The Intruders Read online

  “Amen,” Trammel said. “Where do you think they’ll wind up?”

  “Most of them will probably jump the train in Utah,” Moran said. “But they’ll find the Mormons a whole lot less hospitable than us. But they won’t come here again. We’ll make them regret it if they do.”

  Moran poured coffee into a mug and handed it to Trammel. “But from what I hear, dope fiends are the least of your troubles these days.”

  Trammel took that as his cue to tell the sheriff everything that had happened in Blackstone that past week as the sheriff settled down behind his desk with a mug full of coffee for himself.

  When Trammel was finished, Moran said, “Quite frankly, everything you’ve just told me is a hell of a lot worse than what I heard.”

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

  But Moran was his own man and had a reputation for being as fair with the law as he was in handling a gun. He was the kind of sheriff every town wanted, but few had.

  He was the kind of lawman Trammel wished he could be, but doubted he ever would.

  “Sorry for not bringing better news,” Trammel said. “But I figured if anyone could understand, it would be you. I don’t have too many people I can talk to about things like this up in Blackstone. At least no one who’s not wrapped up in this in some way. Hawkeye’s a good kid, but he’s just a kid.”

  “I’m glad you thought to come to me,” Moran said. “I thought having one Hagen in the territory was enough. But two is even worse. And the notion that they’re going after each other doesn’t help matters any.”

  He settled into his chair with his coffee. “Bookman and Fred Montague dead in the same week. And you’re sure Fred killed himself?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Trammel said. “I would’ve bet anything that Hagen did it, but he didn’t. And neither did Big Ben either. Witnesses saw them both in their respective saloons at the time.”

  “Hagen could’ve hired someone else to do it,” Moran observed.

  But Trammel did not think so. “He played a role in driving Montague to kill himself. I’m sure of that. But I’ve seen plenty of suicides in my time, and that’s how this one played out. What Hagen did to drive him to it is anyone’s guess.”

  Moran gave that some thought. “Maybe he felt like he was caught in the middle between Charles and Adam. Maybe one of them had something on him. You know how fond Montague was of his nieces. Hell, Queen Victoria doesn’t even have as many nieces as that old fox claimed to have.”

  Trammel laughed. “True. But I don’t have much time to think about why he did it. Doesn’t much matter anyway. No suicide note, so I’ll probably never know.”

  “Especially with the trouble you’ve got coming your way.” Moran sipped his coffee. “Every hotel in town is buzzing about the crowd they’re expecting for that big march this Albertson fella is cooking up for Saturday. Could be nearer to a hundred people or more.”

  Trammel set his mug on Moran’s desk. He did not feel like coffee just then. He was awake enough as it was. “I can tell something’s going to happen, Rob. Don’t ask me why, but I know.”

  Moran grinned. “That’s the copper in you. And the sheriff, too. It’s funny the way you can sense these things after a while. It’s like smelling a storm on the wind on a clear day with blue skies. At least King Charles had the good sense to move his drive ahead.”

  This was the first Trammel had heard about it. “What do you mean? I saw him yesterday and he didn’t mention anything about it. I thought he was bringing them down next week.”

  “So did I.” Moran found a notice from the railroad on his desk and handed it to him. “Got word last night that he’s decided to move them down here today. The railroad’s got room for them and he’s taking every car they’ve got available.”

  Trammel read the notice, and it confirmed what Moran had just told him. “Why would he do something like that? Why today?”

  “Never been much of a cattleman myself,” the sheriff admitted. “Horse wrangler either. But King Charles is a deliberate man, and if he does something, it’s for a reason. I’ve got an idea on what his reasons might be, but it’s nothing you’re going to like to hear.” He looked at Trammel’s coffee mug. “Want something stronger than that?”

  “I’d prefer to hear it sober, thanks.”

  Moran did not argue. “I think he’s moving his stock now because he’ll want his place clear of it as soon as possible. He probably thinks Adam is coming for him in a big way now that Bookman and Montague are out of the way. He probably figures Adam might do something to them, so the sooner those hooves are at market, the less his losses are liable to be. That’s the only explanation I can see for it.”

  Trammel dropped his head into his hands and ran them over his hair. He had not thought of that. He had not thought Adam would stoop so low as to poison animals, particularly horses, considering he used to be a cavalryman.

  But he also knew Adam’s hatred for Charles knew no depths and he was more than capable of doing something like that, especially if it meant ruining his uncle. “I hate to say it, but you’re probably right.”

  “It gets worse,” Moran said. “That means he’ll have more available hands at the ready come Saturday, when those hundred marchers descend on your town. I wouldn’t put it past him to mix in his boys with the marchers to raise some hell. You’ve been around more of those things than I have. It doesn’t take much to get them set off. I was at a Granger march once where Quakers set to beating some folks.”

  Trammel could believe it. He had seen how quickly a mob could turn ugly. He had seen it in New York, when he had been a policeman there, and in Chicago, when he had been with the Pinkertons. A group of individuals could turn into an angry mob in a hurry, leaving a lot of death and destruction in their wake.

  Buck Trammel had always hated asking for help in any situation, but given what he was facing now, he saw no choice. “You think you could spare some men to help me out this Saturday?”

