CHAPTER 19
Trammel was glad to leave the controlled chaos of Laramie, Wyoming, behind them. When he and Hagen had first collected their horses upon stepping off the train, he feared Hagen would be drawn in by the town’s lively nature. He had heard of Laramie before, of course, but wished he had known how nice it was beforehand. He might have come here instead of Wichita and saved himself a lot of problems in the bargain.
Laramie was a hive of all sorts of activity with wagonloads of goods and crops and freighters from all over coming to and from the train station. The streets were packed with bankers and lawyers and businesspeople and ladies of all types on their way to various places.
He thought the cackles and cheers from the dozens of saloons and gambling halls that lined the town’s streets would be too much for Hagen to resist, especially after all they had endured on the trail to Ogallala and since.
But Hagen had been uncharacteristically quiet that last day on board the train. It seemed the closer he got to home, the less he wanted to speak. He simply looked out the window at the scenery rolling by. Trammel wasn’t complaining. It was the first time he could remember Hagen keeping quiet since their short association began back in Wichita. It seemed a lifetime ago. Trammel was beginning to enjoy the silence, even though he didn’t understand it.
Which was why he quietly followed Hagen out of town once they collected their horses and gear. He didn’t even ask if they were heading straight to his family’s place up north. Judging by the position of the sun when they rode away from town, Trammel figured that was exactly where they were heading.
The busy distractions of Laramie quickly fell away as the two men rode the trail north. Most towns he had seen in this part of the world ebbed away slowly. A blacksmith or a livery or a rundown whorehouse often stood on the edges between town and wilderness. But Laramie had itself hemmed in well. Even the smell of beer and whiskey and baked bread and fireplaces stopped as soon as they left town. The trail north to Blackstone bore no hint of civilization save for the dead, trampled grass and wheel ruts of a well-traveled road.
Such sights made Trammel feel a bit better about where they were going. He hadn’t asked Hagen many details about his hometown as he sensed it was one of the few topics his friend did not wish to discuss. Did Blackstone have a town worth mentioning or just a scattering of buildings at the foot of his father’s ranch? He had once asked Hagen what they would do if his father turned him away. He hadn’t given Trammel much of an answer.
Trammel knew there wasn’t much he could do about the elder Hagen’s reception of his son returning home. He just hoped Blackstone was enough of a town to have a decent hotel. He judged they might need it if Adam’s homecoming was met with a closed fist instead of open arms.
It was then, as they rode the straight trail northward, that Buck Trammel’s thoughts turned to the idea of his own future. He had never planned to venture farther west than Kansas. He’d never really planned on venturing at all. He’d been happy as a policeman back in New York, but the money offered by the Pinkerton Agency had been too great for him to pass up. He joined their ranks in the hopes of seeing the country while saving up enough money to afford a set of rooms along Washington Square or perhaps in one of the newer places they were planning for the swamplands along the Hudson River. Returning to New York had always been in his mind, but a return to a different part of the city that was as far away from the death and squalor of Five Points as possible.
But when the Pinkerton Agency sent him mostly to Chicago and Cleveland and other places along the railroad to break strikers, his dreams of a grand return to New York began to fade. And the moment he struck his supervisor after refusing to beat a starving striker to death in Cleveland, that vision evaporated along with his career at the agency. His plans, vague though they were, had then turned west, where a man could lose himself for a time while he decided what he might do with the rest of his life.
Trammel had decided Wichita was as good a place as any to wait for inspiration to strike him. Maybe a drunk with a gun would make his decision for him one night at The Gilded Lilly. But when a quick death had not come, Trammel had begun to allow himself to think about finally settling down with Lilly if she’d have him.
But in all of his limited planning, Trammel never thought life would lead him to Hagen and to the deeply rutted road to Blackstone, Wyoming, just north of Laramie, with a trail of dead men behind him and a vengeful one-eyed man on his tail.
