Bury the Hatchet Read online

  But the tears on his friend’s face told him the wounds he suffered now were not the kind that could be bandaged or sewn together. At least not by any surgeon Trammel could name.

  The sheriff sat on the edge of the bed. “I guess you heard all that.”

  “Every single word of it,” Hagen said through the tears. “I suppose I always knew the truth in the back of my mind, but lacked the courage to ask the questions myself. All of those years. All of that anger. All of the lies. If I had known he was my uncle all along, at least I would have understood the hatred and resentment. I caused the death of his sister, for God’s sake. I would have at least been able to see why he treated me like that. But to wander around wondering what I’d done to anger him so? All those years wasted on hating myself, I—”

  “Stop!” Trammel could see his friend spiraling down into a black hole and knew he needed to stop it. “You can’t do much about what’s already been done, Adam. All you can do is face today, then maybe tomorrow, if you’re lucky. Who you were yesterday doesn’t matter much. Who you are today means everything. You’re a full-grown man, no matter what your last name really is. You get decide what happens from here on out. From this moment. Right now. Are you a Hagen, a cripple, or a saloon owner? A friend or an enemy? You can’t choose your blood, Adam. You can only choose the man you decide to be.”

  He stood up and checked on Bookman. The ramrod was still unconscious in the hall and hadn’t shown signs of moving.

  Hagen wiped away the tears with his sleeve. “What brought you back here so quickly? Had anyone searched my office?”

  “You were right,” Trammel said, hoping it would make him feel better. “I found out Bookman was working with Springfield to break into your office and look for the ledger. All they got was a bottle of whiskey. Springfield got it anyway. He went in first on account of him not wanting Bookman to get it.”

  Hagen laughed as he continued to wipe his face with his sleeve. “Springfield always was a weasel. I knew he had a second key made for the new lock, which was why I never kept anything important there. I hope he liked the whiskey, though.”

  “Springfield said it was the best he ever tasted.”

  “As long as someone enjoyed it. If he’s smart, he’ll be out of town before my feet hit the floor. It’ll save me the trouble of shooting him for treachery.” Adam looked at Trammel with reddened eyes. “And I don’t expect any trouble from you when I do. None of this murder or manslaughter nonsense. If anyone has a bullet coming, it’s that weasel Springfield.”

  Trammel ignored Hagen’s threats against the bartender’s life. “You didn’t ask me if Bookman found the ledger.”

  “That’s because I know he didn’t,” Hagen said. “And I didn’t tell you they would. I said they’d most likely look for it in my office because I believed that’s what I told Father in my stupor. In reality, I keep the ledger much closer to home. And don’t bother asking where because I won’t tell you.”

  “I don’t need to know where it is,” Trammel said, “but I’d like to know how you were able to send them on a wild-goose chase while you were half out of your mind with fever.”

  “I was full out of my mind with fever,” Hagen corrected, “and I have no answers on that score. I just as easily could have told them where it actually was instead of in my office. But, at least one thing is certain. We know Father’s true intentions toward me and how much he despises me.”

  He caught himself. “I suppose I should stop calling him that. He’s not really my father. More like my uncle, if anything.” His eyes got soft and drifted up toward the ceiling. “Yes. My uncle. That explains quite a bit, doesn’t it?”

  Realizing there wasn’t much he could say to make his friend feel better, Trammel decided it was best if he left. “I’m going to run Bookman over to the jail and begin the paperwork on his arrest. He’ll be away for at least five years for what he did here today. I don’t think Mr. Hagen will do much to help him this time.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Hagen said from his fog. “Bookman’s been doing the ranch’s dirty work for more than thirty years. You’ve already had one standoff with ‘Mr. Hagen’ over Bookman, and that was with three of us standing against him. With me laid up and Hawkeye unable to even stand, you’re in no position to hold off another siege from . . . the ranch. Get Bookman down to Laramie immediately. My uncle will not be able to lay siege to that jail. Sheriff Moran is nobody’s boy, least of all a loyal subject of King Charles the First.” Hagen closed his eyes. “And, if I have anything to do with it, the Last.”

