Shawn Starbuck Double Western 1 Page 2

  But Shawn had never given much thought to leaving, perhaps because Hiram had not been too hard on him, and he looked upon the man more in awe than in fear; and very possibly, too, an unrecognized, deep-seated sense of loyalty was working below the surface.

  “Reckon I’ll stay, Pa,” he’d replied. “Leastwise till I’m full grown and ready to strike out for myself.”

  “Which ain’t going to be long. You’re more’n most men now through the shoulders and arms. And you’re talling up. Expect you’ll reach six foot. Let’s see, you’d be fifteen, maybe sixteen year now.”

  “Sixteen—almost.”

  “Sixteen. Sort of lost track of things, seems, since I lost your ma. Well, you’re old enough if you take the notion. And I reckon you’re man enough—but you’d be a fool. I’ve got a fine place here. Worth a plenty of money, figuring what’s laid aside in the bank.”

  “Wasn’t thinking about that. Just aimed to stay around long as you needed—wanted me.”

  “Ben was a fool,” Hiram went on, murmuring, not hearing. “Could all have been his.”

  “Only half, Pa,” Shawn had said at once in one of the rare times he had contradicted. “Half’s rightfully mine.”

  “Sure—that’s what I mean. It’ll be split between you two.”

  Hiram Starbuck hadn’t meant it exactly that way, Shawn knew, but the knowledge hadn’t bothered him.

  A year later Hiram was dead, and with the approaching end he evidently still had Ben uppermost in his mind. His will directed the farm be sold and the money added to his savings.

  This was then to be divided equally between his two sons. Shawn’s responsibility would be to find his brother and bring him back to Muskingum where the lawyer handling the matter could be satisfied as to his identity. Should Ben be dead, legal proof would have to be produced.

  Thus Hiram would have his way. Ben would return home, and the elder Starbuck, who had never learned how to lose at anything, would win again. It would seem, however, that Hiram was so busy being clever that he paid little attention to reality. For one thing Ben undoubtedly had stood by his threat and changed his name. Also, he had been gone well over ten years and his appearance would have altered considerably. He could have grown taller or thinner, or, as time matured him, even have come to take on his father’s blocky physique. And as for identification marks, a small scar over one eye was really the only definite one Shawn had to go on. And Ben’s present whereabouts? He knew that a family named Yawkey had been headed for a town called Laredo on the Texas-Mexico border, more than a thousand miles away—and that Ben had indicated he would be joining them.

  And to compound the difficulties Hiram Starbuck had not thought to provide funds for the search. Possibly it was an oversight and unintentional. At any rate, the lawyer saw it that way and advanced two hundred dollars of Shawn’s share of thirty thousand to outfit himself with.

  And so Shawn had set out for Laredo where he encountered the first of his disappointments. The Yawkeys were still there—at least some of them. Yes, they remembered a young fellow; name of Ben, seems—or was it Jim? Anyway, he was the one they’d got acquainted with up in Ohio. . . .

  Where was he? Lord only knowed! Folks moved around so a body just plain couldn’t keep track of nothing. But he’d hung around for a spell and then gone on to California. Come back a year or so later, was on his way to Colorado—place he called Cripple Creek. Was going up there and try his hand at digging gold. Might still be there, too. Heard tell folks had done right well in that part of Colorado.

  But Ben wasn’t at Cripple Creek either. Shawn was told there was a man who sort of fit the description who’d done a little mining back in the hills. Had no luck and one day up and pulled out for Wyoming; said he was going back to cow punching. He was a plain fool, though; once or twice he put on a fist fight—”boxing exhibitions” he called them—in one of the saloons so’s to raise a little eating money. Was a caution the way he danced around and beat up them other birds—some of them a lot bigger’n him, too! Could have made himself a living putting on them shows and not fooled around with punching cows. Whereabouts in Wyoming? Rock Springs …

  It could have been Ben—it probably was; but Shawn was six days late. The fellow he was asking about worked for the Haycox outfit, the town marshal informed him. Gone now, about a week. Got in a fight with the ranch foreman and damn near beat him to death. Fellow was in the right, too, but the foreman was Haycox’s brother-in-law, so there just wasn’t nothing for the fellow to do but ride on.

