Bury the Hatchet Page 13

  Clay observed his partner. “So they’re not coming to Laramie? The Pinkertons, I mean.”

  “They may already be on their way.” Hagen shrugged. “They could be aboard the next train into town for all I know. It doesn’t matter anymore, does it? The fact that they have been bought off and no longer pose any danger to us is the important thing. Now our operations will continue to run flawlessly without interference from the pesky Pinkertons lurking about looking to do us harm.” Hagen raised his glass to Clay. “This is a good day, Lucien. A cause for much celebration. Our partnership will continue uninhibited.”

  Clay forced a smile, an effort that did not go unnoticed by Hagen. “Of course it is, Adam. A day to long be remembered.”

  * * *

  After they had managed to kill half the bottle of his family’s bourbon, Lucien Clay walked Hagen to his horse and watched him ride off back to Blackstone. He marveled at his partner’s ability to ride a straight line no matter how much he’d had to drink. Clay had been drinking his family’s bourbon since he was old enough to stand on his own and even he felt the effects of the powerful liquor.

  He not only envied his partner’s sobriety, but resented it. For in some ways, life would be easier for Lucien Clay if Adam Hagen fell off his horse and broke his damned neck.

  Clay had spent the last hour or so listening to Adam crow about how he had finally managed to bring his father to heel. But the fool was too blinded by glory to realize that no one ever brought a man like King Charles Hagen off his throne so easily. He had not been able to build an empire in the wilderness by allowing people to get the better of him. And Clay knew he would never allow one of his sons—especially the same son he had driven away from the family home—to be the one to ruin him.

  Clay’s own father despised him, and for all the men Lucien had killed in his day, he would not dare go back to Kentucky and face his own father as Adam had done.

  The Adam Hagen he had first met back in the spring had impressed him as a shrewd and courageous businessman. Just because one’s trade was vice did not mean he had to be unprofessional about it. Hagen had proved to be a practical man, too. Yes, he had Madam Peachtree’s ledger, but he hadn’t mentioned it since their first meeting except to confirm what new entries should be made in it. He didn’t lord its power over Clay or over any of the many men listed in it, either.

  He preferred his power to be implied rather than implicit, an arrangement that suited the egos of all involved. The demands he had made of the men in Madam Pinochet’s ledger had come in the form of a request, not demands or threats, and were always followed by cordial thanks from Hagen. He made those indebted to him feel like they were doing him a favor and that, Clay noted, was a valuable gift to possess.

  But Adam Hagen’s conflict with his father had changed him in recent months. His thirst for revenge for being banished had moved his judgment in a different direction. It was clear that he was no longer content to control the flow of women and drugs and whiskey and politicians throughout the territory. He wanted the glory of pulling King Charles off his throne. He wanted to see his father grovel before his feet while he watched the great ranch house burn in flames before him.

  No, Adam Hagen was no longer the practical man who had politely forced his way atop the criminal enterprises of the territory. His quest for vengeance had made him a liability Lucien Clay could no longer afford. He had seen this happen to good men before, better men than Hagen. Men who’d let their love of drink or women destroy them. In those cases, the signs were clear and easy to deal with before they got out of hand. Sometimes, they were even able to recuperate and become useful again. Lucien Clay counted himself as an example of this.

  But Adam Hagen was a different sort of man. Despite appearances to the contrary, he wasn’t given to excess without reason. Clay doubted Hagen’s judgment was slipping or that he had even changed. Revenge against King Charles had likely been his reason for working with Clay from the start. His motives had always been clear to himself, but now, Clay saw them clearly, as well.

  And just like Charles Hagen, not many men could say they had pulled the wool over Lucien Clay’s eyes and lived to brag about it.

  Clay walked along the boardwalk until he reached the telegraph office.

  The clerk, whose name he never had a reason to remember, scrambled to his feet. “Yes, Mr. Clay?”

  “I understand Mr. Hagen was here earlier. He’d sent a telegram to Mr. Pinkerton in Chicago.”

