At the door, he held out his hand to his father. “Thank you.”
Mr. Hagen opened the door instead. “I’ll shake your hand when you’ve earned the right.” He bellowed for Bookman and told him to have someone bring around their horses. “I’ll see both of you in town in the near future.”
He closed the door as soon as they stepped out onto the porch.
Adam Hagen wiped his eyes clear and took in a deep breath of mountain air. “Thank you.”
Trammel looked out at the livestock grazing on both sides of the road. He’d never thought he would ever be part of anything like this but now, in a way, he was.
And he wasn’t sure he liked it. No one ever worked for a man like Mr. Hagen without paying some kind of price. “I wouldn’t be too quick to thank me until we know what he’s given us yet.”
“Whatever it is,” Adam said, “it’s because of you. He would’ve spent days berating me before he showed me the slightest kindness. You held him accountable, and I’ll never forget that.”
Trammel was glad Bookman had appeared with their horses, including the pack mule they’d brought all the way from Dodge City.
It saved him from the embarrassment of Hagen’s gratitude.
CHAPTER 22
As they followed John Bookman on the road to Blackstone, Buck Trammel saw the town was more or less what he had expected it would be. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, considering he was supposed to become part of the law in this burg. He had learned long ago to simply accept things as they were, not as he would like them to be. It was a philosophy that tended to make his life easier.
John Bookman had the air of a man who was decent at just about everything he tried, but excelled at nothing. Trammel had seen a lot of men like him in his short time on the frontier; men who could fix a fence or rope a cow or fire a gun adequately enough, but not enough to be considered great at it. Trammel figured as long as Bookman got them settled in town, he’d be happy.
Bookman turned in the saddle and spoke to the two men as he led them into Blackstone. “The town’s layout is easy enough to remember. Place looks like an E, and I mean that literally. Main Street is the long line forming the spine. That’s where you’ll find the Clifford Hotel, the jail, and most of the saloons, gambling halls, and dining rooms in town. Spruce Avenue, Mountain View Avenue, and Bainbridge Avenue are the three lines shooting out from it.”
“There were no streets when I was last here,” Hagen said. “Was that my father’s idea, too? He’s always been such a literary man.”
Bookman ignored the barb and Trammel wondered when Hagen would learn to shut his damned mouth. He tried to move past it by asking Bookman, “What’s the nature of the town? Quiet? Rowdy?”
Hagen’s chief ramrod shrugged. “It’s got its good and bad elements same as any other place, I suppose. Not much to look at, mind you, but they made the jailhouse of stone so it’ll never burn.”
Trammel didn’t care what it looked like. “Does it get much use?”
“Drunks and brawlers, for the most part,” Bookman allowed, “particularly when drive season starts up. Ranchers like to keep their cattle here while they ride down to Laramie to negotiate a price. When they leave their cowboys behind, they can get a bit rowdy. Got the occasional words said over cards at the Clifford and other places. Railroad workers on leave like to come up from Laramie, to raise some hell now and then. Nothing a big man like you can’t handle.”
Bookman turned completely in the saddle and took a good look at Trammel. “Say, how big are you, anyway?”
“Big enough.” He had other questions. “What kind of man is the sheriff? Bonner’s his name?”
“Randall Bonner,” Bookman told him. “Not the man he was when he came to town a few years ago. Maybe it’s boredom or age, but he’s definitely lost a step or more since taking the job. Tends to let trouble burn itself out rather than taking it on. Shame, really. He had a hell of a reputation when Mr. Hagen hired him.” Bookman shrugged. “Guess old Father Time catches up to us eventually.”
Trammel understood how a man could think that way. He’d come to Wichita with similar inclinations. “What about the mayor?”
“Jonah Welch.” Bookman grinned. “You’ll do just fine by him, so long as you don’t do anything that’ll take him away from that damned hotel of his. The Oakwood Arms is all he cares about. Runs it with his wife, Nell. She has to run the front desk when he’s not around, and she makes him pay for it every second he’s gone.”
