“Well, Johnny One-Spot”âshe lifted her glassâ“here's mud in your eye.”
She tossed down her drink and Starbuck followed suit. He puffed importantly on his cigar and looked impatient. “I haven't got all night. You gonna take me to Mr. O'Brien or not?”
There was the merest beat of hesitation. Then her smile broadened. “Tell you the truth, you haven't got hardly any time at all, sport.”
“What the hell's that supposed to mean?”
“Ask me again when you wake up.”
“When Iâ?”
Starbuck's eyes glazed and the cigar dropped from his mouth. He slumped against the bar, then staggered sideways, and his knees suddenly turned rubbery. He pitched face down on the floor.
Mother Bronson stooped, rolling him over, and took one of his legs under each arm. Effortlessly, she dragged him toward the rear of the saloon. One of her girls rushed to open the door and she disappeared into the back room. There, waiting silently, were Denny O'Brien and Ned Adair. She let go his legs and turned to O'Brien.
“Well, dearie, there's your man. Colder'n a mackerel!”
“No,” O'Brien said, staring down a moment. “I think he's Ned's man. Call it a going-away present.”
“Present!” Adair repeated with a quizzical look. “You want me to take him with me?”
“Only partway.” O'Brien smiled evilly. “Feed him to the sharks once you get out to sea.”
Mother Bronson threw back her head and roared with laughter.
Â
Starbuck awoke to a curious yawing motion. His vision was blurred and his head felt as though it had been cleaved down the middle. Several moments elapsed before his eyes cleared and he was able to collect himself. Sitting up, he gazed around and slowly realized he was in a cargo hold. Then, with sudden clarity, it struck him.
He was on a ship! A clipper ship bound for the Orient!
His last recollection was of Mother Bronson. Everything afterward was a blank, but not too difficult to piece together. He'd walked into a trap, with Denny OâBrien very likely watching from the back room. Then, like a prize sucker, he'd never given it a second thought when Mother Bronson called for another round of drinks. Yet he hadn't been shanghaied. Nothing so simple would satisfy O'Brien. The orders, without doubt, were to kill him and dump his body at sea.
He cursed himself for a fool. Standing, his hand went to the shoulder holster and found it empty. He lifted his pants leg and discovered they'd missed the hideout gun in his boot top. The stubby Colt was a last-ditch weapon, but deadly at short ranges. The thought occurred that it was his one hope for deliverance, and he reminded himself to make every shot count. He cocked the hammer and moved toward a ladder at the rear of the hold.
On deck, he saw that he was amidships. The rain had stopped, and stars were visible through occasional gaps in the clouds. Off the port side, far in the distance, he spotted a flashing light and the broken outline of a land mass. He realized with a start that the clipper was approaching the Golden Gate. Only minutes separated the ship from the open sea.
Crouching down, he scuttled toward the railing on the port side. Then, growing closer, he heard voices from the quarterdeck. The shadowed figures of two men appeared out of the dark. One, wearing a billed cap, was clearly a ship's officer. The other, who
paused at the stairway, was Red Ned Adair. Starbuck froze, watching them intently.
“You're the captain,” Adair remarked testily. “But the sooner we toss him overboard, the better I'll like it.”
“I've no quarrel with that, Mr. Adair. As I told you, after we've cleared land's end, you can do as you please.”
Adair grunted and started down the stairway leading to the main deck. Then, squinting hard, he suddenly saw Starbuck crouched low in the dark. His jaw popped open in a startled cry.
“Lovettâ!”
The captain and Ned Adair went for their guns in the same motion. Starbuck leveled his arm and the snubby Colt spat three times. The slugs stitched an oval pattern in Adair's chest, and he tumbled down the stairway. A bullet tugged at the sleeve of Starbuck's jacket, and he saw the captain staring at him over the sights of a bulldog revolver. His arm moved and the Colt recoiled twice in quick succession. One slug punched into the captain's stomach, the other ripped through his throat and tore out the back of his skull. The impact flung him backward and he dropped raglike on the quarterdeck.
