The Intruders

Book 3: Buck Trammel Western

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Johnstone Country. Draw Quick, Aim True.
 
Pinkerton. Sheriff. Lawman. Buck Trammel has spent his life fighting for justice. Now, he must defend a town against corrupt businessmen and scurrilous outlaws from turning it into a bloody battleground.
 
FAMILY FEUD
 
Blackstone, Wyoming, belongs to “King” Charles Hagen. The rancher bought land, built businesses, and employed most of the townsfolk. Unfortunately Sheriff Buck Trammel is not on His Majesty's payroll. The lawdog won't be tamed or trained to accept the king's position as master of the territory, but neither will he threaten his empire.
 
Adam Hagen, the king's oldest son, is vying to take control of his father's violent empire in Blackstone. Sidling up with the notorious criminal Lucien Clay, Adam is adding professional hired guns who perform his dirty deeds without question. But moving against his father means crossing paths with his former friend Buck—the man who once saved Adam's life.
 
A civil war is coming to Blackstone. And when the gunsmoke clears, Buck Trammel is determined to be the last man standing . . .

Live Free. Read Hard.
 

Release date: June 29, 2021

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Clean up Blackstone! Clean up Blackstone!”

So yelled the thirty or so marchers from the Citizens’ Committee of Blackstone. Their number was enough to fill the width of Main Street in front of the Pot of Gold Saloon.

Sheriff Steven “Buck” Trammel stood guard in front of the saloon to prevent the crowd from storming the place. He might only have been one man, but at several inches over six feet tall and two hundred and thirty solid pounds, he loomed large over the crowd. He looked larger still from the boardwalk.

The piano player from the Pot of Gold mocked the marchers by banging out “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The patrons joined in, slurring the words loudly.

“Blasphemy!” Mike Albertson exclaimed. Trammel had heard the man with the crooked back was a retired freight driver who had given up the life of a long hauler to do the work of the Lord. He was the leader of the marchers and raised his voice louder than his followers as he said, “How dare they mention the Lord in a den of such iniquity! Let us go amongst them and defend His holy name from the mockery of drunken rabble.”

The marchers, who were mostly older men and women, took several steps toward the boardwalk.

Trammel took a single step forward and said, “That’s enough. You’ve had your say. Now go home. All of you.”

The crowd’s chants of “Clean Up Blackstone” died down and their banners sagged. Some of the marchers at the back of the crowd took a couple of steps backward.

Because everyone knew Buck Trammel did not say much, so when he spoke, it was best to listen.

But Albertson held his ground. Instead, he limped forward and pointed his finger up at Trammel. “Last time I checked, Marshal, this here territory was still part of the United States of America, and that means we can march anywhere whenever we’re of a mind to do so. Says it right in the Constitution.” He glared up at Trammel. “Or are you one of those types who never got around to learning to read?”

Trammel stepped down from the boardwalk without using the steps. He still towered over all of the marchers. Most of them moved back a couple of steps as the big lawman approached.

Only Albertson held his ground. “You don’t scare me, big fella. I’ve gone through tougher and bigger than you.”

“No, you haven’t.” Trammel pointed at the star pinned to his vest. “Says ‘Sheriff,’ not ‘Marshal.’ Or are you one of those types who never got around to learning how to read?”

Albertson did not look at the star. He stood with a stoop, probably from all his years spent hauling freight all around the territory and beyond. “I don’t care what you call yourself, Trammel. You’ve got no right to order us to leave.”

His followers cheered as Albertson pointed past Trammel toward the Pot of Gold Saloon. “But you do have every right to tell them to leave. To tell them to obey the law. Them and their kind. It’s getting so it ain’t safe to walk around town, be it morning, noon, or night. Drunken cowhands from the Blackstone Ranch and miners roaming the streets in a laudanum stupor.”

Albertson pointed to a shrunken old woman clutching a bag. “Why, Mrs. Higgins here found one of them passed out on her porch the other morning. Gave this poor, God-fearing woman the fright of her life.”

“I know all about it.” Trammel looked at Mrs. Higgins and said, “I came right over and got him out of there, didn’t I, Helen?”

The old lady’s scowl turned into something of a smile. “Yes, you did, Sheriff. You came in and dragged him away in no time flat.”

