He tucked the knife in the back of his britches. “Any idea where this Lion’s Den is?”
“The people I saw reading the note this morning tell me it’s right here on Main Street toward the other end of town. But don’t worry. We’ll find it together.”
Trammel noticed the gambler had changed clothes again. He was dressed in all black and sported a new Colt on his hip.
“Not we, Adam. Me. You’re not the sheriff around here. I am. This is my fight, not yours.” He pointed at the Clifford Hotel. “Now, get back in there and set aside a nice room for me. Tell them to draw me a bath, good and hot. I’m looking forward to a good soak when I get back from the Den.”
Trammel began walking toward the saloon and heard Hagen call after him. “What if there’s trouble?”
The new sheriff of Blackstone kept walking. “Then I’ll handle it.”
* * *
He ignored the looks he drew from the drunks loitering on the boardwalk between the saloons. They either ducked back inside whatever watering hole they’d crawled out of or stepped aside. He didn’t pay much attention to what they said to each other as he passed, either, since he knew it was pretty much the same as everywhere else. “He’s a big one, ain’t he?” was the general theme of what little the sheriff overheard.
Trammel drew his Colt when he saw the faded sign with THE LION’S DEN painted across it. The doors were of thick ornate wood, save for the stained glass in the middle of each door.
Trammel tried the door, but it was locked. A male voice called out from inside. “Can’t you see we’re closed? Come back later.”
Trammel reared back and kicked the door in, sending it crashing open. He raised his Colt as he stepped inside.
At the periphery of his vision, Trammel saw gamblers look up at him from their cards. A faro dealer ducked beneath his table while players fought each other for the unattended money. Some sporting ladies screamed and moved away from the big man as he entered the saloon.
But it was the man in the lookout chair who had commanded all of Trammel’s attention. The same man who was pointing a double-barreled shotgun at him.
“I told you we was closed, mister,” the shotgun man yelled. “Now set the iron on the floor and back up out of here so we don’t have any more trouble. We’ll talk about your payin’ for the door at another time.”
Trammel didn’t move and he didn’t lower his Colt, either. “Either you put down that shotgun or I blast you out of that chair.”
The sheriff began to notice the barrels of the shotgun begin to waver. “O-o-only guests of Madam Peachtree are allowed to be in here right now.”
Trammel held up the balled note in his left hand. “Got my invitation right here.”
The barman spoke up. “Put down the shotgun, Conroy. This here’s the sheriff her ladyship sent for. Sheriff Tanner, isn’t it?”
He kept his Colt on the lookout man. “Name’s Trammel.”
“I stand corrected. Damn it, Conroy. I told you to lower that damned thing. This ain’t Texas, you know. You can’t go pointing guns at officers of the law. Ease down them hammers and put it away. Hell, I’ve got ten bucks it ain’t loaded anyway.”
Conroy lowered the shotgun as he turned to argue his point. “Well, it would be loaded if you cheap mothers would buy—”
While Conroy was distracted, Trammel reached up and knocked the shotgun away from him with his free hand, then pulled him out of the lookout chair. Conroy landed on an empty card table, breaking it easily.
Trammel stepped on the back of the man’s neck as he tried to get to his feet. He aimed the Colt down at his head. “The next time you aim a gun at me, you’d better squeeze the trigger.”
“Enough!” cried out a female voice from the darkness. “You’ve made your point, Sheriff. No sense in killing a man over nothing. Might as well come over here so we can talk civil like.”
Trammel tucked the Colt back in the holster under his arm and slowly approached the bar. It was dark in that part of the gambling hall, probably by design. In his experience, people often preferred to tend to their vices under the cover of darkness.
The bearded man behind the bar greeted him with a big smile. “I can see you’re going to fit right in here, Sheriff.” He was much bigger than Trammel had thought at first. In fact, he was almost the same size as Trammel.
Almost.
The barman held out his hand. “Name’s Hastings. Johnny Hastings. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sheriff Trammel.”
