Shawn Starbuck Double Western 1 Read online

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  The Rimrocker

  It was more than Shawn Starbuck had reckoned for. Unceasingly he had searched for his brother—a legacy at stake for them both—asking endless questions on numberless trails, in sun-baked towns, at desolate huts and sprawling ranches . . . and now it seemed, at long last, his searching would end.

  Only it wasn’t that simple. Suddenly there were three desperate men on the scene—cutthroats and renegades—each staunchly determined to see Starbuck dead. If they couldn’t do the job, the richest man in the territory would hire gunslingers who could.

  Starbuck had a choice. He could turn tail, clear out, and save his hide. But he wasn’t the kind of man who dodged trouble—no matter what the odds.

  The Outlawed

  Starbuck had ridden endless miles over the trackless southwest on an unending quest for his brother. Now he was almost on the heels of the man who might be Ben. But deep in the wilds of Arizona, Starbuck stopped to aid a stranger against savage Apaches, a man on a mysterious mission of his own, a man who led Starbuck into a web of vengeance and bloody violence …

  THE RIMROCKER

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  THE OUTLAWED

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  About the Author

  Copyright

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  THE RIMROCKER

  One

  Shawn Starbuck halted in the shadowy depths of an oak thicket and studied the men. They were in a small clearing, and although it was not yet dark, had built a fire and begun preparations for the evening meal.

  Three in the party. He looked beyond them, located their horses. Three also. That meant everyone was accounted for—not that it mattered particularly, but caution was a necessary ally in the world where a loner was always suspect.

  Lean, much younger than his brow-hooded gray eyes indicated, he watched the men moving about their chores. For well over a year he had pursued his solitary quest, asking his question of every person encountered on the numberless trails, in the dusty, sun-baked towns, at desolate huts and at sprawling prosperous ranches. Here was another opportunity.

  Thoughtful in the fading summer afternoon of the towering, hushed hills, he considered the party. Hard cases, all of them. No doubt of that. One, a ruddy-faced red-haired man, stood slightly apart, taking no hand in the camp chores as if above such menial tasks.

  The second, at that moment hunkered before the fire slicing chunks of dried meat into a spider, appeared to be the youngest. He was thick-shouldered with dark, curly hair and a full moustache. The last was a much larger man than the others, fully six feet tall, of heavy build and with big, ham like hands. All were dusty, travel worn—and armed.

  It was difficult to think of his brother running with the likes of these, but then he really didn’t know Ben—so he had no measure to go by. As in times before he had but one choice—ask.

  “Ev’nin’.”

  At his bid for recognition, the men came to quick alert, hands dropping to the pistols at their hips. Prodding his horse lightly, Shawn rode forward, elbows up, palms cupped on the horn of his saddle.

  “Saw your fire. Figured I could bum a cup of coffee.”

  The men relaxed. Curlyhair resumed his slicing. The big one spat and settled back on his heels, evidently dismissing the newcomer as of no consequence. The redhead didn’t stir, simply waited, watching with suspicious eyes as Shawn rode to the edge of the clearing and halted.

  “Man could get himself shot sneaking up like that,” the big one said, irritated.

  “Been coming down that slope for ten minutes,” Starbuck replied evenly. “You heard. All right if I get down?”

  The two near the fire glanced at the redhead. He shrugged indifferently, nodded. “Suit yourself.”

  Shawn dismounted the chestnut and grunted wearily as his heels hit the ground. It had been a long day. “Name’s Starbuck,” he said, making an invitation of it. Sometimes the approach met introductions all around, other times silence or an outright snub.

  “Names don’t mean nothing,” the big man said, “seeing as you ain’t staying long.” He reached for a tin cup, poured it full of steaming liquid from a blackened pot, and handed it to Shawn. “Here’s yours. Slop it down and move on.”

  Temper stirred through Starbuck, hardened the line of his jaw as he accepted the cup.

  “Obliged,” he said quietly. “Except I can dig up a nickel to pay for the coffee if that’ll help. Never like to put folks out any.”

  Curlyhair laughed. The big one stiffened angrily. “Keep your goddam nickel!” he snapped. “And don’t you get smart with me, boy! I’ll slap you around some.”

  “Simmer down, Rufe,” the redhead murmured. He shifted his small, deep-set eyes to Shawn. “Where you riding, cowboy?”

  “Little bit of everywhere. On the move most of the time—looking.”

  “For what?”

  “M’brother. Thought maybe you might know him.”

  “Might.” the redhead said. “He got a name?”

  “Ben Starbuck,” Shawn said, finishing off the coffee and setting the cup on the rocks near the fire. “Likely not going by that handle, though.”

  The redhead studied him in silence. Then, “What’s he look like?”

  “Not sure about that either. Been more’n ten years since I saw him. Probably won’t be as tall as me. Had dark hair and sort of blue eyes. Scar over the left one, but a man would have to look close to see it.”

  Rufe laughed. Curlyhair glanced up. “Hunting for somebody you don’t know the name of or what he looks like. What kind of a yarn you handing us?”