  The clerk demurred. “Telegraphs are privileged communication, sir. I can’t in all good conscience—”

  “Stop your damned sputtering,” Clay interrupted, already annoyed by the clerk’s attempt to deny it. “I’m asking you to send a telegram to Mr. Pinkerton from me.”

  The clerk sat back at his desk and eagerly picked up a pad and pencil. “Of course, sir. What would you want it to say?”

  “Tell him I’d like some information. Tell him I’d like to know when his men are expected to arrive here in Laramie.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Trammel was cleaning the Winchester while Adam Hagen told him about his earlier triumph over Montague at the telegraph office in Laramie. Trammel was more interested in the smell of the gun oil masking the stench that still hung heavy in the jailhouse even hours after the prisoners had been set free. It was already past dusk and he hoped the cold wind whistling through the open doors of the jailhouse would air the place out a bit. Somerset’s complaints about being cold were mercifully drowned out by the constant flow of air. With Hawkeye taking a much-deserved rest, Trammel was minding the prisoner while Hagen told his heroic tale.

  Hagen finished his story and concluded with, “What’s the matter? I thought you, above all people, would be pleased by my good news.”

  “You’re pleased enough for both of us,” Trammel said. “And that telegram you got didn’t say anything about calling off the bounties they placed on our heads.”

  “I would think news of you dispatching the two men who tried to claim it will serve to quell any further attempts on our lives,” Hagen said. “At least until word spreads about the change in the Pinkerton men’s course.”

  “Still cause for worry.”

  “Not you, Buck. You know, for a man who claimed he wasn’t good with a gun six months ago, you’ve developed quite a reputation as a gun hand.”

  “I’ve had plenty of practice.” He finished wiping down the rifle before reloading it, then started on the Peacemaker. Things being as they were, he felt better always having a loaded weapon within easy reach. “You think your old man will stand by his telegram? It would be just as easy for him to send one of his men back to Laramie to send another telegram calling off the deal and telling Pinkerton to send his men.”

  “Not a chance.” Hagen shook his head. “That’s why I wanted Montague to send it. Another telegram countermanding his first would only serve to make Father look foolish in the eyes of Mr. Pinkerton. And if there’s one thing my father prizes above all other things, it’s his pride.”

  “That’s what worries me,” Trammel admitted as he opened the cylinder and dumped the bullets into his hand. “We showed him up pretty good today. He’s not liable to let that go unanswered for long.”

  “Just like the men who died trying to collect on that bounty, he’ll learn the cost of crossing us. I plan on seeing to that personally.”

  Trammel glanced at Hagen before beginning to clean the pistol. “There’s no us here, Hagen. The split between you and me still stands as long as you’re allowing the Chinese to peddle opium out back of your place. And that ban on laudanum out of your places stands for the rest of the week.”

  “I expected no less.” Hagen sighed dramatically as he stood. “Never let it be said that Sheriff Buck Trammel can allow a bit of good news to ruin his day. I, for one, refuse to join you in your misery. I plan on retiring to my room and celebrating my good fortune with the comfort of a fine meal and the company of a beautiful young woman.” He pulled his hat on as
he left the jail. “And, with that, I bid you a good evening.”

  Trammel didn’t bother responding as Hagen left the jail. Focusing on cleaning the Colt took his mind off his troubles and the ugly scene with King Charles earlier that day. He wished he could have been as relaxed as Adam appeared to be, but he couldn’t. He had seen the look in Charles Hagen’s eyes before he had ridden out of town. Their war was not over. If anything, it was only beginning.

  He also knew there were hundreds of desperate men within a day’s ride of Blackstone who would gladly kill both of them or either of them for the bounty that was still out on their heads. The reputation Trammel had found as a gunman—the one that Hagen took great joy in boasting of—would only serve as a greater temptation for someone to try their hand at making a name for themselves. Killing Hagen would make them money. Killing Trammel would give them fame, and to some men, that was more important.

  Trammel also knew there was an excellent chance the Pinkerton men may not get word of Mr. Hagen’s counteroffer and may come to Blackstone anyway. Life in this part of the world was much different from city life, where consequences were more immediate. Everything took longer to happen on the frontier. Everything, that is, except the speed of a bullet.

