The Intruders
Look for these exciting Western series from
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WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
and J. A. JOHNSTONE
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Luke Jensen: Bounty Hunter
Those Jensen Boys!
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MacCallister
The Red Ryan Westerns
Perley Gates
Have Brides, Will Travel
Will Tanner, Deputy U.S. Marshal
Shotgun Johnny
The Chuckwagon Trail
The Jackals
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Stoneface Finnegan Westerns
Ben Savage: Saloon Ranger
The Buck Trammel Westerns
The Death and Texas Westerns
The Hunter Buchanon Westerns
AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS
THE INTRUDERS
A BUCK TRAMMEL WESTERN
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE AND J.A. JOHNSTONE
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
Teaser chapter
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 by J. A. Johnstone
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE:
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
PINNACLE BOOKS, the Pinnacle logo, and the WWJ steer head logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-0-7860-4755-0
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4756-7 (eBook)
ISBN-10: 0-7860-4756-9 (eBook)
CHAPTER 1
“Clean up Blackstone! Clean up Blackstone!”
So yelled the thirty or so marchers from the Citizens’ Committee of Blackstone. Their number was enough to fill the width of Main Street in front of the Pot of Gold Saloon.
Sheriff Steven “Buck” Trammel stood guard in front of the saloon to prevent the crowd from storming the place. He might only have been one man, but at several inches over six feet tall and two hundred and thirty solid pounds, he loomed large over the crowd. He looked larger still from the boardwalk.
The piano player from the Pot of Gold mocked the marchers by banging out “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The patrons joined in, slurring the words loudly.
“Blasphemy!” Mike Albertson exclaimed. Trammel had heard the man with the crooked back was a retired freight driver who had given up the life of a long hauler to do the work of the Lord. He was the leader of the marchers and raised his voice louder than his followers as he said, “How dare they mention the Lord in a den of such iniquity! Let us go amongst them and defend His holy name from the mockery of drunken rabble.”
The marchers, who were mostly older men and women, took several steps toward the boardwalk.
Trammel took a single step forward and said, “That’s enough. You’ve had your say. Now go home. All of you.”
The crowd’s chants of “Clean Up Blackstone” died down and their banners sagged. Some of the marchers at the back of the crowd took a couple of steps backward.
Because everyone knew Buck Trammel did not say much, so when he spoke, it was best to listen.
But Albertson held his ground. Instead, he limped forward and pointed his finger up at Trammel. “Last time I checked, Marshal, this here territory was still part of the United States of America, and that means we can march anywhere whenever we’re of a mind to do so. Says it right in the Constitution.” He glared up at Trammel. “Or are you one of those types who never got around to learning to read?”
Trammel stepped down from the boardwalk without using the steps. He still towered over all of the marchers. Most of them moved back a couple of steps as the big lawman approached.
Only Albertson held his ground. “You don’t scare me, big fella. I’ve gone through tougher and bigger than you.”
“No, you haven’t.” Trammel pointed at the star pinned to his vest. “Says ‘Sheriff,’ not ‘Marshal.’ Or are you one of those types who never got around to learning how to read?”
Albertson did not look at the star. He stood with a stoop, probably from all his years spent hauling freight all around the territory and beyond. “I don’t care what you call yourself, Trammel. You’ve got no right to order us to leave.”
His followers cheered as Albertson pointed past Trammel toward the Pot of Gold Saloon. “But you do have every right to tell them to leave. To tell them to obey the law. Them and their kind. It’s getting so it ain’t safe to walk around town, be it morning, noon, or night. Drunken cowhands from the Blackstone Ranch and miners roaming the streets in a laudanum stupor.”
Albertson pointed to a shrunken old woman clutching a bag. “Why, Mrs. Higgins here found one of them passed out on her porch the other morning. Gave this poor, God-fearing woman the fright of her life.”
“I know all about it.” Trammel looked at Mrs. Higgins and said, “I came right over and got him out of there, didn’t I, Helen?”
The old lady’s scowl turned into something of a smile. “Yes, you did, Sheriff. You came in and dragged him away in no time flat.”
Trammel looked back at Albertson. “I kept that drunk in a cell until he sobered up. Then I fined him and threw him out of town. I know you’re new around here, Albert
son, but this town is used to drunks and knows how to handle them.”
