Trammel had struck a match to light the fire, but stopped. “You were in the army? As an officer?” The flame burned his fingers and he cursed as he dropped the dead match in the pile.
“Not much of one, I’m afraid,” Hagen explained. “They shipped me off to Arizona to fight the Apache, probably in the hopes I’d be scalped. I acquired something of a reputation as a soldier’s officer, which didn’t exactly make me popular with my colleagues in rank. As soon as my stint was up, I left.”
Trammel struck another match and, this time, got the fire started. “Then why didn’t you go home?”
“That was my father’s idea. Mother was dead by then, and King Charles had no desire to see me again. That’s what they call him, though he certainly thinks of himself as American royalty. He had his people tell me he’d continue to pay for my travels for the rest of my life on the condition those travels didn’t include a return to the Wyoming Territory. So, I spent time in all the places a wanderer like me would be expected to go. Manhattan and Boston and Philadelphia were nice, but too staid for my tastes. All of that ceremony and formality made me feel like I was back in the army. I had always had a knack for gambling among the officers I served with and decided to ply my trade on the long train voyages between one destination to another. Realizing city life wasn’t for me; I was naturally drawn to the mighty Mississippi, where I found a home on the riverboats. When I wore out my welcome there for a variety of reasons I don’t wish to discuss, I decided to head to the one place where I thought a man could quietly drink himself to death in oblivion. Wichita, Kansas.”
Trammel slowly blew on the fire, waiting for it to catch enough so he could begin to cook dinner. “If I had your kind of money, I’d buy a place in Washington Square and never leave.”
“You’d get bored, especially once you’ve experienced life out here. The people are as petty as they are pretty. They’d never accept you and your accent, just as they never accepted me for all of my experience and money. We have the stink of the frontier about us, my friend. Me among the Apache and you among the desirables. Me from the frontier of a nation and you from the frontier of the human condition. People tend to resent what they can never understand or experience.”
Trammel didn’t think so, but wasn’t fool enough to argue with a man who sounded like he knew what he was talking about. “I know a little more about that world than you think I do. Believe me, the money would help take plenty of sting out of whatever anyone thought of me.”
“I know more about you than you think I do, Trammel.”
The fire finally caught, and he could see Hagen a bit better now. Some of the color had returned to Hagen’s face, and his shaking had died down by quite a bit. “You don’t know a damned thing about me. You don’t even remember all the times I carried you up to your room after gambling all night.”
He didn’t know why Hagen’s words had made him feel resentful, but they had. He forgot about it as he said, “Enough talk for one night. Time to start dinner.”
He began digging the pan out of his saddlebag, along with the beans and bacon Lilly had given him before they had left.
Hagen began talking again as the food began to sizzle on the pan. “You were born in Five Points. Your father was Scottish and your mother was of some other northern European descent. Norway, I’d take it, given the high cheekbones and deep-set eyes.”
Trammel dropped the pan in the fire and hardly noticed.
Hagen went on. “Your ancestry belies your large build. Highlanders and Vikings were like that. Anyway, you grew up poor in horrible conditions and, when you were old enough, you began manual labor, probably finding easy work on the docks. You thought about getting on one of those ships one day, but you were a city boy after all and didn’t want to leave your aging parents in such squalor. Your size also opened other avenues to you, such as a life of crime. One might be forgiven for saying you fell in with a bad element, but people like that tend to stay in that life. No, you had a friend, maybe a cop, who looked out for you and got you to join the police. Somewhere along the way, you found the Pinkerton Agency or they found you. They’re always looking for men like you and paid much better, so you joined them. Your parents were most likely dead by then, and with nothing to keep you in New York, you enjoyed life on the rails, handling cases Mr. Pinkerton doled out to you. Somewhere along the line, you either fell out of favor with the agency or they fell out of favor with you. There’s no way of knowing for sure, but like me, you wound up in Wichita to forget about your past for a while. Maybe settle down with a nice young lady, like Miss Lilly. She is nice, isn’t she, Buck?”
