The Judas Tree

by Matt Braun

  “No more!” Skinner pleaded hoarsely. “I’ll talk—I swear it!”

  “A wise decision,” Lott intoned. “I have only one question, so pay very close attention. Tell me about Henry Palmer.”

  “He’s the boss! He fed me the information about the express shipments, and I passed it along to Stimson and Yeager. He controlled everything . . . all of us!”

  “Where did he get the information?”

  “The express company,” Skinner babbled. “He’s the sheriff . . . they never suspected anything . . . he was hanging robbers . . . they let him see the shipment schedules . . . so he could catch more robbers.”

  “These robbers he hung?” Lott demanded. “Were they part of the gang?”

  “Only a con game . . . make everybody think there wasn’t a gang!”

  “Why didn’t Yeager spill all that during his trial?”

  “Yeager didn’t know! No one but Stimson and me knew about Palmer. That’s why he killed Stimson . . . resisting arrest . . . would’ve killed me, too. But I fooled him, got away!”

  “How about politics?” Lott persisted. “Who controlled the county machine?”

  “Palmer!” Skinner rasped. “It was always Palmer! I was only his front man. He organized it . . . pulled the strings . . . through me!”

  “Thank you, Cyrus.” Lott grinned an evil grin. “You’ve confirmed everything I suspected right along. Now, for the record, I have one final question. Do you swear before almighty God that you’ve told the whole truth?”

  “Yes!” Skinner’s eyes filled with panic. “With Christ as my witness—I do!”

  “Good,” Lott said viciously. “Hang him!”

  Skinner threw up a hand, palm outward. His mouth opened in protest and then clicked shut in a strangled gasp. The vigilantes heaved on the rope and jerked him off his knees. Another tug lifted him into the air, his arms and legs flapping in a spastic struggle. A rictus of agony crossed his features and he wet his pants. His hands dug insanely at the noose.

  The man guarding Starbuck edged closer. His eyes were bright with fascination, and Skinner’s death struggles seemed to compel him forward. He took another step and another, transfixed by the sight. Then, all else forgotten, he stood staring upward, spellbound.

  Starbuck turned and vanished into the darkness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Asingle lamp lighted the sheriff’s office. Starbuck angled across the street and gingerly stepped onto the boardwalk. He pulled the Colt, thumbing the hammer to full cock. Then he catfooted toward the door.

  Outside, he paused and flattened himself against the wall. One ear cocked to the door, he listened for several seconds. There was no sound from within, and the silence sparked a vague feeling of unease. He took a firm grip on the doorknob and braced himself. The door creaked as he threw it open and extended the Colt to arm’s length. The office was empty.

  Still wary, he moved through the doorway and stopped just inside. He slammed the door shut and stood for a moment, scanning the room. The desk was littered with paperwork, and a potbellied stove crackled with warmth. Everything appeared normal, and yet a curious sense of desolation pervaded the office. He collected the lamp from the desk and walked swiftly to the door of the lockup. All the cells were empty; the barred doors along the corridor yawned open. He returned to the office and slowly holstered the Colt. His expression was troubled.

  Some inner voice told Starbuck the worst had happened. There were no deputies around and the jail-house was deserted. All the signs indicated the office had been vacated hurriedly, sometime within the last hour. He thought it entirely probable that the sheriff had gotten word of Skinner’s capture. Further, with Skinner in the hands of the vigilantes, it would be logical to assume that the last link in the conspiracy had been revealed. Cyrus Skinner, in an attempt to save himself, would spill his guts about the “boss” of Virginia City. Which meant Henry Palmer would have been under no illusions about his own fate. He was the next candidate for the Judas Tree.

  Starbuck was gripped by a sense of time running ahead of him. His eyes felt scratchy and burnt out, and he wearily massaged them as he considered his options. The smart move, on Palmer’s part, would have been to depart town hastily. Only by vanishing into the night would he outdistance the hangman’s rope and certain death. In that event, Starbuck had no choice but to pick up the trail and give chase. Yet there loomed before him the question of where to start. He abruptly realized that he knew virtually nothing of a personal nature about Henry Palmer. Wife and family aside, he had no idea as to where the sheriff lived. A man’s home, most assuredly, was the first place to look. Where to ask directions, however, posed a problem. He couldn’t afford loose talk and speculation, not with the vigilantes on the prowl. He somehow had to cover his own tracks.