Yes, Trammel wondered what kind of welcome Adam Hagen would receive at his father’s house. His mother’s teachings from the Good Book came back to him. Would he be the prodigal son or the Judas goat?
* * *
Trammel reined in when Hagen suddenly stopped where the road split. He remained behind the gambler, knowing he must have stopped for reasons of his own. He watched him looking ahead as if deciding which road to take. Trammel saw no reason to speak, so he kept his silence.
Their mounts seemed grateful for the stoppage and were content to nose the grass around them.
After a time, Hagen looked back in Trammel’s direction. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For more than I could repay, but mostly for your silence just now.” The gambler nodded to the left trail. “That way leads to the town of Blackstone. It’s not Wichita or Laramie, God knows, but it has a quaint charm of its own. It’s a midway point for herds coming down from the north and west on their way to Laramie. Some of the smaller outfits pen their cattle in Blackstone while they ride to Laramie to negotiate a price. It’s hardly Eden, but it doesn’t hold a candle to Dodge City.”
Then Hagen looked at the trail to his right. “This way leads to Blackstone Ranch. My home, or at least it used to be. If you stand high in your stirrups, you just might see the outline of the black stone outcropping that gives the town and ranch its name. There are other roads to the ranch, of course, but this was where Father decided the main road would lead. Unfortunately, a ridge of black rock barred his way. Not one to be deterred by Mother Nature or anything else, he used his influence to arrange to have the railroad men blow up enough of the ridge to allow the road to go through. It’s even been given its own name, Stone Gate, and is used by Father and other ranchers as a chokepoint where they can get a more accurate count of their cattle. Leave it to Father to put an act of defiance to his benefit.”
Trammel had to admit he was interested in meeting this man. “Let’s just hope his attitude toward you has softened over the years.”
“I’ve no idea of the welcome we might receive there,” Hagen admitted. “Or what you might receive, for that matter. Father is an unpredictable man and may not want either of us under his roof. One of us or both of us might find ourselves in town tonight and for the foreseeable future.”
“Anything beats Ogallala,” Trammel said. He’d hoped his attempt at humor might make his friend smile.
But Hagen didn’t smile. He just kept looking at the two diverging trails. “The proverbial fork in the road. How Shakespearean. Everything in my soul tells me to ride into town, gets us rooms, and ride to see Father tomorrow. But I know the same reasons that drove me from this place will prevent me from doing that. Tomorrow will continue to be an option until chance brings us together. Father would eventually find out I’m there, of course, and in a day or two, the confrontation I dread would be upon us anyway. I wouldn’t have to do anything. It would just happen whether I wanted it to or not.”
Trammel watched his friend looking at both roads before him. Hagen had grown in his estimation on the road from Wichita. He’d proven to be more than just the gambler who drank himself into oblivion each night in The Gilded Lilly.
He had been content to keep his silence when they had first stopped, but now felt compelled to answer a question his friend had not asked, but didn’t have to. “Seems to me that you had no choice the last time you were told to leave, but you’ve got a choice now. This time, you’re returning on your own terms. That makes
the difference.”
Hagen smiled. “That choice was made for me at gunpoint in Kansas.”
“Nope. That might’ve been what led us here, but it’s up to you to decide which road we take. There’s a town due west of here where we could put up for a day or two. There’s a whole lot of country between that town and the Pacific Ocean. Lots of other towns in between, too. Now, we can ride up to your father’s place or we can head into town. The choice is yours, but it is a choice. Your choice.”
Hagen turned in the saddle to face him. His eyes were red, and his cheeks were damp. “You’re quite a philosopher for a copper.”
“Our secret. Now choose.”
Hagen turned back in the saddle and pulled his horse right. Toward home.
Trammel followed.
CHAPTER 20
Trammel could hardly believe his eyes when they rode through the rocky outcropping known as Stone Gate and saw the trail break through the tree line. A vast field spilled out before him dotted with fence posts on either side of the trail. On the left, large black dots he pegged for cattle grazed in tall grass for as far as the eye could see. To the right side of the trail, more horses than he had ever seen in one place roamed a pasture of their own.
