Bury the Hatchet Page 8

  The banker stood, reminding Rhoades of what everyone expected a bank president to look like. Tall and gray wavy hair. Deep-set, serious eyes and high cheekbones. His dark suit and crisp white shirt gave Rhoades the impression that he could look just as happy approving a loan as he did in denying one. His entire countenance appeared as impartial as it was impeccable, which everyone in attendance knew was a lie. His penchant for young women he referred to as “nieces” aside, the banker had not granted a single loan or made a decision in the past twenty years without considering how it might affect the holdings of Charles Hagen. In fact, Rhoades noted, all of the men in the general store that night did Mr. Hagen’s bidding, save, it now seemed, for Sheriff Trammel.

  “Your Honor,” Montague began, his voice clear and true, “our peaceful community has been plunged into chaos overnight by the rash actions and indiscretions of one man. I believe anyone is entitled to the benefit of the doubt and I think all of us are entitled to second, third, and maybe even fourth chances.”

  A murmur spread through the committeemen, some seeming to quote scripture.

  Montague continued. “But when the man of whom I speak is our sheriff, I believe that it is only prudent that we must give pause. First, Sheriff Trammel neglected to tell us that he is the subject of an investigation by the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. That is his first offense.

  “As a result of that investigation, a bounty has been placed on his head by said agency, which led to the unfortunate demise of two wretched souls looking to collect on said bounty.” He looked at Rhoades. “That was his second offense.”

  Rhoades had never liked politicians or lawmen, but he held a special contempt for bankers above all. “Thank you, sir. I have noted it as such in the record.”

  Montague held up three fingers. “Then tonight, as if lying and murder wasn’t enough, he made a third error in judgment by provoking an incident in the Pot of Gold Saloon that resulted in the arrest and mass incarceration of not only the top hands at the largest ranch in the area, but most of its workers as well.”

  Rhoades was still catching up to what Montague had said when he saw Trammel stand.

  “That’s a damned lie and you know it.”

  The reporter looked around the store. Surely, such a declaration should bring about some kind of reaction. He had seen this same committee almost break out into a brawl over far less inflammatory claims. But with the large man with the star on his chest standing at his full height—six and a half feet or more by the reporter’s reckoning—the loudest sound in the room just then was Rhoades’s pen scratching across the paper.

  Mayor Welch looked deflated. “That’s a very serious charge, Sheriff.”

  “And one that I can easily prove.” Trammel’s eyes never left the banker’s. “Yesterday, I went to Mr. Hagen to inform him of the Pinkerton problem and ask his assistance in calling off the Pinkerton men. He not only refused to do so, he and Mr. Bookman drove me from the house at gunpoint.”

  A murmur went up from the men in the store as Trammel continued. “Hagen refused to help because he already knew about the Pinkerton plan to arrest or kill me and his son. And if Mr. Hagen knew about it, you must’ve known about it, Montague. Hell, you’re probably the one who told him. Weren’t you in Laramie a few days ago?”

  Rhoades was surprised to see the boisterous banker sputter like a teapot before ultimately looking away. The reporter considered this news, for although he had only been working for the Blackstone Bugle for a few months, Montague’s reputation as a formidable man was no secret. He had never seen him back down from a fight so quickly, giving further weight to the sheriff’s claims.

  Then again, Rhoades doubted Montague had crossed paths with a man of Sheriff Buck Trammel’s stature before, at least not without Mr. Hagen’s guns to back him.

  “You and your employer have known about the Pinkerton threat for some time, Montague,” Trammel continued, “and you decided to do nothing. You didn’t even have the decency to tell me. I only learned about the bounty on my head after I returned fire on the two men who’d shot at me. Adam Hagen was in Laramie and was able to confirm the reports about the Pinkerton bounty are real.”

  Another member of the committee called out, “And what about that embarrassing scene in the saloon tonight? Was that revenge for Mr. Hagen’s perceived betrayal of you and his son?”

  Rhoades watched Trammel look in the direction of the voice. “That was an enforcement of the law. He and his employer had held guns on me when I went to the ranch to inform them of the Pinkerton threat. Pointing a weapon at a peace officer is against the law.”