  “Not a chance,” Moran said, “and it hurts me to have to say that. I’m going to have my hands full with them here in town, not to mention keeping an eye on all the other things that happen here every day of the week. Robberies. Beatings. Drunks. I’d offer to send a couple of my men along with the marchers to help you out, but I can’t spare a single one. You know I would if I could.”

  Trammel had expected that answer but was still disappointed by it. He let out a heavy breath and decided to drink that coffee after all. Maybe it would help clear his mind some. “Think I could pay some of the miners to set off some of that dynamite they use and blow up the tracks?”

  Moran laughed. “I’d be inclined to chip in if I thought it would do any good.” But then the sheriff stopped laughing. “But you might be on to something there.”

  Trammel saw he was thinking of something.

  And a moment later, the same thought came to him.

  Both men set their mugs on the sheriff’s desk and went to the map on the wall that showed the southern part of the territory. It included Laramie and Blackstone at the top.

  Moran traced the route between the two towns with his finger. Trammel spoke before Moran had a chance to do so. “There’s only one passable road between here and Blackstone.”

  “That’s right,” Moran said. “And most of those marchers are going to be riding up there on wagons. Every hauler from three towns around will be here, waiting to bring them up there. Some will be on horseback, but most will be sitting on haystacks and traveling by buckboard, singing hymns and battle songs the whole way up.”

  Trammel pointed at the place on the map where the City of Laramie ended and the town of Blackstone began. “That’s the narrowest part of the
road. Got a fair amount of marshland on either side of it. Be tough to get a wagon across it, should something block the road, like a tree.”

  “Several trees,” Moran suggested. “These aren’t city folk coming to this thing. They’re not afraid of hard work and will clear a tree quicker than you can blink. The more the better. Should an unfortunate event like that happen of course.”

  “Of course.” Trammel had come to Laramie hoping a talk with Moran would help him see things in a better light. He was glad he had gotten the answers he needed.

  Moran continued. “There’s no way of telling when something like fallen trees might happen, but it can’t happen too early. If it happened on Friday morning, there might be enough time for us to get some people out there with axes and workhorses to clear the way.”

  Trammel caught on to his way of thinking. “But if it were to happen on Friday afternoon, just before dark . . .”

  Moran finished the thought for him. “Then we’ll have a whole passel of unhappy pilgrims on our hands who’d have to turn back. Probably have the march here in town, which is fine by us. My men and I can handle that.”

  Trammel patted the spot on the map with renewed happiness. “Would be a shame to disappoint all those folks. But there’s no arguing with nature.”

  “The Good Lord above works in mysterious ways.” Moran patted him on the back. “Come on. I’ll walk you out.”

  * * *

  Trammel had always been amazed by how busy the streets of Laramie seemed to be. He knew the place was three times the size or more of Blackstone, but there always seemed to be something going on in the bustling railroad town. Tradesmen going to and from work. Travelers from the railroad browsing the town’s shops, and their saloons. Drovers selling everything from barber supplies to ladies’ fashions to snake oil flitting about the various businesses and homes as they plied their trade.

  He had been a lawman in Manhattan and Chicago, so he was accustomed to crowds, but those cities were larger. The buildings taller and the throngs of people spread out over a wider area. Laramie seemed to have as much activity as those cities, if not more, crammed into a much smaller area.

  Upon first arriving in Blackstone, Trammel wondered if he could get used to working in a town so small. Now, he wondered if Laramie might be too much of a challenge for him. He was glad the place was in such capable hands as those of Rob Moran and his deputies.

  As the sheriff walked Trammel to where his horse was tied up, Moran said, “I was waiting for you to bring it up, but because you haven’t, I will. I heard about your run-in with Lucien Clay the other day.”

  Trammel had wanted to mention it, but his more recent troubles had pushed it out of his mind. “What did you hear?”

  “The story is that one of his horses threw a shoe on the ride back from Blackstone and he got thrown about his carriage. He’s supposed to be fine but is recuperating in his own set of rooms in the Laramie Grand.”

  Trammel was content to let the story stand if Moran allowed it. “Treacherous road between here and Blackstone.”

  “I happened to be in front of the Grand when they pulled him out of there,” Moran went on. “He looked like he got hit by a train. From what I hear, he’s got a busted head and a broken jaw, but those are just rumors his people are working mighty hard to tamp down. They insist he’s still running the show.”

  Trammel understood the ruse. If people thought he was weak, every crook in town would try nibbling at his hide. “What do you think?”

  “As sheriff of Laramie, I’m glad he’s laid up for a while,” Moran admitted. “But he’s still alive, which ain’t exactly good. Not for me, and not for you either. See, I think he did get hit by a train. A great big one that stands about six-seven and weighs about two hundred pounds.”

  Trammel knew when he was caught. “I’m two-thirty and he had it coming.”

  “He’s had it coming and worse since the day he was born,” Moran said. “But I’ve never seen anyone throw him a beating before, much less one that bad. So on top of all your other problems, I’d keep an eye out for strangers in town. Watch the shadows especially close. He’s not the kind of man who’ll come at you straight on, but when he does, he’ll send someone who tries to kill you. And they’ll be good at it, too.”

