Bury the Hatchet Read online

  He was even more surprised by the double-barreled coach gun Hagen brought up and aimed at the sheriff’s head. He was not surprised to feel the cold steel barrel of Bookman’s Colt pressed against the side of his head.

  “Careful, Trammel,” Bookman whispered. “Be real careful.”

  Trammel didn’t move. Despite the disadvantage, he had no doubt he could take both of them. Mr. Hagen and Bookman were holding their guns too close to his hands. He knew he could push Hagen’s shotgun toward Bookman, likely killing him and leaving the rich man with an empty gun.

  But likely didn’t make it certain. And neither of their deaths would serve a purpose. Neither man was any good to him dead. He decided to keep his hands away from his sides as he slowly backed away from the desk and toward the office door. Hagen’s shotgun and Bookman’s Colt were trained on him the entire way.

  “We’ll forget about your momentary lapse in judgment just now,” Mr. Hagen said, “and allow you to remain as sheriff of Blackstone. However, you’re not to step foot on this property again without permission. Any attempt to do so will be met with deadly force. Isn’t that right, Bookman?”

  Bookman kept the Colt trained on Trammel with one hand. “That’s just about as right as anything you’ve ever said, boss.”

  Trammel kept slowly backing up, hands away from his sides as he eased out the door. “You boys have made one hell of a mistake here today.”

  Mr. Hagen spoke to him from behind the shotgun. “I’d say we prevented you from making a mistake, Sheriff Trammel.”

  “My mistake wasn’t as bad as yours,” Trammel said. “You pulled a gun on a man with nothing left to lose.” He backed into the hallway, then opened the front door and showed himself out.

  He didn’t bother closing it behind him.

  CHAPTER 7

  Adam Hagen almost spilled his drink. “Father did what?”

  “Pulled a shotgun and stuck it in my face.” Trammel ignored the glass and the whiskey bottle on the table. He’d need a clear head from now on with all of the enemies closing in on him. “Both barrels. Hammers pulled back, too.”

  Hagen let out a silent whistle. “I assume Bookman didn’t sit idly by while all of this was happening.”

  “Held a Colt at the back of my head. I had no choice but to back out of there with as much dignity as I could muster, which wasn’t much.” Trammel looked at the whiskey bottle on the table. The memory of his embarrassment made him want to take a drink. Maybe numb some of the embarrassment and anger simmering inside him. But he knew it wasn’t the time for anger. It was the time for cunning. “I feel like a damned fool letting them get the drop on me like that, but I’ll admit I didn’t expect it.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” Hagen picked up his glass. “I doubt you’re the first man they’ve run out of their office.” He winced and not from the whiskey. “Probably have it down to something of a science. They probably had it all worked out the moment they saw you riding up to the house. But Father rarely lays his hands on a weapon anymore. Feels gunplay is beneath him. You should feel honored that he felt threatened enough by you to go heeled.”

  Trammel didn’t feel anything but frustration. “I’d be a hell of a lot more honored if he’d agreed to buy off the Pinkerton men for us.”

  “I wish you had come to me with this before going up there,” Hagen said. “He won’t do that because there’s no profit in it for him.”

  Trammel looked at his former friend. “But you’re his son.”

  “I’m his disappointment.” Hagen poured himself a healthy dose of whiskey. “He’s already got two adoring sons to carry on the family name and a daughter who dotes on him, so any role I might play in his life is irrelevant. I’ve also gone that extra step by defying his wishes for me to be a hotelier and instead, have chosen to become the master of vice in this part of the territory.”

  Trammel sat up straight. He had known what Adam had been up to since they had come to Blackstone, but his former friend had never actually admitted it.

  Hagen was amused by his reaction. “Yes, Sheriff Trammel. I’m confessing all of my sins now that the hour of judgment is at hand. As a good Catholic boy, I would’ve thought you’d appreciate the gesture. Only I have no desire for absolution and I have every intention of making my father atone for his treachery. Not just to me. I’ve been asking for it for years as far as he’s concerned, but for you. He pulled you into this mess by hiring you to replace Bonner, and now he’s leaving you to the wolves. That’s not right.”

