Bury the Hatchet Page 7

  But just then, Trammel didn’t have anything to say at all.

  Because war had finally come to Blackstone.

  CHAPTER 10

  “You know I’m right fond of you, Sheriff,” Mayor Welch told him in the jailhouse just after supper. “You’ve got a lot of friends in town. Important friends who support you and how you’ve made it fit for honest people to walk down the street at all hours of the day and night.”

  Trammel knew this conversation would be coming from the moment he had found out the Pinkerton men were after him. Word of the bounty on his head had only accelerated the process. “Why do I hear a but coming?”

  “No buts, Sheriff. Just questions about what that dead man meant by five hundred dollars. A couple of the boys down at the Mill heard him say it before he kicked off and rumors about its meaning have been flying around town faster than the flu. Can’t blame folks for wanting to know what it means, particularly since it seems to mean something about you.”

  Mayor Welch had always been something of a conundrum to Trammel. He was the type of man Trammel had often despised. A thin, bald man who’d been henpecked by his wife since they day they’d been married and a politician to boot. He ran the Oakwood Arms when he wasn’t tending to his official duties and was well known for cutting every corner he could at his guests’ expense to make a buck.

  But he had been nothing but generous to Trammel since he had come to Blackstone. He may not have liked missing out on the rent the town paid him for housing the sheriff behind the hotel, but Trammel could hardly blame him for that.

  He’d always supported Trammel’s actions as sheriff, even when some of the saloon keepers complained that he was too rough with their customers.

  Trammel had expected the man to fire him as soon as he learned Pinkerton men were on their way to get him. Welch was only a politician, after all, and Trammel couldn’t hold that against him, either. He had a duty to keep the town safe, which was why Trammel had put off telling him about the troubles for as long as possible.

  But with two dead men in Miss Emily’s barn awaiting burial the next morning, there was no way for him to avoid the issue any longer. He decided to keep the details to a bare minimum, knowing there’d be plenty of questions to follow.

  “The dead man was probably referring to a five-hundred-dollar bounty I think was placed on me by the Pinkerton Agency.”

  “The Pinkerton Agency?” the mayor repeated with a kind of reverence. “Why would they—or anyone else—have a bounty on you? You were one of them once, weren’t you?”

  “I don’t know if that’s helped or hurt things,” Trammel admitted. “It’s for a charge Adam Hagen and I were cleared of before we ever came to Blackstone. Unfortunately, the fact that we were cleared doesn’t hold as much water as is should with some folks. I guess that’s why they’re sending some men here to either arrest me and Adam or kill us. I don’t know which and probably won’t know until they get here.”

  The mayor’s mouth hung open as he absorbed the news. Trammel expected him to demand his star on the spot, which would present another host of problems Trammel wasn’t prepared to face. But he was past the point of being able to control it and would figure it out when he had to. Until then, it was the mayor’s show.

  Welch’s next question took him off guard. “When are these gunmen supposed to get here?”

  “I don’t know,” Trammel admitted. “That guy in the cell back there is working for them. That’s the only reason why I know they’re coming at all. As for when they’re getting here and how many they’ll be bringing with them, that’s anyone’s guess. If I knew more, I’d tell you. Adam rode down to Laramie this morning to get a better handle on things.”

  The mayor blinked as he looked away. “Pinkerton men. My God.”

  Trammel saw the man struggling and decided to make it easier on him. “Obviously, this’ll bring a lot of trouble to Blackstone, and I don’t want that. So if you want me to move on, just let me know. You won’t get any fight from me.”

  If Welch heard him, he didn’t show it. “I’ll ride up to Mr. Hagen’s place this very night. Surely, he’ll know what’s to be done to stop this insanity before it happens.”

  “I already spoke to him this morning,” Trammel said. “He has elected not to help in any way. Maybe you’ll have better luck than I did, but I doubt it.”

  “You mean he said no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He remembered looking down the barrels of Mr. Hagen’s shotgun and the feel of Bookman’s Colt against his neck. “Pretty sure.”