  “The truth,” Shawn said. “Been combing this country for a long time. Important I find him.”

  Rufe cocked his head to one side slyly. “Take a right smart amount of cash to just go traipsing around here and there, looking and not working. You must be one of them rich galoots from the east.”

  “Not me! Go busted pretty often and have to scare myself up a job, work for a spell. About to do that right now.”

  “We’re busted flat and hunting work, too,” the redhead said quickly, as if to ward off any hint that Starbuck throw in with them.

  The man at the fire raised an arm, pointed to Shawn’s belt buckle. “You ain’t never going clear broke while you’ve got that.”

  Starbuck’s hand dropped to his ornate, beautifully scrolled oblong silver buckle on which was mounted in carved ivory the figure of a man posed in the celebrated, crooked arm boxer’s stance. Once it had been worn by Hiram Starbuck, the gift of admirers who appreciated his fighting skill.

  “Reckon not, but I’d never part with it. Belonged to my pa. Came to me when he died.”

  “Sure mighty fancy,” Curlyhair said. “This pa of yours—he a champion or s
omething?”

  “Was a farmer but he learned to be a boxer from an Englishman friend of his. Was never beat at it.”

  “You learn from him?”

  “Some ... You sure you never run into anybody that could’ve been my brother?”

  Rufe and Curlyhair shook their heads. The third man shrugged. “No more’n you’ve told us, we could’ve a hundred times. Description fits half the men in the country. There some extra special reason why you’re so set on finding him?”

  A most important reason, Shawn thought. As an heir of Hiram’s, he must locate his brother or produce incontestable proof of his death. Otherwise the thirty thousand dollars lying in the vaults of an Ohio bank would go to charity, and his legacy of half would be lost.

  It was a provision in Hiram Starbuck’s will. Ben, who ran away from home at sixteen rather than live under the iron-fisted rule of his father, had to be found so that he might receive his rightful share of the estate. It was the old man’s way of saying he was sorry, and the lawyer had told Shawn there was no way of getting around it. But this was no matter for strangers’ ears.

  “Him being my brother—guess that’s special enough. Folks are both dead now. He’s all the kin I got.”

  “And you just aim to keep looking till you find him,” Curlyhair said, eyes again on Shawn’s buckle.

  Starbuck nodded. “I’ll find him.”

  Rufe grunted. “Plain loco, I’d say. No more’n you got to go on, you can hunt till you got a beard three foot long, and you probably won’t run into him.”

  Again the redhead shrugged. “Luck,” he murmured and turned to Curlyhair. “Pete, how’s that stew coming?”

  “Pretty soon,” the younger man replied irritably. “Got to let it boil for a spell.” He glanced at Rufe. “Would help some was you to get some more dry wood. You know—I don’t recollect ever signing up to be cook for this outfit!”

  Rufe walked to the edge of the clearing and dragged back a fair-sized dead limb. Dropping it, he began to stomp the limbs, breaking them into short sticks. Scooping up an armload, he tossed them to Pete’s side.

  “That make you happy, Mr. Brock?”

  Curlyhair made no answer, but simply fed a handful of the wood to the flames and swung his attention to the redhead. “Starbuck eating with us? Have to add some water if—”

  “Nope, best I be moving on,” Shawn cut in before the man could reply. “Obliged just the same.”

  Whatever it was cooking didn’t smell particularly appetizing. Besides, if he expected to reach the Underwood ranch sometime the next day, he’d best keep moving until full dark before halting for the night.

  “Might as well hang around,” Brock said. “We’ll have plenty.”

  Starbuck shook his head, turned toward his horse. Pete’s voice, almost insistent, reached him.

  “We got us a pretty nice camping spot here, and you’re sure welcome. Don’t mind us none if we ain’t been too polite. And Rufe ain’t half-bad, once you know him. Neither is Rutter. Just act that way to fool folks.”

  Shawn was conscious of Rutter’s eyes upon him, sharp, suspicious. “Something about me bother you?”

  “That gun you’re packing,” the other replied. “Don’t look like no farmer’s iron to me.”

  “Wasn’t my pa’s. Bought it myself, brand new, when I started hunting for Ben.”

  “From the looks of the handle, I’d say you’ve been using it right often,” Rutter observed drily.

  “Man learns,” Starbuck said, equally dry.

  Rufe slapped at his leg. “Man! Why, you ain’t much more’n a slick-eared kid! I bet you ain’t even eighteen yet.”

  “Old enough to wipe my own nose—and pick my friends,” Shawn said, swinging into the saddle.

  “And I’ll bet you’re sharp with that hogleg, too! Even wearing it left-handed! Whooo—ee! Boys, them’s the worst kind—them killers that wears their iron on the left side!”

  Pete Brock lifted his hands in mock alarm. “You think there’s a chance he might be Billy the Kid or somebody ‘stead of who he claims? Rufe, you sure better button your lip! Could get yourself in a peck of trouble—killed maybe.”

  “That’s a fact,” Rufe grinned. “I ain’t saying no more.”

