The fires of blackstone, p.1
The Fires of Blackstone, page 1
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AVAILABLE FROM PINNACLE BOOKS
THE FIRES OF BLACKSTONE
A BUCK TRAMMEL WESTERN
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE AND J. A. JOHNSTONE
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
Teaser chapter
PINNACLE BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2022 by J.A. Johnstone
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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PUBLISHER’S NOTE
Following the death of William W. Johnstone, the Johnstone family is working with a carefully selected writer to organize and complete Mr. Johnstone’s outlines and many unfinished manuscripts to create additional novels in all of his series like The Last Gunfighter, Mountain Man, and Eagles, among others. This novel was inspired by Mr. Johnstone’s superb storytelling.
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ISBN: 978-0-7860-4864-9
ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4865-6 (eBook)
CHAPTER 1
“Sounds like company’s coming, boss,” Deputy James “Hawkeye” Hauk said as the train whistle echoed through Blackstone.
“Yeah.” Sheriff Buck Trammel set his coffee mug on his desk and got to his feet. “It certainly does.” Unlike some residents, he found the new sound of a train whistle echoing throughout town to be charming. But he knew this particular whistle was more than just a train engine letting off steam. It was a warning that trouble was coming to Blackstone.
“Guess I’d better go down to the station to meet it.” He took his Peacemaker from his desk and tucked it into the holster under his left arm. It had been a long time since he’d been a Pinkerton, but he’d never gotten comfortable with wearing a gun on his hip. “Head off whatever trouble I can.” He was still getting used to the idea that Blackstone had a train station.
Adam Hagen had built a railroad spur north from the main line in Laramie so he could take his wood from the mill and his cattle to market in the city. The short line ran on a regular schedule and at his convenience. A trip that used to take half a day now took about thirty minutes. Unfortunately, the train not only served to take goods and people down to Laramie, but to also bring them up to Blackstone. Hence the reason for Trammel’s concern.
The sheriff looked at the rifles in the rack by the jailhouse door but decided against taking one. It might put people on more of an edge than they already were. He figured his size and the Peacemaker would serve as suitable deterrents.
Hawkeye asked, “Want me to go with you?”
Trammel shook his head as he pulled on his hat. “Best if you stay here for the time being. But get ready to come running if you hear any trouble from the station.”
If Hawkeye was disappointed, he hid it well. He took down the double-barreled shotgun from the rack and began feeding shells into the tubes. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
Trammel bent his head as he stepped out of the jail and onto the boardwalk. “You always are.”
At six-seven and two hundred and forty solid pounds, Steven “Buck” Trammel was always conscious of his size. He’d never quite gotten used to the attention he drew whenever people saw him for the first time. Lately, he drew more odd looks than normal for there were a lot of new people in Blackstone. The railroad spur Adam Hagen had built as soon as he had gained control of the Hagen empire had brought them. The building boom he had started meant they’d stayed.
The new Hagen wood mill was almost done and a new street full of houses for the workers was almost finished. The tents the workers had been sleeping in for the past three months would soon be a thing of the past and, Trammel hoped, the disorder they’d brought would go with them. In his experience, a man tended to simmer down once he had a fixed roof over his head. It made him more appreciative of being out of the rain.
Trammel stood aside on the boardwalk as a group of ladies marched past him on the way to the new church Hagen had built at the end of Main Street. The gesture had been a small part of his plan to wipe every trace of his father from the town and remake Blackstone in his own image.
Trammel figured Adam would have to build a church twice the size of Notre Dame if he were looking to atone for all the sins he had committed in his life.
King Charles Hagen was dead. Long live King Adam Hagen.
“Good morning, Sheriff!” came a familiar voice from the balcony of the new hotel across Main Street.
Trammel stepped out from beneath the overhang and into the thoroughfare. The new Phoenix Hotel loomed larger than its predecessor, the Clifford, which had been burned in the riot the previous year. A few modest buildings had to be torn down for the Phoenix, but those inconvenienced by the construction were moved to newer, larger homes in the bargain. They had offered little complaint. Adam was a lot of things, but he knew how to treat people when he wanted something from them.
