It was also one of the few horses in town. Most of the rails were empty along the thoroughfare. Even the saloons were quiet. He’d only been in Blackstone a few days, but even he knew this wasn’t normal.
Something was off.
He glanced inside and beckoned Hawkeye to come to the door. “Lock it and don’t let anyone else in unless you hear me tell you to open it.”
The new deputy did what he was told. Trammel moved away from the door and began walking to his right.
Trammel heard the riders before he saw them. He braced himself just as a line of five riders, kerchiefs over their faces, came barreling around the corner from Cedar Avenue heading straight for him.
The lead rider aimed a pistol as Trammel brought the Winchester to his shoulder and fired. The shot caught the leader high in the chest, causing him to jerk back on the reins as he fell and making his horse rear up.
The four riders behind him were temporarily blocked on Cedar Avenue by the panicked horse and had to move around it. A second rider struggled to bring his own horse under control as Trammel racked another round, aimed, and fired, striking the man in the side. The impact sent horse and rider into a spin as the remaining three struggled to get clear of the snarl of man and beast.
Trammel racked and fired again into the crowd of attackers, but wasn’t sure he’d hit. Another shot rang out from the group, followed by a bullet slamming into the jailhouse wall well to the left of Trammel.
The sheriff rushed his next shot as two mounts charged toward him. His first shot hit the horse instead of the rider, sending both crashing to the thoroughfare.
Another shot rang out and splintered the post next to Trammel’s head. The sheriff levered in another round as he took a knee and drew a bead on a fourth gunman who had held his mount steady enough to aim a rifle at him.
Trammel steadied his aim and shot the man in the belly. The impact caused him to lurch forward and drop his rifle, but stay mounted.
The final rider broke free from the chaos and cut loose with a rebel yell as he charged him full on with two pistols blazing. Round after round peppered the boardwalk and the wall around Trammel, but none came close to the mark.
Trammel dropped to a knee as he levered another round and took aim as a bullet smacked into the wall just above his head. The sheriff fired, his shot creasing the charging horse’s mane before striking the rider in the head.
Trammel dove out of the way as the dead man fell from the saddle and the terrified horse crashed into the boardwalk, taking out the post and bringing the roof down upon it.
Though he was clear of the wreckage, Trammel knew he still wasn’t out of danger. He had lost track of the men he had killed or wounded in the chaos and knew one might still be alive. He kept his Winchester ready as he belly-crawled to the cover of a horse trough in front of the building next door.
Over the sounds of the dying animal’s screams from beneath the wreckage, Trammel heard a pistol shot ring out from across the street. He stole a quick glance around the trough.
Two men were dead in the street.
One rider was pinned beneath the dead horse that had rolled on him as it fell. The amount of blood on his face told Trammel he was busted up inside and already done for.
The gut-shot rider was already past the livery and on his way out of town. He was already dead from the belly wound. He just didn’t know it yet.
But the lead rider—the man Trammel had shot first—was nowhere in sight.
Another pistol shot punched through the water trough, sending a steady stream of water against Trammel’s pants leg. There was no natural cover on that side of Main Street, so he knew there was only one place the wounded man could be firing from.
Behind the dead horse.
Trammel levered another round into the chamber as he crawled around the other end of the trough. The fallen horse and pinned rider were in the middle of the thoroughfare; the rider’s screams matching those of the dying horse beneath the collapsed roof. “Damn it, Buck. Help me! I’m all busted up!”
“Shut your fool mouth!” the last gunman yelled.
Trammel aimed at the sound of the voice and waited.
The man’s head popped up from behind the horse for a split second before disappearing again. When he saw the man toss away his hat, he knew the shooting was about to begin again.
The man rolled to his right, just past the rump of the horse, and fired at Trammel left-handed.
Exactly where Trammel was aiming.
Trammel fired at the same time. His round slammed into the horse, sending up a cloud of blood and bone into the man’s eyes. The blinded gunman cried out as he dropped back.