  The marshal couldn’t recall his name. Could’ve been Ben, or Dan, and the men at Haycox’s knew him as Tex, but the lawman was pretty sure it was the right man; he did have a scar over one eye. Was he looking for him he’d head for Dodge City, punchers on the loose all seem to light out for there ... But Ben wasn’t in Dodge. There was a rider, though, who—

  So it began, and so it went; often close, but always not quite, and during those passing months Shawn grew taller, leaned out into a big-shouldered man with cool, blue eyes that belied the youthfulness of his features and his years, He changed inwardly and a remoteness born of patience grew in him; and while there was friendliness for those who were congenial, there was also a quiet reserve that no one ever succeeded in penetrating.

  He became a wanderer, drifting ceaselessly, halting only when he ran out of money and was forced to take employment. He learned as he went, acquiring knowledge and experience, but never losing sight of purpose: find Ben.

  It was a disheartening, discouraging task made endurable only by the restlessness of youth; but Shawn Starbuck never thought of that: he thought only of the day when he would encounter his brother and the quest would end.

  He’d take his share and build himself a ranch, he had decided. At first he had made no plans, being unsure just what he did want to do with his half of the money. But now he knew; a ranch—a fine one. Maybe Ben would want to throw in with him. Together, cash pooled, they could have one of the best. He knew where there was good land to be had, land where grass stood knee high the year around and there was always plenty of water—

  But first: find Ben.

  A practical streak inherited from his schoolteacher mother always interrupted such dreams when they began to captivate him, set his pulse to racing ... Find Ben ... That came first—

  He glanced to the undulating horizon in the west. The sun was well below it now, and darkness was closing in fast. Time to be looking for a suitable campsite. Raising himself in the stirrups, he glanced around. He was about midway on a long hillside.

  Everywhere was scrub oak, twisted cedars, an occasional pinon laden with sticky, nut-filled cones. No darker green band of growth indicated the presence of a stream or spring. It would have to be a dry camp, but that was not unusual, nor was it a problem. He had learned to carry an ample supply of water in two canteens in his passage across the arid west, and both were still well filled from his last stop. He’d see to the chestnut’s needs from one of them.

  A small break in the brush appeared before him. He rode his horse into the clearing and swung down. For a time he stood in silence, listening into the falling night, alert for any sounds that would warn him of the presence of others. There was only the clicking of insects, the faraway mourning of a dove. Satisfied, he began to pull his gear off the gelding, lay it aside. The big, red horse was in fine condition, just as he always seemed at the end of a day. Shawn had made a smart trade that day in Abilene when he’d swapped the old mare he’d started out on for the chestnut—even if it had taken his last dollar.

  “Ain’t the fastest thing on legs,” the down-on-his-luck cowpuncher who owned him had said. “But you ain’t never coming across one with more bottom.”

  It had been true. Parting with the mare, last tangible symbol of home on the Muskingum, had not been easy, but Shawn knew a long, hard trail lay ahead—all in a country where a good horse was a man’s most important possession, and thus the exchange was made. The tall, white-stockinged ge
lding had never given him cause to regret it.

  When the animal had been picketed outside the clearing, watered, and given the last of the grain carried as reserve against the all too many times when no natural feed was available, Starbuck got down to preparing his own meal. He was low on grub, too, and if things had felt right back in the camp with Rutter, Pete Brock, and the big one called Rufe, he would have put in the night there, contributing what he had in food to make the meal complete. But he’d learned to judge men well, and there was something about the trio that hadn’t set right with him.

  It mattered little, anyway. Tomorrow he’d locate the Underwood ranch and there restock his supplies if he discovered he’d reached another dead end.

  Dead end ... How many had there been since he’d ridden out to find Ben? How many false leads? How many times had he pulled hopefully into a town or a ranch or a homestead, certain that he’d reached the end of his quest, only to meet with disappointment?

