Bury the Hatchet Page 15

  Trammel went over and shut and bolted the door without checking to see if Mr. Hagen was still there. He wasn’t sure it mattered one way or the other.

  He looked up when he heard laughter coming from the cells.

  “The things a man hears when he wakes up in the middle of the night,” Somerset said.

  Trammel slowly walked back to the cell block. He found Somerset sitting on the edge of his cot, his immobile right arm still lashed to his side, his bare feet on the cold floor of his cell.

  “And just what is it that you think you heard, Somerset?”

  “Old King Hagen weeping and moaning about his dead sister,” the Pinkerton man laughed. “And sticking him with her unholy spawn to raise.”

  “Adam Hagen is a love child, abandoned by his real father and shunned by his adopted father. Someone’s going to pay very well for that bit of news.”

  “Unless he’s lowered his standards since I quit,” Trammel said, “I don’t think Allan’s going to pay very much for idle gossip.”

  “Maybe he won’t,” Somerset allowed, “but plenty of others might. Lucien Clay, for instance, or maybe one of them reporters in Laramie. And if you’re nice to me, maybe I’ll cut you in on a piece of what I get. What do you say?”

  Trammel pulled his Peacemaker and slammed the butt of the pistol on Somerset’s left hand.

  The prisoner cried out as he tumbled back onto his cot. “You broke my damned hand!”

  Trammel tucked the pistol back under his arm and walked out into the office. “I’ll break more than that if you ever breathe a word of what you heard here tonight to anyone else.” He slammed the door to the cells shut and locked it.

  He had heard enough bad news for one night.

  CHAPTER 19

  The next morning, Lucien Clay made sure he was awake in time to meet the 6:23 train down at the station.

  Knowing how impressionable these Pinkerton types were to appearances, he pulled his best suit out of the cabinet and had one of his girls give it a good brushing. It was a black affair, which was intentional given the purpose of his impending meeting. He found that serious colors in the territories always threw the city folk off their feed. They were accustomed to reading about how frontier people lived in rags or tan clothes. Clay hoped a dash of dignity would give him something of an advantage on whoever was leading the small army of Pinkerton men.

  He needed any advantage he could get, coming in so late in the game.

  He found two white gloves in the bottom of his dresser and decided they would add just enough of a dramatic touch to his ensemble. He remembered reading in one of the newspapers from back east that gloves had become fashionable again in Paris, London, and New York.

  He had already finished off two mugs of coffee by the time he heard the train whistle sound as it approached the town. He pulled on his hat and coat before he took a stroll down to the station to greet the new arrivals to Laramie, Wyoming.

  He nodded in greeting to all who stepped off the train, but was only truly interested in meeting one passenger in particular that rainy morning. Well, one passenger and his companions.

  He found the man the telegram had told him to look for. Six feet, dark hair only beginning to be speckled by the gray of advancing years. His suit simple, save for a shiny gold watch chain that spanned his middle and the unmistakable gray duster that showed him to be a Pinkerton.

  Clay could play the gentleman when the occasion called for it. He removed his hat as the man stepped down from the train. “You must be Mr. Alcott, I presume?”

  Alcott eyed him for a moment before answering, “You presume correctly, sir.” The Pinkerton man took him in from head to toe. “I take it you are not the man I was supposed to meet, as I was informed he was a sort different from you.”

  Clay appreciated the man’s vague caution. A cautious man could always be trusted to be corruptible. “I am afraid you are correct, Mr. Alcott. Although I may not be the man you expected to meet, I am a man you will be happy to know. My name is Lucien Clay and I am the proprietor of many fine drinking parlors here in town.” He removed his gloved hand before extending it. “Welcome to Laramie.”

  Alcott regarded the hand for a moment before shaking it. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Clay, though I’m afraid your reputation precedes you, sir. You’re more than just the owner of a few saloons. I have heard you are also a major provider of vice in this part of the territory.”

  “And you are no mere detective,” Clay responded, “but the infamous riverboat enforcer Diamond Jim Alcott, the most feared man on the Mississippi once upon a time.”