  “Man’s got a right to defend himself and his property,” the same voice called out, which was met by shouts of agreement from other people in the audience.

  “To defend it, yes,” Trammel said. “But not to force someone off their property at gunpoint and not when that someone is a sworn officer of the law. I went to the Pot of Gold tonight to arrest John Bookman for what he had done. The foremen and the ranch hands in attendance tried to prevent me from executing that arrest and were brought in for interfering with the law, disturbing the peace, and inciting a riot.”

  From his seat in the middle of the store, Montague said, “That’s a pretty broad brush, Sheriff. You can paint anything you want with a brush that big.”

  “You wanted a sheriff who enforces the law, Montague. And that’s what you’ve got. Count yourself lucky I don’t lock you up with them as an accessory after the fact.”

  Another voice called out. “But how do you expect the Blackstone Ranch to operate with more than half of its men locked up in your jail?”

  “I’m a sheriff, not a rancher. The men should’ve thought about that before they broke the law. Am I supposed to treat Hagen’s men different from anyone else in this room?” He began pointing at men around the room. “Different from you, Tom? Or you, Billy? Or your son, Will? None of your last names are Hagen. None of you employ a lot of people or own a lot of property. Does that make you any less equal to them in the eyes of the law?”

  Rhoades was glad to hear the committee change from being largely on Montague’s side at the beginning to actually favoring Trammel’s side. Groups rarely listened to the speakers at such meetings, preferring to cheer when their side spoke and jeer when the opposite side had their say.

  But the reporter could tell this was something different, something new. Could it be that “the town Hagen built” was turning on its founder in favor of its sheriff? As secretary, Rhoades could barely keep up with recording the comments, As a reporter, he was delighted over having a new angle to publish for his column. The only question was whether or not the owner of the Bugle would allow him to print it.

  It took two earsplitting whistles from Mayor Welch to bring the room to silence. “At the outset, I vowed to end this meeting as soon as it devolved into a free-for-all. Congratulations, gentlemen, you have surpassed my lowest expectations. As we are incapable of debating this matter in a civilized fashion, I adjourn this meeting and require Sheriff Trammel to continue his duties with this committee’s thanks and full support.”

  Another great cry filled the store, but Mayor Welch ignored them. He gathered up his hat and coat, shook hands with the stunned Sheriff Trammel, and stormed out of the back room of the store. The remaining committee members continued to bicker among themselves as Rhoades struggled to close out the formal record of the meeting without having his pen bumped by the jostling crowd.

  He looked up in time to see Montague in front of the counter where Trammel was standing. It was only when seeing him in scale with another man could Rhoades fully appreciate the size of the sheriff. Yes, he was taller and broader than most, but this part of the country was filled with big men. Trammel had something about him that made him different from the others. A ferocity? Rhodes wondered. A sense of danger? An air of death about him? The reporter couldn’t quite describe it, but knew, whatever it was, it easily outmatched the imposing presence of Fredrick
Montague.

  He was also glad the remaining committeemen carried their ongoing bickering deep enough into the store for Rhoades to subtly eavesdrop on their conversations.

  Montague said, “What’s your game here, Trammel? I mean your real game. I know arresting Charles’s men wasn’t your idea. That damned son of his put you up to this, didn’t he?”

  “Nobody put me up to anything, Fred,” Trammel told him. “Not Adam nor Mr. Hagen, neither. Not even you. I did what I did because it’s my job.”

  “You heard what old Walter asked just now. What happens when Mr. Hagen wakes up tomorrow and finds his best hands haven’t come home and half his men are locked up in your jail?”

  Trammel shrugged. “You’re the one who works for him. You tell me.”

  “He certainly won’t be happy,” Montague said. “Knowing him as well as I do, I’d say he’ll probably ride to town. If he does, he won’t come alone and he won’t come unarmed.” The banker toed at an unseen line on the planks of the general store’s floor. “Yes, sir. You’ll be in a hell of a bind then. Hagen men in your jail and Hagen men outside it. You sure that’s trouble you want?”

