Bury the Hatchet

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Thirteen men, Trammel reminded himself. He had to count the ramrod of the Pinkerton outfit, Jesse Alcott.

  Trammel tried to remember what the man from the train had looked like as he looked at the faces of the people passing by him on Laramie’s Main Street. He remembered the name and he remembered their run-in on the train, but for the life of him, he could not remember what the man looked like. And he knew that ignorance may very well cost him his life. Alcott could walk right up to him and Trammel probably wouldn’t see it coming until it was too late.

  He kept a sharp eye as he went to the livery to pick up his horse and Bookman’s horse that he had ridden down from Blackstone. He paid the liveryman for feeding and grooming the horses, then mounted up and began riding out of Laramie. It may have been well past dusk, but the sky was still bright with the promise of a coming moonrise to follow. He imagined there would be enough light to help him make his way back home easy enough. After what Sheriff Moran had told him, he didn’t dare spend the night in Laramie. He had tempted fate by being there as long as he had been. Besides, Blackstone needed a lawman who didn’t get sick every time he tried to stand up.

  As he followed the dark trail back home, Buck Trammel admitted to himself that he was worried that Hawkeye’s head might be permanently ruined. He cared less about it affecting his role of deputy than altering the rest of his life. The boy was barely twenty and didn’t deserve to spend the rest of his days as a cripple.

  Adam Hagen was a different story. He’d lived enough life for ten men and likely deserved whatever he had coming to him. Whether he kept the arm, lost it, or could not use it again, Trammel had a hard time working up a lot of sympathy for his friend. He hoped Hagen fully recovered, but if he didn’t, the man could hardly lay claim to missing out on a full life. Hawkeye deserved that same chance, and Trammel hoped he got it.

  Riding along the path, as the moon rose and cast a gray light on everything around him, the sheriff wondered what Lucien Clay’s strategy for taking control might be. Would he keep bringing the important men from the territory to meet him, slowly consolidating power while Hagen was laid up? That might give Trammel enough time to get Emily and her mother-in-law out of town before Alcott and his men ultimately came for him.

  He knew he probably would not survive the encounter and he did not want Emily around to witness that. He didn’t want her last memory of him to be his death. She had already lost one man. Like he wanted for Hawkeye, Trammel wanted more for her, too. More than being shackled to an addled old widow. More than mourning the loss of a dead lawman. She had plenty of life left to live, too, and he did not want her wasting it on him. He and Hagen had been given numerous chances to live life. Hawkeye and Emily deserved the same. They deserved better.

  He felt Bookman’s mare twitch and rear back as they came around a bend in the trail. He pulled back his own mount to compensate. He did not know much about horses—a fact Hagen and Hawkeye were all too ready to point out—but he knew they could see better at night than humans. They sensed things before a man could see them and, given how dark it was, he would be a fool to discount its reaction. Could be a wolf or a mountain lion. Could be the animal caught wind of something dead somewhere in the dense forest on either side of the trail.

  Or it could be something a hell of a lot more dangerous than that.

  He brought the horse under control and slid the tow horse’s reins over his pommel as he pulled his Winchester from its scabbard. He levered a round into the chamber and listened.

  “Look who’s becoming quite the Westerner,” said a voice from the darkness.

  Trammel aimed the Winchester in the general direction of the voice. “Show yourself or I start shooting.”

  “I don’t think even you are that naïve, Trammel,” the voice said. “One shot will send at least one of your horses to bucking, maybe both of them. You’d be on foot and all alone in the middle of the trail with no one but me. I don’t think you want that, now do you?”

  Trammel did, indeed, feel the horses growing restless and struggled to keep them steady without daring to lower his rifle.

  “And I don’t believe you want to get shot,” Trammel yelled back. “So how about you step out here where I can see you and we can have a conversation like two grown men. Unless you prefer to play kids’ games like hiding in the darkness.”

  Trammel saw the glint of moonlight off the steel revolver in a gloved hand that emerged from the darkness. The horse and rider appeared on the trail about thirty yards ahead of him. The man wore a gray bowler hat and matching duster. He recognized both and did not need a formal introduction to know who this man was.