  Alcott did a poor job of hiding his response to the flattery. “Surely, I don’t need to remind a saloon keeper of how men like to better themselves by enlarging the stories they’ve heard in their travels.”

  “Not in this case,” Clay said. “I was on the Jolly Tinker the night you sent Pierre Sangre to hell, so my knowledge of your exploits comes firsthand. In fact, it’s the reason I’d like to buy you a drink. Several, in fact, if you’ll allow me.”

  It was clear to Alcott that this Clay was no fool, and the mention of his infamous battle with Bloody Pete on the Jolly Tinker riverboat told him there was more to Mr. Lucien Clay than he had first believed. “I have a company of men and horses and material to tend to at the moment. Perhaps another time?”

  “Perhaps you’ll come to visit me over at the Molly Malone just over yonder.” He motioned to the building with his hat. “I not only want to have the honor of buying a brave man a drink, but to also discuss the contents of the telegram you received while making your way to our town.”

  Alcott took a step back as he stood a bit taller. “What do you know of it?”

  “I know that Mr. Charles Hagen contacted Mr. Allan Pinkerton and outbid Old Man Barrow’s vengeance against Buck Trammel and Adam Hagen. I know that you’ve good reason to hate Trammel personally as well as professionally. And I know you hate to waste your time and efforts on a fool’s errand, even when you’re well paid for it.”

  Alcott’s eyes narrowed. “You appear to know quite a bit for a man who claims to be a simple saloon keeper.”

  “The train often lays over here in Laramie.” He turned and gestured to the rows of saloons in town. “Their crews need places to eat and enjoy themselves as a railroader’s life is a lonely one. I count many of them as my friends, and friends have a way of telling each other things.”

  He could tell Alcott was intrigued, which meant it was exactly the best time to break away. “But I am afraid I’ve monopolized your time enough, Mr. Alcott. As you said, you have several important matters to attend to. Stop by the Molly Malone when you’re finished and we’ll discuss more over the warmth of a good fire and good whiskey.”

  As Clay headed back to his saloon, Alcott called out, “It may not be until well into the afternoon hours. Perhaps evening.”

  Clay smiled but did not turn around immediately. Alcott hadn’t said no.

  Clay turned and said, “I have nothing but time, Mr. Alcott. Stop by when convenient. The door off the alley is the most private if you’d prefer. Through the bar is the same difference.”

  Clay’s smile held all the way through to his office. He may have just bought himself a Pinkerton to add to his already impressive collection of corruptible officials.

  * * *

  Lucien Clay wasn’t surprised when his lumbering bouncer Brian rapped his knuckles on his office door some five hours later and told him, “A Mr. Alcott is here to see you. Says he’s got an appointment.”

  Clay pulled two glasses and a fresh bottle of his family’s bourbon from his bottom drawer. “Show him in, and make sure we’re not disturbed unless I call for you. Not even if the damned building’s on fire.”

  He remained seated, pouring the whiskey as Alcott entered the office. Brian closed the door behind him.

  The Pinkerton man took off his hat and smiled. “No flourish or handshake, Mr. Clay? No cultured airs of welcome to your place of business?
I must confess I’m a bit disappointed.”

  Clay glanced at him as he poured the second glass of whiskey. “You mean that display I put on down at the station? That was for the benefit of the locals who think I’m just a swill-pushing thug. In here, I decide who thinks what.”

  Alcott seemed to be enjoying himself. “Which is to imply you’re not. A gentleman, I mean.”

  Alcott tossed his hat on the desk before sitting down. “If you really were on the Jolly Tinker that night, you know Pierre Sangre deserved his fate.”

  “Oh, I was there.” Clay handed a drink to Alcott, which he eagerly took. “Pete had it coming. He never knew when to quit while he was ahead, but I’m wagering you do.” Clay grabbed his own drink and tried to clink Alcott’s glass. “Cheers.”

  But Alcott pulled his glass back. “What are we drinking to?”