  Welch stood up, absentmindedly turning his worn felt hat in his hands. “I . . . I’m afraid I’ll have to talk to the town committee about this immediately. They have a right to know what’s going on. Or, at least what may happen.”

  Trammel knew they did. Just as he knew what they would order the mayor to do after he told them. “You can tell them they won’t have any trouble from me if they want me to leave.”

  Welch looked at him as though he’d forgotten he’d been there. “Trouble? Why would they get any trouble from you, of all people?”

  Trammel sighed. Welch wasn’t making this any easier. “With people coming to get me, I fully expect them to ask me to leave. And I couldn’t blame them for it, either.”

  The skinny man grew indignant. “Like hell they will. After what you’ve done for us? You’ve put us on the map, and for good reasons for once. Before you, Blackstone was just a stopover for cattlemen on their way to Laramie. Now we’ve got some respectability. Why, the bank is talking about financing two new avenues filled with homes and businesses thanks to the stability you’ve given us.” He held up two gnarled fingers. “Two!”

  Trammel appreciated his support, but knew the decision wasn’t up to him. It was up to the committee, one of whom was Fred Montague, the head of Blackstone Bank and Hagen’s employee. “Might not be much of a town left after the Pinkertons get here.”

  “And there won’t be much of a reason for a town if we tell you to run off in the face of trouble.” Welch pointed out toward Main Street. “Don’t sell our people short, Sheriff. We might not have your experience, but none of us came here on stagecoaches, either. I rode out here on a wagon from Indiana with my family. Buried a brother and a daughter on the trail. Plenty of other people have similar stories, if not worse. We’re not apt to roll over for a herd of gunmen riding in here to tell us how to run things. And we’re not going to shirk our responsibility to ourselves or to you. We might not be fighters, but we know how to fight. They’ve got guns, but so do we.”

  Trammel hadn’t expected the little man to show so much backbone. But he knew what was coming, and it wasn’t pretty. “Please don’t get them riled up—”

  “Please don’t sell us short, sir.” The mayor moved to the door and placed his hand on the knob. “You aren’t going anywhere, Sheriff Trammel. And that is an order!” He threw open the door and stormed outside, flinching when the door hit the wall, before quietly closing it behind him.

  Hawkeye came out from the cells, beaming. “See, boss? What did I tell you? Sounds like you’ve got more friends than you think.”

  Trammel wasn’t so sure. He knew bravery came easy before things started. But once the bullets flew, people tended to change their minds.

  “You get those cells cleared out yet?”

  Hawkeye said he did. “Piled up the cots over in Miss Emily’s barn like you asked. Nothing but bare floors and iron bars now. You mind telling me why?”

  Trammel stood up and pulled down a Winchester from the rack. It was time to begin putting Hagen’s plan into place before the committee had a chance to vote.

  “I don’t have to tell you. I’ll show you. Right now.” He tossed the rifle to Hawkeye. “Let’s go. We’ve got some work to do.”

  * * *

  The crowd in the Pot of Gold was bigger than normal for a Saturday night. The hands of the Blackstone Ranch and a few of the other spreads had j
ust been paid and were anxious to spend their money on whiskey and women.

  The piano player was banging out some version of “Yellow Rose of Texas” that would have been an affront to any sober Texan, but as no one in the Pot of Gold was sober, no one seemed to mind.

  John Bookman was at a table at the back of the saloon with five of the other top hands from the Blackstone Ranch. His newfound dislike for Bookman aside, Trammel had always admired the way he kept a tight lid on his men. He rarely allowed them to come to town without at least one senior man around to keep them in line.

  It made what Trammel was about to do all the more difficult to justify, but no less necessary. “You mind the door,” he told Hawkeye, “and follow my lead. We’re going to be bringing a bunch of these boys back to the jail, and it might not be easy.”

  “Jail?” Hawkeye repeated. “But why? They seem like they’re having a good time.”

  Trammel pushed through the batwing doors. “Looks can be deceiving.”

  John Bookman looked up when Trammel began moving through the crowd of cowboys. His left eye twitched as he slowly rose to his feet when the sheriff approached his table. The five men with him slowly stood up, too.

