do you?”

  “You talking about Skinner?”

  “And Stimson,” Starbuck added. “I wounded one of his men tonight. I’d hazard a guess it was one of the bouncers at the Gem. Find the man and squeeze him, and he’ll spill the beans on Stimson.”

  “Where does that get us?”

  “It’ll get Stimson indicted for the murder of the county prosecutor. That’s one charge nobody will get quashed, not even Cyrus Skinner. Once Stimson’s indicted, then you offer him a deal.”

  “Talk or hang!” Palmer nodded solemnly. “That what you had in mind?”

  “On the button,” Starbuck acknowledged. “I’ll wager Stimson knows all there is to know about Skinner. Graft and political corruption, the vice payoffs and the stage holdups. You get him to turn songbird and it’s all over but the shouting. He’ll put a noose around Skinner’s neck.”

  “How about Frank Yeager?”

  “Hold off till you’ve got Stimson’s balls in a nutcracker. Then you can suit yourself about Yeager. Let him hang or use him as a corroborating witness . . . whichever seems best.”

  Palmer looked on the verge of saying something but apparently changed his mind
. He eyed Starbuck skeptically. “What are you planning to do?”

  “I’ll tell you in about an hour.”

  “An hour?”

  “After we’ve dug up Alice Carver.”

  The Virginia City cemetery was on a hillside west of town. The graves were marked with wooden crosses and crude headstones. A sickle moon bathed the landscape in a pale, ghostly light.

  Starbuck and Palmer were in shirtsleeves, their coats tossed on the ground. The night was chilly, and despite a brisk northwesterly wind their foreheads glistened with sweat. They dug silently, standing at opposite ends of the grave, already knee-deep in an open hole. Their shovels rose and fell with a methodical rhythm, flashing dully in the moonlight. A mound of earth was heaped at one side of the grave.

  Some while earlier, they had left the sheriff’s office by the back door. Palmer had expressed the opinion that the job would be easier done in daylight. Starbuck agreed, but he’d stressed the need for secrecy. He was determined that there be no leak of their visit to the graveyard. Whatever they found, if word of the exhumation got out it would immediately alert Cyrus Skinner. Thus far, only Palmer was aware of the disclosures made by George Hoyt, the murdered lawyer. That provided an edge they desperately needed. One that might well make or break the investigation.

  Palmer grouched and complained, still not wholly convinced. But in the end, Starbuck’s view had prevailed. A couple of shovels were collected from the jail toolshed, and they trudged off toward the cemetery. No one saw them leave town.

  An hour or so had passed, and they were now hipdeep in the grave. Starbuck’s shovel suddenly struck something solid, and they both paused. Then he jabbed lightly with the shovel, and a wooden clunk echoed from the hole. Gingerly, they began scooping out the last few inches of dirt. The top of a pine coffin slowly became visible in the dim light. After widening the hole around the sides, they stopped and leaned on their shovels. Starbuck ducked his chin at the coffin.

  “Who does the honors?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Palmer scambled out to level ground. He dusted himself off, then went to one knee beside the grave. Starbuck found footholds on either side of the hole and set himself with his back to the headstone. Then he wedged his shovel under the coffin lid and pried upward. The rusty nails protested, loosening with the screech of metal embedded deeply into wood. He worked the tip of the shovel all the way around, levering with the handle until he’d sprung the last of the nails. The lid popped free of the coffin.