Had Bookman run off Bonner? Why would he do that? Mr. Hagen could’ve told him he’d be replacing Bonner if that had been the case. Trammel would’ve taken a sheriff’s job just as reluctantly as he’d taken the deputy’s job. Or had Bonner run off on his own? Had he seen Trammel’s arrival as a chance to finally get the hell out of town? But get away from what? He hadn’t been in town for more than thirty minutes, but he could already tell there wasn’t much to run from around here.
He fogged up the star and rubbed it quickly on his pants leg. He saw some of the luster had returned to it and pinned it on his shirt. He supposed that made it official. He was now the law in Blackstone.
He looked around his center of authority, with its empty rifle cabinet and crooked old desk. All he had were the guns he’d brought with him, a dusty old Bible, and an old brass star pinned to his shirt. He’d come a long way from Five Points back in New York. Whether it was higher or lower was a matter of interpretation.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Damn it.”
“Who’s out there?” boomed a voice from the back. “I said who the hell is out there? Sure as hell ain’t Bonner, that’s for sure.
Trammel shut his eyes. He’d forgotten to check the jail cells in the back to see if there were any customers.
He pushed himself out of the creaky chair and walked toward the cells. An old wooden door with a window in the shape of a cross had been kept open by a piece of wood at its base. The back room was comprised of three small cells comprised of iron bars.
Only one of the cells was occupied by a scrawny red-haired kid of about seventeen who looked like he hadn’t bathed in days. He sat on his bunk, glowering up at Trammel. “Who the hell are you?”
“Name’s Trammel. I think I’m the new sheriff.” He grabbed hold of one of the bars and gave it a good pull. The old iron didn’t give an inch. A good sign. “Now tell me who you are and why you’re here.”
The young man stood up and smoothed down his matted hair. “People call me the Blackstone Kid on account—”
Trammel hit the bars with the side of his hand, making the young man jump. “I didn’t ask for a story. I asked you for your name. Your right name and why you’re in here. Keep running your mouth, and I’ll leave you in here without food for a week.”
The kid snapped out of his act. “Name’s March. Sam March. And Sheriff Bonner locked me up solely on account of me delivering a message to him last night. That’s all I’ve done and that’s the God’s honest truth. I’ll swear to it on a stack of Bibles.”
Trammel looked at the condition of the cell. His water bucket was full and threatening to overflow. And he didn’t see the remnants of any meals, either. “Looks like he didn’t like your message. What was it and who was it from?”
“It was innocent enough,” March said. “Just reminding him that he owes Madam Peachtree five hundred dollars, and she’s getting tired of waiting on her money. Said she was tired of extending credit to him on account it was making her look bad. Even sheriffs got to pay their debts, especially to Madam Peachtree. I told him that and he locked me up without nary a word of warning or reason. Been here since just before nightfall yesterday.”
“Madam Peachtree?” Trammel repeated. “Sounds like someone out of a children’s story.”
“The madam ain’t out of any kid’s book I’ve ever read, I can tell you that much for certain.” March laughed.
“You said you work for this Madam Peachtree?”
“Yes, sir.” Some of March’s pride seemed to return. “I do whatever her m’lady asks of me. Run errands. Fetch people. Deliver messages. Tasks of that nature.”
Trammel had never heard of—much less seen—Madam Peachtree, but he could only imagine the other tasks she gave this dopey kid to do.
Trammel decided that playing to his pride might give him a better picture of what he was up against in his new town. “Guess you’re her right-hand man.”
March tucked his filthy shirttails into his pants. “Well, I reckon you could say I’m right up there. Though Hastings is usually the man who takes care of the more brutal work, purely on account of him being bigger and a mite older than me. Not on account of any weakness or inability on my part.”
“Of course not,” Trammel said, playing along. “I can tell you’re a man to be reckoned with. But why didn’t this Madam Peachtree send Hastings to talk to the sheriff?”
Trammel enjoyed the look on the kid’s face. He really hadn’t thought of that until that moment.