  So many times that surging expectancy and soaring anticipation no longer moved him. Now, when he reached a goal where his brother might be, he approached with a quiet caution, almost a reluctance, and always with the thought: don’t get all fired up—wait and see, uppermost in his mind. He’d learned it was better that way. Somehow the keen edge of disappointment was blunted.

  Underwood’s could prove to be like all the others. A cattle buyer in Wichita had heard Shawn ask his question of a bartender in a saloon and had spoken up: the trail boss for a rancher named Underwood sort of matched the description, such as it was, of Ben. Underwood’s spread was over New Mexico way, up in the northeastern part. Somewhere near the South Canadian River ...

  Big place, the cattle buyer had assured him. Be no trouble locating it ... Underwood used the Sunrise brand—a circle with four bars sticking up from the top ... Man could spot his cattle anywhere ... Might pay to have a look—talk with the trail boss, if he didn’t mind the long ride ...

  Shawn didn’t. He never turned away from a possibility, even if it meant backtracking over trails he’d just travelled. There was always the chance—and this time it was better than a good possibility. Ben had been good with livestock, and likely had developed into pretty much of a leader where men were concerned. Starbuck had headed west that next day—and now, tomorrow, he’d know he’d either find the end of the trail, or the beginning of another one.

  After his meal of bacon, fried potatoes, grease-soaked hardtack and black coffee, Shawn stretched out on his blankets and stared up into the star-littered, velvet sky. The dove was mourning again, and from somewhere close by an owl hooted peevishly.

  Sometimes the weariness of the search, the loneliness of the trails, drilled deep into his bones ... Sometimes it all seemed so hopeless. Ben was everywhere—nowhere; Ben could be dead, buried under another name ... And, wanderer, drifter that Shawn had become, he could waste an entire lifetime—end up with nothing.

  Not entirely. He’d been a lot of places, met a lot of people—some good, some bad, and from all of them he’d learned something. That had value. Like the gunslinger he’d helped out of a jam. He’d really found out how to use a pistol from him—how to bring it up fast and smooth and at the same time preserve accuracy. Left-handed man’s got an edge, Allison—the gunslinger—had told him. And then there was that lawman in Wyoming who had befriended him ...

  The dry crack of a dead branch brought Starbuck from a sound sleep. Motionless, eyelids only slightly cracked to give the impression he was not yet awake, he strained to locate the intruder. It was near first light, still too dark to distinguish much in the shadows. He could see nothing.

  But there was something—someone out there. Indians? He discarded the thought. In this area there were only pueblo tribes, mostly farmers. No, it wouldn’t be Indians.

  Abruptly he tensed. A figure stepped from the fringe of brush directly opposite into the clearing. Pete Brock. Shawn’s fingers sought and found the pistol lying beside him under his blanket. Continuing to hold himself rigid, he watched Brock, curly hair straggling down over his forehead, cross and halt before him. A hard grin was on the man’s lips as he drew back his leg and delivered a kick to Starbuck’s feet.

  Shawn raised himself to a sitting position. Being awake, Brock’s actions did not startle him.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asked coldly.

  Pete’s grin widened. “Why, I just dropped by for that there buckle you’re wearing. Took a real fancy to it.”

  Starbuck swept the blanket aside, sprang upright in a single motion. Right fist cocked, left hand holding his pistol, he faced Brock.

  “Move on,” he said in a low voice. “Only thing you’ll get from me is trouble.”

  In that same instant Shawn heard the rustle of brush behind him. Alarm shot through him. He started to jerk to one side, wheel. In the next fragment of time he felt himself falling as solid pain and exploding lights overpowered his consciousness.

  Three

  Starbuck fought his way back from what seemed a deep pit. Sharp knives stabbed at his brain and a mist swirled about him in thick layers. He stirred, shook his head. The mist began to fade but there was no lessening of the pain. Somebody—either Rutter or Rufe—had handed him one hell of a wallop from behind with a pistol butt or a club while Pete Brock held his attention.

  He swore angrily, rolled over, sat up. The abrupt motion sent a wave of giddiness rushing through him. Fixed, eyes closed, he hung there, waited for it to pass. The world stopped spinning; slowly, he raised his head, looked around.