  Trammel knew Hagen’s plan made sense, but he still did not like it. It was true the new sheriff of Laramie, Rob Moran, was an honest and tough man with his own crew of new deputies, but Charles Hagen was still one of the most powerful men in the territory, certainly in that part of it, anyway. He could easily influence a judge to set Bookman free, which Moran would be powerless to prevent.

  Bookman’s groans snapped Trammel out of his own thoughts and he had to make a decision quickly. “I don’t like the idea of leaving you unprotected.”

  “They’ve no reason to kill me now that I know the truth. Bookman was acting to protect my father, not on his orders, or he would have brought more men with him. Don’t waste time worrying about me. You must get Bookman to Laramie without delay. And after you drop him off with Sheriff Moran, be sure you swing by Judge Bishop’s place. Let him know the nature of the charges against Bookman. Particularly his assault against me.”

  Trammel knew there were three judges in Laramie. “Why Bishop?”

  “Because he has several lines in my ledger and knows it is in his best interest to deny bail to anyone who has attacked me. You’re not to say that to him, of course. The implication of the threat should suffice.”

  That made sense to Trammel, except for one concern. “I’ve never really had the knack for being subtle.”

  “Fortunately for both of us, I do.” Hagen nodded toward the door. “Quickly, before news of Bookman’s arrest reaches the ranch and they send men to stop you. You can be there and back within a matter of hours.”

  Trammel headed out into the hall and took hold of Bookman as the prisoner got to his feet. The sheriff turned back to Hagen. “I’ll send someone over here to keep an eye on you.”

  “Let me worry about me. You just get him behind bars as soon as possible. And don’t forget about the Pinkerton men. They may already be in Laramie when you get there.”

  Trammel grumbled as he steered Bookman toward the front door of the hotel. “The Pinkertons. How could I ever forget the damned Pinkertons?”

  CHAPTER 23

  Trammel and Hawkeye had tied Bookman’s feet in the stirrups and his hands to the pommel of his saddle before leading his horse behind Trammel’s on the trail south to Laramie. The ramrod was still dizzy from the blow he had received that had rendered him unconscious. Having a hard time staying upright in the saddle, his bindings kept him from falling over several times.

  “You can untie these ropes now,” Bookman said when he had regained his senses. “I don’t need any help staying mounted anymore.”

  Trammel ignored him and kept the mounts moving at the same pace.

  Bookman was not as cordial a second time. “Damn you, Trammel, I said untie me. I was riding a horse a long time before you ever saw one, you damned city boy.”

  “You might give the orders on the Blackstone Ranch, Bookman, but we’re not on the Blackstone Ranch right now. You’re under arrest, and we’re headed to Laramie, where you’re going to spend the next three to five years doing hard labor. Best save your wind for the courtroom. You’re going to need every puff you can muster.”

  Bookman didn’t seem to have any intention of quieting down. “What did I ever do to you, anyway? The only problem between us has been over Adam Hagen. Hell, I gave you that star on your chest.”

  “Sheriff Bonner gave it to me before he skipped town,” Trammel said. “And you and I didn’t have a problem until you stuck a gu
n against my head in your boss’s office.”

  “I did that on Mr. Hagen’s orders. I had no choice. I warned him against the notion before you even got there, but he wouldn’t listen. You’ve got the old man spooked, Sheriff. Really spooked. I’ve worked for King Charles for upwards of thirty years and I’ve never seen anyone get to him like you have. You’ve got him talking to himself and losing sleep. Hell, he ordered me to draw on you, boy. It wasn’t even my choice.”

  “I don’t care who gave you the order,” Trammel said over his shoulder. “You decided to do it and that’s what makes it personal.”

  “But I had no choice,” Bookman said. “That was business.”

  “So is this. Now shut your mouth for the rest of the way, or I swear I’ll gag you.”

  They rode together in silence along the well-worn Laramie Road. The sky was just beginning to think about changing over to darkness, but Trammel figured they would be in town before it finally did.