Trammel looked back at Albertson. “I kept that drunk in a cell until he sobered up. Then I fined him and threw him out of town. I know you’re new around here, Albertson, but this town is used to drunks and knows how to handle them.”

The old freighter pointed to the new buildings that had more than doubled the length of Main Street. The locals had taken to calling that section of town New Main Street. “And just how do you expect to handle all of them new places once they’re open, Trammel? How many of them are going to be saloons? Your friend Hagen sure ain’t telling us.”

Trammel said, “Adam Hagen’s not my friend, but he does own those properties. Why don’t you ask him what he has planned? Or ask Mayor Welch.”

But Albertson and his followers had come to Main Street to shout and argue, not for answers. “Asking either of them is pointless,” Albertson said. “Hagen is crafty enough to keep his true plans hidden, and Welch is gullible enough to believe him. And King Charles Hagen is content to look down on us from his ranch house and watch this town crumble without so much as lifting a finger.”

The crowd offered a full-throated cheer, and Albertson raised his voice so he could be heard over them. “We will not be deterred by lies and placation. We will not be fooled into thinking Hagen’s plans are for the benefit of anyone but himself.”

The old freighter’s eyes narrowed in defiance as he glared up at Trammel. “And we will not allow a Judas goat with a star on his chest to tell us to be calm and go home.”

Trammel snatched Albertson by the collar and pulled him toward himself before he realized he had done it. He easily lifted the man just enough so that Albertson was standing on his toes.

The marchers gasped and now took several steps back.

“You listen to me, Albertson, and listen well,” Trammel said. “I’m nobody’s Judas goat, got it? I don’t belong to either of the Hagens. I don’t belong to Montague down at the bank. I don’t belong to anyone or anything but the law and the town of Blackstone. If you ever doubt it, come see me at the jail and I’ll be more than happy to convince you.”

He released Albertson with a shove that sent him stumbling back toward the marchers he led. Several of them rushed to keep him from falling down. He knew he would regret manhandling the rabble-rouser later on, but now was not the time.

He faced the crowd. “You’ve all made your point. You’ve had your march. You’ve spoken your mind and you’ve been heard. Now it’s over. If I see any of you clustered together within the next five minutes, I’ll lock you up for disorderly conduct.”

Trammel did not have to ask if he had made himself clear. Judging by the looks on their faces, they knew.

And from how they had just seen him take on Albertson, none of them wanted to risk the same treatment.

Trammel stood his ground alone as he watched the marchers reluctantly fold their banners and head back to their homes.

As the crowd thinned out, only one man was left in the middle of Main Street. A thin man in his late twenties, his black hair and spectacles gave him a studious look. This man was not Albertson, but Richard Rhoades of the town’s newspaper, Blackstone Bugle.

Trammel shut his eyes and hung his head. He had not seen the reporter during the march. If he had, he would have tried to keep a better handle on his temper. Grabbing Albertson would be the bright bow his story needed for the paper’s next edition. And he couldn’t blame Rhoades for printing it. He could only blame himself for giving the newsman something to print.

“How long have you been there?” Trammel called out to him over the heads of departing marchers.

“From the beginning.” The reporter finished jotting something down in his notebook as he walked toward Trammel. “I was with them when they began gathering at Bainbridge Avenue and followed them the whole way here. They had about thirty marchers by the time you broke it up. An impressive number for a town this size if you ask me.”

Throughout his career as a policeman in Manhattan, and then as a Pinkerton, Trammel always had a healthy distrust of newspapermen. They tended to distort the truth to fit whatever message they were trying to convey. But Rhoades was a different sort. Since he had come to town a year before, Trammel found his reporting honest and had even grown to like the man.

“Guess you’re happy I grabbed Albertson like I did. That ought to make a nice addition to your story.”

“Maybe,” Rhoades agreed, “but I’m not going to use it.”

Trammel hadn’t been expecting that. “Why not? Your readers will love it.”

The reporter shook his head. “Albertson said he wouldn’t be manipulated by anyone, and neither will I. He goaded you into grabbing him because he knew I was there. When he gathered everyone together, he told me to keep an eye on him because he was going to give me ‘one hell of a story’ for my article. I won’t give him the satisfaction of printing it.”

Trammel’s mood improved some. “I’ll make it a point of keeping a better handle on my temper when he’s around. He won’t rile me so easily next time.”