Trammel pegged the Phoenix as being more than twice the size of its predecessor. It sported a proper gaming area that rivaled even the finest gambling houses in New Orleans. Dozens of well-appointed rooms were said to put some of the nicest hotels in New York to shame. Hagen had even gone as far as to bring a chef all the way from Paris to make sure every meal was an occasion. Guests flocked to Blackstone from far and wide to see what all the fuss was about.
The large porch on the first floor featured plenty of rocking chairs where guests could lounge while they took in the bustling new Main Street. A grand balcony on the second floor served as Hagen’s favorite perch from where he could see all his large inheritance had given him. He was building a town that might one day be worthy to become the capital of the territory.
“Nice to see you, Buck.” Hagen toasted him with a cup of coffee. “You’re looking well this morning.”
Even from that distance, Trammel could see the china’s intricate pattern sported a deep red design matching the fiery theme of the Phoenix Hotel.
He certainly did not feel well. Dr. Moore had pulled four bullets out of his left side after the riot. The wounds still ached whenever it was about to rain. Out of politeness, he answered, “You’re looking prosperous yourself for a man with a price on his head.”
Hagen threw back his head and laughed. “People have been trying to kill me for years, Buck, yet here I am.”
Indeed, here he is, Trammel thought, but Hagen had certainly changed over the years. In the morning light, the sheriff could see the entrepreneur had aged quite a bit since they’d first met in Wichita. His fair hair had begun to turn white in places, though Trammel kne
And since King Charles’s suspicious death, Adam had changed his clothes to a more somber tone. Loud brocade vests had given way to darker colors more befitting a man of property and stature.
Hagen’s smile held as he asked Trammel, “I take it you’re heading over to the train station?”
“Somebody’s got to go. Want to head off any trouble before it starts.”
“No need,” Hagen said. “Ben London and his constables are already there. They’ll see to it nothing happens. Let them do their job. It’s what I pay them for.”
Trammel had been against the creation of a town constabulary when Hagen had first raised the matter at a town council meeting, but none of the elders saw fit to oppose him given that Blackstone was his town. The group quickly became known as Hagen’s Constables. Their blue tunics and brass badges made them easy to spot. They existed to serve Hagen’s interests, which were not always aligned with those of the town.
Trammel and Hawkeye were still the only official law existing in Blackstone, a fact of which the sheriff had to remind Hagen many times.
Standing in the middle of Main Street, Trammel saw no benefit to continuing that old argument, especially now that the second train whistle was much closer than the first. “Enjoy your coffee, Adam. I’ve got work to do.”
“Be sure to give my regards to my family when you see them,” Hagen called after him. “We’re not exactly on speaking terms these days.”
Trammel couldn’t blame them. After all, Adam Hagen had killed their father.
* * *
The walk to the new train station at the east end of Main Street took longer than it used to. Even Trammel was impressed by all the changes made in a short amount of time. When he had first come to Blackstone, the place had been little more than a cow town. A place where miners and cattlemen who didn’t work for the mighty Blackstone ranch came to find some hint of civilization. The town had been laid out as an E back then, with three avenues shooting off from Main Street.
Since the demise of King Charles, Adam had gone on a building spree of epic proportions. Doubled in length, Main Street featured two general stores besides the old Robertson’s place, whose owner had sold out months ago and moved to Colorado. Several claims offices catered to the miners. Three banks and just as many hotels were new.
Those who couldn’t afford the opulence of the Phoenix could find clean, comfortable rooms at the Occidental, the East Sider, and the Knickerbocker.
Saloons still dominated Main Street, though drunkards had ceased to wander the town per Hagen’s orders. The Pot of Gold Saloon still catered to the opium trade, but the Chinese who peddled dragon smoke had taken down their canvas tents in favor of a building that fit in with the rest of the town. Hagen had also made sure a better job of keeping customers inside was done until they were sober enough to walk around on their own steam.
As he continued walking toward the station, Trammel was happy to see the shingle of Dr. Emily Downs hanging beneath that of Dr. Jacob Moore outside a two-story building. The two physicians tended to the needs of the growing town and were busier tending to colds and the flu than broken bones and gunshots.