  Trammel turned his empty shot glass on the table. “It’s not right for a father to abandon his son.” Hagen’s whiskey bottle looked more tempting than ever, but he couldn’t risk being drunk and he couldn’t abide the epic hangover that was sure to follow tomorrow. “We’ve got trouble heading our way, Adam, and I’d be lying if I told you the odds are in our favor.”

  “We’ve taken on big odds before,” Hagen reminded him. “Why, you took out half a dozen men all on your own if the Blackstone Bugle is to be believed, which it should be, as I witnessed your wrath firsthand.”

  Trammel cursed quietly to himself. “I’d wager those damned newspaper reports are half the reason why we’re in this mess. If the Blackstone Bugle hadn’t run stories about me that were picked up by half the newspapers in the country, Old Man Bowman wouldn’t have known how to find us. Hell, the Pinkerton men might’ve found us eventually, I guess, but it would’ve been harder.”

  Hagen moved his whiskey glass across the tablecloth as he thought. “How many you think they’ll send? The Pinkerton men, I mean. You worked for them for years. You must have some idea how they operate.”

  Trammel had already done the calculations in his head. “Depends on who’s running the group and how many they bring, but you can count on no fewer than six. Closer to twelve would be my guess. They don’t like gunplay when honest citizens are around.”

  “How considerate.” Hagen laughed.

  “Blood’s bad for business. When too many innocents get killed, the same newspapers that idolize them start calling them butchers. If they send twelve after us, they figure it’s likely to keep us from fighting back. It’s also enough to keep us contained while they go to work.”

  Hagen did the calculations in his head. “Twelve against two makes it six-to-one odds. Difficult, but manageable, especially with some planning. Throw your rube deputy in the mix and it’s three to one. He’ll at least absorb a couple of bullets. Might even take one of them with him before he dies.”

  Trammel brought a thick hand crashing down on the table, causing the whiskey bottle to tip over and begin rolling. Hagen grabbed it by the neck before it hit the floor.

  “I don’t want that boy run down by you or anyone else, understand? And he’s not going to be any part of this. This is our mess, not his. Blackstone’s still going to need law when this is all over and he’s the one.”

  Hagen set the whiskey bottle back on the table. “Don’t you think you’re going a little overboard with your dread of these people, Buck? I mean, I’ve read all the accounts of the mighty Pinkerton Agency, but how good could they be? You and I aren’t exactly going to make it easy on them. We’d been in our share of scrapes before we met each other and quite a few since.”

  Trammel rubbed his sore hand. “The men they send aren’t like the bunch Lucien Clay threw at us in the spring. These are capable men who don’t lose their heads when the music starts. They won’t be union-busters like I used to be, either. They’re not bully boys with clubs and bats smacking around a few starving factory workers. They’ll be well-armed, well-trained and well-mounted, most likely ex-army like yourself. Maybe even cavalry. They’ll come looking for a fight and know how to handle themselves when one starts. We might get a few of them when it comes to it, but we won’t get all of them. Hell, we’ll be lucky to take down half before we take on some serious damage ourselves.”

  Hagen seemed to think about it. “And I assume running is out of the question.”

 
; “Will you be serious for once?”

  “I’m quite serious,” Hagen said. “I consider the matter of my own survival to be the most serious matter I know. I say cutting our losses and making a run for it is a viable option. We’ve done it before, you know.”

  Trammel knew. In fact, he had thought about running, though he damned himself for it.

  Although he may have gotten his star by default, it was his now, and he’d grown to like Blackstone. He had a responsibility to the people who looked to him for law and order, and he was proud of what he had accomplished in the six months he’d had the job. He was proud of how he’d changed Hawkeye’s life, too. Changed him from being a laughingstock to a young man who was beginning to come into his own. Running out on him would break his heart almost as much as causing them harm by staying.