Trammel scrambled to his feet as he closed the distance between himself and his assailant. He found the wounded man trying to rub the gore from his face with his sleeve.
By the time he cleared his eyes, he found Sheriff Trammel standing over him, the Winchester pointed straight at his head.
The man blinked hard. The pistol in his left hand twitched.
Trammel took a step closer. “Don’t.”
But the man jerked up the pistol and Trammel fired.
When the last echo of the shot died away, the sheriff kicked the gun loose from the dead man’s hand.
“Please,” called out the rider pinned beneath the dead horse. “Please help me.”
Trammel spun around, ready to fire, when he saw movement at the corner. He lowered his rifle when he saw it was Emily at the corner, a shotgun at her side. “Buck!”
“Get back inside!” he yelled at her. “It might not be over yet.”
He watched her turn and rush back toward her place.
He ignored the dead man as he walked back across the street to the screaming horse. The animal was trapped beneath a mess of split planks and roofing on all sides. It had been bucking since it had fallen, only pinning itself deeper in the wreckage.
The sheriff switched the Winchester to his left hand, drew his Peacemaker, and put the poor animal out of its misery with a single shot.
With the shooting over, the streets of Blackstone quickly filled with people; many of them were armed with rifles or pistols, brave now that everything was over.
Trammel walked back to the pinned man, who held out both hands to him. “Please, mister. I’m out of it. Don’t kill me.” He coughed a red mist of blood. The man was already dead. His body just didn’t know it yet. “Please help me. I’m all busted up inside.”
Trammel kept the Peacemaker against his leg. “Who sent you?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as you help me. Please. I need a doctor.”
The man screamed when Trammel put a boot on the dead horse atop the man. “One more time. Who sent you?”
“L-Lucien,” the man sputtered as a trickle of blood spilled from the side of his mouth. “Lucien Clay out of Laramie, damn you.”
The name meant nothing to Trammel. “Why?”
“To try to b-bust out Mrs. Peachtree. Now, damn it, you’ve got to help me!”
Trammel cocked the Peacemaker and aimed it down at the dying man. Every fiber in his being wanted him to squeeze the trigger. For trying to kill him. For this man and his friends thinking they could ride into town and do whatever they damned well pleased. For putting the lives of people at risk. His people. His town. God knew he’d killed men for far less.
But when he felt the dozens of eyes upon him, he looked around and saw all of the townspeople looking at him. His people, or as close to his as any people had ever been. He had come west to start a new life, to lose himself in the chaos of the frontier, but had found himself here instead. With a gun on his hip and a star once more on his chest. A star that didn’t just mean order, but law. He’d had the luxury of vengeance before, but things were different now.
He thumbed the hammer of his Colt down and slid the pistol back into its holster and walked back toward the jail. “Somebody hitch up a team and clear this mess off the road. Bring the bodies over to Doc Downs’s office.” He
nodded down to the man at his feet. “This one’ll die as soon as you move the horse off him, so throw him on the pile, too.”
The townspeople began to go about doing the task Trammel had given them. With the front of the jail blocked by the collapsed roof, he knew he’d have to go around the back way to get inside. He hoped Hawkeye hadn’t panicked and blown Mrs. Pinochet’s head off, though he wouldn’t shed a tear if he had.
He was surprised to see Adam Hagen leaning against the post of the Clifford Hotel as he passed. His pants had been hastily pulled over a nightshirt, and his Colt was in his hand. “You are a man to be reckoned with, Sheriff Trammel.”
He was in no mood to spar with the gambler and kept moving. “Thanks for the help. I appreciate it.”
Hagen hopped off the boardwalk and joined him as he walked behind the jail. “I was asleep when it happened. By the time I got out here, you’d just finished off the last one. I’m glad you didn’t kill the man under the horse. It showed great restraint and increased your popularity among the townsfolk.”
Trammel wished that made him feel better, but it didn’t.
CHAPTER 34
Young Deputy Hauk had not shot Madam Pinochet when the gunfire started. He’d placed the prisoner back in her cell, while he and Judge Burlington had taken shelter in the cell block.