Trammel thought Blackstone sounded like a hell of a town. “I’ll keep that in mind, thanks. Any saloons in particular I should watch out for?”
“All of ’em,” Bookman said. “There’s no call to remember their names on account of them always changing owners. Just walk toward the sound of the glass breaking and the hollering whores and you’ll be where the action is. Had ourselves a run of funny names for a while about three years ago. Places like The Green Cactus and The Prickly Pear, but now they’re just as forgettable as the next. All of them have gambling. All of them have sporting ladies, too.”
“Wonderful,” Trammel said. In his experience, liquor and working girls didn’t mix.
“The Bull Moose has some Chinamen who run an opium den out of canvas tents out back of the place.”
“Opium?” Trammel asked. He’d seen what the sticky tar could do to good men. He’d seen what it could turn them into. “Why does Bonner let it stay open?”
“No town ordinance against any of it,” Bookman explained. “There’s not likely to be one any time soon, either. Why, the mayor himself is fond of a whore who hangs her girdle at The Painted Dove. Her best years might be behind her, but Mayor Welch doesn’t seem to mind it any. Given he bears a striking resemblance to a foot, he’s lucky he can get any affection at any price.”
Trammel listened while they crested an incline and the Town of Blackstone came into view.
From this distance, he could see most of the buildings had been erected without the benefit of a plan. Some were narrower than others, and the windows, especially on the upper floors of the taller buildings, weren’t quite lined up correctly. Some were too close to each other while others were too far apart.
Trammel didn’t know if this was due to poor craftsmanship or the settlement of the buildings. The tallest structure was painted red and three floors high, which he judged to be the Clifford Hotel, given all of the buildup Mr. Hagen had given it.
Every building Trammel could see was made of wood, save for the Clifford, which was brick, and the jail, which was a squat stone structure at the end of Main Street. Trammel normally would’ve taken so many wooden buildings huddled together against the bleakness of the Laramie plains as a bad omen. One spark either on the prairie or in one of the buildings would set the whole town ablaze. But the town seemed to have weathered many seasons and looked the worse for it. But they hadn’t burned yet, which was saying something.
Trammel asked, “Now that we know all about Main Street, what about those side streets you mentioned?”
“They’re called ‘avenues’ in Blackstone, Trammel. I don’t care what you call them personally, but the people of Blackstone do. They’ll snap you right back into place if you go calling them streets. I’m still smarting from the time Mrs. Baldwin at the Beacon rebuked me in public.”
“Duly noted.”
Bookman went on. “Spruce Avenue is where you’ll find your hardware and dry goods places. Mountain View is where the outfitters are. Even got ourselves a fancy clothing place for men and women alike, if you can believe that for a town this size. Seem to do a fairly robust business, too. Bainbridge Avenue is a mix of smaller shops, but mostly doctors’ and lawyers’ offices. All three avenues have houses on them where people live. Bainbridge is a little nicer than the rest, but not by much. We’ll pass the church on the way into town and, at the end of Main Street, you’ll see the school.”
Trammel saw all of that and more as they reached Main Street. Hagen seemed bored by
the whole scene, which was understandable since he had grown up there. But Trammel took it all in with a practiced eye.
Bookman turned out to be a fairly decent tour guide as the town was, in fact, set up like an ‘E’. Main Street was lined with nameless saloons and eating places where he could hear glasses clink and tinny pianos play over bawdy laughter.
The avenues, on the other hand, were as quiet as Main Street was loud. He saw people ambling about their business and paying no attention to the noise on the thoroughfare. He wondered how the people on the side streets could live so close to such noise, but decided he’d find that out soon enough.
Bookman led them to the hitching rail in front of the jail as he stepped down from his horse. “You stay here while I smooth things over with Sheriff Bonner. Mr. Hagen, I take it you haven’t forgotten where the Clifford is? It’s just across the boardwalk here, right next door.”
“You take it correct, my good man,” Hagen said. “And I won’t forget to tell my father how very helpful you’ve been to us lonely pilgrims. He might give you a shiny new penny for your trouble.”
