The Intruders Read online

  “Kind of funny, isn’t it?” Hawkeye asked as they walked along the boardwalk. “All of these people here to march against Mr. Hagen, yet they’re staying at his hotel and eating at his places.”

  “Nothing funny about it,” Trammel observed. “People tend to resent the people who give them the things they most enjoy. And I’d wager we’ll be seeing a few of those prayerful people staggering along here in a few hours as they go back to their rooms.”

  They had just begun to cross onto New Main Street when Trammel saw two riders turn off the road to Laramie. It was too dark and they were too far away to see their faces, but there was no mistaking that one of the riders had a crooked back.

  They stopped their horses in the middle of Main Street for a moment before urging their horses toward Bainbridge.

  Hawkeye had seen them, too. “One of those men looked like Mike Albertson.”

  Trammel had thought the same thing. “Wonder who he rode into town with. Looks like they’re heading over to Mrs. Higgins’s place. Let’s go ask them. We’ll pick up our patrol later.”

  They dodged a couple of wagons bringing more people into town as they crossed Main Street and reached Bainbridge Avenue. They came to Mrs. Higgins’s house just as Albertson and his friend climbed down from their horses. Neither of them had seen the lawmen approaching.

  Trammel gripped the Henry a little tighter and saw Hawkeye had done the same.

  “Evening, gents,” Trammel called out to them from the darkness. “Welcome back, Albertson. Looks like you’ve been gone a while.”

  Something in the way the second man moved told Trammel he was raising a gun. Trammel pushed Hawkeye to the left as he dove right.

  Three shots cut through the night air as Trammel hit the ground.

  He could see the man wheeling his horse away from the house as he tried to get away.

  Trammel sat up and aimed as straight as he could manage at the dark, fleeing figure and got off three shots of his own. He had no idea if any of them had struck their target, but he had not heard anything hit the ground either.

  “Don’t shoot!” Albertson called out as he held his hands in the air. “I’m unarmed!”

  Trammel aimed the rifle at him. “Hawkeye, you all right?”

  “I’ve got him covered, boss,” the young man said from the darkness nearby. “He’s not going anywhere.”

  Trammel struggled to get to his feet. He had felt ridiculous, sitting flat on his ass in the dirt while someone had been trying to kill him, but he had not been given much of a choice.

  He soothed his bruised ego by snatching Albertson by the collar and throwing him against Mrs. Higgins’s door, where the light was better. He pressed the barrel of the Henry against the back of the rabble-rouser’s head. “You keep your hands on the wall until I say otherwise. You move, I’ll kill you.”

  Albertson placed his hands against the wall, just as Trammel had ordered.

  The front door opened, and Mrs. Higgins appeared, clutching a bathrobe at her chest. “What’s all this ruckus about?” She squinted at the men in the darkness. “Is that you, Sheriff? Mr. Albertson?”

  While Trammel leaned his gun against the wall and patted Albertson down, Albertson said, “Go back to bed, Mrs. Higgins. It’s all a grave misunderstanding. I’ll explain everything in a moment. I promise.”

  Mrs. Higgins did what Albertson had told her to do and shut the door.

  Trammel patted down Albertson’s pants and heard the unmistakable clink of gold coins in his pocket. He dug in and pulled out a velvet bag roughly the size of his hand. He weighed it and realized it was indeed gold.

  He continued to pat down Albertson and found a knife in his boot, which he threw aside and out of Albertson’s reach.

  Trammel grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around, keeping him pinned against the wall with a heavy hand to the chest. “You’ve got one chance to explain yourself before I lose my temper.”

  Albertson asked, “Can I lower my hands now, Sheriff?”

  “Slowly.”

  Albertson lowered his hands slowly and said, “Like I told Mrs. Higgins, this is all a horrible misunderstanding, Sheriff.”

  “Getting shot at is pretty clear to me,” Trammel told him. “Why, and who is he?”