  Two lean, gray wolves waiting stolidly at the edge of the clearing came warily to their feet. Tails drooped, heads slung low, they considered him through agate hard yellow eyes and then slunk off into the brush.

  Starbuck grinned humorlessly, muttered: “Not this time, damn you,” and pulled himself to his feet.

  He stood there, a tall, swaying shape in the clear, raw light of early dawn, until his senses once more ceased their gyrations, and then took stock. The buckle—belt with it—was gone. His pockets had been turned inside out. Except for the clasp knife he’d carried since a small boy, he’d been picked clean.

  Not entirely ... He saw his forty-five then. It lay under the edge of his blanket, only a part of the butt visible. And he wasn’t broke. The twenty-dollar gold piece he carried as reserve was in its secret pocket sewed inside his shirt.

  That wasn’t important—the buckle was, along with the fact that he’d been set upon, slugged, and left for dead on the mountainside.

  Grim, he retrieved the pistol, thrust it under the waistband of his pants. Walking quickly, he crossed to where the chestnut waited in the brush and led him back into the clearing. Saddling and bridling the horse, he collected his possessions (he had found his holster in a clump of rabbit brush where it had been tossed after being removed from the belt) and stowed them in their customary places; he mounted and rode out. Breakfast could wait. He was too worked up to delay.

  Circling the clearing, he located the spot where their horses—at least two of them—had been hidden, and later where they had moved off, striking due west. That brought a grunt of satisfaction from Starbuck’s set lips and he cut the chestnut onto the outlaws’ trail. They had an hour, perhaps two, on him, but that meant nothing; he’d run them down if it meant tracking them all the way to Mexico.

  They had left an open trail, making no effort to conceal hoof prints. Probably figured him dead, or else that he wouldn’t be fool enough to come after them—one against three: a slick-eared kid, as Rufe had put it, taking on three hardened men. The corners of his mouth tightened. Rufe would learn—the odds meant nothing.

  He rode steadily down. Soon the sun broke over the rim of hills behind him, and began to spread its light and warmness through the brush, across the flats, into the deep washes and sandy-bottomed arroyos. Rocks began to gleam dully under the brightening rays, prepared to resume their endless chore of gathering heat during the day only to surrender it when night again fell.

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nbsp; A brown and gray cottontail scampered out from beneath the chestnut’s hooves, causing the big horse to throw back his head and shy to the side. Shawn had a second glimpse of the wolf pair, still lurking about, not entirely ready to give up on what had appeared to be an easy prey.

  He reached the foot of the slope, halted, and looked out upon the wide mesa lying before him. It was almost level with only a short rise lifting here and there to break the grass-covered, table like expanse. No riders were in sight. Impatiently Starbuck swore. He hadn’t thought he was that far behind the three men. Evidently he’d been unconscious longer than he figured.

  Spurring the gelding, he broke out of the fringe of mountain mahogany in which he had paused, moved onto the flat, eyes once more on the ground as he searched for tracks. It wasn’t going to be easy here; the country had enjoyed a wet spring and the grass was thick, spongy. Hoof prints would be hard to spot, harder yet to follow.

  But eventually he found where three riders had descended the slope, still heading west, and assuming they would continue to follow such course at least until they reached the dark green band of trees on the far side, he urged the gelding to a lope and headed for that distant point.

  An hour later he rode up to the trees, found them bordering a small stream that wound off north and south in an aimless, carefree fashion. He located the tracks of the outlaw’s horses some time after that, having had to search both up and down stream before discovering what he sought. They had entered the water, and Starbuck, in almost their exact marks, followed, crossed over. There he halted, puzzled, a deep frown on his face. There were no signs indicating where the men had emerged. And then the answer came to him: the riders were keeping their horses in the stream, were now deliberately wiping out their trail. That could mean only one thing; they had spotted him.

  Silent and simmering, he studied the soft ground along the stream. Which way had they gone—up or down? It was anybody’s guess. Keeping close to the edge of the creek, he rode against the current for a mile or so, found no trace. Reversing, he headed the gelding back with the flow. After a similar distance below his original starting point, he once again halted. He’d met with no better success.