On a rise in the distance, a huge stone house with eight gables loomed over the valley below it; framed by the snowcapped Laramie Mountains beyond. Gray clouds parted, bathing the scene with shafts of gentle sunlight.
It was the most majestic sight Buck Trammel had ever seen. He had never held out much hope of reaching Heaven and therefore hadn’t wasted much time pondering what it might look like. But if he had, he imagined the place would be hard pressed to look any more beautiful than this.
He realized Hagen was looking at him. “I wish I had a photographer on hand to capture the expression on your face. Majestic, isn’t it?”
That was the word that had eluded Trammel. Majestic. “Yeah. It is.”
“Come, let’s see what greeting Father has in store for us.”
* * *
They rode beneath an iron gate that, Trammel imagined, bore the Blackstone Ranch brand, a “B” with two bars on either side of it. He imagined the bars represented two streams or rivers that fed the ranch its water.
The trail became more of a roadway the closer they got to the ranch, becoming completely devoid of grass or weeds in exchange for compacted dirt. The animals on each side ignored the men and horses as they passed by. Trammel saw a brook that wrapped around the pasture, allowing the animals on both sides of the road plenty of water from which to drink. A small stone bridge spanned the brook and led to the main house he judged was half a mile beyond.
Yet, even from there, he saw three riders approaching at a hard clip.
Hagen kept his horse moving at a steady pace, so Trammel did likewise.
“That will be Father,” Hagen said, “if he’s still alive. One of my brothers is likely to be with him. Perhaps both. They’re not exactly pleasant, but I doubt they’ve matched Father in terms of fortitude. He’s likely to be gruff with us, so I must ask your indulgence in advance.”
“I’ve got manners, Hagen.”
“Father could test the manners of a saint,” Hagen said. “I’d like to avoid shooting him if possible, no matter what insults he may throw at us. I’d appreciate it if you could keep that infamous temper of yours in check during our visit.”
Trammel was grateful for the warning. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
As the three riders drew nearer, Trammel had no problem picking out which one was Mr. Hagen. He was the one in the middle, in front of the other two riders. He reminded Trammel of photographs he had seen of J. Pierpont Morgan in the New York papers over the years. But where Morgan was built thin on the top and fat on the bottom like a bowling pin, Mr. Hagen had a broad, compact build. He rode as straight as a general on horseback and with all the power Trammel assumed would come with such an office. In his short time in the West, Trammel had seen men who took on the appearance of the land they worked. In this case, he knew this land had been changed to reflect the man who lorded over it. King Charles Hagen.
The three riders came to a short halt in front of them as Hagen and Trammel pulled their mounts to a stop. A mist of dirt and dust blew over the two visitors. Trammel resisted the urge to cough.
Charles Hagen looked over the two men who had just ridden onto his land. His lean, clean-shaven face bore deep lines. His dark eyes burned beneath the wide brim of his black hat. The silver hatband and white hair beneath it did nothing to soften his stern appearance.
He looked at Trammel and edged his mount closer to him until they were only a few feet apart. Trammel had to control his sorrel to keep it from moving away.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Buck Trammel, sir.”
“He’s a good friend of mine, Father,” Hagen said. His voice was small.
Mr. Hagen’s eyes never left Trammel. “I’m talking to him, not you, boy.” His tone told Trammel he was now talking to him. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here at your son’s invitation,” Trammel told him. “We’ve come a long way together.”
“Yes,” Mr. Hagen sneered. “I’m sure you have. What hellhole did he find you in?”
“Wichita, sir.” He didn’t know why he kept calling this surly old cuss “sir.” It just seemed to fit. “In Kansas.”
“I know where Wichita is.” The old man kept eyeing him. “And I know what it is, too. Where exactly did you two meet? I know it wasn’t at a church meeting.”
