Walt last among them.
Earp stood where he was until the last of them rode away, then sat back down at the table and finished his coffee.
CHAPTER 5
“I need a drink.” Hagen was nearly doubled over his horse as they rode the flatlands north away from Wichita. “I need it bad, Buck.”
“Don’t call me that.” Trammel rode several yards ahead of him, hoping the distance would encourage his mount to pick up the pace a bit. He could see Hagen was hurting. He was sweating something awful, and his hands shook like a man riding at full gallop.
But Trammel also knew they needed to be farther from town than they were. Much farther. They had only a day or so to put as much space between them and the Bowman family as possible. At the rate they were riding, the family would be on them just as they reached the next town. “I only let my friends call me Buck, and you’re no friend, so let’s just leave it at Trammel.”
“Fine!” Hagen cried out. “I’ll call you anything you want, even beautiful, but I’m hurting bad and I need that drink. I need it now!”
Trammel kept riding. “You got your sip when we rested a while back. I’ll give you another sip when we make camp for the night as long as we get as far as we need to. That means you picking up the pace.”
Hagen sneered. “It’s called a hangover for a reason, you overgrown imbecile. I didn’t ask to come on this crusade of yours. I would’ve been just as happy to sleep it off in my room and take my chances with those Bowman idiots when I had my wits about me.”
“And a belly full of whiskey, no doubt.” Trammel normally didn’t let such insults go unanswered, but given Hagen’s current sorry state, he let it slide. “I didn’t have you pegged for a brave man.”
“I never said I’d fight them, but I’d be able to avoid them easily enough if I was in better shape.”
Trammel figured that was the case. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, we weren’t given much choice in the matter. Like I told you before, Earp pretty much ordered us out of town. Taking you with me wasn’t my idea, but we’re stuck with each other until we reach the next town. So the sooner you figure out how to pick up the pace, the sooner we’ll be rid of each other.”
Trammel noticed something he had said seemed to snap Hagen out of it. He bolted upright in the saddle, as if an iron bar had been jammed up his spine. “Music to my ears. Just where are we headed, Mr. Trammel, or have you not thought that far ahead yet?” He looked around. “We seem to be headed north.”
Trammel was glad for the chance to prove to Hagen he wasn’t an imbecile after all. “I let Bobby back at the livery think we were headed south. So we’re headed north instead. To Newton.”
“Newton,” Hagen repeated as though the word itself was poison. He leaned over the side of his mount and spat onto the trail. “How predictable. You’re more Moses than Daniel Boone, aren’t you, Trammel? A real north-and-south, left-or-right man. The kind who picks out a point on a map and rides straight for it. The kind of man who gets himself killed.” He spat again. “Just like a bloody copper.”
“I’m not a cop, damn you.” Trammel resented the insult to his logic. “You weren’t exactly in any shape to give an opinion on direction when we rode out this morning, so I made the best choice I could. Newton is a solid choice, and it’s got law to protect us if the Bowman family catches up to us.”
“Thank God I’m beginning to regain some of my senses.” Hagen winced and doubled over, no doubt from the clawing in his stomach from the lack of booze. “Fortunately, the Bowman clan are no brighter than you are and are likely to do the same thing.” He looked around and saw a copse of trees just ahead. “That’s exactly why we’re not going to Newton.”
Trammel resented the man’s affront to his authority, until he realized he didn’t have any authority. He wasn’t a Pinkerton man anymore, and Hagen wasn’t his prisoner. Hell, he technically wasn’t even his charge. Earp had told him to bring the gambler out of town with him, and he had done that. Whatever happened to him now that they were out of town limits was out of his control. Not even a man like Earp could hold him responsible for that.
But Trammel also knew Hagen was right about him. Trammel was a straight thinker. He had picked out a spot and headed for it, just like he had always done. The Bowman family, or at least the few members he had known at The Gilded Lilly, were the same sort. They came in after a roundup to get drunk and that’s what they did. They came in to gamble for high stakes at the tables and did just that. Sometimes they won and sometimes they lost.
They went straight at whatever they set their mind to, and they’d most likely do the same thing when they came after Trammel and Hagen. And he had no doubt they’d come for them and keep coming for them until they found them. It sounded like Hagen knew that, too, and might have a way around it.
“Never took instruction from a drunk before,” Trammel admitted, “but I suppose there’s a first time for everything. Since we’ve both likely got a price on our head by now, where do you think we should go?”
“A haystack where two needles like us can disappear quite nicely,” Hagen said. “Come, Moses. And let me lead you to the new and eternal Jerusalem of our kind.”
Trammel’s mount flinched as Hagen put the spurs to his own horse and bolted for the trees. The old gray no longer moped like an old nag, and Hagen no longer rode like a drunk slumped over in the saddle. He rode upright and erect, the way he’d seen some of the army officers ride when they came to Wichita on their first day of leave. They hadn’t ridden out the same way, of course, but on that first day, their poise left an impression on Trammel.
His horse bucked a bit and he could tell it was anxious to follow. He let up on the reins and let it have its head. “Okay, Mr. Hagen,” Trammel said to himself. “Let’s find out if you know what you’re talking about.”
CHAPTER 6
Ambrose Bowman’s bones creaked as loudly as the floorboards of his back porch as he walked to his rocking chair. He sat down and filled the bowl of his pipe the way he had almost every night he had spent in his home. This very same home he had built decades ago with his own hands. His own sweat and labor. He saw no reason why the death of his kin should interfere with the ritual. Bowman men and women had been dying in Kansas since his father had moved the family to the wilderness long before the War Between the States. They had died since and, he reckoned, more would die before he finally passed over to whatever lie beyond. He knew not whether he would go to Heaven or Hell, but imagined that God, in His own infinite wisdom, would find a way to split the difference and plant him in Purgatory for a spell, if such a place existed. If it did not exist, he had no doubt the Almighty would create such a place if only to stick him there out of spite. His relationship with his creator had always been thus.
He struck a lucifer on the side of his chair and brought the flame to the bowl, puffing until he brought the tobacco to a decent burn before waving the match dead and flicking it over the porch railing. It was already past sunset, and he watched the purple hues of the western sky grow deeper as the sun sank farther behind the horizon.
Yet there was still enough light for him to see the family graveyard where his people lie molding, their headstones crooked and bent in the soft Kansas soil. He saw the outline of the horses in the near field and, just beyond it, the pasture where his cattle grazed.
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