The Intruders Page 6

  He nodded to her and offered what Trammel figured was his version of a smile. “Why don’t you go back to unloading the wagon? Mr. Hagen is supposed to send some men along to help us in a while.”

  Ben gave Trammel a final look before going back to work. It was not a vicious look, but it was not a look of deference either. After all the man had endured, Trammel doubted he gave ground to any man.

  Lilly pulled Trammel into the saloon. “Don’t let his demeanor fool you. He’s actually a gentle giant. Harmless most of the time. Well, almost gentle, unless trouble starts.”

  Trammel did not doubt it. “A man his size has a way of stopping trouble before it even starts.”

  “Some of my customers in Kansas objected to his presence on account of him being black, but I didn’t mind losing their business. Adam said the people of Blackstone are far more open-minded.”

  “Depends on who you’re talking about,” Trammel said. “We’ve got good and bad here, just like in any other town.”

  She led him through the doorway of her new saloon and finally let him go. “Well? Take a look at her and tell me what you think.”

  Trammel had always thought saloons all looked alike, but he had never seen one as brand-new as this. The bar looked to be made of mahogany, as was the frame of the mirror behind it. The brass footrail gleamed, and the floor did not have a hint of sawdust. The green felt on the card tables was clean and devoid of cigar burns or liquor stains.

  The banister that led to the rooms upstairs sported a newel post with a cherub carved on top of it. Several chandeliers sporting cut glass hung high above the place. As his eyes continued upward past the rooms upstairs, he saw the roof had clear windows that allowed light to shine down into the place during the day.

  Trammel knew he was looking at something special, for the moment the place was opened to the public, it would never look this good again.

  He said the first thing that came to his mind. “Beats the hell out of what you had in Kansas.”

  “Doesn’t it, though?” Lilly beamed. “This is going to be a real classy place, Steve. The kind of place I’ve always wanted, and now I have it.” She hugged him again. “God, I can’t remember ever being this happy.”

  And as she looked up at him, he forgot about all that had happened with Hagen and Bookman and Mike Albertson’s rabble-rousing. Kissing her felt like the most natural thing in the world, and that was exactly what he did.

  He was glad when she slipped her hand behind his head and pulled him down to her, kissing him deeply.

  He didn’t know how long they had been kissing, though he was dizzy when they stopped.

  He felt himself redden. “Sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.”

  She placed a slender finger to his lips, just as she’d done the day he had fled Wichita with Hagen. “That kiss was a long time in coming, Sheriff.” She ran her finger along his jaw. “Too long. When I watched you two ride away, I promised myself I’d show you how I felt about you the next time I saw you. That promise helped me get through some awfully rough patches this past year.”

  Trammel did not know what to say because he had never heard those words before, at least not from anyone directing them his way. The words of dance-hall girls and painted doves did not count. Their affections were fleeting and stirred by the money in his pocket that would soon be theirs.

  But Lilly had no reason to say such words unless she meant it. And he was awfully glad she had.

  She arched her back to look up at him. “What’s that look for? You seem troubled.” An idea dawned on her. “There’s not someone else, is there? Because if there is, I’m not asking you to leave her.”

  “There’s no one,” he admitted. “Not anymore.”

  She put her head against his chest over his heart. “Good, because her loss is my gain. There’s no reason for anything to come between us now. Not the Bowman family or Pinkertons or even those damned Earp boys. Blackstone belongs to us now. Just you and me.”

  He held her as tightly as he dared, the feather in her hat be damned. If it were only that simple.

  He hated ruining the moment, but knew he’d never be able to sleep that night if he did not speak his mind. “There is one thing that’s bothering me.”

  “I already know what you’re going to say and don’t worry,” she said sleepily. “I found us a great big bed that’ll be plenty comfortable for both of us. And you can hate me for being too sure of myself, but I don’t care.”

  He gently eased her away from him and held on to her shoulders. “That’s not it. When I asked you what kind of place you were planning on running here, you didn’t really answer me.”