The kid recovered quickly. “On account of this being a warning, I suppose. Her ladyship likes to give people a fair chance to make good on their debts. And, seeing as how Bonner was the law in town, she obviously decided on a more gentle approach.”
Or set you up to take a beating, you damned fool. He looked around for the keys and found them on a peg behind the propped-open door. He took them down and jangled them in front of the prisoner. The kid’s eyes widened like a dog gazing at a bone. “Now, you’re sure that’s all you’re in here for? Because if I find out you’re lying, I won’t be happy. And neither will you when I find you.”
March raised his right hand. “I swear it on my honor as a gentleman, sir.”
Trammel grinned as he found the right key and opened the iron door. The kid had some set of words at his disposal, a result, no doubt, of Madam Peachtree’s influence. He wondered if he’d fall in with Hagen as some kind of protégée. He certainly had the vocabulary for it.
March stepped out as the door swung open, but Trammel stopped him. “Pick up that bucket and empty it out back before you go, then bring it back here.”
The kid did as he was told, needing two hands to lug the heavy bucket. The kid turned right and walked down the hall toward a back door Trammel hadn’t noticed before. “You’ll have to use one of them keys to open it. I can dump it right outside where it’ll run downhill.”
Trammel found the right key and opened the back door. “Looks like you’re familiar with the jail.”
“Been here for more justifiable infractions,” March said as he heaved the contents of the bucket down a steep hill. “But this time was wrong. You’ve got my word on it, Sheriff.” He held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”
Trammel looked down at the filthy hand. “We’ll shake after you’ve taken a bath.”
“Agreed.” He went inside, placed the bucket back in the cell, and strode toward the front door.
Trammel called after him, “And don’t forget to tell Madam Peachtree the sheriff’s gone and she’ll have to find another way to settle her debt.”
March stopped in mid-stride and almost fell over. “Her ladyship won’t like that. She insists upon payment and in full.”
Trammel locked the back door. “I don’t give a damn what she likes. Tell her that’s the way it is. She’s not the first whore who had a client skip out on her and she sure won’t be the last.”
“Madam Peachtree is no whore, I assure you.”
The kid was beginning to get on his nerves. He tossed the iron keys on the desk and strode toward him. “Leave. Now.”
Young March scampered out the door like a deer and broke left as soon as he hit the boardwalk, scattering a couple of drunks in the process.
Trammel grinned. Young Sam March was the first person he’d met in Wyoming who hadn’t remarked on how big he was. Maybe that was a sign of something. Of what, he wasn’t certain.
CHAPTER 23
After stowing his coach gun and his Winchester Centennial in the rifle cabinet, Trammel locked up the jailhouse and climbed back atop his sorrel. He rode over to the livery he had noticed on the north end of town. It was in the same direction Sheriff Bonner had headed toward when he left the jail.
He ignored the strange looks he received from the townspeople as he rode by. Some of them tipped their hat to him, but he didn’t return the gesture. He figured there’d be time for proper introductions once he had his situation sorted out. He ne
eded to know Sheriff Bonner was gone for certain before he felt comfortable assuming any office, even if he had sworn an oath.
He glanced at the Clifford Hotel as he rode by. He couldn’t see inside on account of the front door being closed, but he could see why Mr. Hagen favored the place. It was the one solid building in town beside the jail. At three stories high, the redbrick building towered over Blackstone. Each floor had a balcony that wrapped around it, giving it more of a New Orleans feel than a western one. Its structure easily lent itself to an elegance he believed Mr. Hagen wanted his son to bring to the building. Buck Trammel had never acquired an eye for fancy things, but knew quality when he saw it. And he had no doubt that Adam Hagen could turn the stately hotel into a regal palace for the enjoyment of cattleman and cowboy alike.
He only hoped Adam wouldn’t allow his past as a drunk get in the way of his future as a hotel man.
When he got close to the livery, Trammel dismounted and walked his horse the rest of the way into the livery. A black man clanging away at an anvil set his tools aside and greeted him. “Can I do something for you, mister?”
“If you run this livery, you can. I’d like to put my horse up here for a while.”
