Joe smiled and nodded. “I’ll ride with you to the edge of town.” They were good men, he thought, so he decided to make sure they started out in the right direction. At the edge of town, he pulled the paint over at the bank of the river. “I hope your trip back to your families is a good one.”
They both pulled their horses up beside his and shook hands. “Take care,” Malcolm said. “That Starbeau is a dangerous son of a bitch.” Joe nodded in acknowledgment.
“You watch your back,” Pete offered as he shook Joe’s hand.
“I will,” Joe replied. “You watch your’n. There’s still some stray bands of Sioux and Crow hangin’ around the Yellowstone.” He reined back on the paint when the horse started to follow along behind them, and watched them until they were out of his view. Then he turned around and went back to keep an eye on the stable.
Chapter 14
Joe Fox was not the only person keeping an eye on one of Butte’s businesses. For the past morning and night, Starbeau had kept vigilance on a small bank on the northeast side of Butte. He still had a large portion of the two hundred and fifty dollars he had stolen from Bradley Lindstrom, but judging by the rate he was spending, he was going to need a lot more. And the little Miner’s Bank of Butte was the perfect solution to his problem. Most of the time while he had watched it, there were only two people there, and one of them was a woman. The building was sitting in a grove of trees by itself, offering cover for anyone with a notion to rob it.
After a night on a creek bank from which he had set up his lookout, he satisfied himself that no one ever came by to check on the bank. It was almost too easy. He decided he would go back to the Miner’s Chance for one more night of drinking and maybe a turn with a whore, and hit the bank as soon as they opened the following morning. Just after sunrise, he rode up to the stable and dismounted.
Surprised to see someone so early, Nate Lewis came from the tack room when he heard the dun snort. Seeing who it was, he said, “Good mornin’. You’re gettin’ in mighty early this mornin’. You musta been ridin’ all night.” He took hold of the dun’s bridle while Starbeau stepped down. “There was some fellers lookin’ for you just yesterday.”
This caught Starbeau’s attention at once. He paused, his hands still on the saddle horn. “Who was it?” he asked.
“Said they was friends of yours,” Nate said, “three fellers, two white and one that looked like an Injun.”
Starbeau froze for a long second while a sensation akin to a bolt of lightning shot up his spine. He looked quickly over his shoulder toward the open door he had just entered. Then, without a word, and barely a glance at Nate, he stepped back up in the saddle, hauled the reins around, and left the astonished stable owner standing there scratching his head. At the door, he hesitated before riding out into the open street. He might guess the identity of the two men with him, but he was dead sure the Indian was Joe Fox.
There were very few men Starbeau had encountered in his entire life that he was wary of, and none at all that he actually feared—with the exception of Joe Fox. Starbeau’s oversized hulk and fearsome features were usually enough to make most men hesitate to cross him. Consequently, he was not obliged to participate in many face-to-face, man-to-man encounters. Over the past few years he had killed one less than an even dozen, counting women and children, most of them while their backs were turned. If he ever got the chance, he would kill Joe Fox the same way. But he was not eager to face the tall, lean man of the mountains. Joe Fox was different from anyone Starbeau had ever come across before—a cold, emotionless killer who seemed unfamiliar with fear. He swallowed hard when he remembered the merciless eyes that gazed down at him while he lay wounded and helpless under Joe Fox’s rifle, the muzzle looking as large as a cannon when it hovered barely inches over his face. He thought he was a goner, and would have been—no doubt about it—had not Lindstrom stepped in to prevent it. He survived that day, and it taught him a lesson where the dangerous half-breed was concerned—as you would with a rattlesnake, it was best to avoid him. And that was just what he had in mind to do on this occasion.