  “I’m afraid my cousin Abraham is still a dangerous man, Sheriff,” Albertson explained. “He’s a sinner, same as me, and has only recently begun to reform his ways. When you approached us in the dark like that, it seems his old instincts got the better of him and he shot at you before riding away. Please don’t take it personally.”

  Hawkeye was at Trammel’s side now. His rifle was still aimed at Albertson. “Kind of hard to take getting shot at any other way but personally.”

  Trammel was not done questioning him. “What’s he doing here with you? And why’d you two ride up from Laramie so late?”

  “Like I told you,” Albertson said, “my cousin is seeking to reform his ways and has been helping me organize the march in Laramie. I’d have thought you would be happy about that, Sheriff. Everyone knows you’re as unhappy with the laudanum dens as we are. You’ll find yourself in good company on Saturday.”

  Trammel pulled him off the wall, then pushed him back hard against it. “And you’re going to find yourself in jail if any trouble starts. I’m going to hold you personally responsible for anything that happens.”

  Albertson frowned. “I am not my brother’s keeper. Or, in the case of what happened here tonight, my cousin’s keeper.”

  Trammel held the bag of gold coins in front of his face. “And where’d you get all of this money? The collection plate?”

  “Our cause has support from many quarters, Sheriff Trammel. There is no shortage of people who applaud our efforts to call people to be better and renounce sin. What you hold in your hand is the sum of the donations we have received from concerned citizens who wish us well.”

  Trammel did not believe it. “Who’s your donor?”

  “Someone who wishes to remain anonymous,” Albertson said. “And will remain so.”

  Trammel began to put things together as he kept Albertson pinned against the wall. The two men had ridden up from Laramie after dark, probably to keep from being seen. One of them took a shot at him and rode off, leaving Albertson behind with a pocketful of money. That did not sound like a reformed man to him.

  The whole march suddenly took on a different look to him.

  “This anonymous contributor of yours wouldn’t happen to be Lucien Clay, would it?”

  Albertson did not so much as flinch. “I know of Mr. Clay, but I don’t know him personally as we find ourselves on opposing sides, sir.”

  “Do you?” Trammel pressed the crooked man harder against the wall. The wood began to crack behind him. “Or maybe it only looks that way?”

  Trammel watched an element of iron appear in Albertson’s eyes. “You may think whatever you like, Sheriff, but what you can prove is another matter entirely. So, are you going to return my gold and let me go, or are you going to push me through poor Mrs. Higgins’s wall? I don’t think she’d be too happy about that, and you know how difficult she can be when she puts her mind to it.”

  Trammel let the man go and stepped away from him. Albertson rolled his crooked shoulders as he tried to get some feeling back in them. “I’m going to forget any of this ever happened as a gesture of goodwill between us. Now, as for my gold—”

  Trammel stuck the sack in his pocket. “You’ll get it on Monday, when the bank is open.”

  Albertson flinched. “That’s not legal, Sheriff. Some might even go so far as to call it robbery.”

  “I call it prudent,” Trammel said. “If it’s a donation, like you say, then you won’t be needing it until after the march is over. But if it’s to be used as a payoff for some thugs you’ve hired to cause trouble, then you’re going to find yourself in one hell of a spot when you don’t have their money.” Trammel patted the coins in his pocket. “You sure you want to stick to you
r story about it being a donation?”

  Albertson licked his lips. “I’ll want a receipt for that. I know exactly how much is there, so if any of it is missing, I’ll make a formal complaint in Laramie about it. That much I promise you, Sheriff.”

  “We’ll push the receipt under the door before morning,” Trammel told him. “Don’t worry about that. You just worry about what you’re going to say to the men expecting this money. We’ve had a lot of deaths around here this week while you were away. I wouldn’t want yours to be one of them.”

  Albertson picked up his hat from the ground. “Your concern overwhelms me, Sheriff. It truly does.” He gestured with the hat as he said, “A good evening to you and your deputy.”

  He hobbled inside the house and shut the door behind him.