The top hand looked like he wanted to say something else, but settled for, “I’ll meet you over there in a bit,” before stepping into the jail.
Trammel was more than annoyed with Hagen. “What the hell is the matter with you? Bookman’s been nothing but nice to us. He didn’t deserve that.”
“He works for my father, so he deserves it, believe me.” Hagen’s scowl softened. “No, I suppose you’re right. He didn’t really deserve that. I suppose I’m still smarting from having to grovel before my father.”
Trammel could see the pain on his friend’s face. He knew his first meeting with his father had been hell on him, but it had still gone better than expected. He tried to change the subject. “Think this Sheriff Bonner will take me on?”
Hagen shrugged. “I don’t know the man. But if he’s been working for my father for five years, I’d wager he’ll wear a dress if Bookman tells him that’s what my father wants. Strong-willed men don’t last very long around King Charles Hagen.”
Trammel adjusted himself in the saddle. “Guess I’d better not unpack my bags just yet.”
“No, you’re different,” Hagen said. “I’ve seen plenty of people stand up to my father over the years, but very few withstood him long enough to tell the tale. You did. He respects you in his own way. Resents you, for certain, but respects you. I think you’ve got a place here as long as you’ve a mind to stay. How long do you think that might be?”
Trammel nodded toward the closed jailhouse door. “Depends on what’s going on in there. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.”
“You’re wanted by Father, and that’s enough in Blackstone.” Hagen tipped his hat and slowly brought his horse around. “I’ll be seeing you, Deputy Trammel.”
Trammel watched Hagen put his heels to his mount and guide him down the street toward the tall three-story building he’d guessed was the Clifford Hotel. The large sign hanging over the boardwalk proved Trammel had been right.
Trammel looked when the jail door opened and Bookman stepped outside. “How’d it go?”
“You’re all set, Trammel.” Bookman untied his horse and climbed into the saddle. “He said he’s happy to have the company. Just go easy on him. He’s a bit timid.”
“Timid?” Trammel’s eyes narrowed. “Hell, that’s not good in a sheriff.”
“No, I suppose it’s not.” Bookman mulled it over. “Maybe that’s not the right word, but, hell, you’ll figure it out.” He inclined his head toward the Clifford. “His lordship head over to the hotel?”
Trammel grinned. “With all the pomp of a royal prince.”
“Royal pain is more like it, but don’t tell Mr. Hagen I said so. He might not like his son all that much, but he’s still kin and I’m not.”
Trammel climbed down from the saddle and wrapped the reins of his horse around the hitching rail. “Your secret’s safe with me, Bookman. I promise.”
The top hand tipped his hat and rode down toward the Clifford Hotel.
Trammel stepped up to the boardwalk and stomped the blood back into his legs. He didn’t want to appear wobbly when he met his new boss for the first time. He ignored the looks he received from the people walking along the boardwalk as he slapped the dust from his coat before walking inside.
* * *
Sheriff Randall Bonner’s mouth dropped open when Trammel shut the door behind him. “Good God. Look at the size of you.”
“Don’t have a mirror handy.” Trammel was getting awfully tired of people making remarks about how big he was. He hadn’t grown since New York or Wichita, but everyone he’d met in Wyoming seemed determined to comment on it. “I guess Bookman told you I’m your new deputy.”
“Yes, sir,” he said a little too eagerly. “By God, you certainly are.”
He watched Bonner just standing there, grinning like an idiot while he pawed at his mouth with the back of his hand. He was maybe fifty years old, though the burst blood vessels in his nose made him look even older. But Trammel had seen enough drunks in his time to know the sheriff was sober now and likely had been for some time, which might’ve accounted for what Bookman took to be nervousness.
He also noticed Bonner wasn’t wearing a star on his chest.
Trammel motioned to it. “Never been in a town where a lawman didn’t wear some kind of star or badge telling people who he was.”
Bonner slapped the spot over his heart where the star should’ve been. “Sorry. Guess I’ve kinda let standards slide around here, bein’ on my own and all.”