  The music died away as the piano player, sensing danger, ran off. The noise from the bar did not die down as the cowboys enjoyed their first night off in weeks.

  Trammel stopped a few feet away from Bookman’s table. His hand rested on the Colt on his hip. “John Bookman, you’re under arrest.”

  Bookman’s right hand inched toward the gun on his hip before it came to rest on his belt buckle. The men with him kept their hands near their guns, but did not touch them.

  “Don’t be a fool, Trammel,” Bookman laughed. “On what charge?”

  “Threatening the life of a peace officer,” Trammel said. “Interference with the duties of a peace officer. Drunk and disorderly. Disturbing the peace.” The sheriff smiled. “Hope to be able to add resisting arrest to the charges before I’m done.”

  “Go home, Sheriff. Haven’t you been embarrassed enough for one day?”

  The other men at the table laughed.

  They knew. Bookman had told them. Probably bragged about running him off the ranch at gunpoint.

  Trammel felt his rage spark, but tried to keep in front of it. “Let’s go Bookman. You’re under arrest, and so is anyone else who gets in my way.”

  “Your jail isn’t big enough for all the people who’ll get in your way, Trammel. Your timing’s off. This whole place is filled with boys riding for the Blackstone brand. You touch me, they’ll tear you and your idiot deputy apart.”

  “Two counts of threatening the life of a peace officer,” Trammel said. “And inciting a riot. The more you run your mouth, the longer the charges get, Bookman. Now, either you come along peaceful or you put up a fight. Either way, I go to bed happy tonight.”

  Hagen appeared at the back of the saloon next to Bookman’s table. “Sheriff Trammel! Thank goodness you’re here. I’d just sent a boy to fetch you ’round to help me deal with these ruffians. Why, Mr. Bookman here just insulted one of my girls by making a most indecent proposal to her.”

  “That’s a damned lie,” Bookman swore. “I haven’t talked to any of his disease-ridden girls all night.”

  “I have three women who say otherwise.” Hagen sucked his teeth. “It’s a shame, John. What will Father think when he hears of your indiscretion? He’ll be most disappointed indeed. Might send you to bed without supper like the bad boy you are.”

  Bookman brought up his hand, but Hagen’s .32 against his neck made him stop.

  “Doesn’t feel too good, does it, Johnny Boy? Cold steel against your skin. Kind of makes a man feel powerless, even small.” Hagen seemed to remember something. “Johnny Boy. Guess I’m the first one to call you that in years. How we tend to forget what we really are when we sit at the right hand of the king.”

  “You’re nothing like your old man, Hagen,” Bookman spat. “You’re not even worthy of his name. You’ve been nothing but a disgrace to him since the day you were born. You ask me, those Pinkerton boys can’t get here fast enough to put you out of his misery.”

  “Too bad you’ll be in a jail cell and won’t see it.” Hagen grabbed him by the sleeve and began pulling him out from behind the table, the pistol pressed hard under his jaw. “Get moving.”

  A fat man Trammel recognized as one of the Hagen foremen stepped in front of him. “You’re crossing the line here, Sheriff.”

  Trammel kneed the man in the belly, then knocked him over with an uppercut. The man behind him grabbed for a chair, but a left hook from Trammel rendered him unconscious before he hit the floor.

  A third boss reached for his pistol. Trammel’s Peacemaker was in his face and cocked before he had the chance to clear leather. “Don’t.”

  The man moved his hand away from his gun.

  “Now unbuckle your belt,” Trammel told him. “And let it drop nice and slow.”

  The man did as he was told and held up his hands.

  Trammel heard movement from the bar before Hawkeye yelled, “Anyone moves, I cut loose with both barrels.”

  Nobody at the bar moved.

  Trammel spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “You’re all under arrest for disturbing the peace, public intoxication, and rioting. Mr. Hagen, would you and your people be kind enough to help my deputy escort these prisoners to jail?”

  “Why, Sheriff, it just so happens that a few friends from Laramie have joined me tonight and they would be happy to assist the law in any way they could. Wouldn’t you boys?”