  “Jesse Alcott,” Trammel said

  “Good memory, Sheriff Trammel. I didn’t think you’d remember.”

  “I didn’t until Moran told me you were in town.” Trammel looked over the man’s rig. It was just like Somerset’s horse and saddle up in Blackstone. A typical Pinkerton outfitting. He decided to not insult the man straight off. He could have shot Trammel from the darkness had he wanted to. He obviously had something else in mind.

  “You’re a long way from the Mississippi, Alcott. Not a riverboat in sight. What are you doing here?”

  “Not all that far from the train from Ogallala,” Alcott responded. “No, not that far at all. In fact, our last meeting is an incident burned into my memory. Haven’t been able to shake it yet.”

  “Is that what this is about? Me knocking you senseless on a train six months ago? Don’t tell me you’re that fragile.”

  “I’ll admit it may have started off that way,” Alcott said. “It may have been the reason why I asked Mr. Pinkerton for the assignment when Mr. Bowman sent word he wanted to hire us to avenge his dead kin. But it has become about more than that now.” His pistol didn’t move. “Much more.”

  “Clay’s not paying you enough to get killed.” Trammel kept the Winchester leveled at Alcott’s belly. “His money’s no good if you’re dead, Alcott. Best for you and your men to remember that before you come after me.”

  “Then I’ll have to see to it that I don’t get killed,” Alcott said. “And fortunately for me, I’ve got twelve men around me to make that eventuality most unlikely. You, on the other hand, are alone in a town with only old men to help you. A one-armed invalid and a green gun hand who can’t even walk a straight line anymore.” Alcott sucked his teeth. “If I was you, Sheriff, I’d be thinking about picking up stakes and leaving the territory while I could.”

  “Seems to me you’ve got more practice at running than I do, Alcott. Never was graced with speed.” He gripped his rifle tighter. “Guess that’s why I’ve had to learn to hold my ground and fight.”

  “It seems to have worked for you so far, but as I and your friend Hagen will tell you, everyone’s luck runs out eventually. It’s running out for you now. Run, Trammel. Run now.”

  Trammel struggled to nudge his horses around as Alcott ever so slightly kept his mount moving to his right. He knew the gunman was doing it on purpose, but Trammel would be damned before he would allow himself to be flanked. He kept his Winchester aimed at the belly of the Pinkerton man, even though he did not look very graceful doing it.

  “My luck’s been holding up just fine, thanks. What do you say we quit all this talking and do something about it instead? How about we throw down these guns and climb down from these horses and settle this like we started it on that train all those months ago? With our fists. Hell, I’ll even give you the first shot.”

  But Alcott was shaking his head before the sheriff even finished his sentence. “I never claimed to be a particularly intelligent man, Trammel, but I’m not that much of a fool. Your skills with your fists are legendary in the agency. You killed at least five men with your bare hands while in service to Mr. Pinkerton. Two of them in one fight, from what I was told.”

  Trammel was disappointed but not surprised that his ploy didn’t work. “The real number is actually closer to eight. There were a couple of specialty jobs Allan
asked me to handle for him personally.” He looked at Alcott closely. “He never asked you for any special favors, did he, Alcott?”

  Alcott’s frowning silence told Trammel all he needed to know.

  Now that he’d found a sore spot, Trammel kept hitting it. “Guess that’s why the old man took my leaving the agency kind of hard. He was awful sore at me for leaving. Said I was one of his best men and offered me all sorts of incentives to stay. Too bad none of them were a good enough reason for me to change my mind.”

  Trammel cocked his head as he looked at Alcott more closely. “I wonder how Allan will react when he hears you’ve decided to leave him and take a dozen of his men with you in the process. I wonder if he’ll be mad. I wonder if he’ll even care.”

  “He won’t know for a while,” Alcott said. “As far as he’s concerned, I’m still here, trying to drum up some new business while waiting for a train back to Chicago. Saw no reason to let him think any different, either.”