Trammel pulled the knife from the back of his britches and brought it within half an inch of Elwood’s throat. The barman didn’t flinch.
“You stick this in my door this morning?”
“He did,” said the lady in the shadows. “On my orders. I wrote the note and I sent it. Looks like it worked. It got you here, didn’t it?”
“Yeah, it did.”
Trammel withdrew the blade, flipped the knife, and drove it deep into the bar.
Hastings grinned. “Pretty strong for a lawman.”
“I’m new to it. Maybe in a little while, I’ll be just as soft as Bonner was. Might even get so bad, I’ll be worse off than you.”
For a split second, Trammel thought Hastings might try to hit him. He hoped he would. He judged the big man to be about five years older and just a bit heavier. All of it had been muscle at one point, but not anymore. Life in a saloon tended to ruin a man, no matter what side of the bar he stood on.
“I sent the invitation,” the lady said, “so you should be talking to me, not my men.”
“Fine.” Trammel began walking toward the sound of her voice, but stopped when he heard a metallic sound. It could’ve been the closing of a coal-oven door or a metal latch on a jewelry box. It also could’ve been the click of a derringer being cocked and ready to fire.
He’d been shot by derringers before and, other than leaving scars the ladies found interesting, he hadn’t suffered much for it. But the other times he’d been shot had always been in the middle of some kind of fight where chaos made the shots go wide. This time, the lady in the darkness had the drop on him. And even a derringer could be fatal if he took a bullet to the belly.
“Now that I’ve got the man’s attention,” the lady said, “give the man a whiskey, Hastings.”
“I came here for answers,” Trammel said, “not your whiskey. I take it you’re Madam Peachtree.”
The voice laughed a sharp laugh. She had an accent, too, though he couldn’t quite place it. He remembered the doctor had mentioned she was from France, and he imagined that was the accent he heard.
“The name is Pinochet, Sheriff Trammel,” she told him from the darkness, “but my customers have come to call me Madam Peachtree. It’s quaint, so I’ve allowed them such familiarity. It’s good for business.”
“You’ll find sticking notes to my door at knife-point is bad for business,” Trammel said. “Don’t do that again. And don’t go handing me bills that Bonner ran up.” He decided to try something to see if it worked. “If Bonner owes you money, go collect it from him, not me. The debt’s not mine, and I’m not paying it.”
That laugh again. “Oh, Sheriff Trammel. I know you’re new around here, but even you must see the futility in trying to get money from a dead man.”
Trammel grinned into the darkness. “How did you know he was dead?”
“Elmer told us,” came the response too quickly. “Right after he brought you to the doctor, he came galloping over here telling us all about it. He’s still here, you know. In the back parlor. You can go back and see him if you wish, though I doubt he’ll be able to tell you much now. He’s had a taste of the dragon’s breath, courtesy of my exotic friends from the Orient. I can send someone to come get you later when he’s more himself.”
“And what if I said I think you knew Bonner was dead long before Elmer ever came in here.”
He could hear the shrug in her voice even though he couldn’t see her. “Then I supposed I’d have to ask you to prove it,
which we both know you couldn’t. You’d be left with a lot of foolish supposition, Sheriff, and a man in your position can’t afford to look foolish. Well, any more foolish than you already do, anyway. I’m afraid my invitation has already caused quite a stir among the locals. The people of Blackstone are already questioning how you got the job and where you came from.”
“That’s funny. The doc already knew all about me thanks to Hagen. I’d wager the people know, too. That means they’re talking about your note and how I’m going to respond.”
“A smart man would respond the way Bonner did,” the lady told him. “Take his cut and look the other way. You can be as upstanding and righteous as you want in any other place in town, but you’ll turn a blind eye toward the doings of The Lion’s Den and whatever happens in it.”
Trammel didn’t like people thinking he could be bought, but he kept his temper at bay. “I don’t like negotiating with someone I can’t see.”
He almost flinched when the woman leaned forward just enough to show half her face. She was older than she sounded, and her face was covered by a thin black veil. But he saw enough to understand why she wore it. The left side was horribly scarred, probably from a fire.