  Trammel considered hanging around in front of the house, listening at the door to hear how Albertson explained himself to Mrs. Higgins, but thought better of it. He and Hawkeye were awfully good targets in the light of the old woman’s house and he had been shot at enough for one night. No sense in pressing his luck.

  He finally turned his attention to his deputy. “You sure you’re all right?”

  The deputy nodded but was still looking at the closed door. “I don’t like this, boss. I don’t like it one bit.”

  “Neither do I. Come on. We’ve got a patrol to finish.”

  * * *

  Pete Stride pulled his horse up short when he felt something warm and wet flowing down his leg. He had not felt the impact of a bullet, but he had been in enough scrapes to know you did not always feel it at first. The pain only started after the moment had passed.

  He cursed the darkness as he got down from the saddle. He kept a tight grip on the horse’s reins as he felt his body for holes or blood. He had to go by feel because he was in the middle of nowhere on a moonless night. The lights of the town were small in the distance.

  He felt around as best he could and realized he had not been shot, but his right leg was damp. He smelled it in the darkness, and the metallic tinge to it told him it was blood.

  He rubbed the right flank of his horse and felt the bullet wound. His hand came up slick as the horse shied away from the pain.

  Pete cursed loudly in the darkness. He had no idea where he was, except a good distance away from town. He had no idea if Micklewhite had stuck with his Albertson story or had given him up to Trammel. He had gotten a good look at the lawman in Laramie and could not blame a man like Micklewhite for folding if he did. The sheriff looked like he knew a lot of ways to hurt a man and would not mind using any of them.

  But Pete had more pressing concerns at the moment. His horse had been shot just above the right hip. It was bleeding and the bullet was still in there, though he had no way of knowing how deep. It did not appear to have hit anything vital, but Pete knew it was only a matter of time before it began to affect the way he walked. Infection would probably set in over the next day or so. He would need to find another horse, and soon.

  He swore again, this time at his own foolishness for rushing the shot at Trammel the way he had. He had recognized the big man immediately when he stepped from the darkness but had been taken by surprise. He had let down his guard and now he was stuck in the middle of nowhere with a lame horse in the pitch darkness of unfamiliar country. He had not been prepared to spend the night outdoors and knew it would grow colder still. And if he took the saddle off the horse and bedded down where he was, he could find himself out in the open and exposed come morning. Trammel would probably come looking for him and he needed to put as much distance between him and the sheriff as possible. Besides, if he took the saddle off the horse, he might not get it back on again. If the bullet wound was as bad as it looked, the animal would be in more pain the longer it stayed still.

  He climbed back into the saddle and decided to keep moving, but at a much slower pace. No one seemed to be coming after him, so there was no reason to hurry.

  He knew that the horse could see in the dark and that the Blackstone Ranch was somewhere nearby. He remembered Micklewhite’s babbling on the ride up here from Laramie, and his tales about the horses and cattle on the Blackstone Ranch. He knew Hagen had poisoned the cattle, but not the horses. Maybe he would get lucky and find one at the ranch.

  He remembered Micklewhite had told him the ranch overlooked the town, so he rode in that direction. He picked out a single star from the countless ones overhead and headed in that direction. It was not much of a plan, but it was all he had.

  He had been riding in that same direction for what he judged to be about half an hour when his horse faltered a bit and tossed its head. It had caught the scent of something on the wind. Something Pete hoped was another horse, and not a wolf or a coyote. Those predators usually stayed away from humans during the day, but the night was their world and they knew it.

  He urged his horse onward up the gradual incline until he caught the smell, too. Coffee and campfire. The cowboy’s friend. And, on that night, Pete Stride’s friend, too.

  His days in the badlands had taught him how to ride quietly by cattlemen. He brought his horse down to a lope, but urged it to keep riding around the low flame that was now visible. He knew one jangle from his rig could put the men on edge and send them into the darkness to investigate. He dared not risk it.

  The wounded animal did not make a sound as they rode past the five men around the campfire. Pete Stride watched them pass a jug among themselves as he and the horse crept by at a fair distance.