Rhoades leaned in closer so no one could hear him say, “Personally, I think you should’ve slugged him for stirring up all this trouble.”

Trammel had thought about that a lot since Albertson had first come to town six weeks before. The crippled freighter had started grousing about conditions in the town almost from the start. People were always looking for a reason to complain, and men like Albertson had a knack for getting the worst out of them. “What do you think his aim is? About starting up all this trouble, I mean. I’ve known a lot of freighters in my day, and every one of them would prefer whiskey and women over marches and such. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“Me neither,” Rhoades agreed. “He claims he was a freighter, but if he was, he’s the most eloquent mule skinner I’ve ever heard.”

The small question that had been rattling around in Trammel’s mind now loomed large. “That’s been bothering me, too. You think he’s a phony?”

“He seems sincere in his complaints,” Rhoades said. “There’s no denying that. Now, as for his motivation, I’m still trying to figure that out.” Trammel watched an idea dawn on the reporter’s face. “He says he’s worked freighter outfits in Texas and Missouri and Kansas. I have colleagues in those areas. I’m going to write them to see if they’ve heard of him. I doubt we’ll learn much, but I’ll feel better having tried it.”

Trammel watched Albertson walk back toward Bainbridge with two old ladies on his arms. He was gesturing wildly, probably carrying on with the same rhetoric he had used in front of the saloon.

“Think you could wire your friends instead?” Trammel asked. “The town will pay for it.”

“In that case, of course.” Rhoades looked curious. “But why the urgency?”

“Because I think Albertson is working up to something big,” Trammel said. “Today’s march proves it. His attempt to barge into the saloon tells me he’s looking to escalate things. The sooner we know who and what he is, the quicker we’ll know what he’s really up to. Might be able to stop him before he does it.”

“Let’s hope so.” Rhoades pushed his hat farther back and scratched his forehead. “I’ve got to tell you, Sheriff, for a small town, Blackstone’s sure got a lot of intrigue going on.”

Trammel could not argue with him there. “Too much for my taste. When do you think you could get down to Laramie and send out those telegrams?”

He pulled his watch from his waistcoat and frowned. “It’ll be well on dark if I leave now and I have tomorrow’s edition to get out. I’ll do it first thing in the morning. That soon enough for you?”

It wasn’t, but it sounded like it would have to be. “I appreciate it, Rich. And I appreciate you leaving my grabbing of Albertson out of your article.”

“Don’t give it a second thought.” Rhoades grinned. “Besides, no one wants to read anything that casts ‘the Hero of Stone Gate’ in a bad light.”

“Knock it off.” Trammel had hated that moniker since the day Rhoades had hung it on him after he kept a group of Pinkertons from taking over King Charles Hagen’s Blackstone Ranch the previous year. “I told you not to call me that.”

“That’s the problem with you, Buck. You’re too modest. I spelled your name right and gave you a legend. You should be pleased. The people of this territory have put you on a pedestal.”

Trammel knew he was right. And he also knew what people did with things on pedestals.

They pulled them down after they were sick of looking at them.

Adam Hagen had watched the entire spectacle unfold from the second-floor balcony of the Clifford Hotel. His hotel.

From there, he could watch the whole town. He could see the carpenters working on the structures he had ordered to be built on lots he had purchased along Main Street. He could see the new houses he was building on the new Buffalo Street, too, in anticipation of the people who would flock to Blackstone when his plans took shape. He had even seen the marchers assemble on Bainbridge, then head toward his Pot of Gold on Main Street. He had watched them pick up more followers along the way until they reached his saloon and hurled insults and prayers at the place.

He almost felt sorry for the poor fools. They were so ardent in their righteousness. Strident in their belief that they could change the future of Blackstone.

But Adam Hagen knew there was only one man who could do that, and it was not King Charles Hagen. Soon, it would be King Adam Hagen.

He had ordered the porch to be added to his room to aid in his convalescence after having been shot in the right arm by renegade Pinkerton men several months before.

He squeezed the small bag of sand in his right hand again for the countless time that day. He ignored the sharp pain that webbed through his body following each squeeze. His convalescence had taken a toll on him, particularly his looks. His fair hair had begun to turn white in places, though he was just past thirty. His smooth skin, which the ladies loved, now had lines brought about by pain that had not been there before.