  “Sure, I did,” she told him. “It’ll be a much better place than the old one. Table games. A roulette wheel if Adam can get one for me. I’ve got a source for better liquor that’ll be shipped here all the way from San Francisco. After we open and I see how the place is doing, I plan on having a few girls working the floor if I can find the right sort. If not, I’ll rent out the rooms upstairs to upstanding folk. Why do you ask?”

  Trammel was growing frustrated with his inability to speak his mind. “I’m not talking about that either. I’m asking about your arrangement with Hagen. What are the details you agreed to with him?”

  Lilly thought about it for a moment. “He’s not charging me rent for the first two months until the place gets up and running, if that’s what you’re asking. After that, it’ll be forty percent of the take. If that take goes above a certain number, I won’t have to pay rent. I don’t know the exact dollar amount, but it’s not much.” She ran her finger along his jaw again. “Why the concern?”

  “Did he say anything about pushing laudanum here?” Trammel finally managed to spit it out. “He’s been selling laudanum out of the Pot of Gold down the street and he’s got a laudanum den set up in a tent behind the saloon. Has he talked about having you run anything like that here?”

  “Not a word,” Lilly said, “and he’d better not try. I hate those places. Damned smoke always gives me the worst headache.”

  Trammel smiled, really smiled, for the first time since Emily threw him over. “Good. I’m glad to hear you say that. Just make sure you don’t give in to him. You know how he can be. He could sell salt water to a sea captain.”

  “Don’t worry, Sheriff. There’s only one man in town who could talk me into anything, and I’m looking at him.”

  She went on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “You know, I can get some of the boys to set up the bed right now if you want.”

  Trammel kissed her again and let her go. “What I want and what I’ve got to do are two different things. Right now, duty calls. But I’ll be back later on tonight to check on things.”

  He smiled as he touched the brim of his hat to her. “Afternoon, Miss Lilly.”

  She curtsied. “And to you, Sheriff Trammel.”

  He walked out of the new Gilded Lily and saw ten of Hagen’s men had shown up to help Ben unload the wagon. They were in awe of how easily he moved the barrels of goods that took two of them to carry.

  He caught Ben’s eye and nodded to him as he passed. He thought Ben nodded back but couldn’t be certain.

  CHAPTER 8

  Adam Hagen flexed his right arm before he pulled on his shirt. It was the first time he had attempted to dress alone in months. One of his painted doves had been helping him dress since the shooting, but today was a special day. He had serious business to discuss with a serious man.

  The constant pain that had been with him since the shooting had begun to dull over the past month or so, and his strength had returned. He imagined Dr. Downs would have been impressed by his progress had he allowed her to examine him, but he had not. He had other plans for his own recovery that served his purpose beyond the fair Miss Emily.

  His right hand shook as he began to button his shirt, but he willed his fingers to work. He was drenched in sweat by the time he was done and had to dry himself with a towel. A wave of
dizziness from the pain caused him to sit in a chair until it passed.

  He’d never imagined something so routine as buttoning a shirt would be so taxing, but he had never been shot in the shoulder before.

  When he opened his eyes, he was glad the room had stopped spinning. He found himself looking out his front window and at the Hagen ranch house in the distant hillside. The very sight of the place was enough to spur him on to finish getting dressed. Adam Hagen had learned the hard way that hate was an effective painkiller.

  Pulling on his pants had proved less trying than the shirt, but trying to pull on his boots almost killed him. It took him more than half an hour of trying a variety of angles before he got them both on. He counted the fact that he had not ruined their shine as something of a victory.

  He removed the Colt Thunderer from its holster and placed it on the bureau. The absence of the gun made the belt lighter and easier for him to buckle. By the time he had finished tying down his holster, he found his right arm ached less than it had in a long time. The endless hours he had spent squeezing the bag of sand had worked.