“Darkness can be a lady’s best asset, Sheriff Trammel. For a lawman like yourself, common sense is the answer. Learning who to buck and who to work with. Who to run in to jail and who to let go. Pick your battles, Trammel, as long as they’re not with me.”
“What do I get?”
“Five percent of the house take each month. Books are open to you whenever you want to see them so you know we’re on the level. You stay away until you’re sent for and do as you’re told, you might get a little extra come the Lord’s birthday. Five percent, Trammel, for doing absolutely nothing.”
Trammel played along. “Sounds like a nice deal. How’d Bonner screw it up?”
“Got stupid,” she told him. “Got lazy, which made him greedy, which got him dead. But you’re different. You’re much smarter than that.” She looked him up and down and smiled. “I can tell that just by looking at you.”
Trammel folded his arms across his chest. “And if I say no?”
He noticed the glint of a derringer at the edge of the shadow. “A bullet in the belly’s a hell of a lot cheaper for me. And a hell of a price for you to pay.”
Trammel could sense Hastings tense behind him, though he knew the barman hadn’t moved.
The sheriff looked around The Lion’s Den while he made a show of considering her offer. It may have been a nice place once, but hadn’t been for a long time. Cracks spiderwebbed along the plaster ceiling, chipping in many places. The paintings that hung on the walls were old and stained by years of heavy cigar and cigarette smoke. The felt on the gambling tables was worn from use and bore generations of stains from countless spilled drinks. The mirror behind the bar looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the place was new. Near the door, Conroy had managed to crawl away from the ruined table, but still hadn’t figured out how to get to his feet. And none of the gamblers saw fit to break from their respective games long enough to help him.
Madam Peachtree seemed tired of waiting. “It shouldn’t be this hard of a decision, Sheriff. A man like you should know a good thing when he sees it. God knows you’ve been given worse choices. What’s to think over?”
“I’m thinking of a lot of things,” Trammel said. “I’m thinking of why Charles Hagen asked me to become a deputy to a man with one foot out the door. He’s not the type who misses things, so I think he knew Bonner was in trouble. I think he knew he’d run the second he had the chance, and I think he knew you’d kill him. I think he knew I’d wind up as sheriff, which would put me against you.”
“Saint Charles Hagen,” she laughed. “The Savior of Blackstone. Is that it?”
“Never met a wealthy man who was a saint. Never met a wealthy man who was stupid, either. At least, not when they made their fortune themselves. I think he wanted this confrontation to happen just the way it’s happening now. And I think I’m going to walk out that door before we both do something we’re all going to regret.”
She stood up and disappeared back into the shadows. Only the derringer remained visible, and that was aimed at his belly. “You’re not going anywhere until we have a deal.”
“Sure I am, and you’re going to let me because it’s only you against me and, the gambling woman you are, you know those are lousy odds.”
Hastings laughed from the other side of the bar. “You’re forgetting about me, Trammel.”
But Hastings wasn’t laughing when he heard Trammel thumb back the hammer of the Peacemaker in his shoulder holster. “You’re covered, stupid. One move and I shoot you through my holster.”
Hastings spread out his hands on the bar.
The derringer in the madam’s hand seemed to float higher in the darkness, though he knew it was her gloved hand that held it. “You’re covered, too, Sheriff.”
“By a toy gun,” Trammel said. “Unless you’re handy with that thing, you won’t kill me. Not before I take down Hastings back there. And you’re going to have to kill me, lady, because if you shoot, I’m shooting back.”
Things grew very still in that part of The Lion’s Den saloon. Time felt like it slowed down for Trammel as he became aware of every sound and everyone around him.
The scrape of cards across old felt seemed louder. The setting of a glass of whiskey on a table sounded like a judge’s gavel. The scrape of a chair leg on wood sounded like a great tree being felled.
The snap of a floorboard meant Hastings was moving.
Trammel squeezed the trigger and bucked forward as the bullet blew through the bottom of his holster. Another gunshot rang out as he pulled the Peacemaker free. He moved to the side as he saw the smoking derringer move with him and fire again.