  Once more outside, he turned toward the center of town. He figured the hotel was perhaps the best place to inquire. A gold piece, backed by a subtle threat, would ensure the night clerk’s silence. As he walked, his mind drifted unwittingly to the vigilantes. There was an inescapable note of irony, not to mention a certain rancor, in his attitude. On general principles, he detested mob justice and the element of anarchy underlying any vigilance movement. On a personal level, he burned with a quiet, steel fury toward Wilbur X. Lott. The vigilante leader had taken his prisoner at gunpoint and compounded the insult by threatening his life. He allowed no man that liberty, and sooner or later Lott would be made to pay the piper. All the more so since Starbuck considered Lott a malevolent force, no less evil than the outlaws themselves. An ambitious man was too often a sinister man, and therefore the most dangerous of all.

  Still, in the end, it boiled down to a matter of priorities. Wilbur X. Lott was strictly personal business, and settling his hash would wait. In the meantime, there was a more pressing problem, one that topped Starbuck’s list. He was determined that the vigilantes wouldn’t beat him to Henry Palmer.

  Later, looking back on the moment, Starbuck would be struck by the blend of timing and coincidence. As he approached the main intersection a group of miners emerged from the café on the corner. Their raucous laughter attracted his attention, and he stopped dead in his tracks. Through the fly-specked window he saw Palmer seated at a table inside the café. The sheriff was sopping stew gravy from his plate with a piece of bread. Even as Starbuck watched he popped the bread into his mouth and began chewing. His demeanor was that of a man without a trouble in the world.

  Starbuck was immobilized by the sight. He briefly wondered if Palmer somehow hadn’t heard about Skinner. Then, upon second thought, he discarded the notion. The odds dictated that Palmer had learned of Skinner’s capture within minutes after it happened. Yet there he sat, calmy eating his supper. It beggared the imagination.

  The supper hour was drawing to a close. All up and down the street the boardwalks were jammed with men out to see the elephant. With the exception of Palmer, only three diners still lingered in the café. Starbuck debated whether to make his play inside or risk a showdown on the crowded street. Then he saw a waitress approach the table and refill the sheriff’s coffee mug. He again experienced the sensation of fleeting time. To delay might very well cut his slight lead over the vigilantes. He decided to wait no longer.

  Palmer was seated at a window table, facing the door. Starbuck entered quickly and halted just inside the café. His hand was underneath his suit jacket, gripping the butt of the Colt. His gaze bored into Palmer, inviting a move. A moment passed while the two men stared at each other. Then the sheriff carefully wrapped both hands around his coffee mug. A token act, it signified he chose not to fight.

  Alert to trickery, Starbuck slowly approached the table. He saw, upon moving closer, that there was a strangeness about Palmer. The sheriff’s eyes were oddly vacant and his features were fixed. He had a faraway look, as though the focus of his concentration were centered on something dimly visible in the distance. He nodded to Starbuck.

  “Have a chair.”

  “You�
��re a regular sackful of surprises.”

  “How so?”

  “I figured you’d fight the minute I showed.”

  “I don’t want to kill you, Luke.”

  “You’ll have to try”—Starbuck’s tone was impersonal—“if you intend to walk out of here.”

  “No, I won’t.” Palmer paused, met his gaze with an amused expression. “There’s no way you can force me to draw . . . not just yet.”

  Starbuck seated himself across the table. He lit a cigarette, all the while watching Palmer’s hands. Then he snuffed the match and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

  “What’s your game?”

  Palmer’s smile was bleak. “You tell me your secrets and I’ll tell you mine.”

  “Go ahead,” Starbuck agreed. “Ask away.”

  “Have Lott and his bunch hung Skinner?”

  “He was on his way up the last time I saw him.”