  “The only trouble I’ll get is the trouble I’ll save by not riding out there and arresting Mr. Hagen for holding a gun on me earlier today. He rides into town, he won’t be leaving it anytime soon.”

  Montague looked at the sheriff for a long time. “You trying to start a war here, Mr. Trammel?”

  “I’m trying to prevent one, Mr. Montague. A war with Pinkerton men. Your boss can stop that if he wants. My aim is to make him want to.”

  “But just now, you made this grand speech about enforcing the law.”

  “There’s more than one good to be served at the same time,” Trammel said. “Your boss has refused to pay off the Pinkertons and end this before it starts. If he changes his mind, I’ll consider going easy on his men. He doesn’t? Well, he’ll have to figure a way to run his spread with half the men he usually has.”

  “What’s to keep him from reaching out to the Pinkertons and hiring them to get rid of you?”

  “That could be construed as a threat,” Trammel said, “depending on who heard it.”

  The banker smiled. “Then I suppose I’m lucky it’s just you and me talking.”

  “And Mr. Rhoades here from the Bugle,” Trammel said. “You listening to our conversation, Mr. Rhoades?”

  The reporter cleared his throat. “I may have overheard a few words as I finished the report of the meeting, Sheriff.”

  Fredrick Montague blushed.

  Sheriff Trammel didn’t. “That’s your problem, Montague. Sometimes, you forget who you’re talking to.”

  Montague’s blush quickly reddened. “I don’t forget anything, damn you, and neither does my bank.” He leaned on the counter, his face only a few inches from Trammel. “You think the town supports you now? What happens when Mr. Hagen orders me to call in every loan in town? What happens when everyone, including the mayor, has to scramble to pay the bank what they owe on their businesses, their farms, and their homes? How long do you think they’ll support you then?”

  The sheriff seemed to genuinely consider it for a moment. “You ever see a run on a bank, Mr. Montague? I’d wager not, since you’ve been working for Mr. Hagen all your life. I’ve lived through a couple. When I was working for the Pinkertons, I got called in to guard a bank in Chicago after a bank president did exactly what you just said. They yanked him out of that fancy office of his and burned him right in the street. He was long dead and buried by the time we got there a week later, but we did manage to enforce order. Didn’t do the bank president much good, of course, but it’s amazing what people will do when their livelihood is threatened.” He looked at Montague. “So you call any notes you want. Just don’t be surprised when I don’t come running to stop the lynching.”

  “Damn you, Trammel.” Montague pounded the counter so hard, Rhoades thought he had cracked the glass. “One word from Mr. Hagen and I’ll ride down to Laramie myself tomorrow. I’ll get the county sheriff. I’ll return with judges and lawyers and a small army to force you to free those men. I’ll have you hauled out of here in chains and hanged from the highest tree in Laramie before the Pinkerton boys ever get close.”

  “You’ll never make it. I’ve got Hawkeye over in the jail right now holding a cocked shotgun on half your boss’s ranch. If so much as a sparrow accidentally flies into that building, he’ll cut loose with both barrels and you’ll lose a lot of men as a result. You show up with an army like that, men will die, starting with those I’ve got in my jail. Maybe even you.”

  “You think you can hold off Mr. Hagen’s will by yourself and an imbecile deputy?”

  “That imbecile is smart enough to have your men covered and willing to kill them on my say-so.” Trammel also leaned on the counter, the wood cracking against the weight of both men. “Listen, Fred. I’m not looking to pick a fight with Mr. Hagen because I’m bored. I’m trying to get him to do the decent thing by buying off the Pinkertons and saving me and his son from being killed for something we didn’t do. The second he calls them off, I open the cells and everyone goes home, but right now, they’re the only leverage I’ve got. You know it’s the right thing to do. I know Adam’s not much, but he’s still a Hagen.”

  Rhoades watched the banker stand up straight and fold his arms across his belly as he thought it over. “I have your word that you’ll release them if Mr. Hagen tries to—”

  “No tries,” Trammel cut him off. “He gets them to go back home or his men rot in my cells for a few weeks.”