Trammel turned on him. “Shut your mouth about her, damn you. And what makes you think you know so much about me?”
Hagen ignored the outburst. “You’re comfortable enough on horseback, but hardly at ease. You know how to live somewhat on the trail, but your knowledge is rudimentary at best.”
Trammel stepped toward him. “What the hell does rudimentary mean? You calling me stupid?”
“It means basic. Take that fire, for example. It’s too much wood for what we need and will throw off far too much light for two men on the run. Anyone who might be following us would be able to see it for a mile or more, especially in reasonably flat country like this.”
Before that day, Trammel knew he hadn’t said more than ten words to Hagen since the gambler had come to live at The Gilded Lilly. There was no way he could have known so much about him. He’d never told anyone about his past, not even Lilly. Yet, here he was, having his whole life read back to him by a man he barely knew.
There was no reason for him to be angry, yet he was. He guessed Hagen had a way of getting under people’s skin. It was the reason why he’d lived the life he had. It was the reason why both of them were on the run now.
He picked up the pan he had dropped. “Well, then I guess we’re lucky no one’s been following us, aren’t we?”
“That’s where you’re wrong, my large friend. We have been followed by two men, and they’re going to try to kill us. Right now.”
* * *
Trammel drew his Colt from the shoulder holster and ducked just as a rifle shot rang out. A bullet ricocheted off the rocky outcropping behind Hagen.
Trammel ran for his horse and grabbed the double-barreled shotgun from the saddle before escaping into the darkness.
He crouched low with the outcropping at his back, figuring no one could get behind him that way. At least he was out of the circle of light thrown off by the growing fire. He looked for Hagen, but his blanket had been cast aside and he was nowhere to be seen.
Before the shooting had started, the gambler had said two men had been trailing them all day. How the devil had he known that? And why hadn’t he said anything? Trammel decided he’d make it a point to demand some answers from him after all of this was over, assuming either of them was still alive.
Trammel realized he was holding his Colt in one hand and his shotgun in the other. Trading firepower for accuracy, he tucked the Colt under his arm and slowly thumbed back both hammers on the shotgun. He wished he had grabbed the Winchester instead, but he had no intention of going back in the light for it. Too risky.
He flinched when he heard a scream pierce the darkness.
“Hoffman!” a strange voice cried out. “You hit?”
Another scream brought another volley of rifle fire off to Trammel’s right. He saw the blasts in the darkness and knew the man firing was no more than fifty feet away from him.
Trammel ran behind the flashes, raised his shotgun, and aimed in the general direction of the gunfire. Knowing Hagen was unarmed, Trammel squeezed the trigger, firing blind into the night. A fresh set of screams echoed in front of him, and he knew he must have hit someone.
“I take it that was you, my large friend,” Hagen’s voice rang out. “Good job. I’m heading in your direction, so don’t shoot. All the bad men are done for, I assure you.”
Trammel stood alone in the darkness like
a damned fool, waiting for Hagen to tell him when to move.
After what felt like an eternity, he heard Hagen say, “Follow the sound of my voice, but hurry. This one’s still alive, but not for long.”
Trammel, indeed, followed the sound of Hagen’s voice and found him standing over a man crumpled in on himself like a cat. A bloody boot knife was in his right hand.
“Drag him over to the fire so we can get a better look at him,” Hagen said. “We might learn something from him before he dies on us.”
Trammel ignored the wounded man’s screams as he dragged him closer to the fire. Now in the light, he could see the man had caught at least one of the barrels flush in the left side. His breathing was shallow, not only from fear, but likely from the buckshot that had stuck his lungs. Either way, Trammel knew he was not long for this world.
“Who are you?” Trammel shook him. “Why are you following us?”
“Go to hell.”
Hagen straddled the man and held the thin dagger against the dying man’s cheek. “That’s a trek you’ll be taking long before us, my friend, but first you’re going to tell us who sent you or the big man here will throw you on that fire.”