“Name’s Josiah Smith, and I’m the liveryman and blacksmith in Blackstone. I’m not the only one of either, but I’m the best you’ll find between here and California.”
“And I’m Buck Trammel.” He admired the man’s confidence. “How much would you charge to take care of my animal here?”
Smith’s face brightened with recognition. “You’re the one whose animals Mr. Bookman brought in here a little while ago. You’re the new deputy.”
“Something like that,” was all Trammel was comfortable with saying at the moment.
“We charge by the day, the week, or the month.” Smith told him his rate, which Trammel found fair and agreed to. “Town pays for it all, even your personal animal, so it’s no cost to you.”
Then the blacksmith noticed the star on his chest. “That’s Sheriff Bonner’s star, ain’t it?”
“I suppose it was,” Trammel said. “Seems to have taken it off. Kind of left me the job when he let out of here a while back. You see him around that time? Maybe half an hour ago?”
“Sure did. Never saw him in a hurry like I did just then. Climbed on top of his horse and just rode out of town that way.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder, indicating south. “Don’t know if he was riding for Laramie or Mexico, but wherever it was, he sure wanted to get there in a hurry. Put the heels to that mount something awful. Poor thing was played out as it was. He’ll be lucky if she lasts until Laramie at that rate.”
So that settled it. Bonner was gone and he probably wasn’t coming back, especially since he was into Madam Peachtree for more than he could likely repay. That left Trammel holding the bag, or the badge, as it were.
Trammel handed the reins of the sorrel to Smith. “Take care of her for me if you can. She’s been a better horse to me than I deserve, considering I don’t know much about them.”
Smith stroked the sorrel’s neck and patted her gently on the side. “Been tending to horses my whole life, Sheriff Trammel, and it’s my experience that they know more about us than we know about them.”
Trammel thanked him and was about to be on his way, when another thought came to him. “Any idea where Sheriff Bonner lived? I didn’t see a bed in the jail.”
“That’s because he stayed at Mayor Welch’s hotel. The Oakwood Arms over on Bainbridge Avenue,” Smith told him. “I know what you’re thinking. The byways in this town barely qualify as streets, much less avenues, but the town elders have big dreams for this place. Maybe they’ll wake up one day and realize all they’ve got are streets, but until then, they’re avenues. Mighty prickly about them being called anything else, too.”
“So I’ve been told,” Trammel said. “Got a feeling you and I will be talking quite often. And soon.”
“Always love the company,” Smith said as he led the horse into the livery. “Stop by any time.”
Trammel stood outside the livery and got his bearings. To the right was the jailhouse. God knew that place needed tending to. But to his left was Bainbridge Avenue, and a battered hand-painted sign reading THE OAKWOOD ARMS swung in the wind. If what Bookman had told him was true, he’d be more likely to find the mayor there than at town hall. It might be a good idea to meet his new employer.
Or at least the man who thought he was his employer. Trammel imagined everyone in Blackstone ultimately worked for Mr. Hagen.
* * *
It took Trammel a bit of effort to push in the large door to the Oakwood Arms. He coughed as a thin cloud of dust rose up and choked him.
A tall, hatchet-faced man with a high, stiff collar and brown hair stood behind the check-in desk. He looked at Trammel over round wire glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, but we’ve no vacancies at the moment. We’re all booked up.”
Trammel had to put a shoulder into the door to get it to close. “Not looking for a room.”
One of the hotel man’s eyebrows rose. “Ah. I see. One of those, eh? Well, we’re not hiring at the moment, thank you.”
“Not looking for a job, either.” Trammel stepped closer to the desk. “Already have one. In fact, that’s why I’m here. You’re Mayor Welch, I take it?”
Welch readjusted his glasses and saw the brass star pinned on Trammel’s shirt. “What’s that doing there? Who are you? What have you done to Sheriff Bonner?”
He gave the mayor a quick rundown of how he’d come to Blackstone and the job offer Mr. Hagen had made him and how he’d agreed to be a deputy, not the sheriff.