Hagen said, “It’s a long story, Father. One much better told in front of a warm fire.”
But Mr. Hagen’s eyes still hadn’t left Trammel. “All these years and you still haven’t learned to keep your mouth shut ’til spoken to, have you, boy?”
Trammel saw no reason to lie. “I met your son while I was working at a place called The Gilded Lilly.”
“Whorehouse, I take it,” he sneered.
“Gambling hall, mostly. But there were rooms upstairs for the sporting ladies, yes.”
“Figured as much.” He seemed to sit a little taller in the saddle, as if that was possible, content he had been correct. “What bait did Adam use to bring you here, Mr. Trammel? Promise of a job? Money?”
“His friendship. That’s all.”
“I sincerely doubt that.” Mr. Hagen looked Trammel up and down. “Fella your size working in a whorehouse. Must be some kind of pimp.”
Trammel felt his neck begin to redden. “I sat in a lookout chair overseeing the gambling tables. Had a shotgun over my lap most nights. Never was a pimp and never plan on being one.” He nudged his sorrel closer to Mr. Hagen’s mount. “Never had anyone accuse me of being one, either.”
“Well, someone just did, mister. Me.”
Trammel gripped the reins a little tighter. “And for the last time.”
He sensed the two men behind Mr. Hagen tense. He didn’t care. He knew where they were. He figured Hagen could take care of them if the iron came out and the lead started flying.
“You’re on my land, boy, and I can talk to anyone on my land any damned way I please.”
“Anyone but me.”
Mr. Hagen’s eyes changed. The fire remained, but shifted somehow. Trammel didn’t know if that meant he was about to go for the gun on his hip or backhand him for insolence. Trammel was ready to stop him either way.
Mr. Hagen looked in Adam’s direction, but not at him. “How long you been riding, boy?”
“Just from Laramie, Father. We took the train from Ogallala.”
The elder Hagen glanced at their horses. Trammel imagined a glance from him was as detailed as a full examination from any veterinarian. “These mounts are in poor shape. Gentry here will see to them while you eat. After that, we’ll see.”
Adam Hagen looked like a boy as he spoke to his father. “Thank you for your kindness, Father. I wasn’t expecting—”
But Mr. Hagen pulled his horse around and began riding back
up toward the house. His two men rode with him.
Buck inched his mount next to Adam’s. “Friendly old geezer, isn’t he.”
“We seem to have caught him on a good day. He didn’t shoot us. Come and welcome to my home.”
Trammel followed him at a good trot up to the road to the main house. He wasn’t sure if Hagen had been joking about his father, but something told him that he wasn’t.
CHAPTER 21
Trammel felt uneasy in the large leather chair near the living room fireplace. The inside of the main house was every bit as grand as he had expected it to be. It put the lobbies of the finest hotels he had seen in New York and Chicago to shame.
Thick wooden beams towered over the main room, and oak paneling adorned every wall save for the massive stone fireplace that dominated the room. The chairs and the settees were all heavy leather, and the brass lamps on the wall cast a soft light in the dark room. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until the warmth of the fireplace reached him.
Adam Hagen sat on the sofa, as expectant as a student waiting for his teacher to arrive. Trammel had never seen the flamboyant man so small and it wasn’t just because of the size of the furniture. His father’s presence dominated every inch of the house even though they hadn’t seen the old man since they had arrived.
Both Hagen and Trammel came to their feet when a pretty blonde woman in a frilly pink dress entered the room. “Remember me, Adam?”
“Elena!” Hagen exclaimed as he jumped to his feet and took her in his arms.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he lifted her. “God, it’s good to see you again, my brother. It’s been so long.”
Trammel found himself rising to his feet before he realized it. Her long golden hair swayed as Hagen rocked her back and forth. Even as tears streamed down the porcelain skin of her face, Trammel was convinced she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
North of Laramie Page 12
