She waved him off and rejoined the party. Trammel grinned as he stepped outside and into the chilly Wyoming night.
* * *
As he walked back to the jail, he realized this was the first time he was seeing the town of Blackstone at night. The previous night had been spent in the jail, trying to make sense of the ledger he’d found in Bonner’s place.
Many of the buildings along Main Street had lit torches that cast a flickering light onto the boardwalk. The side streets had lampposts where oil lamps burned, giving a steadier glow. Those streets were as quiet as Main Street was noisy. The saloon sounds were louder now; the tinny pianos more raucous, the bawdy songs they played drowned out by the drunks who sang along with them. The cackles of painted doves pierced the night air, carried on the wind by the gentle breeze drifting along the thoroughfare. Anxious horses tethered to hitching rails in front of the saloons shifted their weight in the deep mud of Main Street, snouts together as if sharing secrets about the men who rode them.
Trammel realized he didn’t know much about horses. He didn’t know much about anything in this part of the world. About how people lived. About what they wanted and how they went about getting it.
But he’d seen enough in his time as a cop in New York and as a Pinkerton to know people were pretty much the same everywhere. They always wanted more, be it for themselves or their family. They wanted better, even when what they had was good enough. The drunk wanted another bottle. The storekeeper wanted more business. The saloon owner wanted more customers. The rich wanted to get even richer. It had been the same among the wealthy bankers in Manhattan, the railroaders in Chicago, and the people he’d seen in Wichita. He imagined the town of Blackstone was no different. The only difference was him, because he didn’t know this place or how it worked. But the people here didn’t know him, either. He hoped that would make all the difference. He hoped he learned about them fast enough before his ignorance got him killed.
He knocked five times on the jailhouse door and called out, “It’s me, Hawkeye. Open the door.”
He feared the boy may have fallen asleep out of boredom and was relieved when he opened the door immediately. He’d found the coach gun in the cabinet and had the sense to hold it as he opened the door. “Didn’t expect to have you back so soon, Sheriff.”
Trammel shut the door behind him. “Wanted to check on how you’re doing. How are the prisoners?”
“Madam Peachtree is as pleasant as ever,” Hawkeye told him. “She cursed at me in several languages when I gave her the food they sent over from the Clifford. Thought she might throw it at me, but she didn’t. Guess I’d call that a victory.”
Trammel quietly cursed himself for not thinking of feeding the prisoners. He’d never been a jailer before and hadn’t thought about providing meals for his captives. He figured Hagen must’ve done that. Or maybe the Clifford just automatically sent over meals when they heard someone was locked up. He saw a wicker basket on the floor next to the desk. “You get something to eat, too?”
“Yes, sir. Hope you don’t mind, seein’ as how there was an extra plate and all. March ate up his food fast, but the fella with the busted arm’s been asleep since you locked him in there. Must’ve passed out from the pain.”
Trammel would check on them in a minute. “You’re going to make a fine deputy yet, Hawkeye. I’ll go back and see her now. You go take a walk. See how things are in town.”
His eyes lit up. “You mean a patrol?”
The kid’s enthusiasm was contagious. “Of course.” He noticed the tin badge on his vest. He must’ve found it in the desk. “You’re the deputy, aren’t you? Deputies go on patrol.” He pointed at the double-barreled shotgun he was holding. “Take the Grainger with you. Make sure they see who’s boss around here. But no drinking, understand? You’re working.”
The kid pulled his misshapen hat down from the peg and set it on his head at as sharp an angle as the hat would allow. “I’ll report back in half an hour. You can count on me, Sheriff.”
Hawkeye was almost out the door before he doubled back and took the pistol Trammel had given him from the top drawer of the desk. He tucked it in his belt behind his buckle and stood so Trammel could inspect him. “How do I look?”
Trammel thought he looked like a boy playing sheriff, but his confidence made up for it. He took the pistol from the buckle and moved it to his right side. “Like a man Wild Bill Hickok himself would cross the street to avoid. See you in half an hour.”