  Even with all of that in mind, Trammel still might consider running if it wasn’t for Emily. He couldn’t leave her behind and he couldn’t take her with him. There’s no way she’d leave her mother-in-law in Blackstone. He couldn’t ask her to do it.

  Besides, the town rumor mill had been churning about the pretty young widowed doctor and her boarder, the heroic Sheriff Trammel. It wouldn’t take long for the Pinkerton men to learn about it, and when they did, they’d lean on her to tell them where he might be. She wouldn’t know, of course, but they’d hurt her a long time before they believed her.

  He’d rather die before he allowed that. And he had no intention of dying.

  He had no intention of trying to explain any of this to Hagen, either. He’d only sneer at the sentiment. Trammel had already absorbed enough scorn from the Hagen family for one day.

  “Running would be pointless,” he explained. “They’d run us down and kill us. At least in town we’ve got something of a fighting chance.”

  “Then the matter is settled. We’re staying.” Hagen considered that over the rim of his whiskey glass. “We’re not without friends, you know.”

  “You mean the shopkeepers and bankers? Or the drunks and drovers you serve in your saloons? Other than stopping bullets for us, I wouldn’t count on them for being much good.”

  “Forgive me for using the wrong word. I meant we have partners whose interests would be ill served if something were to happen to us. Well, at least me. You could benefit by proxy.”

  “You mean your Celestials?” Trammel laughed. “Sure, if those heathens blew some of that dragon smoke at them, it could give us a chance, assuming they were that stupid, which they’re not.”

  “I’m not talking about the Celestials, either, though they may play their part in all of this before the first shot is fired.”

  Trammel watched a strange look appear on his former friend’s face. A look he couldn’t quite read. “I’ve never been a big fan of puzzles, Adam, and now’s not the time to start. Speak plain or not at all.”

  Hagen held his glass aloft and slowly turned it, watching the way the lamplight of his sitting room danced on the brown liquid. “When I was at West Point all those years ago, they taught us that when modern answers fail us, a wise man must turn to antiquity for guidance.”

  Trammel was growing anxious. “I’m getting annoyed.”

  But Adam Hagen would not be hurried. “I find myself pondering a quote from one of the greatest generals of all time, who said, ‘Without knowledge, skill cannot be focused. Without skill, strength cannot be brought to bear. And without strength, knowledge cannot be applied.’”

  Trammel shut his eyes. “You and your drunken riddles.”

  “It’s not a riddle. It’s a quote from Alexander the Great. Ever heard of him?”

  Trammel was beginning to wonder if Hagen wasn’t already drunk, and therefore useless to him. “Can’t say as I have.”

  “He once held the entire known world in the palm of his hand much the same way I’m holding this glass of whiskey right now. He didn’t build his empire simply by having a bigger army or being more willing to kill than his contemporaries.”

  Hagen drank the whiskey and gently laid the glass on the table. “No, he won an empire because he was smarter than his enemies. He knew their strengths and weaknesses better than they knew themselves. He knew the decisions they would make and where they would go before they knew it themselves because he studied them before he fought them. He beat his enemies at their own game, and if you and I are to survive this coming calamity, my friend, then we must learn to do the same.”

  Trammel was relieved Hagen was finally starting to make sense. “How?”

  Hagen slowly refilled his glass and set the whiskey bottle aside. He kept looking at the glass as he quoted, “‘Heaven will not brook two suns, nor the earth two masters.’” He winked at the sheriff. “The battle cannot start on Main Street in Blackstone. It must start well before that. In other words, we are going to have to make our own luck.”

  Trammel flinched when Hagen’s hand shot out across the table. “I know we’ve had our differences these many months past, Buck. I know you are disappointed in me, but now you know why I have had to defy my father in the only way I knew how. You may disapprove of my methods, but you cannot fault my reasoning. I apologize for the damage it has done to our friendship, but we must repair that damage if we are to survive our enemies. We must do it together. I need your friendship and you need mine.”

  Trammel had met many sorts of men in his travels, but he had never known one who could be as annoyingly charming as Adam Hagen.

