Bury the Hatchet Read online

  “You think he’s really going to show?”

  “We’ve given him no choice,” Hagen observed. “It’s a point of pride for him now. You’ve taken his ramrods. You’ve taken his best men and horses. He’ll come to call and, when he does, he won’t be happy. Fortunately, you won’t have to face him alone.”

  “I sure hope this breaks the way you think it will, Adam, because if it doesn’t, all hell will break loose.”

  “We’re not in a clean business, Sheriff. Neither one of us.”

  Trammel wanted to say something, but there was no arguing with the obvious.

  CHAPTER 13

  It was still an hour before sunrise when Trammel watched Emily drive the final nail in the final coffin she was making. “I’m not leaving town, Buck, so you might as well stop asking.”

  Trammel had been afraid she’d say that. “Be reasonable, Emily.”

  “I am being reasonable. I’m also the only doctor in town, or at least the closest this place has to a doctor, anyway. It wouldn’t be right running out on people at a time like this. It would be worse to run out on you.” She eyeballed the coffin she had made and seemed pleased with her work. “And if you ask me again, I’ll be mighty insulted.”

  Trammel began to say something, but thought better of it. He had gone up against unionists, crazed gunmen, violent murderers, and rampaging cowpunchers, but he found himself powerless against a woman half his size.

  He sat on the stool by her workbench and slapped his hat against his leg, ignoring the canvas-wrapped corpses of the men he had shot. “Then I guess that settles it, damn it.”

  “It doesn’t settle anything.” She set the hammer aside and slid the lid on top of the coffin to measure the fit. He would have offered at help her, but he had found long ago that she took offense at anyone attempting to assist her with her carpentry skills. “It doesn’t settle why these men are coming here to kill you and Adam in the first place. And it doesn’t tell me anything about why the Pinkertons have a particular hatred of you. I’d imagine it must have something to do with the time you spent with them. Now that’s something I’d like to talk about, if you’re of a mind to talk about anything.”

  That was the problem. The last thing he wanted to talk about was his time with the agency. It wasn’t exactly the proudest moment of his life.

  Trammel had been recruited by Allan Pinkerton himself during one of his many swings through Manhattan about five years before. Trammel had been part of a special group in the Metropolitan Police back then, which was little more than the commissioner’s bully boy squad. Pinkerton took a liking to Trammel for reasons the sheriff still couldn’t understand and had insisted on hiring him on as one of his operators. His size and temperament had made him a natural fit for strikebreaking in New York and later Chicago. Most of the men he’d faced were loud-mouthed greedy politicians who cared less about the workers and more about lining their pockets. They had deserved a good beating and Trammel had no problem giving them one.

  But all of that changed one hot Chicago night a little more than a year before. A group of stockyard workers were protesting long hours for little pay. One of their men had gotten trampled to death while unloading cattle after working for over twenty-four hours straight without sleep or food. Trammel had led a group of Pinkerton men to break the line and beat the workers bad enough to make sure they never thought of defying the bosses again.

  Trammel had stopped his men from moving in when he saw the condition of the strikers. They weren’t the typical stockyard workers who were broad and surly. These men were emaciated and so tired they could barely stand up. They had been working sixteen-hour days for more than a month straight with little time to sleep or rest.

  He had attacked scrawny men before, but usually after they attacked him first. These men just stood there, looking at the Pinkerton men as if they were half hoping to be beaten to death and put out of their misery.

  None of Trammel’s men would raise a club against them. They took the men, about a dozen in all, to get something to eat and guarded them so they could enjoy their meals in peace.

  That’s when the trouble came.

  The manager of the stockyard found out where they were and demanded the men return to work. Trammel knew the stockyards were good customers for the company and tried his best to keep the man calm.

  But the man just wouldn’t calm down, not even in the face of overwhelming odds. He took a swing at Trammel and missed. His second and third punches had missed, too.