  He held out his right hand before him and tried to keep it steady. He was able to do so for about ten seconds before it began to shake and the pain returned. Tomorrow I’ll try for twenty seconds. After all, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

  He took the gun from the bureau and holstered it. The sound of gunmetal against fine leather almost made him feel whole.

  He checked his reflection in the mirror one final time before he went downstairs to greet his guest. He looked better than he had since the shooting. His skin looked healthier. His eyes were brighter, and his cheeks weren’t as fallow as they had been only last week. One would have to look especially hard to see the white bands of hair among the blond. He would be wearing his hat the whole time anyway, so his guest would be none the wiser.

  He straightened his tie and straightened his vest and made sure his suit coat fell just right. He was still thinner than he ought to be and the clothes looked big on him. He was glad his guest was a cunning man but not necessarily an observant one.

  Hagen raised his chin and spoke to his reflection, something he had not done since his days as a cadet at West Point. “You are not sick. You are the picture of health. You are the topman. You will win.”

  His voice was strong. And his wink was as sharp as ever. It should be enough to win the day.

  Deciding he looked as good as he could manage, he went downstairs to greet his guest. He had kept him waiting for more than half an hour, which was by design. If their partnership was to work, Lucien Clay would need to know his place.

  As expected, he found Lucien Clay pacing in the lobby of the Clifford Hotel. Hagen smiled, though not for Clay’s benefit. It was for himself, and the fact that making him cool his spurs waiting for him had produced the desired result.

  “Lucien, my friend,” Hagen said as he reached the final step. “Forgive me for being late, but I had important business that needed tending to.”

  Clay stopped pacing and looked him over, as if he was one of the prospective sporting gals he hired to work for him in Laramie. “Good to see you up and around, Adam. You’re looking well.”

  Clay seemed surprised that Hagen offered to shake hands. Hagen was glad he was able to mask the spike of pain when they did.

  “I’ve never been better,” Hagen lied. “The rest did me some good. Gave me the chance to do an awful lot of thinking, and I know you’ll be happy with the results.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we begin our tour?”

  Hagen followed Clay out onto the boardwalk, and they began walking toward the section the locals had already taken to calling New Main Street.

  He saw Clay take his measure again as they walked, only this time he was more subtle about it. “I’ve got to admit that I didn’t expect to find you in such good condition, Hagen. How are you? And tell the truth. Don’t try to put a shine on it.”

  Hagen had no intention of telling Clay the truth, especially because the truth would only benefit Clay. “I’ve been shot before, Lucien, but will probably be shot again. It hurt like hell, but believe me when I tell you, I’m the better for it. The entire experience has served to make me sharper and stronger in the long run, as you’ll see in the course of our visit.”

  Hagen spotted a black coach with gold trim and a four-horse team parked just in front of the hotel. It bore a gold “LC” on the black door. He took this to be Lucien Clay’s private coach. “I assume that one’s yours?”

  “It certainly is,” Clay said proudly. “I got it last month. Figured a man in my position deserves a bit of luxury. After all, what good is having all this money if you don’t spend it?”

  “A wonderful sentiment,” Hagen said. Put a beggar on horseback and he’ll ride to hell. “I’m glad you’re already enjoying the fruits of our partnership. If our luck holds out, you’ll be able to have one of those waiting for you at the train station at each of the towns we control.”

  “Luck?” Clay repeated. “This isn’t about luck. This is about us doing what we want to do. Controlling what will happen before anyone else does it for us.”

  “There’s always a certain amount of luck required in any successful enterprise,” Hagen said. He loved talking to Clay in a fancier manner than usual. He hoped it served as a subtle reminder that he was just a jumped-up saloon keeper and that was all he would ever be. “But I suppose you’re right. Luck doesn’t acquire property or drive nails into wood. It takes money and men to do that.” He nudged Clay with his left shoulder. “Men like us.”