  Starbuck, only faintly stirred by the razzing, nodded. “Thanks for the coffee. You run into anybody who might be my brother, appreciate your mentioning that I’m looking for him.”

  Rutter’s expression did not change. “Sure,” he murmured. “We’ll do that.”

  Two

  Starbuck never placed much confidence in such assurances, even those more convincing than Rutter’s. Men forget when no personal interest is involved; Rutter and his two friends could come face to face with Ben that next day and likely make no connection unless, of course, the name Starbuck came up—and that was unlikely. Ben had long ago made it plain he was through with the family name.

  Riding slowly down the slope, Shawn again relived the stormy scene that had taken place so far back now in the past. He recalled vividly the large kitchen of the farmhouse near the Muskingum River in Ohio; the squat, powerful figure and glowering features of his father; the tight, drawn face of Ben, fearful yet stubbornly defiant, like a young wolf at bay crouching near the doorway.

  “I’m leaving, Pa! And I’m never coming back. Changing my name, too! Don’t want anybody knowing you’re my kin!”

  “You ain’t going nowhere, boy,” the elder Starbuck had replied. “That licking was for your own good—what you earned for not doing what you was told.”

  “You always say that, and I’m tired of hearing it. You’re not ever getting the chance to beat me again!”

  Had their mother been alive there wouldn’t have been that final confrontation, Shawn realized years later. Hiram Starbuck, despite his tough, brutal way, displayed a strange, almost childlike reverence for his wife, and while she lived he was not too hard on Ben.

  Clare Starbuck had been a schoolteacher, and although her husband had had little patience with books, considering them a waste of good time that might be better spent working in the fields, he had deferred even to her wish that their sons acquire an education. And they did so; partly in the school house in Muskingum, and partly through Clare’s own efforts.

  But when Clare died one winter, a victim of lung fever, a change came over Hiram and brought with it a deep bitterness that for some inexplicable reason focused upon the elder of the two sons. Ben accepted it stolidly for two years, and then rebelled.

  As is often the case, the cause was minor: a hayrick that Ben had been told to cover before an impending rainstorm. He had gotten busy at another chore and forgotten. Hiram, driving into the yard after a trip to town, noted the rick, and even though the rain had not arrived, flew into a rage, whipped Ben mercilessly.

  And so the break came. Hiram never really believed that his son would leave, but he had been wrong. Ben, filled with grim outrage, had turned through the doorway and strode off down the road.

  “He’ll be coming back,” Hiram had said. “And it’ll be before morning.”

  But Ben didn’t come back, and as the days passed into weeks, and the weeks changed into months, Shawn knew his brother never would. Ben had been that way: steadfast and determined like their mother, but equally strong and stubborn like their father. He’d cut his rope, and be it too short or too long, he’d make the best of it.

  Things changed slightly after Ben’s departure. Hiram, who had more or less ignored Shawn before, now turned his thoughts to the younger boy. But it was a less violent, less demanding attention; he actually became somewhat considerate and understanding, either because he had a deep fear of losing him also, or because he saw in Shawn a strong likeness to the woman he’d worshipped. Accordingly, life on the farm was somewhat easier for the boy.

  Education, of course, had stopped that spring after Clare Starbuck’s death, but Shawn had been quick to learn and accrued more in the way of formal knowledge than the average student; thus he felt
no great heartache when he put aside his books for the last time.

  Moreover, Hiram seemed to lose some of his zest for working. He hired two men to work the farm; and giving up his weekly boxing exhibitions in the ring they had built behind the general store in town, devoted those hours to instructing Shawn.

  “Want you able to take care of yourself,” he said once after they had completed a lengthy boxing lesson. “Reckon you’ll do that, too. You’re quick moving, like your ma. And you got strength, like me.”

  Praise from Hiram Starbuck was something seldom heard, a jewel to be cherished; but the glitter dulled in the succeeding moment.

  “You’ll never be real good like Ben, though. He was a natural, that boy. An honest-to-God fighter.”

  Shawn had said nothing. Ben had always come first with their father; he guessed Ben always would.

  That same day as they were washing up on the back porch of the house, Hiram had paused and looked at Shawn keenly.

  “You figure he’ll ever come home?”

  “No, Pa,” Shawn had answered. “He never will.”

  Hiram’s square-jawed face, only slightly marked from all the years of bare-knuckle contact, had remained intent as he studied his younger son.

  “How about you? Aiming to follow him?”

  Shawn had scrubbed thoughtfully at the dirt clinging to his arms—dirt ground into his hide when he had been knocked sprawling by one of his father’s accurate blows. He’d have no trouble locating Ben if he wanted to leave, join up with him. Several times in the few weeks before his departure Ben had talked to Shawn about going west, to Texas and a town on the Mexican border called Laredo. He’d learned of it from a family named Yawkey who’d camped in the grove below the farm for several days. They had pulled up stakes in Pennsylvania and were heading southwest. Fortunes were being made by bringing cattle across the Mexican border and driving them north to Kansas markets. If a man didn’t want to get in business for himself, he could always find a good job working for one of the big outfits. That’s where Ben would be—with one of the big cattle companies.