  He shook the man’s hand and not only because the Pinkerton men were coming. “Emily always said we’d patch things up.”

  “A wiser woman has never dwelled in these parts.” Hagen took the cork and tapped it back in the bottle. “Come. We must begin putting our plan into action. We haven’t a moment to lose.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “You sure all of this is necessary, Mr. Alcott? I mean, this is a hell of a lot of effort for a sheriff and a drunken gambler.”

  Alcott checked off an item in his notebook and motioned for Potter to pry open the other box of Winchester rifles. He wanted to have a full accounting of their armaments before they were loaded onto the train for the next day’s journey. “Are you in charge of this expedition, Mr. Potter, or am I?”

  “Why, you are, sir,” said the Missourian. “It’s just that the boys are wondering why we need all of this firepower for just two men.”

  Alcott kept reviewing his notes as though Potter was a mere annoyance. “You’re paid to do what you’re told, not to ask questions.”

  Potter set the crowbar aside. “We’re paid to know what we’re walking into. And bringing this much firepower against a couple of killers is giving the men pause. Now, you might not be paying us to ask questions, but that doesn’t mean we ain’t entitled to some answers.”

  Alcott had encountered resistance from men like Potter since the day he joined the agency five years before. They took his New Orleans drawl to mean he was slow-witted. They took his fancy attire as a sign he was a dandy who enjoyed playing at violence more than actually committing it. They did not know that “Diamond Jim” Alcott, as he had been known despite his first name being Jesse, had once been the most feared enforcer on the Mississippi riverboats before Allan Pinkerton himself had decided to hire him.

  Riverboat captains who sought to keep order on their gambling vessels had paid a handsome price for his services for years. He kept the working girls honest and dealt cheaters with a harshness that was still remembered up and down the river. Mr. Pinkerton hadn’t hired him for his fancy clothes or Cajun drawl. He had hired him because he could be relied upon to know when to kill and when not to.

  When in pursuit of men like Buck Trammel and Adam Hagen, killing would be required.

  But Potter was right. The men were entitled to some answers, and as Potter was someone they looked up to, Alcott decided to indulge his insubordination just this once. “How long have you been with the agency, Mr. Potter?”

  The big man stroked his full moustache as he thought it over. “Goin�
�� on two years, near as I can reckon.”

  “Then you weren’t under Mr. Pinkerton’s employ when Buck Trammel was one of us.”

  “Trammel was a Pinky, too?”

  Alcott bristled at the term used for his agency. He held the term Pinks in similar contempt, but saw nothing could be gained by debating the point with Potter.

  “Once upon a time, Buck Trammel was one of Mr. Pinkerton’s best operatives,” Alcott explained. “He was a fearsome strikebreaker, but also the man assigned to bring in the worst of the worst. Not on the open plain, mind you, but in cities like Chicago and New York and St. Louis. He’s the man who brought in Donald Morgan single-handedly.”

  Potter’s mouth opened. “Trammel did that?”

  Alcott returned to his notebook. “Stopped three bullets in the process, but brought the man in alive. He was half-dead when they reached Fort Hancock, but he fulfilled his mission. They say he killed ten men in the process, resorting to his bare hands when his guns went dry. He and Morgan were the only two who made it out of there alive. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.”

  The look on Potter’s face told Alcott he had.

  Alcott went on. “Adam Hagen is a former officer in the United States Cavalry. Graduated near the bottom of his class at West Point, but led several campaigns against the savages in the Southwest. The years since have served to make him more dangerous and cunning. Blackstone is his home, and it stands to reason that he has many friends there. We may face stiff opposition in our efforts to take him into custody, especially now that Trammel enjoys something of a heroic status after his recent defense of the town this past spring.”

  Potter blinked as the information sank in.

  Alcott had no patience to indulge the dullard any longer. “Now, do you still think all of these rifles and ammunition are too much to go after a small-town sheriff and a drunken gambler?”

  Potter picked up the crowbar and pulled open another crate of rifles.