“Kept that Granger pointed at that sour bitch the entire time,” Judge Burlington told Trammel after it was all over. “If a sparrow so much as pecked at the door before you called out, he would’ve given her both barrels at point-blank range.” The judge toasted them before taking a sip of his spiked coffee. “Got to admit I was wrong about that young man. Always had him pegged for an idiot. Guess you never know about some people.”
His reddened eyes fell on Trammel. “Like you, for instance. I never would’ve thought a city man like yourself could handle yourself so well up against such men. You’re building up quite the reputation for yourself, Sheriff Trammel.”
“I don’t get paid to have a reputation, your honor. I get paid to keep the peace, and I’m doing a damned lousy job of it.”
The judge poured some of the contents of his flask into Trammel’s mug before pouring the rest into his own. Hagen looked forlorn when the judge slid the flask back into his pocket without offering him any.
“You haven’t had much chance at peace since you signed on,” Burlington said. “That’s more Bonner’s doing than yours. If that greedy slob had done his job instead of taking money from The Lion’s Den to look the other way all these years, things’d be more manageable. You’ve poked a hornet’s nest, young man, and you’re not responsible for what’s happened since you’ve been here. But I’m glad things have turned out in your favor.”
Then Burlington looked at Hagen. “Though the company you’ve kept before coming here is questionable at best.”
“Good old Honest Andy Burlington,” Hagen sneered. “Still cleaning up Father’s messes after all of these years.”
“You being one of them,” Burlington shot back. “Your father didn’t pay your bills all of these years. That pleasure fell to me and Montague. If you’d been my flesh and blood, I would’ve cut you loose years ago. You can hate your father all you want, boy, but that man supported you against my advice.”
“Honest Andy indeed,” was all Hagen managed to say.
“Hello in the jail,” a booming voice came from outside. Trammel brought up the Winchester, and Hagen aimed his Colt at the door. “It’s John Bookman and some others. We’re here to help.”
Hagen holstered his pistol. “That’ll be Father, I’m sure. Probably with twenty riders, too. King Charles must make an entrance.”
Trammel set the Winchester against the desk and opened the front door. John Bookman stepped in first, followed by Charles Hagen. He looked out the window and, through the wreckage of the roof, saw no fewer than twenty Blackstone Ranch men on Main Street. Sometimes he hated it when Adam was right.
Mr. Hagen wasted no time speaking his mind. “I just heard what happened. You hurt, Trammel?”
Trammel gave him the abbreviated version and punctuated it with, “My deputy cleared the dead and debris from in front of the jail. The dead men are all over at Doc Downs’s office waiting to be buried in the morning. I’ll try to fill out the paperwork before I leave.”
“Leave?” Mr. Hagen repeated. “Where are you going?”
“Transporting the prisoners to Laramie, sir.” He pointed to the paper on his desk. “Judge Burlington here signed the writ this afternoon. The sooner Pinochet and the others are out of our hair, the better. They’ll be Laramie’s problem this time tomorrow.”
Mr. Hagen frowned. “Can’t we just save a lot of time and effort and string them up right now and be done with it?”
They all looked at Judge Burlington, who slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid that horse has left the barn, Charles. She’s going to end up dancing at the end of a rope, but news of her arrest has obviously reached as far as Laramie, as evidenced by the attack on the town here today. Any premature death at this point would be met with considerable scrutiny by our friends in the county seat. Lynching is frowned upon, even here in the wilds of Wyoming.”
“Heavens,” Adam said. “You mean there are limits even to the power of King Charles Hagen?”
His father fixed him with a withering look. “And just where the hell were you when all of this was happening? Cooped up with a painted dove, no doubt.”
“No,” Adam said. “She’d already left by that time. I was asleep, but when I came to assist, the good sheriff here had already ably dispatched the assassins.”
Trammel saw Adam flinch when his father turned to face him. “How convenient. Convenient, too, that all of this happened less than a week after you came to town. Trouble’s got a bad way of following you, boy.”