He changed his plans for a night of drinking and whoring now that the menacing shadow of the half-breed hunter was on his trail. It would be too much of a risk. His mind was working furiously as he rode up the busy street, his eyes shifting constantly from side to side. The street was filled with people coming and going in and out of the shops, but he had no confidence in the thought that it was too public for Joe Fox to take a shot at him. His intuition told him to run now, get the hell out of town, and keep riding. But the thought of easy pickings at the isolated little bank on the northeast side of town caused him to hesitate. The temptation to really bankroll himself was too much to pass up. His decision was made. He would hole up on the creek bank, the same spot where he watched the bank before. At just before closing time he would rob it, and head for the mountains. He had to assume that Joe Fox would check on the stable again, and Nate would tell him that he had left town right away that morning. He won’t know which way I went, Starbeau thought, and if I’m lucky, he’ll head out for Bozeman or somewhere on the main road. Satisfied then that he should be able to avoid Joe Fox, he rode on out of town to await closing time.
Joe rode up to the stable and dismounted, having decided it wouldn’t hurt to check with the owner to make sure Starbeau hadn’t ridden in early to stable his horse. Nate Lewis was in one of the stalls near the back, raking out some wet hay. “Mornin’,” Joe said.
Unaware that Joe had walked up behind him, Nate jumped like he had been struck. “Goddamn!” he exclaimed. “You scared the bejesus outta me!” The sight of the ominous-looking man in animal skins suddenly looming behind him did little to put his mind at ease even then.
“Sorry,” Joe said. “I was in here before with two other fellers.”
“Oh, I remember you,” Nate replied without hesitation. It ain’t likely I’d forget, he thought. “That feller you were lookin’ for, the one you said was a friend of yours, he was here early this mornin’, but he lit out when I told him you fellers asked about him.”
“Don’t reckon he said where he was goin’.”
“He didn’t say nothin’, not a mumbly word,” Nate responded, his eyes wide with excitement now that he was beginning to get the picture. “Didn’t look like he was too eager to see you.”
Joe paused for a moment to consider what he had just been told before saying, “Much obliged,” and turning to go, leaving Nate scratching his head for the second time that morning.
There was a new set of problems now. Starbeau knew that he was being trailed. Maybe he hightailed it out of town right away, or maybe he was waiting in ambush somewhere, hoping to get a shot at Joe. Butte was a sizable city. There were many places to hide. Maybe he ran and maybe he didn’t, Joe thought, but I gotta be sure he ain’t holed up here somewhere. He decided he would have to search everyplace he reasonably could, hoping Starbeau was still in town, because he had no way of knowing which way he ran if that was the case. “Might as well start with the Miner’s Chance,” he muttered to the paint.
While Joe headed toward the saloon, Nate Lewis waited at the stable door, watching until the tall hunter was safely out of sight. Then he kicked his heels into the sides of his horse and left the stable at a gallop, headed for the sheriff’s office. Upon reaching it, he burst into the office to find Deputy Jim Blackburn sitting at the desk. “Where’s Pedersen?” he gasped.
“Sheriff Pedersen’s gone fishin’,” Blackburn replied. “He left me in charge. Whaddaya want, Nate?”
“There’s just somethin’ I think you oughta know,” Nate started. “May be trouble and may not, but it sure looks like somebody’s lookin’ to kill somebody.” He went on to tell Blackburn about the visitors to his stable. “That one that looks like an Injun, he looks like he ain’t been told that all the wild Injuns has been run outta this valley.”
“I expect he might be the same jasper that Tom Branch said came in the Copper King
yesterday,” the deputy said. “Ain’t much I can do about it, if they ain’t broke no laws yet. Tom said he didn’t sell him no whiskey, so he ain’t done nothin’ yet.”
“I’m just tellin’ you that he was a pretty dangerous-lookin’ feller. Thought you’d wanna know.”
“I appreciate it, Nate. I’ll have a little look around—see if I can find him—maybe find out what he’s doin’ in town—you know, just to let him know we’ve got an eye on him.”
Shorty Wesson paused when the two men he was talking to at the bar were apparently distracted. He turned to follow their gaze to the front door and immediately understood what had caught their attention. “Well, forevermore,” he whispered. “Would you look at that?” The three men stared openly at the stranger as he walked straight up to the bar. Shorty was about to tell him that he could not be served any alcohol, but Joe spoke first.