Trammel allowed himself a smile after Hawkeye strode out and shut the door behind him. The kid would need some work, which would take time, but his enthusiasm would make up for his lack of experience for now. He wasn’t all that different from other men he’d known; men who would surprise you if you just gave them half a chance. He intended on giving the young Mr. Hauk all the chances he could handle.
Trammel opened the door to the cells and took stock of his prisoners. The man with the busted arm was still asleep, just as Hawkeye had reported. Hawkeye must’ve found another blanket somewhere.
March was on the floor, whispering at the blanket like a man in a confessional. He barely looked up when Trammel’s shadow fell across him.
The sheriff found Madam Pinochet on the corner of her cot, curled up and glaring at him like a rattler. The plate of food was on the floor and empty, save for the chicken bones.
“Evening,” Trammel said. “I take it you’re comfortable.”
“I had to eat chicken,” she spat. “With my hands, like one of those damnable savages on the plains. Not to mention that I’ve had to defile myself by using that bucket over there.” She aimed a bony thumb at the blanket. “And having to listen to this imbecile babble all night hasn’t made me feel any better.”
Trammel glanced at the bucket and saw it was half full. “March being your bunkmate is your doing. As for the bucket, you’ll have the chance to empty it out tomorrow morning.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You know there’s a privy in the back.”
“Which you won’t be allowed to use,” Trammel said. “I don’t cotton to people trying to kill me.”
“That wasn’t me.” She hugged herself tighter. “They were allies, but when I have it done, it’ll be done proper. There’ll be a jingling of keys and the creak of a cell door and the sound of me spitting on your corpse left to rot in the mud out on Main Street.”
“You’ve got a way with words,” Trammel said. “Should’ve been a writer or something with a gift like that. Maybe you’ll have enough time to jot down your memoirs before you swing in Laramie.”
“I won’t make it to Laramie except in a coach,” she said. “And you’ll never see Laramie again.”
Trammel was in no mood to debate her. “I hope you ate well, because that’s the last bit of food you’ll get while you’re here. And I’ll expect that spoon you’re sharpening to be on the plate the next time I come in here. If not, things start getting worse for you.”
Trammel turned to leave the cells. “They couldn’t get any worse.”
“Don’t bet on it.” He shut the door and locked it.
CHAPTER 33
The next morning, Judge Andrew Burlington deftly produced a flask and poured its brown contents into the coffee Hawkeye had given him.
“Having a public hearing in a jailhouse is most irregular, sir,” Judge Burlington said. “Most irregular indeed. But given that you are new to these parts, and have had this position foisted upon you due in part to the same tragic circumstances that have brought us here today, I’ll overlook it.”
Trammel hoped whatever the judge had poured into his coffee would steady him down. He was shaking like a man riding in a buggy over cobblestoned streets. “Sorry about breaking with tradition, your honor, but given the attempts on my life by Madam Peach—, I mean, Mrs. Pinochet and her allies, I didn’t want to risk taking her to the court in Town Hall.”
“Yes, of course,” Burlington said as he brought the cup to his lips. How he avoided spillin
g the coffee on his lap amazed Trammel. “The public has been notified as to the location and nature of these proceedings?”
“Deputy Hauk posted notices all around town.” Trammel noticed how Hawkeye stood a little straighter at the use of his title. “Anyone who wants to stop by can do so, as long as they check their guns outside.” He nodded at Hawkeye, who moved outside. The Grainger was at his side. “The deputy will see to it.”
“Most irregular indeed,” Burlington grunted as he took a pen from his bag and began writing. His hand was steadier by then, and he wrote in a surprisingly elegant hand for a man suffering the effects of alcohol. He was just as Mrs. Robertson had described, a round man whose once-imposing stature had been eroded by years looking at world through the bottom of a glass of whiskey. He had a thick shock of white hair worthy of a governor, but the florid nose of a town drunk, burst blood vessels and all.