“Name’s Hoffman, damn you,” the wounded man rasped. “I work the BF ranch. Walt Bowman sent me and Baxter to see where you went. He’s gonna kill you scum for what you done to Tyler and Will. He’s gonna kill you both.”
“Perhaps,” Hagen said, “but you’ll never know.” He placed the dagger blade next to Hoffman’s throat. “Tell us how many he’s bringing with him, and I’ll end your suffering now. Hold your peace and I’ll let your wounds take their course. Lie to me, and the fire awaits.”
Hoffman said nothing. Trammel saw Hagen grin. The dancing fire cast unsettling shadows across his face. “I was hoping you were going to say that.”
Trammel grabbed Hagen’s hand as he drew his blade back. “Don’t bother. He’s dead.”
The gambler placed his bloodied blade beneath Hoffman’s nose. “No breath, so you appear to be right.” He looked up at the big man. “You can let go of my hand now.”
But Trammel didn’t let go. “Not until you tell me how you knew those two were on our trail.”
“I spotted them a little after we left town,” Hagen said. “I thought they might be just two men heading out of town just like us. I didn’t realize they were still following us until they stopped when we stopped.”
Trammel’s grip on his wrist tightened. “That was hours ago. Why the hell didn’t you say anything then?”
“Because you would’ve wanted to turn back and face them on open ground. I was in no condition to fight at that time, and the odds weren’t in our favor. I figured we’d wait until nightfall to see what they might do. That’s why I kept talking like I did. To put them at their ease and let them think they could sneak up on us.” He looked at Trammel’s hand gripping his. “Now, for the last time, let go of me.”
Trammel shoved him aside with enough force to send Hagen on his rump. “You could’ve told me when they were coming.”
“The horses did that,” the gambler said as he got back to his feet. “Didn’t you see how they were fussing when they caught their scent on the wind? No, you didn’t, because you don’t know what you’re doing out here. You don’t know what to look for, and you don’t know how to survive. So unless you’ve got a better plan, I highly suggest you listen to me from now on because, the next time, you’re liable to get us both killed.”
Trammel watched Hagen wipe his bloody blade clean on the dead man’s vest before he slipped it back into his boot. “Any other demands while we’re at it?”
“As a matter of fact, there are.” The gambler stood and faced him. “Only one, actually. Never touch me again, do you understand? If you do, I’ll kill you. Do I make myself clear?”
Trammel laughed, really laughed for the first time in as long as he could remember. He could hear the sound of his own laughter echo off the outcropping. “You’ll try, little man, but it won’t get you very far.”
“Laugh if you want to, but I mean it. Now, help me get the boots off this one. Baxter over there has feet smaller than my sister, and my current footwear is about ready to give out.”
Trammel walked toward his horse to stow the shotgun. “Do it yourself. I’m busy cooking.”
CHAPTER 8
Matt Bowman and his cousin Walt tied up their horses to the hitching rail outside the Winter Star Saloon. Matt had known about this place for years, but had never ventured inside, as he had never been one for whoring or gambling. His nephews Will and Tyler and cousin Walt had cornered the family’s market on those particular vices, and he saw no reason to contribute to it further.
He turned to his cousin, Walt, who still looked like he needed a bath despite that he had already taken one before the previous morning’s burial services. “Are you sure we’ll find the men we need in here?”
“If we were in the market for ranch hands or well diggers, I’d say no,” Walt admitted. “But seeing as how we’re looking for killers, the Star’s the best place to find them.”
The wind changed, and Matt caught a whiff of the stench coming out of the Star. He wondered how long he could hold his breath before passing out. He was tempted to allow his cousin to go in and hire the men he saw fit. But that temptation passed quickly when he remembered Walt was more likely to hire five of his drinking buddies than men equal to the task before them.
He turned to the three ranch hands who had volunteered to ride out with them. They had chosen to remain mounted. “You three stay out here with the pack animals. Walt and I will be out in a bit.”
None of them seemed to object. Walt had already walked inside before Matt turned around.
Matt breathed in deep and bounded in after his cousin.