The helmsman shouted, and the thud of footsteps from below decks galvanized Starbuck to action. Working frantically, he stuffed the Colt in the waistband of his trousers and jerked off his boots. Then, in two swift strides, he crossed the deck and dove headlong over the railing. The shock of the icy water
struck him like a blow, and a moment later he knifed cleanly to the surface. Bobbing about in the waves, he somehow got his bearings, and saw the flash of a beacon far astern.
A wayward thought seized him, and he vaguely wondered if sharks attacked in the dark. Then, with a stoic sense of fatalism, he dismissed it from mind. He turned into the tide and swam toward the distant light.
The sky was like tarnished pewter, heavy with clouds. False dawn left the alleyway obscured in gloom, and a murky stillness hung over the street. Starbuck checked behind him, then rounded the corner of the Bella Union and halted at the kitchen door. He took out a pocketknife and began working on the lock.
His nerves were gritty and raw, and his head pounded with a dull, grinding weariness. The long swim, some four miles through bone-chilling seas, had sapped his strength to the very marrow. He'd come ashore at Point Lobos, and from there made his way to the Cliff House, a fashionable restaurant on the oceanfront. The manager, shaken by the sight of a waterlogged apparition, had loaned him a driver and carriage, and sent him off wrapped in a woolly blanket. Warm at last, he'd stretched out on the seat and slept during the ride back to the city. When the driver let him off at the hotel, he had felt somewhat
restored, though still a bit unsteady on his feet. A hot bath and a change of clothes had improved his spirits, if not the lingering sense of exhaustion. Then, on the point of leaving the room, he'd suddenly remembered an old friend, packed away in his suitcase. He walked out of the hotel with the Colt .45 jammed in a crossdraw holster.
Now, probing at the lock, his one concern was Nell. He could only surmise that she was still in her room, waiting for him to return. She was levelheaded, no stranger to tight situations, and he thought it unlikely she would have betrayed herself to O'Brien. It was reasonable to assume she had worked her normal shift, and resisted the temptation to ask questions. Yet, given the circumstances, the night would have proved an ordeal. Her position was untenable, hinging on a slip of the tongue, and by now the pressure would have taken its toll. She wouldn't be safe until he had her clear of the Bella Union, and out of harm's way. Only then would he turn his attention to Denny O'Brien.
The tumbler in the lock abruptly clicked and he eased through the door. He moved across the empty kitchen, with scarcely a glance at the dumbwaiter. He was cautious, but not overly concerned. With sunrise still an hour away, not even the swampers would have begun work. He followed a passageway toward the front of the building, and emerged through a door near the end of the bar. There he stopped, senses alert, listening.
The barroom was still as a graveyard. He waited
several moments, one ear cocked to any noise, then walked to the staircase. On the second floor he paused again, but saw no one and heard nothing. Another flight up, he flattened against the wall and edged one step at a time onto the third-floor landing. After a while, he proceeded gingerly along the hall. He ghosted past McQueen's room, and then, opposite the door to O'Brien's suite, he suddenly went stock-still. From inside, he heard the low drone of voices. Insofar as he could determine, there were only two men, quite probably O'Brien and McQueen. He briefly considered busting through the door and taking them prisoner. On second thought, however, he rejected the idea. Any commotion would arouse others, and make it impossible for him to spirit Nell out of the Bella Union. Her safety, for the moment, took priority over all else. Besides, O'Brien believed he was dead, snugly tucked away in some shark's belly. Time enough to disabuse him of that notion later in the day. All the time in the world, once Nell was out of danger.
On tiptoe, alert to creaky floorboards, he made his way to the end of the hall. He paused in front of Nell's room, debating whether to rap softly, then decided to try the doorknob. It turned, and he swiftly ducked inside, closing the door behind him. The latch clicked and in the same instant his guts turned to stone.
Nell lay sprawled on the floor. Her arms were akimbo, her hair loose and fanned darkly across her face. The bodice of her dress was torn, exposing her
breasts, and her skirt was hitched up over her legs. She seemed too still, deathly still.
