The Intruders Page 12

  That was, until he saw something tucked beneath the mattress. He grabbed it and pulled it out. It was a thick notebook, and Trammel knew he had hit paydirt. Why would a pious man like Albertson take the time to hide something like this? Surely not from Mrs. Higgins. He had her complete trust and she would not stoop so low as to search a tenant’s belongings. Especially a good man like Mike Albertson posed to be.

  Trammel opened the book and was trying to make sense of what was written there when he heard Mrs. Higgins begin to ascend the stairs.

  “You’ve been in there far too long, Sheriff Trammel,” she sang out. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.”

  He tucked the book in the back of his pants and pulled down his vest to conceal it. He carefully shut the door behind him as he left.

  “You were right, Mrs. Higgins,” Trammel said as he passed her on the stairs. He wanted to get out of there before she realized his excuse for being there was ridiculous. “There was nothing to the rumors at all. I’m glad this is one bit of slander I’ll be able to put to rest.”

  “See to it that you do,” she called after him as she followed him to the door. “And you should think about taking a page from that man’s book, Sheriff Trammel. Might give you renewed purpose in making this town safe for womenfolk and children again.”

  “Don’t worry,” Trammel said. “I intend to read every page in his book from cover to cover.”

  “See to it that you do,” she said as she closed the door behind him.

  He waited until he was clear of the house and on his way back to the jail before he checked to make sure the book was still there. He had never been much of a thief, and given how this day was going, he would not have been surprised if it had fallen out on the staircase.

  But it had not. It was still exactly where he had placed it.

  At least one thing has gone my way today, he said to himself.

  But he changed his mind quickly when he heard the gunshots ring out along Main Street.

  CHAPTER 15

  John Bookman brought his sorrel mare to a halt just outside of Blackstone.

  The three men following him into town did the same, fanning out on either side of him so they could hear his orders.

  “Like I told you boys back up at the ranch,” he said amidst the growing darkness of night. “You’d best not stray too far from your horses. Stay mounted if you can, because you’ll need to ride out of town fast once the shooting ends. You’ll be close to your targets, so when the fire flushes them out, go to work with your rifles first and end with your pistols. When you run dry on bullets, get yourselves back up to the ranch as soon as you can. First one back makes a report to Mr. Hagen about what happened. If we’re lucky, all four of us will be there to tell him at the same time.”

  “And if we’re not?” one of the men asked. Bookman did not know his name, which had been by design. Knowing a man’s name was dangerous business. His death might weigh heavy on his conscience, and Bookman preferred to keep his conscience clean. These three men had been with the ranch for little more than a month. Considering they might be going up against Trammel before the night was over, there was a chance they might not be alive much longer.

  “It’s like I told you when you volunteered to ride down here with me,” Bookman reminded them. “Once you boys cut loose with those rifles, it’s every man for himself. Don’t go wasting time looking for me to tell you what to do because I’m gonna be too busy. Don’t even worry about one another. When your gun clicks dry and you’ve killed just about as many as you can, put your spurs to your mount and keep your head down while you ride like hell for home.”

  “I won’t shoot any kids,” one of the other new men said. “Not even Celestial kids. Any man who pulls on a pipe’s got whatever comes to him, same as a man who can’t hold his liquor. But shooting kids is bad business, and I won’t do it.”

  The lines men like these refused to cross simply amazed him at times. Bookman was almost fifty years old and people still managed to amaze him.

  “No one’s asking you to shoot kids or mothers,” Bookman reminded him. “Just customers. You don’t even have to shoot the ladies if you can avoid it, but if you can’t, don’t let it bother you much. No one in that tent is a hostage. Every single one of them is in there of their own accord, and Mr. Hagen wants them gone. You just remember that whenever doubt sets to creeping in. It might not seem like it now, but you boys are doing good work. Just remember to hold your fire until they start running into the alley.”

  It was too dark to tell if any of the men actually believed that, but they went about their business like he told them.