  A ragged man stumbled toward them on the boardwalk, and Clay managed to move out of the way just before he walked into him. “Don’t like to see that kind of thing, though. Saw half a dozen just like that as we rode in here. A thing like that pulls down a town like this, Adam. I don’t like it.”

  “But you like the profit they bring us, don’t you?” Hagen answered. “It’s all part of our plan, Lucien. I believe there’s an old Chinese saying, ‘Out of chaos comes opportunity.’ Or something like that.”

  Clay did not look impressed. “Hope you didn’t get that from one of the Chinamen who are supposed to be selling our dope. They should keep their mind on business, not fancy sayings.”

  “Never fear,” Hagen assured him. “Our Celestial friends are keeping their nose to the grindstone. How being surrounded by laudanum fumes all day and night hasn’t baked their brains is beyond me, but they seem to be managing nicely.”

  By then they had reached the Pot of Gold and Hagen stopped walking. He gestured down the alley to the canvas tent. “Would you like to see it for yourself?”

  Clay squinted as he looked down the alley and scowled. “With all the building we’re doing in town, I’d expected you to build them a better setup than that.”

  “I certainly offered,” Hagen told him. “I even insisted, but our Celestial friends declined. They said they own the canvas and everything that goes on in it. I was hesitant at first, but they’re making more money for us than ever before, so I’m inclined to let them have their own way for now.”

  “And where’s all this new money coming from anyway?” Clay asked. “Your letters have been pretty vague on details.”

  “But our balance sheet is decisively clear,” Hagen reminded him. “My father fired twenty of our best customers. He paid them a generous wage, which most of them eventually spent in our saloon, drinking our whiskey and using our women. Whatever they had left over was spent in that canvas tent you look down upon.” Hagen looked down the alley with the pride of a new father. “Yes, sir. You may see filthy canvas, but I see a golden palace down there. It’s bigger than it looks, too. They’ve had to double the size of the place in the past month.”

  Clay did not look impressed. “Those wages he gave them must be all dried up by now. Cowhands have never been good at holding on to their money, thank God. Where’s the rest of it coming from?”

  “Miners in the hills are our best customers now,” Hagen
said as they resumed their walk. “Father has forbidden anyone in his employ from visiting our saloons and our laudanum den, but he allows them to frequent the Queen Victoria and the Firebrand Saloons.”

  Clay looked puzzled. “But we own them, too, don’t we?”

  “Most certainly”—Hagen grinned—“but my father doesn’t know that.” He hated referring to Charles Hagen as his father, but Lucien did not know the truth, and Hagen saw no reason to enlighten him. “His hold on the town is on the wane and he knows it, not that he’ll ever admit it. Besides, his attentions are required elsewhere.”

  “That so?” Clay asked. “Like where? Not Laramie, I hope.”

  Hagen almost laughed at the ignorant fool. “Don’t worry, Lucien. He has cast his gaze at prizes far from this humble patch of land. My brothers are representing his interests in steel and railroads. One of them is even down in Texas on a venture to bring up oil from the ground. Not even King Charles himself can run everything by himself, so we have been able to use his distraction to our benefit.”

  Clay glowered at a townsman who looked at them too long. The man quickly stepped off the boardwalk and into the thoroughfare as they passed by. He lowered his voice when he said, “That’s another thing you’ve been awfully vague about. Just how do you plan on pulling him off his throne. He still seems to be dug in pretty deep in these parts.”

  But Hagen would not be rushed and had no intention of discussing the topic on the street, where anyone could hear. “Patience, my friend, patience. Let us enjoy our first steps on New Main Street and bask in the warmth of what we have wrought.”

  Clay’s failed attempts to mask his confusion over what Hagen was saying was priceless and made his right arm ache a little less.

  He gestured toward the Queen Victoria Saloon, which was doing a fair business although it was not yet noon. “This is the first of our contributions to Blackstone’s entertainment needs. The locals call it ‘the Vic,’ which was unintended, but has a certain charm. Here, we peddle mostly beer and whiskey, and the occasional laudanum now and then.”