  The boom of a shotgun echoed outside, causing him to drop the Peacemaker on the desk. Two sharp pistol shots quickly followed.

  Trammel grabbed the Winchester from the desk and ran for the door, ducking at the sound of another shotgun blast as the jailhouse window shattered inward.

  “I hope that took your damned fool head off, Trammel!” Somerset yelled out from his cell.

  Trammel ignored him as he stole a quick look outside. He saw Adam Hagen lying on the boardwalk, flat on his back. The pistol in his left hand was aimed at the darkness across the street. Trammel knew something was wrong, as Hagen was right-handed.

  A wagon sat at the edge of the darkness of Bainbridge Avenue. A wagon that had not been there earlier.

  “You hit?” Trammel called out to Hagen, thinking the gunmen, whoever they were, must be at the wagon.

  “Barely a scratch,” Hagen answered. “Got a bead on two cowards across the street, though.”

  Trammel looked in time to see a man rise up from behind a horse trough to take another shot. Hagen fired once before Trammel could raise his rifle. The gunman’s head jerked from the impact of the bullet before he fell backward into the shadows.

  “There’s still at least one more,” Hagen yelled, “hiding next to his friend. I think I winged him before I fell.”

  Trammel aimed the Winchester in the general direction and called out, “Come out with your hands up before you get hurt.”

  “I’m already hurt, mister,” a man yelled back. “Might as well have the money, too.”

  Trammel fired at a glint of light from the shadows before another blast of buckshot peppered the jailhouse wall, well to the left of Trammel. The sheriff held his position, waiting for another shot, but none came.

  “I think you got him,” Hagen called out.

  Trammel was not so sure and remained crouched in the doorway. “That all of them?”

  “I don’t know,” Hagen answered. “I think so.”

  In other circumstances, the sheriff would have been surprised by Hagen’s admission of ignorance on any matter at hand, but a gunfight was no time to be awestruck. “You think you can cover me while I come get you?”

  “If you get here fast enough.”

  Trammel broke cover and ran toward Hagen at a crouch. More gunfire erupted, striking the jailhouse wall behind him as he dove and landed on the boardwalk on his elbows. More shots came his way, but none came close to striking him. He held his rifle as he used his elbows and knees to crawl as flat as he could toward Hagen. The gambler returned fire, giving Trammel as much cover as possible.

  When he reached his friend’s side, Trammel saw why Hagen had switched his gun to his left hand. His right shoulder was a red mess and bleeding heavily.

  Trammel rolled onto his left side and aimed his rifle at the wagon, waiting for something to shoot at.

  “They’re too scared to break cover and fire down at us,” Hagen told him. “The damnable cowards!”

  One of the men yelled back, “You’ll see how cowardly we are when we spend that money for bagging your miserable hides!”

  Trammel fired in the direction of the voice, but doubted he hit anything. To Hagen, he said, “Think you can get to your feet?”

  More gunfire came from the shadows across Main Street. Rifle and pistol fire, round after round smacking into the dirt of the thoroughfare and the wooden supports all around them. The bullets landed everywhere but where Hagen and Trammel were lying.

  Realizing they were firing blind, Trammel pulled himself into a crouch, grabbed Hagen by the collar, and began dragging him backward along the boardwalk that ran between the jailhouse and the Clifford Hotel. Hagen emptied his pistol in the direction of the wagon. One man cried out, but Trammel did not see anyone fall.

  When he had pulled Hagen deep into the darkness of the alley, Trammel dropped off the boardwalk and crouched next to Hagen in the muddy thoroughfare. “Sounds like you got one of them with that last shot.”

  “Liable to be my last shot, too. My shoulder’s useless and I’m empty.” Hagen let his head fall back against the boardwalk, knocking his hat aside. His breathing grew shallow as he said, “Keep your rifle trained on the direction of those shots. One of them is liable to break cover to try to finish us off. That’ll be your chance to even out the odds.”