The old freighter pointed to the new buildings that had more than doubled the length of Main Street. The locals had taken to calling that section of town New Main Street. “And just how do you expect to handle all of them new places once they’re open, Trammel? How many of them are going to be saloons? Your friend Hagen sure ain’t telling us.”
Trammel said, “Adam Hagen’s not my friend, but he does own those properties. Why don’t you ask him what he has planned? Or ask Mayor Welch.”
But Albertson and his followers had come to Main Street to shout and argue, not for answers. “Asking either of them is pointless,” Albertson said. “Hagen is crafty enough to keep his true plans hidden, and Welch is gullible enough to believe him. And King Charles Hagen is content to look down on us from his ranch house and watch this town crumble without so much as lifting a finger.”
The crowd offered a full-throated cheer, and Albertson raised his voice so he could be heard over them. “We will not be deterred by lies and placation. We will not be fooled into thinking Hagen’s plans are for the benefit of anyone but himself.”
The old freighter’s eyes narrowed in defiance as he glared up at Trammel. “And we will not allow a Judas goat with a star on his chest to tell us to be calm and go home.”
Trammel snatched Albertson by the collar and pulled him toward himself before he realized he had done it. He easily lifted the man just enough so that Albertson was standing on his toes.
The marchers gasped and now took several steps back.
“You listen to me, Albertson, and listen well,” Trammel said. “I’m nobody’s Judas goat, got it? I don’t belong to either of the Hagens. I don’t belong to Montague down at the bank. I don’t belong to anyone or anything but the law and the town of Blackstone. If you ever doubt it, come see me at the jail and I’ll be more than happy to convince you.”
He released Albertson with a shove that sent him stumbling back toward the marchers he led. Several of them rushed to keep him from falling down. He knew he would regret manhandling the rabble-rouser later on, but now was not the time.
He faced the crowd. “You’ve all made your point. You’ve had your march. You’ve spoken your mind and you’ve been heard. Now it’s over. If I see any of you clustered together within the next five minutes, I’ll lock you up for disorderly conduct.”
Trammel did not have to ask if he had made himself clear. Judging by the looks on their faces, they knew.
And from how they had just seen him take on Albertson, none of them wanted to risk the same treatment.
Trammel stood his ground alone as he watched the marchers reluctantly fold their banners and head back to their homes.
As the crowd thinned out, only one man was left in the middle of Main Street. A thin man in his late twenties, his black hair and spectacles gave him a studious look. This man was not Albertson, but Richard Rhoades of the town’s newspaper, Blackstone Bugle.
Trammel shut his eyes and hung his head. He had not seen the reporter during the march. If he had, he would have tried to keep a better handle on his temper. Grabbing Albertson would be the bright bow his story needed for the paper’s next edition. And he couldn’t blame Rhoades for printing it. He could only blame himself for giving the newsman something to print.
“How long have you been there?” Trammel called out to him over the heads of departing marchers.
“From the beginning.” The reporter finished jotting something down in his notebook as he walked toward Trammel. “I was with them when they began gathering at Bainbridge Avenue and followed them the whole way here. They had about thirty marchers by the time you broke it up. An impressive number for a town this size if you ask me.”
Throughout his career as a policeman in Manhattan, and then as a Pinkerton, Trammel always had a healthy distrust of newspapermen. They tended to distort the truth to fit whatever message they were trying to convey. But Rhoades was a different sort. Since he had come to town a year before, Trammel found his reporting honest and had even grown to like the man.
“Guess you’re happy I grabbed Albertson like I did. That ought to make a nice addition to your story.”
“Maybe,” Rhoades agreed, “but I’m not going to use it.”
Trammel hadn’t been expecting that. “Why not? Your readers will love it.”
The reporter shook his head. “Albertson said he wouldn’t be manipulated by anyone, and neither will I. He goaded you into grabbing him because he knew I was there. When he gathered everyone together, he told me to keep an eye on him because he was going to give me ‘one hell of a story’ for my article. I won’t give him the satisfaction of printing it.”
Trammel’s mood improved some. “I’ll make it a point of keeping a better handle on my temper when he’s around. He won’t rile me so easily next time.”