  “Did they make him talk?”

  “Oh, he talked!” Starbuck took a long draw on his cigarette. “He’d still be talking if he hadn’t run out of things to say.”

  “I suppose the questions were about me?”

  “Nobody else.” Starbuck spoke the words in little spurts of smoke. “Skinner identified you as the boss of Virginia City. Vice, politics, and stage holdups . . . the whole can of worms.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Palmer said equably. “Cyrus always was short on guts.”

  “Why shouldn’t he talk? He knew you meant to kill him the same way you killed Stimson.”

  “A double-crosser deserves what he gets.”

  Starbuck eyed him, thoughtful. “You’re talking about the Carver girl, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?”

  “Skinner tricked you,” Starbuck said, not asking a question. “You thought she was dead till the night we opened the coffin.”

  Palmer seemed to wrestle with himself a moment. He turned the coffee mug in his hands, examining it like some curious artifact. Finally, with a great shrug of resignation, he glanced up.

  “You’re right.” His voice was at once reasonable and tinged with anger. “Skinner played me for a sucker. The way he rigged her death—and that phony funeral—was a big mistake. He was thinking with his balls instead of his brains.”

  “So what?” Starbuck asked. “There was no real harm done. She never actually knew who you were.”

  “She knew I existed! After we dug up her coffin, I got the full story out of Stimson. Maybe she didn’t know my name, but she knew too much. That’s why Skinner got her out of town.”

  “What was the alternative?”

  “He should’ve come to me!” Palmer replied. “What she overheard wasn’t his fault. I wouldn’t have held it against him.”

  “Probably not.” Starbuck tapped an ash off his cigarette. “But you would’ve killed Alice Carver.”

  “That was Skinner’s second mistake. By letting her live, he put everybody’s tail in a crack.”

  “I’ll give you credit,” Starbuck said with a lightning frown. “It was a mistake you damn sure tried to correct.”

  “You mean that fiasco in Chicago?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a fiasco. Another minute, and those boys would’ve got the girl and me and Doc Carver. It almost worked.”

  “Too little too late,” Palmer said morosely. “Strictly a last-ditch effort. By then, things were unraveling so fast I was always a step behind. I lay it to George Hoyt’s death.”

  “You didn’t order him killed?”

  Palmer grunted, shook his head. “Stimson took it upon himself. He got wise to you, and then his boys trailed you to Hoyt’s office. He figured to wipe the slate clean—kill you both.”

  “So you were still in the dark at that point. You didn’t know who I was till I told you myself?”

  “Unfortunate, but true,” Palmer affirmed. “And that’s when I made my big mistake. I should’ve killed you out at the graveyard and buried you in that empty coffin.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Tell you the truth—” Palmer paused and stared at him a long moment. “I was so goddamn mad at Skinner I wasn’t thinking straight. By the time I quit seeing red, you were already on your way to Chicago.”

  “One thing puzzles me,” Starbuck said, watching him inquisitively. “How’d you get Stimson to send his boys after me?”

  “Carrot and the stick.” Palmer’s mouth lifted in a tight grin. “I let him think he could square himself by getting rid of you and the Carver girl. He swallowed it, bait and all.”

  “Meanwhile—” Starbuck gave him a short look. “You were rigging a double-cross of your own. Yeager didn’t know the score, so you charged him with robbery and murder. Then you killed Stimson for resisting arrest. If you’d got Skinner, that was the game. Nobody would’ve been left alive to identify you.”

  “Almost pulled it off, too! I just never figured Skinner to run that fast. Guess he saw the handwriting on the wall.”

  “He wasn’t in any doubt that you meant to put him under.”

  “How’d you find him?” Palmer said, genuinely curious. “That was a slick piece of detective work.”

  “It’s a long story,” Starbuck said flatly. “Let’s stick with you for the moment. Tell me how you got the inside dope on those gold shipments.”

  “Wasn’t all that hard,” Palmer noted. “The boys over at the express office never suspected the law was behind it. I generally managed to get a peek at the shipment schedules.”