  The manager left with some of his dignity intact, but quickly returned with ten rough-and-ready types armed with clubs and shovels. Trammel and his men defended themselves easily, but the infraction cost Trammel his position with the agency. He turned in his papers before Allan Pinkerton himself could ask for them. He would not give him the satisfaction.

  The long trail to forget beckoned and he found himself in Wichita and, ultimately, in Blackstone, Wyoming, where twelve of his former colleagues were coming to take his life.

  Trammel thought of all of this while he sat on the crooked stool in the old barn of Emily Downs. He wondered if he would know any of the men coming to kill him. He doubted he would. All of the men who had been with him that night at the stockyards had not even bothered turning in their papers. Most were from Manhattan and had caught the next train back there.

  The agency would be careful not to send anyone he might have worked with out of fear that old allegiances might get in the way of the performance of their duty. Trammel had always been a firm but popular boss. His men often liked him, and he doubted any would raise a hand against him no matter how much Pinkerton might pay them.

  No, the men who came for him would be strangers, including the man who led them. He doubted Allan Pinkerton would send one of his top men. After all, Trammel was a sheriff in a small town north of Laramie. Any friends he had would not be of much help, and the Pinkerton reputation would most likely scare off any opposition. Trammel had used that same reputation to his advantage enough times to know its effect. He knew the men who had pledged to stand by him here in Blackstone were sincere enough when they said it. They were probably sincere still. But when twelve men in Pinkerton gray dusters rode in on horseback, even the staunchest resolve had a tendency to waver.

  He hadn’t wanted to think about any of this, much less discuss it with Emily. He had hoped just asking her to go would be enough, but should have known she wouldn’t leave without a few questions first. And even then, she’d follow her own mind. It was one of the many reasons why he admired her. It was why he loved her, if he allowed himself the luxury of such thoughts.

  He watched her place her hands on her hips as she admired the perfect fit of the lid on the coffin and couldn’t help but smile. He grinned. “You’re a pretty good carpenter for a doctor.”

  “I don’t think the customer will complain much.” She slid off the lid and placed it against the sawhorses. “Too bad I didn’t think to build it deep enough so I could’ve put both of them in there.”

  He hadn’t known her to be an incredibly religious woman, but she usually had more reverence for the dead. “Why is that?”

  “On account of the coffin demand in this town is about to rise significantly, if things go the way I fear they will.”

  Trammel tried a bit of gallows humor to lighten her mood. “You going to build one of those for me?”

  “Don’t know if we’ve got enough wood lying around to fit you, Buck. Besides, you won’t be needing it for some time to come.”

  He slid off his stool and took her in his arms. “You sure of that?”

  She took his face in her hands. “Surer than anything I’ve ever known.”

  When she kissed him, all thoughts of Pinkertons and gray coats and dead men left him.

  * * *

  Jesse Alcott gathered the men in the station warehouse after they had loaded all the munitions and goods onto the train. He stood before them, his notebook in hand, and took attendance, calling each m
an by his Christian name, or at least the name they had given him when they had hired on. The practice was merely a ceremonial exercise, one to remind them this was an orderly endeavor. In his experience, success came from discipline.

  The men needed to be reminded they were now part of a greater enterprise. They had been a motley-looking bunch when he had first hired them back in Chicago and Kansas City. He had intentionally sought out men who were unlike himself. Men comfortable on the range. Men who knew how to fight and weren’t afraid to do so. The task before him wasn’t one for detectives or operatives, as were many of the cases the Pinkerton Agency took on. This was a hunt, pure and simple, and for that, he would need hunters. He would need killers, and he had them.

  As he finished taking attendance, he saw how each man was of varying shape and height and guise. Many were cleaner shaven than they had been when he had found them. Their clothes newer, and their gray hats and dusters showed the world these were Pinkerton men, with all of the deference that name deserved. They were his men, and it was time for them to realize it.