As long as he’s sober enough to write a legal order for the court in Laramie, Trammel thought, I’ll take what I can get.
Without looking up from his paper, Judge Burlington asked, “What are the charges made against the prisoners?”
“For Madam Pinochet,” Trammel began, “attempted murder against a peace officer and conspiracy to commit murder of a peace officer, one Sheriff William Bonner. The other two, one Mr. March and another assailant who won’t give me his name, both threatened my life and assaulted me while on duty.”
“And I take it you’re the peace officer this nest of scoundrels has been trying to kill?” the judge asked.
“That is correct, your honor.”
“And were there any fatalities incurred during the arrest of Madam Pinochet or any of her cohorts in the back?”
“Two of them are currently in Dr. Downs’s barn awaiting burial,” Trammel said. “Since no one claimed them, they’ll be buried at the town’s expense as soon as we’re done here.”
“Money well spent, if you ask me.” Burlington stopped writing and looked at the sheriff for the first time since entering the jail. “Am I correct in assuming you’re responsible for their demise?”
“You are, your honor.”
The judge stopped writing and looked at Trammel. “How long have you been in town, boy?”
“The name’s Trammel, your honor. You can call me Trammel or Buck or Sheriff or anything else you’d like, but I haven’t been anyone’s boy for a hell of a long time.”
Burlington sat back in Trammel’s chair. “No, I suppose you haven’t. You’re a big man, aren’t you?”
Another one. “Glad you noticed, sir.”
“Impudence,” the judge noted. “I like that. A healthy amount of it is good in a lawman. Can help keep him alive. Too much of it can have the opposite effect. I suppose that’s why Bonner is dead. Are you a man of the law, Sheriff Trammel, or just a roughneck passing through?”
“I took on the duty and I intend on keeping it for as long as the town wants me.” He realized then that he wasn’t sure if he had to stand for election or if Mr. Hagen’s desire was enough to keep him in office. “I admit I don’t know how that part works.”
Burlington smiled and resumed writing. “If King Charles wants you to stay, you’ll stay. Blackstone isn’t mature enough to run without his say-so, and that goes for the judges, too. But I know the man’s mind, which is an honor few people enjoy. I’ve been the man’s lawyer for forty years. Do what he wants most of the time and you’ll do fine. He doesn’t ask much and he doesn’t ask often, so you’ll find it an easy burden.”
He found Burlington quite lucid for a man who was supposed to be a drunk. “I’ll keep that in mind. I take it you’re the only judge around here?”
“I’m all the judge this town needs,” Burlington said, “though there are two the next county over should conflicts arise.” He tapped the flask in the left side of his jacket. “Don’t let that fool you. I know what I’m doing where the law’s concerned. My order will stand in Laramie or any other court anywhere, I promise you. Now, given the dangerous nature of the prisoners in your care, I’ll take your testimony against her now and read it to her when the proceedings begin. I’d advise you have your deputy guard her while you keep an eye on the door. Madam Peachtree has a great many friends in town and I wouldn’t put it past them to try to free her while she’s out of her cell.”
Trammel took the oath and swore out the complaint against her, detailing everything that had happened at The Lion’s Den as far as the madam and the two other assailants were concerned. When he was done, the judge turned the paper toward Trammel and held the pen out to him. “Sign or make your mark after you’ve read it.”
Trammel saw all the details were there and signed it. “What happens now?”
“Now the formal inquest begins. You can bring the prisoners out here one at a time, starting with Madam Pinochet. I suggest you keep good hold of her, son. She’s a feisty one and, I’m ashamed to say, has firsthand knowledge of some of my more lurid vices. I’d like anything that old witch says kept off the record and between us.”
Trammel laughed. He’d never met a judge like this. “Duly noted, sir.”
“Good. After she hears your testimony, I record her response and her testimony. Unless she makes some kind of great revelation, I’ll issue a writ authorizing you to transport her down to Laramie within the next forty-eight hours. It’s less than a day’s ride from here, but I’d advise you to be careful on the trail. She’s got a lot of friends in the area who’d like to free her. You’re obviously a man who can take care of himself, but a cautious man is a wise man. Once she’s in the county jail, the judge will notify you when to come back for the trial. Now, bring out the prisoner and we’ll start the public portion of the proceedings.”