  Five men with rifles trained on the bar appeared from the back and ordered the cowboys to drop their gun belts before herding them Hawkeye’s way. The rest of the patrons looked on in silence as the last of the riflemen shoved the final Blackstone man into the street.

  Trammel ordered the man he had disarmed to help his fallen friends to their feet and lead them over to the jail with the others. “Mr. Hagen, would you be kind enough to help me escort Mr. Bookman and these men to the jail?”

  “Never let it be said that Adam Hagen was afraid to perform his civic duties.” He pulled Bookman out from behind the table. “Let’s go, Johnny Boy. You first.” He shoved him toward Trammel, who caught him by the shoulder before he fell.

  “I told you what would happen the next time I saw you, Bookman. Be grateful you’re not dead.”

  “You’ll be dead before long. Mr. Hagen will have your head for this.”

  Trammel gripped Bookman’s shoulder tighter. “But seeing as I have you and most of his men, he’ll have to come in personally to get it.” He shoved him toward the door. “Now move.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Richard Rhoades, late of the Ogallala Bugle and now a reporter for the Blackstone Bugle, enjoyed the sight of frontier governance playing out before him in the dimly lit environs of the general store.

  Mr. and Mrs. Robertson kept a sharp eye on their merchandise as members of the committee milled about the place as the grave matters facing the town were discussed. Most of the smaller items that could easily be pocketed were behind display counters, but the Robertsons had learned through bitter experience that people rarely passed up an opportunity to steal when they didn’t think they’d get caught. Especially politicians.

  As Blackstone had never gotten around to building itself a formal town hall—Mr. Hagen thought it an abhorrent waste of money—Rhoades knew official meetings were usually held in the dining room of the Oakwood Arms, for which Mayor Welch would receive a humble stipend from the town for hosting.

  However, as the dining room had suffered water damage from a recent storm, and since the Presbyterian Church wouldn’t allow such sinful topics discussed in the Lord’s house, the Citizens’ Committee of Blackstone had no choice but to hold the meeting in the Blackstone General Store.

  Trammel stood next to Mayor Welch behind the counter while the members of the committee discussed the impending arrival of the Pinkerton men an
d the massive arrest of the men of the Blackstone Ranch.

  Rhoades noted the gray-haired men in the room all talking at once, raising their voices to be heard as if volume would give greater weight to their words. He had witnessed similar meetings in Ogallala and again, back home in his native Boston. He imagined similar such meetings were probably the same everywhere, from the houses of parliament in England to a village elder’s hut in Siam. Why should it be any different in the tiny frontier town of Blackstone, Wyoming Territory?

  Rhoades watched as Mayor Welch, bereft of a gavel, stood as tall as he could and held his hands up as he cried for the meeting to come to order. When the attendees refused to acknowledge him, he stuck two fingers into his mouth and let forth with a piercing whistle that silenced them all.

  “Quiet, damn you,” he said when the crowd settled down. “I hereby call this emergency meeting of the Citizens Committee of Blackstone to order. I want our secretary to enter it into the record that I have called this meeting under protest as I feel it is an unnecessary waste of time.”

  Rhoades nodded until he felt the mayor glaring at him and remembered he had been elected secretary at the last meeting. He cleared his throat before saying, “Duly noted, Your Honor.”

  “Very well,” Mayor Welch said. “Now, anyone who wants a say will have their chance to speak. But you’re going to take turns and only speak one at a time. If this meeting turns into a shouting match, I’ll shut it down and walk out that door.” He looked at Rhoades. “I want that on the record, too.”

  The reporter scribbled away. “It’s recorded, Your Honor.”

  “Good. Now who wants to go first?”

  Given the events of the past day or so, Rhoades was not surprised to find Fred Montague was the first to ask to be recognized. He was even less surprised that none of the other committee members fought him for the privilege. It was widely known that Mr. Montague was not only the president of the Blackstone Bank, but had been an employee of Mr. Hagen’s for the better part of his adult life. And with the passing of Mr. Hagen’s lifelong employee Judge Andrew Burlington this past summer, Montague was the only voice for King Charles on the committee.