  Bookman heeled his mount around the wide end of New Main Street and brought his horse to a gentle trot as he rode behind the buildings. The air was crisp and he could still smell the varnish and fresh-cut wood from the new saloons. From the sounds he heard coming out the back, every one of them was doing a good business, especially the Lily. He did not hold out much hope for the lives of the men he had sent to shoot up the alley. They would probably be gunned down by customers from the saloons, or by Trammel once he heard the ruckus. Adam Hagen would probably kill them, too, if he was able. Ruined arm or not, he was still a dangerous man.

  But the shootings were not the main point of Bookman’s mission. That part was up to Mr. Hagen to figure out later. The fire was the thing. The fire would destroy the canvas and a fair amount of the laudanum that the Chinese were selling. He did not doubt the canvas would be replaced in a matter of hours, but the laudanum would not be replaced so easily. It would be a while before a new shipment reached town. Even if it was sent up from Laramie, it would put a dent in Adam’s operation, which was all Mr. Hagen wanted to do. He wanted to remind his nephew that there was only one Hagen in charge of Blackstone, and his first name was not Adam.

  Bookman pulled the torch from his saddle and checked to make sure the rag wrapped around the tip was still soaked in kerosene oil. One whiff in the darkness told him it was. Knowing the flame would frighten his horse, he climbed down from the saddle and tied the animal to the nearest porch post behind the Pot of Gold.

  He found the matches he kept in his waistcoat. One flick of his thumb and the vengeance of King Charles would be at hand.

  But while Bookman was taking a match from his waistcoat pocket, a powerful blow knocked the torch from his hand and bent his arm back behind him with frightening speed. He would have screamed out in pain as he felt his right shoulder separate from the socket had he been able to scream. A heavy rope around his neck prevented him from doing that.

  Bookman struggled as he felt himself being lifted off the ground and wondered how he could have missed a rope being flung around his neck. He wondered what he was being hung from. He knew the back of the buildings on Main Street well. There was no overhang that could pull him up.

  But as he clawed at the rope around his neck, John Bookman realized it was not a rope at all. It was flesh. An arm, in fact. And he was being lifted by a man.

  He knew he could not reach his gun on his left arm, so he fumbled for the knife he kept in his belt as he desperately tried to kick free. His heels found something behind him. The man’s legs. As breathing became harder, he put all of his failing energy into kicking the man who was slowly choking him to death. He kicked again and again until he heard a crack.

  For the briefest of moments, Bookman thought he had busted his attacker’s kneecap and forced him to lose his grip on him.

  But as he felt himself fall to the ground, he knew the sound he had heard had not been a kneecap but his own neck.

  He tried to get to his feet, to get as far away from this powerful man as he possibly could. But his feet would not work, and neither would his arms. Only his eyes could move, and they grew wide as he realized he was paralyzed.

  He felt a great fist grab hold of his hair and pull his head from the ground. He looked up to see the horribly scarred face of the black man who worked at the Gilded Lily. The one they called B
ig Ben London.

  He was holding something in his hand for Bookman to see, but he could not make out what it was until the tip of it came alive with fire. It was a match. And when he used it to light the torch that was on the ground, Bookman knew what the monster was about to do.

  He forced his eyes shut with all the strength he had left and hoped to whatever God there was that he would not feel himself burn alive.

  * * *

  Ben dropped the torch on the dying man’s back and left him there. A white man once had tried to burn him alive with a torch. He knew well the fear of the flame. At least this one would never be able to hurt anyone again.

  He went to Bookman’s horse and pulled the rifle free from the scabbard on the saddle. He had seen the men ride into town from his post at the front door of the Lily and saw them scatter like wolves in the darkness. When he had seen the one they called Bookman break off from the others, he knew they were up to no good. When he saw Bookman take hold of his torch, Ben knew he had been right.

  The flames began to spread on Bookman’s back and the smell of the smoke was beginning to make the horse nervous. He untied the animal from the porch post and slapped it on the rump, sending it running back to the Blackstone Ranch.

  If Ben had anything to say about it, it would be the only member of the ranch who survived that night.