He hoped nothing would happen at the train station to change that.
The train station on the far eastern side of the town was a small but ornate affair. Hagen had designed it with intricate wooden fixtures that gave it an elegant look. It also featured a telegraph office. The telegraph lines had followed the tracks, making it easier for Blackstone to communicate with Laramie and the rest of the country.
Modernity had its privileges.
Waiting outside the station, wagons and carriages of every sort were ready to take the arrivals or goods to their destinations.
As he waited for the train to pull into the station, Trammel looked toward the large stockyard built at the far end of the tracks for easy loading and unloading of livestock, but he was less concerned about any four-legged passengers the train might be bringing to town. It was the two-legged variety that worried him.
As it came to a halt, the locomotive emitted a large plume of steam from its great smokestack. Black porters jumped from the passenger cars and placed step stools on the ground to help passengers looking to get off at Blackstone.
Trammel walked to the end of the train where he saw the two private Hagen family cars. Their own footmen were already off the train and loading the luggage of their employers onto a waiting wagon.
Caleb Hagen was the leader of the family and looked it. He was approaching fifty and, although he had been born and raised at the family ranch in Blackstone, he could have been mistaken for a New York banker. His face had some of his late father’s sharp features, but too many steak dinners and black cigars and made him thick around the middle. His dark suit had been tailored to hide his girth, but as Trammel had learned, clothes could only hide a man’s true nature for so long. He had once handled the Hagen empire’s investments and had been proud of his accomplishments until Adam inherited it all and replaced him.
Bartholomew Hagen was shorter than his brother and, if the paintings Trammel had seen at the Hagen ranch house were to be believed, favored his mother. A capable looking man who lacked his brother’s height and frame, the second son had been placed in charge of the family’s mining interests by King Charles himself. From what Trammel had heard, he had done more than a fair job of making the family even richer than they already were.
Like her brother, Debora Hagen Forrester favored her mother’s portrait except for her eyes. There she resembled King Charles, right down to the cold, casual glare. Not even the parasol or the fashionable pink hat she sported could soften her look.
Her husband, Ambrose Forrester, was at her side. He had a habit of constantly running his hand through his hair to ensure it remained in place. The fop came from the powerful Forrester family of Colorado, which counted several relatives in state houses throughout the West and one in the US Senate. Other than an impressive last name, Trammel found him entirely forgettable.
Elena Hagen Wain was the baby of the family and Adam’s favorite sister. She had married a Philadelphia lawyer who Adam claimed was well on his way to being named partner in the family firm.
Where her brothers and sister were severe, Elena was gentle. Her golden hair and porcelain skin made her look like Adam’s twin, though she was much younger. Trammel wondered if her siblings had told her Adam was not really their brother or if they had been uncharacteristically kind enough to hide that fact from her.
However, if there was one trait the Hagen clan lacked, it was kindness.
The family did their best to ignore Trammel as he ambled over to them where they had clustered together on the platform outside their train cars.
“Welcome back to Blackstone,” he told them.
Caleb chewed on a black cigar and scowled up at him as if he was a beggar. Bart and Debora made half attempts at smiles, but nothing more.
Elena waved and smiled. “Morning, Buck. Nice to see you again.” She had still been living with her father when Trammel had brought Adam back to Blackstone. She had been a charming young woman then and he was glad some things had not changed.
Trammel touched the brim of his hat. “Nice to be seen, Elena. Hope your trip up here was a pleasant one.”
Caleb took the black cigar from his mouth as he strode between Trammel and the rest of his family. “I suppose Adam sent you here to spy on us?”
Trammel had not been expecting a handshake. “Your brother and I have an arrangement, Caleb. He doesn’t tell me what to do so I don’t have to defy him. Makes it easier to keep the peace that way.”
“My brother,” the banker spat. He looked like he wanted to say more but caught himself. “What are you doing here, then?”
“Making sure your visit starts off on the right foot.” Trammel inclined his head to the six men in blue tunics standing next to the station building. “I don’t want anyone to make you feel unwelcome.”