  Trammel frowned. “Damn. Wish you’d told me that earlier.”

  Alcott’s horse shifted as it felt its rider’s nervousness. “Why? What did you do?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Trammel said. “But when I heard you boys were overstaying your welcome in Laramie, I took the liberty of sending Allan a telegram before I left town. Thought it was the least I could do for him, even though we didn’t leave things on the best of terms.” Even in the weak light of the moon, Trammel could see Alcott squint.

  “You’re lying.”

  “Sent it right before I left town. Got the receipt and everything if you’d like to look at it.”

  Alcott tightened the reins on his horse, bringing it to a halt. “Why would you do something like that?”

  In truth, Trammel had done it to put a couple of kinks in Alcott’s rail. Questions from Mr. Pinkerton were the best way he knew to throw Alcott and Clay’s plan off balance a bit. When a man like Allan Pinkerton asked questions, they demanded answers and action, even all the way out in Wyoming Territory.

  Sheriff Moran had been right. Trammel was outgunned and outmanned. He had to find some kind of advantage any way he could.

  “I figured a man has a right to know when his men aren’t doing what he’s paying them to do. I also figured he wouldn’t appreciate you two-timing him with a snake like Lucian Clay. But I wouldn’t get too upset just yet, Alcott. Like I said, Allan and me didn’t part on the best of terms. Maybe he’ll just ignore it. But I’ll bet one of his office boys will read it and make inquiries.”

  Alcott’s mount, again feeling the tension from its rider, began to stomp and grow restless. “You’d better be lying to me, Trammel, or I’ll plug you right here and now.”

  Trammel smiled at the .32 caliber pistol. “With that little thing? It sure as hell won’t kill me on the first shot and if you shoot, you’d better kill me, Alcott, because I’ll sure as hell kill you.”

  Alcott swore and his horse fussed some more. He tucked away his pistol and rode back to town, yelling over his shoulder, “You’ve done a lot of damage, Trammel! I won’t forget this, and next time, I won’t be alone.”

  Maybe not, Trammel thought as he tucked his Winchester back into the saddle scabbard, but I will be.

  CHAPTER 25

  Trammel found Emily and Hawkeye in Adam’s room at the Clifford Hotel when he got back to town later that night. He would have chastised his deputy for not taking better care of himself, but the kid already looked in horrible shape. His skin was pale, and he had huge bags under his eyes. Poor Hawkeye looked like he was getting worse instead of better, and he should have been in bed already.

  “Who’s guarding the prisoner while you’re here?” Trammel asked his deputy.

  “There’s not much to guard, Buck,” Emily answered for him. “Somerset has been fed and is locked up behind bars. He’s not going anywhere with a broken shoulder and two injured legs.” She looked at Hawkeye then back at Trammel. “Your deputy here was quite a different matter entirely. He wasn’t looking so good and was beginning to run a fever, so I thought it best to bring him over here with me while I checked on Adam. If you’re going to be angry about it, might as well be angry at me and not him.”

  “I’ve been protectin’ them while you’ve been gone, Sheriff,” Hawkeye said, half asleep in a chair in the corner. “Been keepin’ an eye out the whole time.”

  “And I’ve never felt safer, I’m sure,” Adam Hagen said from his bed. His tone struck Trammel as sarcastic and he couldn’t blame him. Hawkeye was beginning to look as bad as Hagen, and that was not good considering the nature of their respective injuries.

  “How did you do in Laramie?” Hagen asked him. “I hope you gave Lucien my best. Told him I’m in fine fighting form?”

  “Didn’t have the chance,” Trammel admitted. “I saw Sheriff Moran when I dropped off Bookman at the county jail. He told me the Pinkerton men have been in town for about a week. Alcott and the rest of them seem to have thrown in with Lucien Clay. And, according to Moran, your partner has had a steady stream of territory elders visiting him in Laramie since Alcott got there. Seems like Alcott and his men have become an integral part of Clay’s operation.”

  Suddenly, Hagen was the one who didn’t look so good. “Have they, now? That’s a most interesting development. I’m not even dead yet and they’re already dancing on my grave.”