“Some would call it a gift.”
“I call it suspicious.” He pointed a gloved hand at his son. “I swear before God and everyone in this room that if I find out you had a hand in any of this, I’ll drag you to death.”
“You mean have me dragged to death, don’t you, Father? Heaven forbid you do the dirty work yourself.”
Mr. Hagen went for his son, but Bookman moved between him. “He’s just trying to goad you, sir. Don’t let him.”
Trammel tried to take some of the fire out of the situation. “One of the men told me who was behind this before he died. A man by the name of Lucien Clay out of Laramie. I hope one of you have heard of him, because none of us have.”
Mr. Hagen turned away from his son and faced the sheriff. “Lucien Clay? The name means nothing to me. Who is he?”
“No idea,” Trammel admitted, “but whoever he is, he went through a hell of a lot of trouble to get Madam Pinochet sprung.”
“And that’s as close as he’s going to get to her,” Charles Hagen said. “My boys’ll run her and the others down to Laramie tomorrow.”
“No, they won’t,” Trammel said. “Transporting prisoners is a sheriff’s job. I plan on running her down to Laramie on my own at first light.”
Judge Burlington cleared his throat. “Do you think that’s wise, Sheriff? After what happened here today? Fending off five men alone in a town is admirable, but there’s a lot of open space between here and Laramie. The road is fraught with danger.”
“That’s why I don’t plan on taking the main road, your honor. I plan on taking the least direct route possible.”
Mr. Hagen began to say something, but stopped himself before saying, “I don’t mean any disrespect, Sheriff, especially after what you did here today. But the back road to Laramie’s no place for a tenderfoot with a wagonload of prisoners in tow. If this Clay fellow still means to take her, then ambushing you on the way to Laramie, no matter how you get there, is the easiest way.”
“That’s the way I’d do it,” Bookman added. “I’d wager there’s probably at least ten more men out there just waiting for you. Maybe more. They’ll be out for blood when they realize thei
r friends don’t come back.”
“Then it’s a good thing I won’t be alone.” Trammel looked at Hagen. “Your son has bravely volunteered to go with me.”
Adam quickly swallowed his surprise before the three men looked at him.
Bookman didn’t look convinced.
Mr. Hagen’s head inclined back toward his son without looking at him. “That true?” he asked from over his shoulder.
“Of course,” Adam said. “I may have been late to the party, but I wouldn’t miss the final dance for all the tea in China.”
“All the bourbon in Kentucky’s more like it where you’re concerned,” Mr. Hagen said, then looked at Trammel. “Normally, I’d try to change your mind, but you don’t strike me as the kind of man who changes his mind lightly.”
“You’re paying me to be the sheriff of Blackstone, Mr. Hagen. That means transporting prisoners to Laramie when it’s called for. And it’s called for now.”
“Fine. I’ll leave ten of my men here to keep an eye on things while you’re gone.”
“No need, sir. I’ve hired a deputy who’ll tend to things while I’m out of town.”
“Already? Who?”
“Jacob Hauk.”
“Hauk?” Mr. Hagen looked at Bookman. “Why do I know that name?”
“You acquired his father’s ranch a few years back”
The name registered with him immediately. “He’d be about twenty now, wouldn’t he? What’s he been doing with himself?”
“Working as a bottle washer over at the Moose,” Bookman told him.
Mr. Hagen closed his eyes. “Good God. Fine, but I insist on one of my boys driving the wagon.”
“I’ve got that covered, too. Elmer has signed on to help me.”
“Elmer?” Mr. Hagen barely managed to hold on to his tongue, but he did. “You assembled quite a team for yourself, Trammel. The town drunk and my ne’erdo-well offspring with three hostile prisoners.”
“And me, sir,” Trammel said.
“And you,” Mr. Hagen said. “And I’d be a damned fool to doubt you just might be able to pull all of this off.”
He surprised Trammel by holding out his hand to him. “Best of luck, Sheriff. And thank you.”
North of Laramie Page 24