  “I want to make sure all of you are clear about our endeavor before we board the train.” Alcott closed the notebook and held it clasped in front of him like a preacher holding the Good Book. “All of you know why you’re here and the nature of our task, but you may not be aware of its severity. None of you are strangers to violence, and all of you are formidable men in your own right.”

  The group of gunmen laughed. “Been called a lot of things in my time, Cap,” a man named Hodge called out, “but formidable is a first for me.”

  Alcott allowed the levity to play out until the men fell silent again and he continued. “We will ride the train to Laramie, where we will disembark with our mounts, armaments, and provisions. We will stay in town one night, then proceed shortly after first light the following morning northward to the town of Blackstone, Wyoming. Have any of you ever heard of it?”

  The men exchanged glances, and most shook their heads. The man named Maynard said, “Small cow town, ain’t it? Think I’ve been there a few times on drives to Laramie. Not much to it, as I recollect.”

  “Your recollection is accurate, Mr. Maynard.” Alcott preferred to refer to the men this way. He found that when he treated them like gentlemen, they tended to act accordingly and were a bit easier to control without losing the edge for which they had been hired. “Several saloons, a bank, and a few stores. It is home to the Blackstone Ranch, which is owned by Charles Hagen. King Charles, as he’s known in that part of the world.”

  The name seemed more familiar to the men than Blackstone had been.

  “I mention this,” Alcott continued, “because one of the men we are pursuing is Mr. Hagen’s son, Adam Hagen. He’s a former cavalry officer and has lived the life of a roustabout. He’s a gambler, mostly, and a drunkard.” He looked at the men. “Forgive me for repeating myself as both qualities often go together.”

  The men laughed. None of them were strangers to the vices of the plains.

  “He’s not to be taken lightly. We believe he has been in Blackstone for the past six months and has succeeded in forming substantial alliances among the territory’s less admirable citizens, most notably the criminal Lucien Clay of Laramie.”

  Alcott had expected the mention of the infamous gunfighter and saloon keeper to rouse his men, and he was not disappointed. “I take it by your reaction that you are all familiar with Mr. Clay and his exploits. We will have no choice but to encounter at least one of the establishments he owns in Laramie, which is why I will have to ask all of you to remain vigilant while in town. He likely has people everywhere who can be counted on to report anything they hear to Mr. Clay, which would ruin whatever element of surprise we might have in Blackstone.”

  “Didn’t you put out a bounty on this fella?” asked a man named Brown. “I’d say any surprise we had is just about gone.”

  “That was my attempt to make our path a bit smoother,” Alcott said. “I was hoping some amateur might attempt to capture our targets and get lucky. We will know if my gambit was successful as soon as we arrive in Laramie and make contact with our man there.”

  “Gambler ought to be easy enough to sneak up on while he’s playin’,” Brown continued.

  Alcott hid his annoyance about the interruption. “Mr. Hagen is but one of our concerns, because I believe his accomplice will present us with the most trouble. His name is Buck Trammel, and although I doubt any of you have heard of him, you’ll find him most formidable indeed.”

  “Heard of him?” the one called Licht said. “Hell, I’ve seen him. Worked at the Gilded Lily in Wichita while I was there for a time. Hit Lefty Hanover so hard, the eye popped right out of his fool head. Saw it happen myself. Never saw a man drop like that before in my life, and let me tell you, Lefty was no man’s idea of a bargain.”

  “He was one of us once, wasn’t he?” said a man named Paulson. “A Pinkerton, I mean. I read all about him in them newspaper articles they ran about him after some killing he did a few months back. In Laramie, now that I think of it.”

  The men grumbled among themselves, agreeing they had either read or had heard something about the Laramie incident. Alcott didn’t like that one bit. He wanted them aware of their duties but ignorant of the risks. When men like these got to thinking too much, they became ineffective and, therefore, useless. There were a lot of miles between here and Laramie. He didn’t need the men trading tales about Trammel in the hours it would take to reach Wyoming. Trammel was already big enough. He didn’t need any tall tales to make him even bigger.