Starbuck scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Only then, with streamers of light flooding through the window, was her condition aparent. She had been beaten, expertly and brutally, with methodical savagery. Her nose was broken, her lips puffy and discolored, and her left eye was swollen shut. As he lowered her onto the bed, she groaned and her good eye slowly rolled open. Her mouth ticced upward in a ghastly smile.
“Harry.”
“Don't try to talk.”
“You came back for me.”
“Told you I would.” Starbuck forced himself to smile, leaning closer. “Now, you rest easy and let me have a look at you.”
He gently brushed the hair out of her face. Unwitingly, moved by some urge to touch her, he placed his hand on her waist. She recoiled, and a sharp spasm of pain distorted her features. Her mouth opened in a wheezing moan and frothy red bubbles leaked down over her chin. She gasped, laboring desperately to get her breath.
Starbuck knew then her condition was beyond hope. Her rib cage was shattered, and the bloody froth told the tale. One lung, perhaps both, had been punctured. From the punishment she'd absorbed, blows that hard, it seemed entirely likely her insides were torn apart. A veteran of death and dying, he recognized all the signs. The life force was quickly
draining out of her, and she hadn't one chance in a thousand. Which was one step removed from zero.
“Nell,” Starbuck said softly. “Can you hear me?”
Her eye fluttered open. The agonized look subsided, and she struggled to bring him into focus. Her head moved in a slight nod.
“Was it O'Brien? Did he do this to you?”
“No.” Her voice was weak. “He sicced McQueen on me.”
“Why?”
“He knew I was”âshe grimaced, caught her breathâ“only one who could've told you ⦠Mother Bronson's.”
“He let McQueen work you over because of that?”
“Doesn't matter.” She blinked, her eye suddenly brighter. “I waited, and you're here now.”
“I'm sorry,” Starbuck said hollowly. “I got back as fast as I could.”
“Harry, do something for me?”
“Anything,” Starbuck told her. “You name it, and it's yours.”
“Don't leave me here.”
“I won't.”
“Take me with youâto Coloradoâthe way we ⦔
Her voice trailed off and her mouth parted in a shuddering sigh. Then her eye rolled back in her head, and she stopped breathing. She died within the space of a heartbeat.
Starbuck tenderly closed her eye and sat for a
long while holding her hand. Finally, prying her fingers loose, he stood and squared himself up. He realized he'd wanted to tell her his real name, and felt some loss that there had been no time. A slow sense of rage, fueled by his own shame, settled over him. His mouth hardened, and the rage turned to quiet steel fury. He pulled the Colt and walked quickly to the door. Without looking back, he stepped into the hall.
The murmur of voices was still audible from O'Brien's suite. Starbuck quietly tested the doorknob, then braced himself and swung the door wide. He barged into the sitting room, the Colt extended and cocked, and kicked the door shut. O'Brien was seated in an armchair, and McQueen was lounged back on a nearby sofa. A bottle, almost three-quarters empty, and a couple of glasses stood on a table between them. O'Brien's face went chalky.
“Lovett!”
“Just call me Lazarus.” Starbuck's eyes were cold, impassive. “Only your boys never quite put me down for the count.”
“Whatâ” O'Brien faltered, staring at him with open disbelief. “How'd you get away from Adair?”
“Simple,” Starbuck said lazily. “I killed him.”
McQueen slowly rose to his feet. His jacket was splattered with flecks of blood, and the knuckles on his right hand were skinned raw. Starbuck wagged the barrel of the Colt in his direction.
“Don't get sudden.”
“What the hell; you got the drop on me.”
“All the same,” Starbuck said shortly, “any funny moves and you'd better take a deep breath. It'll have to last a long time.”
“You talk big with a gun in your hand.”
“Give me an excuse and I'll fix it so you won't have to listen anymore.”
“Hold off, Mac!” O'Brien interjected quickly. “He's got nothing on us.”
“Think not?” Starbuck eyed him keenly. “Let's just say I've got all I need and then some.”