“Man, name of Starbeau, has he been in today?”
“Well, now,” Shorty replied, “who wants to know?” This was the second time in as many days that someone came in asking about Starbeau. Shorty felt a sense of obligation to protect his customers’ privacy, and Starbeau was certainly a good customer.
Joe laid his rifle up on the bar in front of him. He was in no mood to bandy words with the bartender. “I do,” he said. “Has he been in here today?” His tone was notice enough that he had no patience for evasive games.
The two patrons took a couple of steps back at the sight of the weapon resting dangerously close to them, fearful that the imposing stranger might be as wild as he appeared to be. Shorty found his tongue quickly as well. “No, mister, he ain’t been in for a couple of days.”
“He’s got a room upstairs,” Joe said, remembering what Shorty Wesson had told them before. “Maybe he’s up there.”
“I told you he ain’t here. He wanted me to hold the room for him, but he ain’t come back. It’s just an empty room.”
“What number?” Joe asked.
Shorty was beginning to get flustered by the brass of the strange rifleman. “Like I said, he ain’t here.”
Joe’s hand tightened on the Winchester. “I ain’t got time to waste with you,” he threatened.
“Number seven, end of the hall,” Shorty blurted. “But there ain’t nobody in any of ’em right now.”
“Much obliged,” Joe said and headed for the stairs.
Bolting up the steps, three at a time, he almost collided with one of the ladies who worked the upper floor, a lusty woman of questionable age and obvious character. She stepped to the side to let him pass, gaping in her astonishment. “Where are you goin’ in such a hurry, honey?” she called after him. When he ignored her, she shrugged and continued down the stairs. At the bottom, she found Shorty and the two patrons still staring at his back as he gained the top. “What’s he lookin’ for?” she asked. “If it’s a woman, I’d take him on right now. It’d be like gettin’ rode by a mountain lion.”
“Trouble is what I expect,” Shorty replied. “Go get the sheriff. Tell him there’s a wild Indian on the war-path.”
Upstairs, Joe worked his way down the hall, opening each door he passed. All the rooms were empty, just as Shorty had said. When he got to number seven, he paused a bit longer, making sure there was no evidence that Starbeau had checked out. There were two more rooms beyond seven. They were occupied by women with two beds in each room, and were obviously their living quarters. The guest rooms apparently served as their places of business. There was no one in number eight and three women in number nine, seated on the beds, involved in a spirited conversation that went dead silent when he opened the door. He hurriedly closed the door before there was time for comment.
Shorty had not lied. If Starbeau had been there before, he was long gone now. Considering the probability that the bartender might have sent for the law while he was searching the rooms, he went back in number seven again. After a quick look around again just in case he missed something on his earlier visit, he went to the window. As he had figured, there was a porch below on the first floor. Slipping his rifle strap over his shoulder, he opened the window and lowered himself out to arm’s length. With his fingertips holding on to the windowsill, his feet were only about five feet from the porch roof. He dropped, landing on the shingled roof like a cat. Running across the wide roof, he made his way to the far front corner, where his horses were tied below. He rode off up the street as Jim Blackburn was running up the steps inside.
He had covered a good portion of Main Street before Blackburn caught up with him. Darting in and out of the saloons and stores, asking if anyone had seen a big man called Starbeau, his trail was not hard for Blackburn to follow, for there were startled folks coming out of the buildings behind him to gape at him as he proceeded along the street.
When he came out of the Cup and Saucer, Blackburn was waiting for him. “Hold on there, mister,” the deputy ordered. “Just what in the hell do you think you’re doin’?”
Joe stopped and studied the lawman for a few moments before replying. “Mindin’ my own business, I reckon.”
“Maybe you better come with me,” Jim said.
“Why?” Joe asked. “Where are you goin’?”
“Why?” Jim echoed, perplexed. “Because I’m the law in this town, that’s why. Maybe you’d better hand over that rifle, too.”