A doctor down in Laramie had told him the exercise was his best chance of regaining some use of his right arm. The doctor had been cautious enough to tell him that he was unlikely to ever have full use of the arm again, but with diligent exercise, he might be able to hold a fork again. Perhaps even write his name without much difficulty.

But as for gambling and gunfighting, those activities were out. The doctor advised him to learn how to make do with his left hand for now.

But Adam Hagen had no intention of making do with anything. He had made do long enough as the banished son of King Charles Hagen. And now that he knew the man he had called “Father” all those years was actually his uncle, he planned on going far beyond making do.

He intended on making revenge.

Hagen had almost cheered when Trammel snatched Albertson by the neck. The old man had been baiting him and almost got what he deserved. But Buck was a smart man, quick to anger and even quicker to calm down and listen to reason.

It was why the people of Blackstone loved him. It was the quality Hagen had admired most in his former friend.

And it also happened to be the only weakness in his considerable armor. A weakness he intended to exploit when the time came.

He knew Trammel would rebel at first. After all, Hagen hadn’t nicknamed him Buck without a reason. But eventually he would see that his old friend was right and had given him an embarrassment of riches. Hagen hoped Trammel would be prudent enough to focus on the message and not the messenger. Hagen still owed him for saving his life by getting him out of Wichita the year before.

If he did not, Hagen just might have to kill him, and that would cast a shadow over all he had dreamed these past months in convalescence.

Hagen watched Trammel finish his conversation with that weasel reporter from the Bugle. His first order of business upon taking over the town would be to buy that damned paper and shut it down. But for the moment it served its purpose.

He watched Trammel lumber back toward the jail, which was right next door to the Clifford Hotel. Hagen did not have many regrets in life, but he regretted that he and the big man were no longer friends. Trammel abhorred his selling of laudanum at his saloon and the laudanum he allowed the Chinese to sell in a canvas tent next door.

But he had not regretted it enough to stop selling laudanum. In fact, laudanum played a key role in his plans for revenge.

He saw Trammel cast a quick glance up to his balcony and, upon seeing him, quickly look away.

Hagen got out of his chair and went to the side railing as he called out, “Behold the return of the conquering hero! That was a mighty impressive sight to see, Buck. They complain about the new saloons on Main Street, but say nothing of the houses I’m building. They’re a fickle bunch indeed. At least you turned them before they got themselves hurt. They wouldn’t have received a warm reception in my saloon.”

Trammel stopped walking and glowered up at him. Hagen had to admit the sheriff was a frightening sight when he was angry.

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” Trammel said. “We’re not friends anymore, Hagen, so quit acting like we are.”

“I’m still your friend,” Hagen said, “even if you’re not mine.”

“If you mean that, then quit selling dope,” Trammel said. “You’ve got half the men on your father’s ranch using the stuff, and most of the coal miners. Quit rotting their brains and you and me can be friends again.”

Adam appeared to think it over, though he had absolutely no intention of stopping the flow of laudanum into Blackstone. If anything, it was just the opposite. He decided to have a little fun with the sheriff. “A wise proposition. Why don’t you come up here so we can talk about it instead of shouting at each other like this?”

“And look like I’m up there to kiss your ring?” Trammel shook his head. “No chance.”

Hagen laughed. “You always see me in the worst light. Even after all we’ve been through together. I’m not your enemy, Buck. You saved my life, and I’ll never be able to repay you for it.”

“Don’t thank me,” Trammel said. “If I’d known what you’d turn into, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Yes, you would,” Hagen told him. “You’re a natural hero, Sheriff Trammel, and this world needs heroes. It always has and always will.”

Trammel looked like he was going to say something more but didn’t. Instead, something in the distance captured his attention.

And when Hagen looked in the same direction, he understood why. Dr. Emily Downs was getting into her wagon.

Hagen imagined some might call her pretty. He had always thought of her as elegant, with an agile mind that made for pleasant company.

She had captured Trammel’s heart from the moment they had arrived in Blackstone and, for a time, they had been a very happy couple.

But their relationship had soured after Trammel’s troubles with the Pinkertons at Stone Gate. She had been a widow once and had no intention of becoming one again. She’d shut her heart to Trammel, and Hagen knew it had wounded the big man deeply. It had hardened him in a way that had made Hagen angry. She had given up Trammel because he could no sooner change who and what he was than Hagen could grow a new right arm. He had expected more from a woman of science, but as a widow, he could not fault her reasons.