  He went through the back door of the Pot of Gold Saloon and made his way inside. The place was packed with drinking men and sporting ladies plying their trade. The tables were full of gamblers playing cards and upping antes.

  He knew all of them were looking at him, surprised by the sight of the large, scarred black man with the rifle in his hand as he moved past them on his way to the front door. He did not bother to look back at them. He had seen such looks before.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw the bartender come out from behind the bar and head to the back, undoubtedly running to Mr. Hagen’s office in the back of the place to tell him what was going on.

  The few customers by the door scrambled out of his way as he levered a round into the chamber of the Winchester and walked outside.

  There, at the mouth of the alley, were the three men who had ridden into town with Bookman. One was on his side of the alley, one in the middle, and one at the opposite end. All of them had rifles in their hands. All of them were waiting for the flames and the screams that would signal them to start shooting the men fleeing the flames.

  But Ben knew the flames they were waiting for would be much smaller than expected.

  One of them said to the others, “Hey, boys. You smell that?”

  Ben smelled it, too. The unmistakable smell of something other than canvas burning.

  The man in the middle of the alley seemed to smell it, too, and aimed his rifle at the tent. “You think that’s the start of it?”

  The other two brought up their rifles as well and aimed them at the tent. “Could be. Best get ready.”

  Ben brought his Winchester up to his shoulder and shot the closest man to him. The shot caught him in the side of the head and pitched him forward into the alley.

  The rifleman at the mouth of the alley turned to look at his partner but kept his rifle trained on the tent.

  Ben racked in a fresh round as he shifted his aim. By the time the second rifleman realized what was happening, Ben fired. His bullet hit the man just below the left cheek and sent him spinning to the ground.

  Ben ejected the spent round and took aim at the third man, who, by then, was almost in his saddle.

  Ben fired and hit him high in the chest. The blow knocked him backward, but he did not fall. It took two more shots to make him pitch forward and drop to the ground, dead.

  Ben heard people cry out and spill out of the saloons behind him, but he did not turn around, for he saw another man round the corner on the other side of Main Street and yell at him, “Drop the rifle. Now!”

  Ben saw the star on his vest and the Peacemaker in his hand and knew from the size of him that this was Buck Trammel. And in that fraction of a moment, he remembered how the big man had threatened him in front of the Lily. They both knew all this would ultimately come down to the two of them fighting each other, so Ben decided to address the problem before it became one.

  He shifted his aim to Trammel as he levered in a fresh round and fired.

  Ben watched the sheriff fall backward before the bullet tore a hunk out of the porch post where Trammel had just been standing.

  Ben felt a sting in his right shoulder that rocked him backward and caused him to drop the rifle. It was the first time Big Ben London had ever been shot, and he did not like the feeling.

  Adam Hagen rushed into the street between them, pistol in hand, yelling, “Don’t shoot, Buck! It’s just Ben. He shot at you by mistake.”

  “Like hell he did,” Trammel said as he got to his feet and stormed across Main Street toward them.

  Adam Hagen took a look at Ben’s shoulder and said, “Good work, old friend. Trammel’s bullet went straight through and didn’t hit anything vital. It’ll sting for a bit, but you’ll be fine. You and I will talk later, when things quiet down, but for now, just follow my lead like always.”

  Ben did not doubt his former employer for a second. He had always followed Mr. Hagen’s lead in New Orleans and had always come out ahead. He was as smart as he was brave, which, in Ben’s experience, was a rare combination for a white man.

  He watched Adam move to head off Trammel in the thoroughfare. “Calm down, Sheriff. Ben shot at you by accident. It was in the heat of battle. I saw the whole thing.”

  But Trammel kept coming and pushed Hagen out of the way. “Save it, Hagen. He looked at me for a full second or two before he took a shot at me. He did it on purpose.”

  Hagen recovered and got in front of the sheriff once again. “You’ve got it all wrong, Buck. I was right behind him. It was a mistake. His blood was up and he shot at the next thing he saw. You can hardly blame him under the circumstances.”