When he’d first begun telling it, Trammel doubted the mayor would believe a word of it. He was prepared for him to fly around the place, demanding proof. He hoped to God that Bookman was still over at the Clifford Hotel to back his story.
That’s why he was surprised when the mayor simply said, “Adam’s back?”
“Rode in with me and Mr. Bookman. They’re over at the Clifford Hotel right now.”
“The Clifford!” Welch exclaimed. “Why, this is absurd. I practically grew up with Adam. Why didn’t he come stay here?”
He couldn’t believe the mayor cared more about Adam Hagen than he did the loss of his own sheriff. “Maybe on account of his father owning the Clifford. But you heard what I said about Sheriff Bonner leaving.”
Mayor Welch waved it off. “He’s no loss. His gambling habits were becoming too great a distraction anyway. Mr. Hagen and I spoke of his replacement several times over the past year. We believed his debts had put him under the thumb of that damnable Madam Peachtree.” His beady eyes narrowed. “Have you met her yet?”
“Can’t say as I’ve had the pleasure.”
“I’d call it more of a chore than a pleasure,” Welch spat. “A tedious woman of cheap sophistication, I assure you. All that paint and perfume serve to do is cover a rotten interior. I imagine his debt to her is a reason why he ran off.” The mayor smiled at him. “Which leaves her that much weaker and that much easier to get rid of.”
Trammel watched the nasty smile disappear. “Who are you anyway, Trammel? I mean, where are you from? What’s your background? You’ll need to be pretty rough if you’re going up against the likes of that woman and her man Hastings or that puppet March.”
Before Trammel could speak, Mayor Welch motioned for him to be quiet. “Enough talking, man. I have to see Adam Hagen and get to the bottom of what’s really going on here. This is all quite disturbing.”
He took a key from the rack behind him and tossed it to Trammel, who caught it in midair. “Room 210 in the back. Comes with the job. If it was good enough for your predecessor, I imagine it’ll be good enough for you.”
Trammel didn’t even have a chance to ask where the room was before Welch threw up the flap at the side of the desk and shrugged on his coat. “You have the desk, Mother. I have town business to attend to.”
Th
e new sheriff watched Welch open the front door and shut it behind him as easily as if it were a broom closet. The same door that had given Trammel so much trouble. “Now how the hell did he do that so easy?”
“Language, young man,” said a female voice. He spotted a round woman pattering her way toward the front desk from a back room. He imagined this must be the dreaded Mrs. Welch he’d heard so much about. He wondered if her reputation rivaled that of Madam Peachtree.
He was getting dizzy just trying to keep the names straight.
“I don’t care how big you are,” Mrs. Welch went on, “but we’re all insignificant in the eyes of the Lord, and I’ll not have cursing under my roof.” She flipped through the ledger with great importance. “And I’ll have you know you’re under my roof at this very moment. We have neither rooms to let nor jobs to offer, so state your business or be gone with you. This isn’t a public house. Heaven knows our poor township has plenty of those from which to choose.”
Trammel held up the key the mayor had tossed him. “Mind telling me where room two-ten is, ma’am?”
* * *
Room two-ten was about as sparse as Mr. Welch had said it would be. It was more of an addition to the side of the hotel than inside the building itself. Trammel decided the carpenter who’d built it must’ve been on the third day of a five-day drunk when he built the place. The wallpaper had been hung crooked, and the water stains behind it made it difficult to make out the pattern on the paper. A cold draft constantly blew through the room despite that it was almost springlike outside. The wooden bed was creaky, and the mattress bowed in the middle. If it had buckled under Bonner’s weight, it would be reduced to toothpicks under Trammel’s.
The furniture was all fly-specked and scarred and, just like the front door, warped to the point where they were impossible to open.
“This town sure is hard on furniture,” he murmured to himself as he tried in vain to work one of the dresser drawers open.
Giving up, he stepped back and wiped the sweat from his brow. Trammel couldn’t blame Bonner for taking off, considering the mountain of debt hanging over his head and a hovel like this being the only place he could hang his hat. Hell, he might be on the trail behind Bonner if he was forced to stay in a room like this.
North of Laramie Page 15