  Bookman didn’t appear to be in the mood to appreciate the coming sunset. “You want an apology? Is that it?”

  “I don’t want anything from you, Bookman. So shut your mouth.”

  “Well, whether or not you want one, you’re getting one,” Bookman sneered. “I’m sorry. Sorry I didn’t pull the trigger on you when I had the chance.”

  “No you’re not.” Trammel glanced back at him. “But you will be.”

  * * *

  Sheriff Rob Moran was a big man, though not as big as Trammel. Few men were. But few men made Trammel feel as inadequate as Moran did. Even from his time on the Metropolitan Police back in Manhattan, Trammel always felt like he was a goon playing a lawman. He enforced the law, if you could call beating people up police work, more through his strength and size than any intelligence or style.

  Rob Moran was a lawman through and through. At just over six feet and a few years over thirty, Moran was one of those lawmen who had not hit his prime yet, and would be a formidable presence in town for decades. He had been brought to town from Abilene by the Laramie Businessmen’s Association several months before and had handily won election over the previous sheriff who had openly been in Lucien Clay’s pocket.

  Moran was no one’s man, however, and had a reputation for being as fair with the law as he was in handling a gun. He was the kind of lawman every town in this part of the country wanted, but few had. He was the kind of lawman Trammel wished he could be, but knew he never would.

  The sheriff of Laramie did not look happy as he read over the hastily written report Trammel had given him. Moran’s hat sat crown down on the corner of his desk. His jet-black hair was just beginning to show specks of gray at the temples.

  Trammel imagined he still had a few years before he started showing gray, but did not care if his hair turned orange as long as he had the chance to keep it. His father had been as bald as a bean, and he hoped the same fate did not await him. He flattened down that hair as he watched Moran finish reading his report.

  “I must tell you this is a highly irregular request, Trammel,” the sheriff said as he set the report aside. “Usually we make arrangements in advance for the arrival of prisoners. You’re lucky we had enough space for this Bookman character or else I’d have had no choice but to ask you to take him back with you to Blackstone.”

  “Then I count myself lucky.”

  Moran sat back in his chair. “I’ve heard about your run-in with Mr. Hagen last week and those damnable bounty hunters who shot up Adam and your deputy. Is that why you were in such a hurry to bring Bookman down here?”

  “It’s part of it,” Trammel admitted. “They’re the best shots I’ve got and, with the two of them laid up, I’m the only able-bodied gun in town. The shopkeepers mean well, but I can’t give them too free of a hand or they’ll kick the hell out of the saloon patrons. Since the drunks and the ramblers like to spend money, too, I’m trying to strike a delicate balance.”

  Moran set his elbows on the arms of his chair and folded his hands across his flat belly. “You sure this was a good time to go picking a fight with a man like Mr. Hagen, Buck? King Charles has a lot of friends in this part of the world.”

  “He’s got a lot of people he owns,” Trammel said. “There’s a difference when loyalty comes at a price.”

  “Loyalty always does.” Moran smiled. “You know, you’re building quite a reputation for yourself as a gunfighter.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Trammel didn’t smile. “It’s not by choice, believe me.”

  “I know, but you’re getting that reputation nonetheless. I heard about some of that bounty hunter talk here in town and did my best to clamp down on it. I think I may have saved you some grief by running some of the braggarts out of town, but it’s the professionals you have to worry about. You can see the amateurs coming from a mile away, but the professionals know enough to stay quiet until the shooting starts.”

  “It was amateurs that put Adam Hagen down,” Trammel pointed out. “We’re still not sure if he’ll be able to keep the arm, much less use it again.”

  “I heard that from his doctors when they came back to town.” He pointed at Trammel’s report. “It doesn’t match up with what you write here. If you think Mr. Hagen sent Bookman to kill his own son, then why did he go through all the trouble of trying to save him when he got shot? It just doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  It would make plenty of sense if you knew they were only keeping him alive to question him about the ledger, Trammel thought, but dared not say. He imagined Moran had probably heard rumors about the ledger since becoming sheriff of Laramie, but Trammel had no intention of confirming them. The fewer people who knew the damned thing actually existed, the fewer who would come looking for it, which would make Blackstone a safer place.

