“Hope it fits,” Mr. Robertson said.
Trammel nodded his head. “It fits fine. Thank you and the others for thinking of me.”
The shopkeeper grabbed his arm. “You mentioned how you used to wear a rig like that before you come to Blackstone. We figured now would be a good time to give it to you, seein’ as how you might be goin’ up against them Pinkerton fellas. But you won’t be alone, Sheriff. There’s plenty of us who’ll stand with you if they come to town. We might not be as young as we used to be, but an old man can be dangerous in the right circumstances.”
Trammel smiled as he patted his arm. “Let’s hope that talking-to I gave Montague prevents it from coming to that. Say good night to Ethel for me.”
“Hell, she’s already asleep,” the shopkeeper said as he followed Rhoades and Trammel out the door. “God bless you, Sheriff Trammel.”
Trammel doubted God would, but thanked Mr. Robertson for the thought just the same.
* * *
The night was chilly, headed for cold, as they walked away from the general store. The cloudless sky showed millions of stars and swirls in the heavens above. Rhoades thought it would’ve been a beautiful evening had it not been for the gaudy music and drunken laughter spilling out of the saloons along Main Street. He abhorred spirits for that very reason. It was a selfish indulgence that ruined everything it touched, not only those who consumed it, but their families as well. He thought if America was ever to become a great nation, it would need to become a temperate nation by casting off the drunken ways it had inherited from England. But with more rabble coming each day from Europe, he doubted temperance would find a home in this country for some time to come, if ever.
He ignored his annoyance at the saloons and focused on Buck Trammel. The lawman was difficult to talk to, and his editor at the Blackstone Bugle would chastise him if he did not attempt to get something quotable from this time they shared. “For whatever it’s worth, Sheriff, you have my compliments, sir. You withstood a withering barrage from Mighty Montague, and not many men in Blackstone can say that.”
Trammel laughed. “They really call him that? Mighty Montague?”
The reporter laughed along with him. “Alliteration aside, the name fits. He’s a formidable man.” Rhoades immediately regretted saying it, as he wasn’t sure the sheriff knew what alliteration meant.
“He’s not as formidable as he thinks,” Trammel said. “Without Hagen’s money backing him, he’d be as timid as a church mouse.” Trammel looked Rhoades’s way without looking down at him. “You going to print what he said back there about calling in the loans people have with the bank?”
“I’ll most certainly include it in my column,” Rhoades said. “As for whether or not the owner will allow it printed is another matter. But, the Bugle is firmly on the side of law and order. Always has been, even when Sheriff Bonner was in charge. Mr. Montague’s threats against the people of this town need to be exposed. King Charles has sat on his throne unchallenged long enough. It’s time for his authority to come into question.” Rhoades stopped walking when Trammel did.
The sheriff turned to him. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that. Not just yet, anyway.”
“Why? He threatened to leverage his financial position against those he perceived to be his enemies, sir. This is not only illegal, but un-American.”
“And publishing what he said about the loans could stir up more trouble than we need right now,” Trammel told him. “I don’t like the man any more than you do, especially after he threatened me tonight. But this town’s got enough problems. Even if I was to saddle up and ride out at first light, the Pinkertons could still come here looking for me. The people of this town are going to need to focus on them, not fighting the bank or each other.”
Being a reporter, that only led Rhoades to another question. “How exactly do you plan on facing the Pinkertons if they do come?”
“With as little risk to the town as possible,” Trammel told him. “And don’t waste time asking me any more than that, because I’m not going to tell you. I’m all for freedom of the press, but some things are best left unprinted. Like what Montague said about the loans. I’d appreciate it if you could hold back that part until this Pinkerton mess is over.”
The reporter didn’t like sitting on such an explosive story, especially one that could prove so damaging to Montague and Hagen, but the sheriff had made a persuasive argument. For a brutal man, he was also a tactical one as well. “All I can do is suggest it to my editor,” Rhoades said, “but he’s a reasonable man and you have made a reasonable request.”