The inside of the Winter Star was every bit as run down and miserable as Matt had expected it to be. The green felt on the gambling tables bore years of stains that defied all description. And while no one appeared to be gambling at the moment, there was no shortage of patrons drinking their fill at the bar and the tables. It was almost ten in the morning, and none of the men were at work, a concept that defied Matt’s way of thinking. All of the men were dressed as cattlemen or ranch hands. He didn’t know of a single ranch within a day’s ride that wasn’t always looking for a few good hands to help out. How someone could prefer to drink their days away as opposed to putting in an honest day’s work was beyond his capacity to comprehend. But then his father’s words returned to him. Men like them aren’t men like us.
His cousin beckoned him over to a table in the far corner of the saloon where five men sat around a full bottle of whiskey. Matt walked over to the table as quickly as possible, ignoring the looks he received from the drinkers and the painted ladies who fluttered around them like flies on a dung pile.
“Boys,” Walt told the men at the table, “this here is my cousin, Matt. Matt, this here is the best group of men for the kind of work we need doing.”
One look at the men Walt had chosen made Matt wonder if this was a good idea. In all of his years as a rancher and a soldier, he had never seen such a ragged group of men in one place.
All of them were bearded with various amounts of hair sticking out beneath their weathered hats. Each of the men was as pale and skinny as newborn sheep. They looked like they lived on tobacco juice and whiskey, and Matt imagined that may very well be the case.
His cousin Walt began the introductions. “Matt, I’d like you to meet five of the worst men in this part of Kansas, which makes them the best men for us.” He gestured to the man facing Matt, the man with the gray-streaked hair poking out from beneath a filthy brown hat. A ragged patch of leather tied around his head covered his left eye. His hands were large and deeply scarred.
“This is Lefty Hanover,” Walt said, “the one you might say is the leader of this group.”
“Ain’t a leader,” Hanover croaked. “Ain’t no group, neither. Quit building us up as if we wa
s some kind of gang or I’ll split your head like a rail. We’re trail hands, by God, and ain’t ashamed of it.”
The four others grumbled their assent, with the scrawniest among them repeating, “Ain’t ashamed of it. That’s a good one, Lefty. Ain’t ashamed of it at all.”
Undeterred, Walt pointed at the man. “This one’s named Parrot Wheeler on account of how he likes to repeat everything Lefty says. Like a parrot.”
Matt motioned for his cousin to get on with it. The others were a rangy man named Skinner, a pinch-faced man named Hooch, and a swarthy man named Chico. “They’re not much on conversation,” Walt said when the introductions were concluded, “but when it comes time to sling lead, there’s no one better.”
Lefty spat a stream of tobacco juice in the general direction of the spittoon, but missed badly. “Now that we’re acquainted all proper-like, how about you tell me why we’re acquainted at all. Never saw you in here before, Matthew.”
“Yeah,” Parrot said. “Never seen you in here before, Matthew.”
Matt cleared his throat as he tried to ignore the smell of the five men. “You boys probably knew my nephews Tyler and Will. They were killed a couple of nights ago at The Gilded Lilly by Buck Trammel and a drunken gambler named Hagen. They’ve both left town before the law could catch up with them, and we aim to bring them to justice.”
Skinner looked up at him. Matt only counted three teeth in his head and all of them yellow. “You mean jailing justice?”
“I mean real justice,” Matt told him. “At the end of a gun or an end of a rope, whatever’s handy so long as they’re dead. Both of them.”
He watched Lefty look around at his friends as if to take their measure. They seemed to communicate in some way by a silent vote. When he seemed satisfied, he looked up at Matt again. “How much you figure this justice of yours is worth?”
“A hundred a head when it’s all said and done,” Matt told him. “Five hundred in total but only when the job is done.”
When Lefty sat back in his chair, Matt thought he was insulted. He knew a hundred dollars was good money no matter the deed. At the ranch, they only paid their hands twenty-five a month and these men were being hired for just two things—to ride and kill two men.
North of Laramie Page 5