  “Mr. Hagen’s a strange man,” Trammel said. “I don’t know if Bookman tried to kill Adam on his own or on orders from his boss. All I know is that I caught him trying to smother Adam with a pillow after he busted up his office looking for something. I suppose the rest of the facts will come out at trial.”

  “That’s what trials are for,” Moran agreed. “But you’re the biggest mystery in this whole thing as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Me?” Trammel was genuinely surprised. “Why?”

  “Because you spent half a day running Bookman down here when you know Mr. Hagen’s going so send one of his men to talk to a judge and get him sprung before dinnertime. Hell, I expect a Hagen man to come walking through that door any moment and demand we take Bookman before a judge to release him right now. I’m surprised one of them didn’t beat you here.”

  Trammel decided to test one of Adam’s theories. “Is Judge Bishop in charge this week?”

  “This entire month,” Moran corrected him. “And he’s been known to be partial to ruling in Mr. Hagen’s favor in the past. I see no reason why he wouldn’t do so in this case.”

  “You leave that to me.” Trammel stood and Moran stood with him. “The judge in his office upstairs?”

  “Didn’t see him leave, so I suppose he is. Why?”

  “Just want to have a word with him is all.” He held out his hand to Moran, who eagerly took it. “Thanks for taking Bookman for me, Rob. I know he’s in good hands with you and your men.”

  “He is until a judge cuts loose of him,” Moran said. “After that, it won’t matter how good my hands are.”

  Trammel already knew that. “I appreciate it just the same.”

  As he turned to leave, Moran stopped him by saying, “There’s something else, Buck. It goes to what we were talking about earlier . . . about bounty hunters. There are some Pinkerton men in town.”

  Trammel stopped, but didn’t turn around. “What?”

  “Been here a little less than a week,” Moran explained. “They set up shop over at Lucien Clay’s new place. The Molly Malone.”

  “How many of them?”

  “An even dozen near as I’ve been able to figure. Thirteen if you count the man running them. He’s a
man who goes by the name of Jesse Alcott. Ever heard of him?”

  Trammel closed his eyes. He remembered the man and the name from the train ride out to Laramie from Ogallala last spring. The same man he had humiliated on the train was in town, leading a posse of trained killers come to finish him off. “Yeah, I know him.”

  “Was a riverboat gunman on the Mississippi back when I first heard of him. As nasty with a gun as he was with a knife, near as I can remember.”

  Trammel only remembered the man being on his hands and knees on the floor of a train car six months before. He was certain Alcott remembered it, too.

  “They say what they’re in town for?”

  “That’s why I’m mentioning it,” Moran said. “They haven’t said why they’re here, but I’d imagine it’s got something to do with you. I heard Mr. Hagen had Mr. Montague buy them off, but I don’t know if the word reached them before they got here. What I do know is that they’ve been spending a lot of time at Lucien’s places. Throwing out rowdies and the like. Have to admit they’ve been a good bunch to have around. I’ve only got four deputies, and with the Pinkerton men minding the town, we’re able to cater to the problems in the areas outside of town we can’t always get to. Rustlers, things like that.”

  “Yeah.” Trammel tried to fight down the bile rising in his throat. “Rustlers.”

  Trammel’s worst fears were coming true. Clay and the Pinkerton men were working together. He had no idea what it might be, but whatever it was, would probably involve Blackstone before long. “Thanks for telling me, Rob.”

  “I’d advise you to head back to Blackstone as soon as you can,” Moran said, “and be sure to watch your back trail when you do. I don’t know what kind of arrangement Clay is cooking up with Alcott and those Pinkerton men. I’m not saying you can’t go near any of Clay’s places. I’m just saying it might not be a good idea is all.”

  “I appreciate you looking out for me, Rob. I sincerely do.”

  Moran sat back down. “Hell, Buck. I’m not asking you to stay away for your sake. I’m asking you to stay away for their sake. You’re liable to kill those boys, and I could do without the dead bodies.”