  Trammel felt at Hagen’s shoulder and found nothing but a pulpy mess. “How many you figure are out there?”

  “I counted . . . at least three guns that last time. Lucky for us that none of them seem able to shoot worth a damn. They had us dead to rights just now.”

  Trammel knew it, but did not want to think about that. “Let’s hope their aim doesn’t improve.” He began patting down Hagen’s belt. “Let me reload your pistol before I try to flush them out.”

  But Hagen weakly pushed his hand away. “Don’t be a damned fool. You’ve got plenty of rounds left in that Winchester and I’m about to pass out anyway. Leave me here and inch over to the side of the Clifford Hotel. They’re firing from the left side of the place and it should afford you plenty of cover.”

  Trammel heard gunshots ring out from the direction of the Clifford Hotel and dragged Hagen even farther away before Hagen said, “They’re not firing at us. They’re firing up at the Clifford. Someone’s shooting at them from the hotel!”

  Trammel remembered he had sent Hawkeye to sleep in one of the unused guest rooms while the jail aired out. “That stupid kid will get himself killed.”

  “That stupid kid’s the best chance we’ve got to stay alive.” Hagen pushed Trammel away. “Move! Go now while they’re distracted.”

  Trammel ran atop the jagged mud of the thoroughfare before leaping atop the boardwalk along the Clifford. He moved at a crouch toward the corner, holding the Winchester at his side as the boom from the twin barrels of Hawkeye’s coach gun were answered by pistol and rifle fire. He brought up the Winchester when he reached the corner of the hotel.

  He saw one of the men across the street stand up in the back of the wagon, probably to get a better shot at Hawkeye. Trammel fired, striking the man in the chest and sending him spinning before he dropped out of sight. Trammel spotted another gunman lying prone beneath the wagon and dove to his right just before the man cut loose.

  The bullets went wide as Trammel tumbled into the mud and rolled onto his stomach. Instinct and reflexes caused him to bring about his rifle as he jacked in another round and fired. The bullet struck the man under the wagon in the face.

  Trammel was flat on his belly in the middle of the dark street, exposed with at least one more gunman remaining. He kept the Winchester level as he pulled himself up into a crouch to give him better range of fire.

  Seeing the top of a man’s head in the back of the wagon appear, he l
evered another shot and fired, but the shot was rushed. His bullet flew wide into the Wyoming night.

  The man in the wagon brought up a pistol just as six shots rang out from the Clifford Hotel. Trammel had a clear shot and cut loose with two quick shots. The man’s body jerked from the impact of the bullets from two directions. Trammel watched him drop to his knees and sag backward against the wagon wall. Even in the dim light spilling out from the Clifford, Trammel could see the gunman was bleeding from several holes in the chest.

  “That you, Hawkeye?” Trammel called out from his position.

  “Sure is, boss,” Hawkeye called back. “I’m hit, but I’m okay. I think that’s all of ’em.”

  Trammel had made that same mistake, too. He had to be sure. “I’m coming out from the alley. Cover me if you can, but don’t shoot.”

  Trammel got to his feet and slowly walked toward the wagon, keeping the Winchester at his shoulder as he moved. He’d been wrong about the number of gunmen before. Now that he was out in the open, the same mistake could prove deadly.

  Seeing no movement from behind the water trough or anywhere else, he crossed the street and came around the corner of the wagon fast, aiming at anyone inside.

  One man was slumped over on his side, dead. The one he and Hawkeye had peppered with shots was still alive, but barely. His breath came in shallow, weak gasps as life leaked from the holes in his chest.

  Trammel knew by the shabby dress of the men he could see that they were probably not Pinkerton men, but he had to be sure.

  He poked the dying man with his rifle as he asked, “Who sent you?”

  The man panted as he struggled to shake his head. “Nobody sent us, boy. We came for . . . for—” He never finished his sentence. He slumped over and died next to his friend’s corpse.

  Trammel checked the area behind the wagon and saw two more corpses in the shadows.

  He finally lowered the Winchester.

  The dead man had said it all. No one had sent them. They came for the money.

  The bounty on their heads was still in force.