  “What about your deputies?” Starbuck remarked. “Were they involved?”

  “No,” Palmer said briskly. “I kept them busy chasing small-timers. It was good whitewash and it had everybody fooled down the line. Leastways till you showed up.”

  “One last question.” Starbuck stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “Why are you admitting all this so openly?”

  There was a prolonged silence. Palmer’s stare revealed nothing, and he might have been deaf for all the change in his expression. He studied Starbuck at length before answering.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said coolly. “You’re thinking this will end one of two ways. Either Lott and his thugs hang me, or you’ll do the honors. Would that be a fair statement?”

  “Close enough to count.”

  A smile shadowed Palmer’s lips. “Wilbur Lott will never hang me.”

  “That a fact?” Starbuck regarded him with a level gaze. “What makes you think so?”

  “I’m the law!” Palmer said forcefully. “It’s Cyrus Skinner’s word against mine, and that’s no contest. All I have to do is bluff and stick to it—and they wouldn’t dare hang me!”

  “So you’re betting it all on one turn of the cards?”

  “Why not?” Palmer said grimly. “If I run, you’d be right behind me. I’m better off to take my chances here . . . tonight.”

  “And if Lott doesn’t hang you?”

  “Then it’s between us,” Palmer said pointedly, “and I’ll have to kill you. That’s why I said you couldn’t force me to draw . . . not just yet.”

  “In other words,” Starbuck commented, “there’s no need to kill me if they do end up hanging you?”

  Palmer nodded gravely. “I don’t kill for sport. Unless your death serves some purpose, why bother?”

  “That’s real charitable of you.” Starbuck’s gaze was very pale and direct. “For the sake of argument, let’s suppose you don’t hang. What makes you think I wouldn’t kill you—instead of the other way around?”

  Palmer shrugged off the question. “You kill men but you don’t murder them. I’ve never imposed such rules on myself.”

  “You’re saying you’d backshoot me?”

  “Something like that,” Palmer said without irony. “Better you than me, Luke.”

  Not for the first time, Starbuck’s admiration was stirred. The man seated opposite him was a coldblooded cutthroat, with all the conscience of an aroused scorpion. Yet Palmer possessed icy nerves and bold cunning, the
very attributes a lawman prized most. Under different circumstances they might have been allies, if not friends. Tonight, Starbuck could offer him nothing more than a quick death.

  “You won’t stand the chance of a snowball in hell with the vigilantes.”

  “I disagree,” Palmer said firmly. “I’ve lived by my wits all my life. It won’t be any chore to outfox Wilbur Lott.”

  “If you’re wrong, it’s not a pleasant way to die. He’s a strangler, not a hangman.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Draw now.” Starbuck looked him square in the eye. “You’ll never know what hit you.”

  Palmer deliberated a moment. His expression was abstracted and he seemed to be weighing the proposal. Then he slowly wagged his head.

  “No soap,” he said with assurance. “I’ll worry about you after I’ve dealt with Lott.”

  “It’s your funeral.”

  “What the hell!” Palmer laughed. “A high roller always plays for table stakes.”

  “Only one trouble.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re playing into a cold deck.”

  Palmer suddenly stiffened. His eyes shifted to the window and he stared upstreet. In the erratic flicker of lamplight, he saw Lott and the vigilantes marching toward the intersection. A man in the lead rank carried a coiled rope, and one end was knotted in a hangman’s noose. All along the street miners stopped and gawked as the vigilantes strode past.

  “Well, Luke . . .” Palmer rose from his chair. “Time to play out the hand. Wish me luck.”

  “A dead man needs more than luck.”

  Palmer grinned and crossed the room with a determined stride. At the door he paused, squaring his shoulders; then he threw it open and stepped outside. He moved directly toward the vigilantes.

  Starbuck stood and walked from the café.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The boardwalk outside the café was jammed with miners. Pushing through the crowd, Starbuck noted that all four corners of Wallace and Jackson were packed with ghoulish onlookers. He shouldered past the men at the front and took a position beside the lamppost. Then his attention was drawn to the street.