  “But we may not hear back from Pinkerton for days.”

  “I know Allan,” Trammel said. “A man like Hagen sends a wire with the promise of money to follow, he’ll pay attention. All that talk of justice and law he spouts on about is just for the customers. He cares about the heft of his wallet more than anything else. If the offer’s big enough, he’ll respond quickly.”

  Montague let out a long, heavy breath. “I’ll take it up with Mr. Hagen right after sunrise. But until then, in a gesture of good faith, could you release the men into a building where they’d be more comfortable? Like the Presbyterian Church, say.”

  “Not riding to the ranch right now and arresting him for pulling a gun on me is my gesture of good faith. So, the quicker he makes peace with Pinkerton, the quicker his men get out of those cells. Just remember that there’s too many of them for us to take to the outhouse, so it’s getting mighty ripe in there as we speak.”

  Montague stormed back to where he had been sitting and pulled his coat from the back of the chair. Most of the other committeemen had cleared out by then, leaving only Rhoades and Mr. Robertson, the storekeeper, in the place.

  Montague couldn’t leave without one final parting shot. “I’ll deliver your message and, by lunchtime tomorrow, you’ll have your peace with the Pinkerton Agency. But you’ll have no peace where Mr. Hagen is concerned, of that I promise you. He will bring down the full weight of his empire upon you, and only God will be able to help you when he does. And that’s not a threat, Sheriff Trammel. That is gospel.”

  Trammel didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch. “I’ve heard that before, Mr. Montague, but I’m still around. You run off to deliver your message, and when I get confirmation that the Pinkerton men have been called off, your boss will get his men back. Adam will go with you to make sure everything runs smoothly.”

  “Like to add insult to injury, don’t you, Trammel?”

  “Think of it a an insurance policy for both our sides.”

  Montague pulled on his hat and coat and left without bidding anyone good night. Mr. Robertson could hardly hold on to his cheer until after he’d locked the door behind the banker. “I’ve been waitin’ for someone to tell off that popinjay since the missus and me come to town twenty-odd years ago. Never seen anythin’ like it in all my years.”

  The shopkeeper’s glee was infectious. Neither Rhoades nor the sheriff could keep from sm
iling.

  “That wasn’t my intention, but I’m glad it made you happy.”

  Rhoades had begun to pack up his writing material into his satchel when the shopkeeper trotted back behind the counter to join the sheriff. “Before you leave, some of the others and me wanted to give you something as a sign of our appreciation for all you’ve done for us. We didn’t want to do it in front of that damned tattletale Montague.”

  Trammel looked at Rhoades as if the reporter had some idea of what was happening, which he did not.

  The sheriff frowned and said, “You didn’t have to get me anything at all. I’m just doing the job I’m paid to do.”

  Mr. Robertson took a wrapped parcel from the case behind him and laid it on the counter with great ceremony. “You already paid a bit for this, but not for the extras we had done for it. Open it up and try it on for size. We hope you’ll like it.”

  Puzzled, Trammel began to untie the twine holding the package together. When he opened the paper, Rhoades saw a fine leather shoulder holster inside. It was made of a rich brown cowhide and, in the dim light of the store, Rhoades was able to make out an inscription burned into the leather.

  TRAMMEL

  SHERIFF OF BLACKSTONE

  Trammel took the holster in his hands. “I’d gotten so used to the one you gave me, I’d forgotten all about this one.”

  “You brought it in after that dustup you had at Madam Peachtree’s place several months ago. The end was ruined when you shot through it, but I thought I had a man who could replace it. Turns out he couldn’t do much with it, so me and a few of the others on the committee chipped in and had him make you up a new one. Brandin’ your name into the leather was my idea. My wife thinks it’s gaudy, but I thought you’d like it on account of it bein’ more personal this way.”

  Trammel slipped it on, and Rhodes could see it fit like a glove. The sheriff took his Peacemaker from the holster on his hip and slid the big gun into the holster under his left arm. The reporter had always found the sound of leather against steel to be the most elegantly deadly sound on earth.