  Clay thought about it for a moment. “To good alliances old and new.”

  Alcott clinked glasses and the two men drank.

  The men set their glasses on the desk and Clay quickly went about refilling them. “You’ll find that’s the good stuff, too. From my family’s own still back in Kentucky. It’s not the rotgut we overcharge for out there.”

  Alcott frowned. “Some of my men are out there right now drinking your rotgut.”

  “Which serves them right,” Clay said. “After all, you’re in here for a reason. The same reason why I’m no longer working behind the bar and own my places. Several of them, in fact, all across the territory. You and me, we’ve risen above such things. We’ve achieved a certain station, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Beyond that of booze-peddlers and riverboat killers?”

  “The world’s big enough to have a place for the talents of all concerned,” Clay said, “especially for men like us.”

  “Is that why I’m here, Mr. Clay?” Alcott asked. “Because we’re so similar in temperament and experience?”

  “That and because I know what it’s like to be burned unexpectedly.” He picked up his drink, but saw no reason to propose a toast. “I know what it’s like to have vengeance in your grasp, only to lose it through no fault of your own at the last possible second. I also know it’s even better when there’s a profit to be made on the enterprise, and legal, too.” He leaned forward. “I know Trammel humiliated you on that train last spring by sucker punching you in front of a carload of gamblers. I also know Old Man Bowman was going to pay you to avenge his dead son until Charles Hagen paid Allan Pinkerton money to call you off.”

  “You seem to know a lot, Mr. Clay.”

  “I know because the man who was behind it all sat in that same chair as you only a few days ago and told me all about it. Bragging, you might say.”

  Alcott set his glass aside. “You mean Trammel?”

  “I mean Adam Hagen,” Clay said. “Trammel’s just a thug with a star on his vest. Hagen’s the real brains behind all of this. When King Charles refused to buy off Pinkerton, Adam backed his father into a corner to the point where he had to pay. I won’t bore you with the details, but you can rest assured it was impressive as hell. Even I thought it was genius.”

  “So Hagen got what he wanted,” Alcott said. “Since I’d imagine you and Hagen have come to some kind of an agreement, anything that benefits him should benefit you as well. Correct?”

  “Should but doesn’t.” Clay knew he would have to choose his next words very carefully. If he didn’t tell Alcott enough, he and his men would leave town. If he told Alcott too much, such as the part about Hagen having Mrs. Pinochet’s ledger, Alcott might find it and keep it for himself. Clay would just be trading one master for another.

  He walked a thin thread as he said, “I’ve decided that any man crafty enough to back Charles Hagen into a corner is far too dangerous for me to trust in business. Normally, I’d just have to grin and bear it while hoping for better things. But normally, I don’t have an army of Pinkerton boys at my disposal.”

  Alcott stood up. “We are not mercenaries, sir.”

  “The hell you’re not,” Clay said. “And since that door stays shut until I open it, you might as well sit back down and hear me out, because you’re not going anywhere.”

  He watched Alcott slowly retake his seat.

  “Now,” Clay continued, “I can’t pay you more than whatever King Charles paid your boss to have you back off. However, certain things have transpired in the past few days that may make the vengeance you seek a little more attainable.”

  “What could I attain now that I could not attain with twelve trained gunmen at my side?” Alcott asked. “These men are not city ruffians like Buck Trammel, Mr. Clay. These men are all former cavalry or lawmen or ramrods who have never been east of the Mississippi. They have never known the comforts of city life and have never sought them out, either. They’re killers, Mr. Clay, killers through and through. And at my direction, they will take to wiping out any town at hand, be it Blackstone or even Laramie itself.”

  Clay let Alcott run on without bothering to correct him. He knew Blackstone would be easy enough to take once a torch was put to some buildings at each end of town. But Laramie, on the other hand, would prove a much harder challenge, even for a small army of Pinkerton men.