  He could smell cattle were nearby, and if Micklewhite’s rambling was any indication, there should be horses close, too. But he could not catch their scent on the wind and his mount’s steps were beginning to falter. That wounded right leg was failing. It would only be a matter of time before it gave way, and Pete could not risk being pinned beneath the animal until Trammel or one of the ranch hands found him the next morning.

  There was only one thing left for him to do: find the Blackstone Ranch’s stable, which Micklewhite had mentioned on the ride up to Blackstone. He could steal a horse from there and sneak back into town.

  But going near the stable was also the most dangerous thing he could do, because someone was likely to hear him while he was there. But it was a chance he had to take.

  Again he rode wide of the campfire and toward the general direction of where he thought the ranch house might be. The house would be deserted, so he knew there would be no candles or oil lamps to reveal it in the darkness.

  But in the near distance he could see a series of buildings that blocked out the stars behind them. He used his nose to guide him toward the stable and found a small lamp burning when he got there.

  It was just in time, too, for his horse was beginning to limp noticeably now, and that right leg would give out any minute.

  Pete climbed down from the horse and pulled his horse along with him. He might lose his rig if the horse fell now, but at least he would not have his leg crushed by the large animal.

  He continued to walk toward the lamp burning outside the stable and stopped.

  It did not feel right. Why would they leave a lamp burning at the stable unless someone was around to keep an eye on it?

  He got his answer when he was about to enter the stable. The feeling of gunmetal against the back of his neck was cold enough to make Pete freeze where he stood.

  “You mind telling me what the hell you’re doing out here this time of night?”

  The voice was unfamiliar and could belong to anyone. Trammel. His deputy. A ranch hand. “I was looking for someone who could help my horse. He’s hurt real bad.”

  “So I noticed,” the man said. “Been trailing blood all over the ranch. A blind man could follow it, if he had a nose for blood.”

  Pete kept his arm straight, only moving it at the elbow to grab the knife he always kept tucked in his belt. This damned fool was too close to him. He was already dead. The trick was to get his gun before he fired it. “If you could help me with my horse, mister, I�
��d be obliged to you.”

  The gunman pushed him forward with his firearm. It felt like it probably was a rifle, not a pistol. That was very good. Pete saw that as very good news indeed.

  “Get moving into the stable where I can get a better look at you.”

  Pete led his wounded horse toward the stable and the man with the gun prodded him. When Pete felt the angle of the barrel against his neck change as the man reached for the lamp, the old outlaw pulled his knife as he spun around. His left hand knocked the rifle aside as his right slashed across the ranch hand’s belly. The man dropped to his knees, cradling his belly, as Pete took hold of the rifle. He realized it was a shotgun and he tossed it away. He did not have much use for shotguns at present.

  The man dropped the lamp and used both hands to try to stop the bleeding. Some of the dry straw on the stable floor began to burn beside him, which only made Pete’s selection of a horse that much more urgent. He found a chestnut mare that looked strong enough and decided he’d take her. His horse, along with all the rest of the animals in the barn, was growing anxious as the flames from the lamp started to spread. The wounded rancher, now flat on his back, did his best to stamp out the flames with his arm. All he got for his trouble was his shirt catching fire.

  Pete tied his horse to the nearest post and hefted off her saddle. The mare in the stall fussed a little, but did not kick him. He threw his saddle atop her and buckled the straps under her barrel. He pulled the mare out of the stall and was about to ride off when the dying man with the burning arm said, “Don’t leave the horses to die, mister. They don’t deserve that.”

  Pete realized he was right. He urged his horse back into the stable, where he reached down and opened all the stalls. Each horse bolted from the building and away from the rapidly spreading flames. He looked toward the campfire and saw the dark outlines of men closing in on the barn.

  The last horse to escape was Pete’s wounded one. He untied her reins from the post and watched her ride away with the others. He gave his new mare her head and let her follow the fleeing horses. Her hoofprints would blend in with the others until he was far enough away from the ranch to turn back toward town.