  He decided to regain control of the situation. “Buck Trammel is no better than Adam Hagen. He is a murderous thug drummed out of the Pinkerton Agency for cowardice and rank insubordination. Our employer has paid good money to kill or capture these men, preferably kill as it will likely come to that. Remember, dead men don’t put up much of a fight, and as many of you have already said, Trammel can put a lot into a punch. He’s also known to be more than adequate with a pistol and a rifle.”

  Until that moment, the tallest member of the group, named Siegel, was whittling away a piece of wood with a bowie knife. He stopped his whittling long enough to say, “The bigger the man, the bigger the target. Big men don’t scare me any on account of ’em being tougher to miss.”

  Alcott liked his way of thinking. “Well said, Mr. Siegel. Now, if there are no further questions, let us board the train and set about doing what we’ve been paid to do.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Charles Hagen kicked open the door of the bunkhouse and found three of his men passed out in their bunks. The seven other bunks were empty.

  “Get up!” he bellowed as his bullwhip cracked through the air and struck one of the snoring men in the hindquarters. “Get up, you worthless lazy louts, and account for yourselves!”

  Les, the man who had been struck, sleepily gathered his bed clothes against him as he held up a hand to fend off another blow. “Please don’t hit us no more, Mr. Hagen. We were goin’ to come tell you what happened at first light, only—”

  “Only now it’s nearer to eight than it is to dawn and my men continue to rot in a jail cell thanks to you.” He cut loose with the bullwhip again, which sliced through Les’s left shoulder, causing the man to scream.

  King Charles jerked the bullwhip back across the bunkhouse floor for another blow. The two other men cowered in their beds.

  “You should all thank God Almighty that Mr. Montague had the decency to ride up here and tell me what had happened or it would have been closer to noon before I found out.”

  Les held his right hand over his bleeding left shoulder. “I swear, Mr. Hagen, we meant to tell you, but the sheriff didn’t let us go until late last night, and the horses got a mite lost on the way back in the dark and all. You was already asleep, and we figured the sunlight would wake us. I see now we was wrong.”

  “You were wrong about a lot of things.” Hagen tried to keep the quaver of rage out of his voice, lest
they think him weak. “Haven’t I always warned you boys to watch yourselves when you were in town? To watch your drinking and your whoring and that damnable dragon smoke?”

  “And we done like you said, sir.” Les flinched for fear of another blow. “But that sheriff took us in anyway. And not just us, but Mr. Bookman and the other bosses, too. Still has ’em locked up, near as I can figure. That Sheriff Trammel said if you wanted them back, you knew what you had to do. He didn’t tell me what that was, but said you’d know. Until then?” Les inched further into his bed. “Sir, these ain’t my words and I don’t want you hittin’ me for sayin’ them to you.”

  Hagen kept the bullwhip lax on the bunkhouse floor. “Go ahead.”

  “He said unless you did what he wanted, you’d go broke in a week, in which case it wouldn’t much matter what happened to him then.” Les flinched when Hagen flicked the bullwhip, only to begin coiling it again.

  “Montague,” King Charles yelled, “get in here.”

  The banker pushed past some of the men who had gathered behind their boss at the bunkhouse entrance. “Yes, sir?”

  “You sure my son was part of this? You’re absolutely certain?”

  “He wasn’t at the meeting Welch called last night,” Montague told him, “but I saw him help the sheriff get these men mounted and out of town. Of that I’m certain. I would have come to you then, had I been confident I wouldn’t get lost on the trail as well.”

  Hagen finished coiling the bullwhip and put it on the hook on the right side of his belt. “Billy, you got my horse ready?”

  “She’s all saddled and ready to go, sir,” replied one of the men at the door.

  “Very well. Montague, you ride with us. The rest of you get back to work. We’ve got horses and cattle that need tending. Double up on the work if you have to. Anson, tend to Les’s cut and get him in the saddle. A hangover and a little nick on the arm are sorry excuses for a man to miss putting in a good day’s work.”