Rhoades leaned in closer so no one could hear him say, “Personally, I think you should’ve slugged him for stirring up all this trouble.”
Trammel had thought about that a lot since Albertson had first come to town six weeks before. The crippled freighter had started grousing about conditions in the town almost from the start. People were always looking for a reason to complain, and men like Albertson had a knack for getting the worst out of them. “What do you think his aim is? About starting up all this trouble, I mean. I’ve known a lot of freighters in my day, and every one of them would prefer whiskey and women over marches and such. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“Me neither,” Rhoades agreed. “He claims he was a freighter, but if he was, he’s the most eloquent mule skinner I’ve ever heard.”
The small question that had been rattling around in Trammel’s mind now loomed large. “That’s been bothering me, too. You think he’s a phony?”
“He seems sincere in his complaints,” Rhoades said. “There’s no denying that. Now, as for his motivation, I’m still trying to figure that out.” Trammel watched an idea dawn on the reporter’s face. “He says he’s worked freighter outfits in Texas and Missouri and Kansas. I have colleagues in those areas. I’m going to write them to see if they’ve heard of him. I doubt we’ll learn much, but I’ll feel better having tried it.”
Trammel watched Albertson walk back toward Bainbridge with two old ladies on his arms. He was gesturing wildly, probably carrying on with the same rhetoric he had used in front of the saloon.
“Think you could wire your friends instead?” Trammel asked. “The town will pay for it.”
“In that case, of course.” Rhoades looked curious. “But why the urgency?”
“Because I think Albertson is working up to something big,” Trammel said. “Today’s march proves it. His attempt to barge into the saloon tells me he’s looking to escalate things. The sooner we know who and what he is, the quicker we’ll know what he’s really up to. Might be able to stop him before he does it.”
“Let’s hope so.” Rhoades pushed his hat farther back and scratched his forehead. “I’ve got to tell you, Sheriff, for a small town, Blackstone’s sure got a lot of intrigue going on.”
Trammel could not argue with him there. “Too much for my taste. When do you think you could get down to Laramie and send out those telegrams?”
He pulled his watch from his waistcoat and frowned. “It’ll be well on dark if I leave now and I have tomorrow’s edition to get out. I’ll do it first thing in the morning. That soon enough for you?”
It wasn’t, but it sounded like it would have to be. “I appreciate it, Rich. And I appreciate you leaving my grabbing of Albertson out of your article.”
“Don’t give it a second thought.” Rhoades grinned. “Besides, no one wants to read anything that casts ‘the Hero of Stone Gate’ in a bad light.”
“Knock it off.” Trammel had hated that moniker since the day Rhoades had hung it on him after he kept a group of Pinkertons from taking over King Charles Hagen’s Blackstone Ranch the previous year. “I told you not to call me
that.”
“That’s the problem with you, Buck. You’re too modest. I spelled your name right and gave you a legend. You should be pleased. The people of this territory have put you on a pedestal.”
Trammel knew he was right. And he also knew what people did with things on pedestals.
They pulled them down after they were sick of looking at them.
CHAPTER 2
Adam Hagen had watched the entire spectacle unfold from the second-floor balcony of the Clifford Hotel. His hotel.
From there, he could watch the whole town. He could see the carpenters working on the structures he had ordered to be built on lots he had purchased along Main Street. He could see the new houses he was building on the new Buffalo Street, too, in anticipation of the people who would flock to Blackstone when his plans took shape. He had even seen the marchers assemble on Bainbridge, then head toward his Pot of Gold on Main Street. He had watched them pick up more followers along the way until they reached his saloon and hurled insults and prayers at the place.
He almost felt sorry for the poor fools. They were so ardent in their righteousness. Strident in their belief that they could change the future of Blackstone.
But Adam Hagen knew there was only one man who could do that, and it was not King Charles Hagen. Soon, it would be King Adam Hagen.
He had ordered the porch to be added to his room to aid in his convalescence after having been shot in the right arm by renegade Pinkerton men several months before.
He squeezed the small bag of sand in his right hand again for the countless time that day. He ignored the sharp pain that webbed through his body following each squeeze. His convalescence had taken a toll on him, particularly his looks. His fair hair had begun to turn white in places, though he was just past thirty. His smooth skin, which the ladies loved, now had lines brought about by pain that had not been there before.