  As Alcott’s arrogance served Clay’s purpose, he allowed it to go unabated for the moment by taking a different tack. “You have now what you had before you boarded the train, Mr. Alcott. The necessary force and ability to take down a town if necessary. What you don’t have is information. Your spy isn’t here to give you his report, is he? A Mr. Somerset, I believe.”

  Alcott’s eyes narrowed once more. “You have him?”

  Clay shook his head. “No, I don’t, but Trammel does. Your man lost his faculties a few days back and took to attacking a soiled dove in the Pot of Gold, one of Adam Hagen’s many establishments in Blackstone. Unfortunately for your man, Trammel heard her screams, interceded, and threw Somerset out a window.”

  Alcott looked at the floor. “So he’s dead.”

  “He’s very much alive and in Trammel’s cell as we speak. I understand he suffers from a variety of aliments, including a broken shoulder, two broken legs, and a skull that rattles a bit more than it used to.”

  “Good God,” Alcott said.

  “I’m afraid the Almighty has little place in this part of the country, Mr. Alcott. But fear not, for I think your strategy against Trammel and Hagen has been far more successful than you currently believe.”

  Alcott raised his chin to him. “Explain yourself, sir.”

  Now that he had him hooked, Clay decided it was time to reel him in. “Not until we come to an understanding.”

  Alcott leaned forward. “This may be your establishment, but it is currently occupied by twelve of my men. That door may stay shut, but I assure you my voice is powerful enough to carry through it. One raised word from me and those men will set to burning it—and everything within it—to the ground.”

  Clay produced the Colt Navy pistol he kept in a holster under his desk and aimed the long barrel at Alcott’s face. “And one shot from in here will set my men a-shooting outside, and they won’t stop until all of them are dead.” He thumbed back the hammer. “Not that you’ll care, of course, because by then, you’ll be rapping on the pearly gates yourself, praying for Saint Peter’s benevolence with the keys.

  Alcott sat back in his chair, but Clay didn’t remove the gun.

  “What are your terms, sir?” Alcott asked.

  Clay eased down the hammer on the Colt, but laid it on his desk, pointing at Alcott to show hostilities between them were paused, but not yet resolved. “I will give you information on how you can accomplish your mission without violating the orders you have received from Mr. Pinkerton.”

  “And how do you suggest I accomplish an impossible task?”

  “By agreeing to my terms, which involves the simple task of killing Mr. Adam Hagen.”

  Alcott blinked. “The very man I was ordered to not kill.”

  “One of t
wo, but given the events of the past forty-eight hours, a task easier to fulfill. You ensure his death and I will be in a position to provide you with suitable protection from the wrath of Mr. Pinkerton and even King Charles Hagen.”

  “Because without Hagen,” Alcott concluded, “you’re in charge of the territory, aren’t you?”

  Clay saw no reason why he should explain himself to the hired help. He simply extended his hand across the desk. “Do we have a deal? You’ll earn far more from me than you will as one of Allan Pinkerton’s errand boys.”

  Alcott looked at the hand but did not shake it. “Why such a generous offer to a man you don’t even know?”

  “Because I know the caliber of man you are, and I know you don’t allow insults to stand for long. I know you don’t like the orders you have received from Pinkerton and your vengeance left unachieved will burn a hole in your belly the whole long ride back to Chicago and for long after. I’m offering you the best of all worlds. Satisfaction, a place to stay, and a steady stream of money in your pocket for the foreseeable future. It’s a fine deal a less intelligent man would readily take, which means you should have shaken my hand by now.”

  Alcott regarded Clay’s hand again before shaking it.

  “Good,” Clay said. “Now that we have an agreement, let me tell you how we can both get what we want. Your enemies have been whittled down from three to only one.”

  “How?”

  “By the bounty you or Mr. Pinkerton placed on their heads. Some men came to collect yesterday, and Adam Hagen was gravely injured. Mr. Hagen himself sent for our town doctor, who rode out in the middle of the night. So I can only assume that Adam is in a bad way. Trammel’s deputy, an idiot boy named Hawkeye, has also been injured and is unfit to fight, not that he would’ve been much of a challenge for you and your men.”