  Ben saw Trammel had stopped coming toward him, but he still had the same fire in his eyes. He knew. And he wouldn’t forget.

  Trammel looked at Ben’s shoulder. “I do that?”

  “You most certainly did.” Adam grinned. “And with a pistol, too. Quite a shot for a city boy.”

  Trammel did not celebrate. “I was aiming for his head.”

  Ben heard the crowd behind him part as a man with a medical bag rushed his way.

  “Let him through,” Hagen told the crowd. “That’s our new doctor come to treat Big Ben’s wounds.”

  Ben remembered the doctor from his time with Hagen in New Orleans but did not react when he saw him. For his part, neither did Moore.

  The doctor stretched and went on tiptoe to see the wound, which was bleeding through Ben’s fingers.

  Doc Moore put his hand on Ben’s back. “If you can walk to my office, I’ll take a look at that wound for you.”

  Ben was all too glad to go with the doctor. It gave him a good excuse to get away from the angry sheriff. He did not doubt he could take Trammel if he had to, but he knew he was in no shape to do so the lousy way he felt. It was best to rest up and be ready for another day.

  “Make sure you keep him there until I come for him,” Trammel told Moore. “I’ll hold you responsible if he’s not.”

  “He’s not going anywhere, Sheriff,” Moore assured him as he led Ben toward his office. “That hole you put in him will require quite a bit of attention.”

  Ben turned around when he heard a wagon approaching and saw the lady doctor pulling the horse to a hasty halt in front of the saloon. She grabbed her medical bag and began to climb down. He saw Trammel take her by the waist and help her down. She acted like he had done it before.

  Looks like the sheriff and the lady doc are more than friends, Ben noted. He would have to make sure Miss Lilly knew that.

  “What happened?” he heard her ask Trammel. “I came as fast as I could when I heard the shots.”

  M
r. Hagen did not give the sheriff the chance to answer. “I’m glad you were delayed, Emily, for you would’ve been caught in the middle of a heroic action. Big Ben, here, subdued three robbers who were looking to attack my place.”

  “Bull—” Trammel was about to say when Ben Springfield, the bartender from the Pot of Gold, rushed onto the boardwalk. “Miss Emily. You’d best come quick. Someone’s been burned pretty bad out back. And I think he’s still alive!”

  Ben watched Trammel push through the crowd as he led Miss Emily and Mr. Hagen into the Pot of Gold.

  He followed Doc Moore through the crowd toward his office. He had not expected John Bookman to still be alive.

  He did not care much either.

  CHAPTER 16

  Trammel winced as he watched Emily work by torchlight. Bookman was too badly burned to move him, so Trammel and Springfield, the bartender, held the torches for her while she tended to the man.

  The stench made him gag, but he held the light in place for Emily’s sake. “You sure he’s still alive?”

  She checked his eyes and nodded. “He’s still breathing, but barely. His face is the only part of him that wasn’t burned. Where the hell is Mr. Hagen? Bookman won’t last much longer.”

  The only words Bookman had been able to speak since they found him had been, “Get Mr. Hagen.” Trammel had sent Hawkeye to go fetch him. That had been about a half an hour ago. “He’ll get him here as fast as he can. Should be here any minute. Just hold on, Bookman. Hold on.”

  Trammel fanned away the smoke that was still rising from his body. How a man could still be alive after such an ordeal was beyond him. The human will to live never ceased to amaze him, and he had a newfound respect for the dying man. He was only sorry he had acquired it at the end of the man’s life.

  Trammel tried to distract himself by thinking of other things. He asked Springfield, “You said Ben did this?”

  Springfield held the torch but looked away from the scene. “I said I thought he did this. When that big fella came into the saloon, toting that rifle, I knew there’d be trouble, so I ran to the office to tell Mr. Hagen. When Mr. Hagen went to see what was going on out front, I smelled something burning out back here. That’s when I found him. I ran back inside and grabbed a couple of blankets from the closet to stomp them out. Old Bookman must be a tough one, on account of him never letting out a peep. I’d say his horse must’ve thrown him because it’s nowhere in sight.”