“Glad to hear it.”
The two men resumed walking along Main Street. Rhoades was nervous about walking with the big man along the dimly lit streets of Blackstone. Not only did the sheriff have a bounty on his head, making him a target for every desperate man within a day’s ride of town, but it was also night and Rhoades had never been able to see very well at night. It was one of the reasons why he’d been a clerk in the Army of the Potomac in the War Between the States. And it was a reason why he had chosen to become a journalist once he had been discharged from service. Technically, he was considered a veteran, but Rhoades did not consider himself to be one. Veterans mounted charges and marched into cannon fire. His typing skills had helped him secure a desk in Washington writing reports.
There was another reason why he was nervous walking with Sheriff Trammel on such a night, for not only could he not help much if a fight broke out, but he was likely the cause of all the trouble the man was currently experiencing. He may not have been given the opportunity to prove his mettle in battle, but he had mettle in other ways. It was why he chose to unburden himself at such a late hour. “I’m afraid I owe you something of an apology, Sheriff.”
“For what? Not standing up to Montague back there? You were taking notes, Rhoades. I don’t need anyone to fight my battles for me.”
“Not that.” The reporter swallowed hard and decided the best way to get this over with was to get it over with quickly. “You see, before I came here, I was the reporter for the Ogallala Bugle. I’m the man who wrote that article about those women you and Adam Hagen saved on the plains. If I hadn’t written it, Hanover and his men wouldn’t have found you and neither would the Pinkertons who are pursuing you now.” He expected Trammel to react somehow. To hit him, maybe, or at least yell at him.
But the big man did neither, choosing instead to keep walking along Main Street. “You were just doing your job, same as I am. You didn’t even mention Hagen’s name in the article on account of him not giving it. They would’ve found us eventually. Hanover and his bunch. The Pinkertons, too.”
Rhoades felt he had to come completely clean in order to unburden himself. “I’m not talking about the article, Sheriff. I’m talking about Hanover and his men coming to Ogallala and beating me until I told them that you and Adam had taken a train here. And where it was going. Without that information, they would’ve had a harder time finding you. That’s why I fear all of this is my fault. Had I been tougher, perhaps all of this could’ve been avoided.”
Trammel stopped walking and faced the reporter. “And you blame yourself for what’s happening now?”
Rhoades hadn’t felt so small since he was a boy. “In no small measure,” he admitted.
“Then stop,” Trammel told him. “What’s done is done, and you didn’t have much to do with it, anyway. You didn’t cost Lefty his eye, and you didn’t kill those Bowman boys. You didn’t lie about us or gin up anyone to come after us. You’re not responsible for any of it, so quit living like you are. You seem like a good man looking to do good things. As long as you keep doing that, you’ll never have to apologize to me for a damned thing.”
It was only then that he realized they had stopped across the street from the jailhouse. Trammel said, “I’d love to hear more of your confessions, Mr. Rhoades, but I’ve got a full house of prisoners to attend to, so I’ll bid you good night. And thanks in advance
for seeing reason about that Montague business. If you need me to talk to your publisher about it, I will.”
Rhoades watched him cross the thoroughfare and walk into the jailhouse without even the slightest look back. He had just bared his deepest shame to the man and he hadn’t even batted an eye. It was amazing how all of that guilt he had been carrying with him all the way from Nebraska to Wyoming had weighed him down for so long only to be carried away on the Wyoming wind with hardly a thought.
Sheriff Trammel was a strange man indeed. Strange in all of the best possible ways for the future of Blackstone.
CHAPTER 12
Trammel coughed as he closed the door behind him. The jailhouse had taken on the rank odor of a pigsty and cattle pen all rolled up into one. Even Hawkeye had taken to wearing a kerchief over his face in a pointless effort to help dampen the stench.
“Sorry about being out here,” Hawkeye said as he stood up from behind the desk, “but the smell back there is awful.”
Trammel couldn’t blame him. “You emptying the buckets regularly?”