  “No one’s dead yet,” Trammel said, “least of all us. I’m betting Mr. Pinkerton won’t be too happy about any of this.”

  “Mr. Pinkerton?” Hagen asked. “Is he in Laramie, too?”

  “No, I sent him a telegram about it before I left Laramie. It was getting on dark, so I didn’t wait around for a response. But I’m pretty sure he’ll send one, and he won’t be happy. I have a feeling Alcott will get a less cordial response, and most likely an order to return to Chicago on the next train or face immediate termination.”

  Hagen looked impressed. “I didn’t take you for a such a cunning man, Buck. Do you think Mr. Pinkerton will tolerate Alcott’s insubordination?”

  “Depends on if Clay is willing to buy him out of trouble with Allan. If your so-called partner has that kind of cash lying around to make Pinkerton forget about Alcott’s treachery, then I might’ve just wasted a perfectly good telegram. But if he doesn’t, I’ve just caused a hell of a lot of trouble for Alcott and his men. Clay’s promises of future glory are all well and good, but the guaranteed wrath of a man like Mr. Pinkerton is never good for anyone.”

  “Do you think it will work, Buck?” Emily asked hopefully. “Do you think he’ll send men here directly to stop Alcott before he can attack Laramie?”

  “Even if he does,” Trammel said, “it’ll be a week before they get here. I don’t think Clay will wait that long to move against us, especially now that most of the territory elders have seen that he has a small army of Pinkerton men behind him. Alcott claims to have twelve men who stayed loyal to him. I bet a couple of them will fall off once word of Allan’s rage reaches them. Alcott’s a boss and he has a name. A couple of gun hands without standing can be plowed under by the agency pretty easily. Allan’s a prideful man, so there’s an excellent chance he’ll want to put down this kind of thing before others in the field get the same notion. But there are no guarantees in this kind of thing.”

  “So your telegram to this Pinkerton fella didn’t do much,” Hawkeye said.

  “It caused Alcott to go on the defensive for the first time since this damnable business began,” Hagen said. “That just might change things in our favor. Make those boys rethink things they thought of as certainties. With Clay appearing to galvanize his political and military forces, we need every single advantage we can muster.” Hagen looked at Trammel. “Sending off that telegram was inspired thinking, Buck. I don’t think I would’ve considered doing that, even if I had been up and about.”

  “Maybe you’re starting to have an influence on me. And not in a good way.” Trammel decided to change the subject. “How were things here? An
y word from the ranch about Bookman’s arrest?”

  Emily said, “I saw Mr. Hagen ride into town to speak to Mr. Montague this afternoon after you left, but didn’t see him ride out again. His horse is gone, so I assume he went back to the ranch. Hawkeye said he didn’t go to the jail looking for you, and no one else in town remembers him going to their place to ask questions. It would appear his ordered attack on Adam has been the talk of the town. If he’s planning to retaliate for Bookman’s arrest, he’s done a good job of keeping it to himself.”

  “Father has never been one to hold his cards close to the vest,” Hagen said. “I’m sure the good people of town are preparing to take to the streets, torches in hand, to march toward the jailhouse to demand Sheriff Trammel hand over the man who dared raise a hand against their favorite native son.” He laughed at his own bad joke and winced from the pain. “They couldn’t care less as long as their liquor and beer and dope keep flowing, which I’m sure it is, to my great loss. Probably picking me clean as I speak.”

  Emily checked Hagen’s bandage. “As a matter of fact, a surprising number of people were very concerned about your well-being, Adam. You should be honored.”

  “There were?” Hagen asked. “How many?”

  “Why, there must have been two or three at least,” she answered. “And they weren’t even in this room!”

  For the first time in days, the four of them enjoyed a good laugh. Even Hagen laughed, despite the pain.

  * * *

  At that same moment, in his office down in Laramie, Lucien Clay was not laughing.

  Jesse Alcott slammed a telegram on Clay’s desk. “Thanks to Trammel, me and my men have been recalled to Chicago.”