Trammel went back to the cells and found the prisoner with the busted arm curled up in the corner of his bunk, cradling his arm. Emily had stopped by the night before and judged it to be sprained, but certainly not broken.
March was lying on the floor next to the blanket between his cell and the madam’s.
Pinochet was in the same position she had been in the night before. Balled up and glaring.
“Get up. Your arraignment is about to start.”
“I refuse to attend.”
“It’s got to be public and you’ve got to be there for it. Get up and come out quietly or I’m going to come in and get you. And you’ll drop that spoon before you do.”
She sprang off the cot with surprising quickness. Her right hand shot through the bars. The metal spoon had been sharpened to a dagger aimed straight for his gut.
Trammel easily sidestepped it and grabbed her wrist, squeezing it until the spoon fell to the floor. “Help!” she screamed. “Help, judge! He’s beating me.”
Keeping hold of her arm with his left hand, Trammel unlocked the cell door and pulled her along as he opened it. She brought her left hand up to claw his face, but he blocked that, too. She fought him as he pulled her arms behind her and secured the shackles to her hands. He picked up the sharpened spoon and pulled her out of the cell backward by the chain between her hands.
March banged on the cell bars as he dragged his boss outside to face the judge. The injured man just watched them pass with hollow eyes.
* * *
Trammel sat her in the chair opposite the judge and tossed the spoon on his desk. “You can add another account of assault to the sheet.”
“We’ve got quite enough already.”
Madam Pinochet wasted no time pleading her case. “He’s been beating me, your honor. Ever since he attacked me and my friends in the saloon, it has been one vile attack after another. He—”
“Ah, so now it’s ‘your honor’, is it?” Burlington said. “Not ‘that old rummy’ or ‘that useless old drunk’ or any of the other things you’ve called me over the years?”
The prisoner demurred. “Your honor, I’m a businesswoman and a hardworking one at that. Surely you won’t hold things said to you in the past against me now, especially when I’m the one w
ho is the victim here.”
Burlington picked up the sharpened spoon Trammel had tossed on the desk. “Yes. Quite a victim.” He looked at Trammel. “Might as well open it up to the public, Sheriff. And when you do, bring your rifle with you while you keep a sharp eye on the street. I’ve got your written testimony here, but if something happens to you before her court date, it’ll be tougher to get a conviction.”
Trammel took his Winchester ’76 from the rifle rack and went outside. Hawkeye was standing to the side of the door, the Grainger on his hip. “Keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t pull anything on the judge. She just tried to stab me with that spoon you gave her last night with her dinner.”
“With a spoon?” Hawkeye repeated. “Damn, Sheriff. I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize. Just get inside and keep an eye on her. I’ll keep watch from out here.”
Hawkeye went inside and Trammel eyed the street. It was Monday morning, but the streets were Sunday quiet. All the shops were open, but foot traffic on the boardwalks was light. The air was cool and quiet, but heavy with something the easterner couldn’t quite describe. Tension, maybe, or something worse.
Judge Burlington called the proceedings to order and hollered out to Trammel, “Are there any witnesses who wish to come forth, Sheriff Trammel?”
“No, your honor. No one showed up.”
“More’s the pity for you, Mrs. Pinochet, as there is no one to testify to whatever claims you make today.”
Her icy laughter sent a shiver down Trammel’s spine. “My witnesses will speak for me when and where it counts most, you drunken sot.”
Burlington began the formal reading of the charges against her, allowing Trammel to focus on Main Street. He heard a few birds chirping. A horse tethered to a hitching rail across the street fussed. Its ears perked up as it pulled against its reins before settling down again. Trammel didn’t know much about horses, but knew they could sense things people didn’t.
North of Laramie Page 23