“As much as possible, and the men are as good about being neat as drunk men can be,” Hawkeye said, “but the pit in the outhouse is filling up mighty fast.”
Trammel had expected as much. The jail had been built with only four cells. Mayor Welch told him the town balked at the cost at the time, claiming no one would ever remember the jail having more than two prisoners at any given time. Now the four cells held twelve prisoners, one of them a cripple, and it did not take long for the situation to deteriorate into a cesspool.
It was all part of Hagen’s plan to turn their misery into an advantage.
Trammel only hoped it worked. “How are the boys taking it?”
“About as poorly as you warned they would,” the younger man told him. “The drink is wearing off, and they’re crammed in there too tight to sleep or do much of anything. I’d wager things will only get worse as the hangovers set in. I’ve been called every name in the book as a result, and a few no one’s thought to write down yet.”
Trammel didn’t doubt that, either. “Any of them sober enough for a night ride?”
“All of the bosses are sober. Mr. Bookman and his like.”
“Bookman and the bosses aren’t going anywhere.” Trammel knew holding on to the ramrods that made the Blackstone Ranch work was the only leverage he had over Hagen. “I’m talking about the cowhands from the bar.”
Hawkeye thought it over. “Maybe three or so. Why?”
“Because I want you to help me pull those three from the pen, and we’ll leave the rest.”
Hawkeye took the key ring from the peg next to the door to the cells. “Sure, but why? It’s already full-on dark out there, Sheriff.”
“Because we’re sending them back to the ranch with a message,” Trammel told him. “Montague’s supposed to do that in the morning, but I’d like to give Mr. Hagen a sleepless night if I can. Maybe give us more of an advantage than we already have. They might be in no shape to see in the dark, but their mounts will know the way home. Now, open that door, and let’s pick out the best of the litter.”
* * *
Hawkeye shoved the drunken men along the boardwalk with the barrels of his shotgun. Trammel followed with his Winchester. The Peacemaker tucked in his new shoulder rig felt good. Comfort would be important in the days ahead.
The Blackstone hands endured catcalls and jeers from the patrons of the saloons they passed by. How word of their departure from the jail spread so quickly was beyond Trammel, but he imagined Adam Hagen had something to do with it.
They found Adam Hagen in the middle of Main Street with three mounts waiting for their riders. “These three belong to our guests,” the gambler announced. “They all bear the Blackstone brand, anyway, and should see the men home safe enough if road agents don’t get them.” He seemed to catch wind of the prisoners and frowned. “Or if their stench doesn’t kill the horses first. It’ll certainly drive the wolves away.”
Trammel lowered his rifle to cover the men as they struggled to pull themselves up into their saddles. Hawkeye’s prodding with the coach gun gave them added incentive.
“I want our property back,” said a cowhand Trammel remembered being called Les. “That means our guns.”
“You can hardly walk,” Trammel said. “Giving you a gun in your condition wouldn’t make much sense for either of us. You can get your things when you come back to town with your boss tomorrow. You sober enough to remember what you’re supposed to say to him?”
“Yeah, I got it, damn it,” Les slurred. “But he’ll likely whip me just for sayin’ them words to him.”
Hawkeye said, “I can put you back in your cell if you’d like.”
Les took the reins and moved his horse away from them. The other two men had already begun riding in the direction of their ranch without so much as a word. Any beating that may face them was obviously better than the conditions of the Blackstone jail.
But Les was in a far more talkative mood as he edged his mount away from the grip of the lawmen. “Damn you, Buck Trammel, and you too, Hawkeye. Mr. Hagen’s going to make you pay for what you done to us tonight. Gonna make you pay dearly. And I hope I’ll be right beside him when he does.”
“Assuming your rump doesn’t still sting from Father’s lash.” Hagen drew his .32 and fired into the night air, causing the cowboy’s mount to buck and run off in the same direction the other two Hagen men had taken.
Les’s curses of Hagen’s soul were swallowed up by the cold Wyoming night and the jeers from the Main Street drunkards.
