Читать книгу North of Laramie - William W. Johnstone - Страница 12

CHAPTER 7

Trammel dumped the last of the firewood in the center of their small encampment. He was quite pleased with himself. He had decided he had chosen a good spot to rest for the night, a space beside a small outcropping of rocks with a clear field of vision in every direction. No trees for anyone to hide behind and good grazing for the horses they had hobbled fifty feet away.

Hagen shivered beneath a blanket while Trammel did all the work. “May I have my medicine now, Mother?”

Trammel didn’t want to give it to him, but he couldn’t stand to see the man suffer. He usually didn’t have much sympathy for drunks in his line of work, but as this drunk had helped them make greater time than he thought possible, he decided Hagen had earned a drink.

He dug the bottle out of his saddlebag. “Two pulls, no more. I don’t want you drunk all over again. We need to keep up this pace tomorrow.”

Hagen greedily accepted the bottle and surprised Trammel by handing it back to him after two quick sips. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have slept tonight without that, and I’d be of even less use to you tomorrow on the trail.”

Trammel begrudgingly accepted his thanks and put the bottle back in the saddlebag. “You talk pretty fancy for a drunken gambler.”

Hagen pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders as his shaking seemed to subside. “That’s because I’m neither a drunk nor a gambler, sir. I merely like to act like one.”

Trammel began piling the wood so they could build a fire. “You’re a hell of an actor, then.”

“I’m not an actor, either, despite my flair for the dramatic. In fact, to use the parlance of our times, one could be forgiven for saying that I am quite loaded.”

“You’ve been loaded since you came to Wichita, Hagen. I’ve seen that with my own two eyes.”

“I mean loaded as in financially,” Hagen clarified. “I come from money, hence all of that fancy talk you mentioned earlier.”

Trammel stopped building the fire. In the dim light of dusk, he couldn’t see the man’s face clear enough to tell if he was lying. “Don’t lie about something like that. Not now.”

“I’d wager that you’ve heard enough lies in your time to know the truth when you hear it, Trammel. And you know I’m not lying now.”

He was right. Trammel had no reason to believe him, but no reason to doubt him, either. Braggarts usually liked to talk themselves up whenever they had the chance. But in all the time Hagen had been staying at The Gilded Lilly, Trammel couldn’t remember a single time when Hagen had spouted off about having money. He never spoke much about anything, really, not even when he was playing cards. He usually got drunk at the tables and had to be carried up to his room, tipping whomever had helped him after he woke the following day.

But out in the elements as he was, Trammel was in no place to take anyone at their word without a little prodding. “Where’d all this money you say you have come from?”

“It came from the same place we are headed, my new friend. My family owns one of the biggest cattle ranches in the Wyoming Territory. The Blackstone Ranch, just north of Laramie. Commonly known by its brand, the Bar H.”

Trammel dropped the piece of firewood he was stacking. “The Bar H. Hagen. That’s you?”

“My father,” the gambler said. “Mine by right, I suppose, one day when that old sidewinder finally allows himself to die, which isn’t likely.” He pulled the blanket even tighter around him. “Evil never dies.”

Trammel had heard about the Bar H long before he had come to Wichita. The Hagen family had employed the Pinkerton Agency on more than one occasion, though Trammel had never worked on any of their cases. But he knew they had one of the biggest ranches in the Wyoming Territory, if not the biggest.

But Trammel knew that just because this man said he was a Hagen didn’t make it so. There were still plenty of details he had to know first before he believed him. “If you’ve got so much money, then what the hell are you doing out in Kansas, much less a place like Wichita?”

“It’s a rather long story, I’m afraid, as such stories tend to be. But I’ll be happy to tell it to you in broad strokes while you continue to build that fire. It’s getting cold, and I’m starving.”

Trammel kept building the fire as Hagen began talking. “My father and I never got along. It’s probably my mother’s fault as much as it was mine. She insisted on tutors and a classical education while my father wanted a son to take up the family business when his time came. He wanted a doer, not a thinker. He wanted a son who could ride and shoot and handle livestock. Trouble was I was naturally even better at all of those things, too. Much better than my brothers, Bradford and Caleb. Rather than be grateful, I think that made him resent me all the more. He figured a fancy education would ruin me, but I delighted in proving him wrong. Still, the die was cast against me and, when I was old enough, he pulled one of his many strings with his numerous friends to get me enrolled in a school in New York.”

“No fooling?” Trammel looked up from the woodpile. “I’m from New York.”

“Yes, I know. Lower East Side, if I’m still any judge of regional accents.” Hagen quickly added, “No offense, Trammel, but one who travels as much as I have tends to develop an ear for such things.”

Trammel sat back on his haunches. “I’m from Five Points. How the hell did you know that?”

The gambler smiled. “One of my many useless gifts. Anyway, I went to school and excelled in all the things both in the classroom and out of it, but my resentment of authority remained with me. I graduated at the bottom of my class despite my abilities and went on to have a mediocre career as a result.”

Trammel went back to building the fire. “Which school was that?”

“A little place along the banks of the Hudson River known as West Point.”

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.”