Two shots. Empty.
Trammel lashed out at the gun with the barrel of his Peacemaker. Madam Pinochet cried out as the tiny weapon skittered to the floor. The sheriff reached into the darkness, grabbed the first hint of cloth he felt, and pulled her toward him. He’d grabbed her by the arm, but she was too crazed with anger to notice. “Jim!” she cried out. “Oh, no. Jim!”
Trammel looked and saw Jim Hastings had fallen dead behind the bar, a neat hole just above his left eye. The mirror behind him was now cracked and splattered with gore.
Trammel realized he had her by the arm and steered her toward the front door as the gamblers backed away from him, hands up and away from whatever weapons they might have.
Trammel swept the room with his smoking Peacemaker. “Anybody else feeling stupid today?”
Conroy screamed as he got to his feet. This time, he wasn’t holding an empty double-barreled shotgun. He was holding a Winchester.
Trammel pushed Madam Pinochet out of the way as he fired twice at Conroy. Both bullets caught him in the chest; bouncing him off the wall before he fell face-first to the floor. As dead now as he’d ever been alive.
Trammel swept the gambling hall again. “Anyone else? That it?”
As none of the men sought to challenge him, they cleared a wide path for the large sheriff and his weeping prisoner as he pulled her out of the saloon and took her to jail.
CHAPTER 28
Trammel didn’t expect such a meek-looking man like Mayor Welch to have such a loud voice. “You’ve been in your position for less than a day and we already have three dead bodies on our hands and one of the town’s most prosperous business leaders in prison. A harmless woman, no less.”
Trammel decided to allow the mayor to yell at him. He had been elected to office and Trammel had not. He had a right to holler if he was of a mind to. But he wasn’t entitled to make accusations.
He opened the top drawer of his new desk and pointed down at the derringer he’d taken from the lady. “She had that aimed at my belly the whole time. Took two shots at me, too.” He slammed the drawer shut. “I’m charging her with attempted murder of a peace officer. I’m also g
oing to charge her with obstructing justice, threatening the life of a town official, and disturbing the peace. If I can, I plan on charging her with Sheriff Bonner’s murder, too, but that’s up to a judge to decide.”
“Bonner’s murder?” Welch ran a hand through his thinning brown hair. “How in the world do you expect to prove that?”
“She had it done,” Trammel said, “probably Hastings or Conroy did it. I don’t think that kid who works for her, March, I think his name is, could’ve done it without fouling it up. But the other two could’ve done it. My money’s on Hastings. He seemed a capable man.”
“Until you shot him,” Welch said. “Through the head.”
Trammel nodded toward the sawed-off shotgun he had placed in the corner of his office. “On account of him reaching for that under the bar.”
“You saw him do it? Because the people I’ve talked to in the saloon claim you shot him blind.”
Trammel grinned. “You running investigations now, Mr. Mayor? I thought that was my job.”
“I can’t help if the people decide to speak to me about a traumatic event they witnessed,” Welch countered. “I’m their mayor after all. You’re just a . . . a—”
Trammel held up a finger. “Careful.”
“An accidental officeholder,” Welch said, finally finding the words. “The people elected Bonner as sheriff. Overwhelmingly, too.”
“So have another election and see who runs against me. Until then, I’m the law in Blackstone since Bonner ran out and consequently died in the process.”
Mayor Welch straightened his collar at the mention of the town’s patron, Mr. Charles Hagen. “Normally, I can follow Mr. Hagen’s thinking on such matters. His reasoning in this instance fails me. Mr. Charles Hagen, that is.”
Trammel wasn’t sure about it himself, but the mayor wasn’t a man you showed doubt to. He was the kind who used a man’s indecision as a wedge. Trammel already had enough to worry about without giving a parasite like Welch any more leverage than he already had. “As mayor, I’m sure you know if Blackstone’s got a law on the books about legal businesses having to be open during certain hours of the day.”
North of Laramie Page 18