O'Brien laughed. “With Adair dead, your case is out the window. There's no way you can tie me to those train holdups.”
“I had something better in mind.”
“Yeah, like what?”
Starbuck's gaze bored into him. “For openers, we'll take a walk down to your office. Then you're going to show me the ledgers you've got locked in your safe.”
“Ledgers?” O'Brien went white around the mouth. “You're off your rocker! Those are my books for the Bella Union. The house accounts.”
“No,” Starbuck said with wry contempt. “I'd lay odds one of them is your insurance policy against Buckley. You're too slick not to keep a record of the payoffs.”
“In a pig's ass!” O'Brien fixed him with a baleful look. “Even if there were payoffs, why would I keep a record?”
“A little something in reserve, something to hold over Buckley's head. The way he operates, you
know you'd need it sooner or later. I figure you've got enough to convict him a dozen times over.”
O'Brien peered at him, one eye sharp and gleaming. “What's your game, Lovett? Pinkertons don't get involved with political shenanigans. Maybe you're looking for a payoff yourself.”
A ferocious grin suddenly lit Starbuck's face. “You'd be surprised about us Pinkertons. There's a payoff, all right, but it's not exactly what you had in mind.”
“What d' you mean?”
“A rough guess would be twenty years. You and Buckley ought to make perfect cellmates. Two peas in a pod.”
“Guess again!” O'Brien eyes glazed with rage. “You've got bats in the belfry if you think I'm gonna hand over those ledgers. I'll see you in hell first!”
“Don't take it so hard,” Starbuck taunted. “There's lots of things worse than twenty years.”
“How about me?” McQueen gave him a humorless yellow-toothed smile. “You gonna send me to the rockpile, too?”
“Nope.” Starbuck's faded blue eyes narrowed. “You're something special, McQueen. You've got a date with the hangman.”
“Hangman!” A sourly amused look came over McQueen's face. “Who the hell am I supposed to've murdered?”
“Nell,” Starbuck said quietly. “She died a couple of minutes ago.”
McQueen scowled with stuffed-animal ferocity.
He read the expression in Starbuck's eyes, and saw revealed there a cold, implacable truth. He would never live to reach the police station, much less a trial by jury. He had already been judged and sentenced. And before him stood a self-appointed executioner.
O'Brien suddenly rose from his chair. The movement momentarily distracted Starbuck, and McQueen took the only chance open to him. With an unintelligible oath, his hand snaked inside his coat and reappeared with a Sharps derringer. An instant before he could bring the gun to bear, Starbuck fired. The first round, a hurried snap-shot, caught him in the shoulder. Knocked off balance, he slammed backward and sat down heavily on the sofa. The second slug drilled through his sternum and the third struck him squarely in the heart. He sat bolt upright a moment, then the light flickered and died in his eyes. The derringer slipped from his grasp and he slumped dead on the sofa.
Starbuck crossed the room in two swift strides. He patted O'Brien down, relieving him of a belly gun, and tossed it on the chair. Then, in a quick, savage gesture, he motioned with the Colt.
“Let's get that safe open. Any tricksâanyone tries to stop usâand you'll wind up on the meatwagon. Savvy?”
O'Brien nodded sullenly. “No tricks.”
“You lead the way.”
Several minutes later they emerged from the Bella Union. O'Brien had the ledgers under his arm and
the snout of a Colt pressed against his spine. Starbuck flagged a hansom cab and shoved him inside. After a word with the driver, Starbuck stepped into the cab and seated himself. He kept the pistol trained on O'Brien's stomach.
“What now?” O'Brien asked as the cab pulled away from the curb. “Where're you taking me?”
Starbuck's expression was sphinxlike. “You'll see when we get there.”
“What's the harm in telling me? It's the police station, isn't it? You're gonna have them lock me up.”
“You'd like that, wouldn't you? By suppertime, Buckley would have you sprung and on the next clipper to China.”
O'Brien's jaw muscles worked. “What d'you want, Lovett? You've got the goddamned ledgers. Isn't that enough?”