Hagen sighed as he holstered his pistol. “I suppose I’ve lost the ranch’s business for the foreseeable future.”
“You already control all the saloons in town,” Trammel pointed out. “And I doubt their hatred of you will kill their love of your opium. Besides, all of this was your idea anyway.”
Hagen grinned. “Why do you always have to be so literal? Besides, we wanted to bring Father to heel so he would agree to help us, and this was the best way I could think of to do it. He may not always listen to reason, but he always listens to money. Locking up his cowhands hurts him in the pocketbook. If nothing else, we have certainly secured his attention. I suspect he’ll come to town tomorrow to sue for peace. I suggest we all retire early and get a good night’s rest, for we are likely to need it. And considering the extensive resources of our enemies, I think it best if we all sleep at the Clifford Hotel tonight. You, too, Hawkeye.”
“I’ve got prisoners to tend to,” the deputy said.
“I’ll be tending to them on your behalf,” Hagen told him. “You’ve been stuck in there with them all night. You’ll get sick if you’re exposed to that stench for too long. I’ll be happy to spell you until morning. As the good sheriff said, this was my idea anyway. It’s the least I can do.”
Hawkeye looked questioningly at Trammel, who wasn’t exactly sure what Hagen was angling for. “Do as he says, Hawkeye. You’ve earned it.”
“Ask whomever is manning the desk to direct you to the proper room,” Hagen said. “And feel free to avail yourself of any women or whiskey you’d like. Courtesy of the house, of course.”
“The promise of a clean bed and the absence of that stench’ll be enough for me, thank you.” He looked at Trammel. “You sure it’s okay, Sheriff? I’m fine for staying up all night if you need it. Got plenty of coffee.”
“Go to bed,” Trammel told him. “And thanks for all your help today.”
Reluctantly, the young deputy ambled up to the boardwalk and back toward the Clifford Hotel.
Hagen laughed. “You’ve got yourself a loyal one there, Buck. I do believe that boy would die for you if it came to it.”
“Let’s make sure it doesn’t come to that.” Trammel stepped up to the boardwalk and Hagen followed. “What’s this business about you staying overnight in the jail? That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“The best plans change midstream,” Hagen said, “like yo
u sending a message directly to Father without waiting for Montague. That was an inspired tactic, Buck. Beat the lackey to the punch. Frame the message in your own terms. I do believe I’m beginning to rub off on you somehow.”
“Don’t wish that on me.” Trammel wasn’t sure he liked the idea of leaving Hagen alone with a jail full of men who worked for his father. “Why should you stay with them and not me? After all, I’m the sheriff. It’s my responsibility.”
“I’m offering assistance in a time of need,” Hagen said. “Besides, why let them rot in a cell when we can put their captivity to a greater benefit? I plan on using the time to remind them of the man they work for. Their varying states of drunkenness will provide fertile ground for seeds of ideas to be planted. Ideas that may flower in the days and weeks and come to our benefit.”
The more Hagen spoke, the more convinced Trammel became that leaving him in charge of the jail was not a good idea. “Thanks for the offer, Adam, but I’ll stay with the prisoners.”
“Do you really think that’s wise?” Hagen asked. “I can afford to be bleary-eyed and half asleep when Father comes calling tomorrow, which he most certainly will, as you’ve given him no choice. But you need to be at your best, for he most certainly will be. And although he’s hardly the man he used to be, he’s still quite formidable, as will be the men he brings with him to town.”
Again, Hagen made perfect sense, which only served to bother Trammel more. It felt like Hagen was always holding something back in order to lead him in the direction he wanted Trammel to go. A direction that ultimately benefited Adam Hagen.
“Why do I always have the feeling that there’s something behind your plans that you’re not telling me?” Trammel said.
“Probably because I don’t know everything myself,” Hagen admitted. “But I promise no harm will come to any of the men. My words will be my only weapon. And I’ll be ready to back you up when Father comes to town.”
Bury the Hatchet Page 9