Hagen watched Trammel forget the world around him as Emily released the brake and snapped the reins, bringing her horse to a quick trot. He saw Trammel stand a little straighter and something of a smile appear on his face as she steered the wagon toward Main Street. Even the sight of her was enough to make him happy, and Hagen’s heart ached for him.

She would pay for hurting him, and soon. But not that day.

She sat ramrod straight and made a point of keeping her eyes forward as she approached the Clifford Hotel. Hagen knew she could hear him as he called out, “And a blessed day to you, our fair Dr. Downs. Our humble town is grateful for you gracing us with your presence.”

“Mr. Hagen,” she said as she rode by, then added, “Sheriff Trammel.”

Buck tipped his hat, entranced as she rode by without the slightest glance his way. “Nice to see you, Emily.”

She said nothing more as she continued on her way.

Hagen pitied his former friend. He waited until she had passed out of earshot before saying, “Quite the peacock our Dr. Downs has become since throwing you over. I wonder how she’d fair if she lost her plumage.”

Trammel slowly raised his head and looked at Hagen. “If you touch her, I’ll kill you.”

Hagen had no doubt he would and forced a laugh. “Why would I touch a hair on her head? I happen to like Emily. Besides, she has the virtue of being the only doctor in town. But cheer up, my friend. Fate is a great equalizer and, sooner or later, she’ll regret having treated you so poorly.”

Hagen watched Trammel’s anger fade away before he turned to enter the jail. “Just leave her alone. And quit calling me ‘friend.’”

Hagen decided he had given the sheriff a tough enough time already and let him go without another word. He went back to his chair and resumed squeezing the small bag of sand.

He cast an eye up the long hill to where King Charles Hagen’s ranch house sat. It was a mighty place that lorded over all beneath it like a behemoth. It looked indestructible from here, but Adam knew nothing built by man would last forever. He looked forward to the day when he watched that house burn to the ground. No, he would not attack the house from the front. He would attack his father’s empire at its foundation and watch it fall in on itself.

Yes, King Charles Hagen’s end would come soon. But first, Buck Trammel would receive his reward, and sooner than he thought. And Emily Downs would learn what happened to those who displeased him.

He winced as he squeezed the bag of sand tighter as he looked at the Hagen ranch house on the hill and remembered a verse from the Bible. “Your glory, O Israel, lies slain on your heights. How the mighty have fallen!”

Lucien Clay decided he hated chess and probably always would.

The black and white boxes and the odd figures that sat upon them gave him nightmares. The way the pieces moved made no sense to him. His teacher had explained the rules to him countless times, but only a few of them stuck. Not even the names made sense. Pawns and knights and kings and queens. The whole game sounded foreign and fancy to him, and the strategy it took to play it served to make him dislike it even more.

The chiding of his teacher did not help matters.

“You’re not concentrating,” Albert Micklewhite scolded him. “Chess requires your full attention or you’re bound to lose. How many times must I tell you that?”

Lucien shrugged. “As many times as it takes, I guess. Might help if there weren’t so many damned rules.”

“Ah, now I see the problem,” Micklewhite said. “A man like you doesn’t like the idea of rules. That’s fine. Think of the game in a way that you can appreciate.”

Lucien looked at Micklewhite from across the chessboard. “You calling me stupid, Al?”

“God, no,” Micklewhite said. “Instead of thinking of the rules of chess, think of each piece as having its own nature. Its own vices, if you will.”

This was getting more confusing by the minute. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Micklewhite selected a pawn. “For example, in the opening move, a pawn can be moved two squares ahead. But after that, it can only move one square at a time. Physically, can I move it sideways? Of course, but that’s not what pawns are for. There are other pieces on the board that can do that.”

Lucien had understood the pawns from the beginning, but remembering what the rest of the pieces did was a jumble to him. “Can’t we play something American? Like cards or craps?”

Micklewhite slowly shook his head. “Those are games of chance, Lucien. What I’m trying to teach you is the importance of planning ahead, and chess is a wonderful way to teach you how to do that. You’re a cunning businessman. A man of great will. It’s gotten you far in life. But if you choose to expand beyond the limits of Laramie, which you told me you wanted to do when you brought me here, you must train your mind to think ahead. Every move you make, be it in chess or in life, has a consequence. A vulnerability. As Ch. . .