“I haven’t broken any of your laws,” Joe insisted. “Is it against the law to look for someone?” When Blackburn foundered for a moment, unsure whether he was involved with a lunatic or not, Joe continued. “I’ll not hand my rifle over to you or any man. Now go about your business and let me go about mine.”
“Mister,” Jim said, silently cursing the sheriff for going fishing this week, “you look and talk like a white man. But dressed up like an Injun like that, you’re up-settin’ the folks around here. Just what are you aimin’ to do?”
“I told you, I’m lookin’ for someone, and if you don’t mind, I’m in a hurry.”
Blackburn was not satisfied to let it go at that. “What are you plannin’ to do when you find him?”
Before Joe could answer, a man came charging down the street on foot, yelling at the top of his lungs. “The bank!” he yelled. “Somebody robbed the bank! Wallace Tolbert’s been shot!”
There was no time for Deputy Jim Blackburn to deal with a lunatic dressed like a Blackfoot warrior. He immediately ran to intercept the citizen spreading the alarm. “Where?” he yelled. “Which bank?”
The excited man stopped when he saw it was the deputy. Panting for breath, he said, “Miner’s Bank! Mr. Tolbert’s shot dead, I think. Marci Jessop’s hurt. She got cracked on the head!”
“All right,” Blackburn responded. “Run on over to Doc Murphy’s. Tell him what you told me.” Forgetting Joe, he started running toward the corner.
Joe climbed on his horse and followed along behind the deputy. He had a strong hunch that Starbeau might have had something to do with the bank holdup. If he guessed right, he might be able to pick up his trail.
When he arrived at the bank, right on Blackburn’s heels, there was already a small crowd of spectators gathered. He dismounted and walked to a window on the side of the building where he could see and hear what was going on inside. He saw a body lying face-down on the floor, and a young woman sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. She was bleeding from a scalp wound and the blood had left a scarlet trail down her neck and stained her collar and blouse. Another woman was at her side, trying to comfort her.
“All right,” Jim Blackburn ordered when he walked in, “all you folks go on outside. There ain’t nothin’ for you to see in here.” The half dozen or so who had come inside to gawk slowly shuffled toward the door. Some of them, as Joe had done, found a window to peer through. “You can stay, Mrs. Stancil,” the deputy said to the woman comforting Marci Jessop. “The rest of you, get on outside.”
Turning his attention to the wounded girl, Blackburn said, “I’ve already sent for Doc Murphy, Marci. He ough
ta be here pretty quick.” He glanced around him before continuing, taking in the signs of damage to the cage and counter before questioning Marci. “Tell me what happened, Marci. How many were there?”
With her head aching as if her skull was broken, the girl did her best to keep from crying as she answered Blackburn’s questions. “There was only one man,” she managed. “He kicked the front door open just as Mr. Tolbert was locking it and said to give him the money in the vault. He told me not to scream, but I couldn’t help it, I was so scared, and that’s when he hit me. I don’t know what it was he hit me with—the rifle he was holding, I guess. I didn’t remember anything for a few minutes, I reckon. The next thing I do remember was hearing a gunshot.” She started to tear up again. “That’s when he shot Mr. Tolbert.”
“What did he look like?” Blackburn asked.
“He was big, a great big man.”
“You think you would recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Yes. I didn’t see his face. He had a bandana tied around his face, but I’d recognize him. He looked like a big bear.”
The deputy paused for a few moments, trying to think of what else he should ask. “Which way did he go after he left the bank?” he finally asked.
“I don’t know,” Marci said. “I couldn’t see where he went. I was too scared.”
Unable to think of anything else to ask her at the moment, Blackburn stepped aside when Doc Murphy walked in. While the doctor examined the wound in Marci’s scalp, the deputy pondered his next move, wishing anew that the sheriff wasn’t out of town. He decided that the thing to do was to form a posse to go after the bank robber. He just wished that he knew in which direction to start. He needed a tracker, and that meant Burt Conroy. He’d send somebody to fetch Burt.
The Blackfoot Trail Page 18