  Trammel figured as much. He would have cursed his own luck if he thought it would do any good. It was getting as though he could hardly scratch his backside without causing some kind of bad blood between him and someone else. “Anyone I ought to watch out for in particular?”

  Without turning around, Moran said, “Look over my right shoulder at the front porch of the Molly Malone.”

  Trammel glanced in that direction and saw a large, swarthy-looking man glaring at him from across the bustling thoroughfare. “You mean that mean-looking half breed who’s trying to stare me to death?”

  “Name’s Pete Stride,” Moran told him, “but I hear he used to run with his own gang in Indian Territory. Gave it up and crawled in here about a year ago. He’s worked his way up from one of Clay’s thugs to the topman in his outfit. I haven’t seen much of him since Clay’s been laid up, so I have a feeling whatever revenge Clay’s plotting against you will come from old Pete over there.”

  Trammel chanced a second glance at him and saw all he needed to see. “He’s not much. I’ve gone up against worse.”

  “This one’s a little different,” Moran warned him. “He’s not a mindless thug like the rest of the men who work for Clay. This one’s a thinker. You won’t lure him into any ambush like you did with the last bunch Clay sent up your way. And he won’t let you corner him at a place like Stone Gate like the Pinkertons did. He’ll come at you from the back, so make sure Hawkeye lives up to his nickname. I’d like to see you aboveground a might longer.”

  “So would I.” Trammel held out his hand to Moran, who gladly shook it. “Thanks for listening to my bellyaching in there, Rob. It meant a lot. More than you know.”

  “Think nothing of it,” the sheriff said. “I’ll do my part down here. You just handle your end of things and maybe we can pull this thing off.”

  Trammel untied his horse from the hitching post and climbed into the saddle. The old mare Elias had given him shifted a bit under his weight, but did not offer any serious protest.

  Trammel was surprised when Moran stopped him before he turned the horse toward Blackstone and beckoned him to come closer. “Say, Buck. A city boy like you knows how to handle an ax, don’t you?”

  Trammel laughed in spite of himself. “Can’t say as I do, but I’m a quick learner.”

  Moran scratched his head. “Nothing goes easy for you, does it?”

  “Never has,” Trammel said as he backed the mare away from the jail. “Why should it start now?”

  As he turned the horse toward the road to Blackstone, he could feel Pete’s eyes on his back. He was glad they weren’t bullets or he would most surely be dead.

  CHAPTER 24

  King Charles Hagen was already in the saddle when the first hint of daybreak began to spread across the eastern sky. He had already been up more than half the night by then, helping his men prepare to bring his horses and cattle to meet the train at Laramie. It was the first drive without John Bookman’s steady hand to ensure everything ran smoothly. It took two men to fill his foreman’s shoes. King Charles had thought about leading them to market himself, but his days of wrangling cattle were long past and best done by younger men.

  But Hagen did not trouble himself with the past. There were enough troubles in the present to keep him occupied. And more than enough to watch out for in the days and weeks to come. Love and hate, Charles decided as he watched his men prepare his animals to go to their pens down in Laramie before boarding the train. Love and hate made the world go around the sun. Love raised the cattle and horses and tended to the land they fed from. Hate had forced Hagen’s hand to bring them to market a week sooner than he had expected. He imagined Adam and his henchmen were planning to move against
the herding, so he’d moved it up a week and spoiled their plans. Yes, his own men griped about the rush to market, but their objections did not last long. They knew all that Hagen had lost and deferred to his judgment. If he said the horses and cattle were to be brought to market, to market they would go.

  And as he watched the pen open up and saw the first of his animals bolt toward freedom only to go where his men led them, he felt a glimmer of that old love he had once felt for this place, this life. A love of raising things and helping them grow so they could be sold and benefit his family. And hating the knowledge that they had been born only to be slaughtered for his family’s fortune.

  He watched the last of the cattle leave the pen and, as was his custom, he rode over to the gate himself. He was not a man who allowed himself to indulge in many customs, but being the last man to close the gate on a cattle drive was one of the few he believed in.

  He had done the same thing an hour earlier when his men set out to bring the horses to Laramie. Each of them had been saddle broken and would make ideal mounts for the army. They moved faster than cattle and could see better in the dark.

  Driving horses and cattle to Laramie was far from the difficult task of driving them thousands of miles from Texas to Montana, but it certainly was not a task for a greenhorn. Care needed to be taken to make sure none of the animals lost their way, especially in the marshy area Hagen had taken to calling Midpoint, where the road narrowed considerably and had bog on either side. Over the years, there had been several ideas floated by various people to drain the marsh and make it suitable for development. Perhaps even a railroad spur that led straight to Blackstone.

  But King Charles had always blocked such efforts. A spur would only encourage more people to come to Blackstone, and he felt they already had too many as it was. Too many of the bad sort anyway. He had intended to always keep Blackstone small. A place where his men could find women and whiskey and his miners could spend their wages. The sleepy little town had served its purpose well for a long time until Adam showed up. Madam Pinochet, as despicable as she was, was manageable and kept things in town to a dull roar.