Trammel ignored the uneasy feeling he felt spreading in his gut. “Well, I’m here now. You going to swear me in or something?”
Bonner went to his desk and pulled out a dusty Bible from the bottom drawer. He held it out to Trammel, who placed his left hand upon it. “Now, raise your right hand and repeat after me.”
Trammel did and repeated the words Sheriff Bonner said. “I, Buck Trammel, do solemnly swear to faithfully defend the people of Blackstone, Wyoming, and enforce all laws without prejudice.”
Bonner’s hand trembled as he took the Bible from Trammel and slowly laid it on the desk, resting his hand on it for a moment before taking it away.
Yes, Trammel was sure something was off about Sheriff Bonner. He broke the awkward silence by asking, “So, where do we start?”
Bonner looked as if he’d been startled from a dream. “Start? Ah, yes. Start. I’ve got just the thing. Take a seat right here and I’ll be right back.”
The sheriff patted Trammel’s arms as he slid past him and out the door, then breaking to his left. A few people bid him good afternoon, but he kept his head down as he moved.
Trammel wondered if the coward was running out on him. But why? I’m not taking his job. I don’t even know if I want to be a deputy, much less a sheriff. I’d be just as happy following his lead instead of having the wind in my face.
He’d been a lawman once, albeit mostly in cities back east. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to be one again. He’d only agreed to take the job because he had a feeling Mr. Hagen would’ve thrown Adam to the wolves if Trammel turned him down. At least here, he could keep an eye on his new friend until Adam got settled. Then, Buck Trammel would have to take a long look at his life and decide what he wanted to do next.
He wasn’t sure what that next step might be, but he was pretty sure it didn’t involve being a lawman again. He’d been a copper in New York City and again with the Pinkerton Agency, but this was different. Out here was nothing like back home. Hell, Wichita had been the closest thing to a frontier town he’d seen and Blackstone, north of Laramie, was a long way from Wichita.
Realizing Sheriff Bonner wasn’t coming back any time soon, the new deputy decided to take in his surroundings. The jail didn’t look like much on the outside, and his perception of the inside of the place wasn’t any better. Just about the only thing the squat building had going for it was that it wa
s made entirely of stone. A rounded arch held up the roof, unlike any construction he’d ever seen in a jail before. The more he looked around, he began to realize this may have been a small chapel at one point. That might explain why it had been built to last, probably by some wealthy landowner back when this part of the world belonged to France. Or maybe it was a church for missionaries looking to bring the word of God to the savages of the plains.
He laughed at that. He was the only savage who needed saving now, and he decided to check the gun cabinet on the wall for the weapons he might need for that salvation.
The cabinet wasn’t even locked. He opened it and was surprised to find it empty. Not even an old box of ammunition. Just an aging spider carcass dangling from an ancient web. Not only were there no rifles in the rifle cabinet, but there hadn’t been any rifles in there for some time. He figured Blackstone for a sleepy town, but every sheriff needed to show some iron now and then. Had Sheriff Bonner been wearing a sidearm? Trammel had been too taken by the lawman’s demeanor to remember if he had.
Trammel went to the lopsided desk and began going through the drawers. Here he found two boxes of .45 ammunition, but no sign of a gun. No sign of a bottle, either, which confirmed his suspicion that Bonner was no longer a drinker.
The rest of the desk drawers were empty, save for the top drawer. A brass, six-pointed sheriff’s badge glinted in the dim light of the jailhouse. Trammel picked it up, impressed by the dense weight of such a small hunk of metal.
The letters embossed on the curved brass around the star read: SHERIFF—TOWN OF BLACKSTONE.
Bonner hadn’t sworn Trammel in as a deputy. He had sworn him in as sheriff of Blackstone.
Trammel sank back, looking at his warped reflection in the dull brass. The wooden chair cracked beneath his bulk. “No wonder he was in such a hurry to get out of here. But why?” He realized he was speaking aloud to an empty room and stopped himself. Anyone passing by might overhear him and think he was crazy.
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