“Oh, we’ll be ready, Marshal.” Grant grinned. “The only question is, will you?”
“Which brings us to the reason why we’re talking to you two right now,” Mackey said. “There’s two of you and two of us. Those are even odds, and given Al’s size here, we wouldn’t blame you for thinking you could overpower us. Maybe make a run for it, even though you’ll be chained together the entire time.”
Mackey looked each prisoner in the eye. “Bet you’ve already got some kind of plan worked out between you.”
Grant saw no point in denying it and was glad Brenner kept his peace for once.
But Brenner moved to the edge of his cot when Billy slipped the key into his cell door.
“Whatever you’re planning won’t work,” Mackey went on, “and we’re about to show you why.”
As soon as Billy unlocked the cell door and pulled it open, Brenner charged toward his possible freedom, propelled by weeks of rage that had built up in his tiny cell.
Billy Sunday fired a straight right hand that struck Brenner flush in the jaw. The force of the blow, combined with the bigger man’s momentum, caused the prisoner to drop like a sack of wet flour to the floor of his cell.
Sunday brought his boot down on Brenner’s neck as he grabbed the big man’s left foot and raised his leg. Grant watched Sunday pull a bowie knife from the back of his belt and hold it behind Brenner’s knee.
Mackey leaned against Grant’s cell door. “See how easy Billy did that? Brenner’s a big man, way bigger than you, but he’s still a Hancock. That means he’s as tough as he is stupid. That’s no match for our training and determination. Billy knocked your boy cold with one punch. He’ll do it again if he has reason to. What’s more, he’s got his knife to the back of his leg. One flick of the wrist will cut Brenner’s hamstring in two. He’ll be a cripple for the rest of his life.”
“Even though he won’t be alive much longer,” Billy added.
Mackey rattled Grant’s cage door. “If either of you tries to escape, we’ll cut both your hamstrings just to be fair. Prison’s tough enough for a man with two good legs, Grant. It’s even worse for a cripple.”
Billy dropped Brenner’s leg and tucked the bowie knife away as he stepped out and relocked the cell door.
Grant was disgusted by Brenner’s stupidity. The big fool had played directly into Mackey’s trap, but he hid his disgust as he said, “Consider us both sufficiently warned, Aaron. You’ve already tried to cripple me once.” He rubbed the shoulder that still ached from Mackey’s bullet that had almost cost him his arm. “I have no intention of giving you a second chance.”
Mackey grinned. “I don’t expect you to live long enough for it to matter one way or the other. Judge Forester will have you dancing at the end of a rope inside of a month at most. Guess you might as well try to keep as much dignity as you can in the few days you’ve got left.”
“That’s sound advice, Grant,” Sunday added. “Why limp into hell when you can walk in on two good legs?”
“Why indeed?” Grant sat back on his cot and folded his hands across his belly. It was time to begin planting seeds of doubt in their minds. “In fact, who knows how much time any of us has left? Don’t forget it’s more than a day’s train ride to Helena. A lot can happen between here and there. Weather problems. Trees across tracks. Bandits attacking trains. Mechanical problems. Engine boilers are fickle machines. Almost anything could happen to upset your plans. Anything at all.”
Mackey leaned against Grant’s cell door. “I know that brain of yours always has something cooking up, so I’ll lay it out as plain as I can. If either of you try to run, you both get crippled. If anyone attacks the train, you both get shot in the belly. If the train makes any unexpected stops, for any reason, you both get shot in the belly.”
Grant did not like the sound of that.
Mackey went on. “I know you ran the railroad in this part of the territory, Grant, and I know you probably still have some people loyal to you. I also know you’ve paid men to rob your trains and split the profits with you in the past, so Billy and I have decided not to take any chances. If the train stops, you die. Shooting you will be an abundance of precaution on our part.”
“What if the train breaks down?” Grant asked.
“Better hope it doesn’t,” Billy said, “because like the marshal just said, you’ll get shot in the belly if it does.”
Mackey added, “We’re bringing both of you to Helena for trial one way or the other. Straight up or over the saddle makes no difference to us.”
Grant enjoyed the bravado of the lawmen. He would have enjoyed it more if they were not every bit as tough as they thought they were.
That was why bringing them down when they got to Helena would be so satisfying. He only hoped he saw the look on Mackey’s face when it happened.
But that would come later. For now, as he sat in that cell, words were his only weapon. “I envy you your confidence, Aaron. Yours, too, Billy. I always have. The confidence to believe that your way of seeing things is the only way there is. You think there is only one way to convict me and one way to free me. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I’m wrong. I guess we’ll find out for sure when we get to Helena, won’t we?”
Billy opened the door to the jail and walked into the office.
Mackey stayed behind. “Talk in circles all you want, Grant, but remember all the words in the world lead right back to you being a prisoner and me being a free man. By this time next month, I’ll still be alive and you’ll be rotting in the ground.”
“Just like your friend Underhill.” Grant smiled again, sucking his teeth. “It’s a shame that such a good man should be cut down in the prime of life like that. And by a lowly drunkard, no less.”
Mackey gripped the bar of the cell door a little tighter. “A drunkard you sent to kill him.”
Grant shrugged. “So you’ve said many times, but still can’t prove. I suppose it’ll depend on Judge Forester’s mood when we get to his courtroom, won’t it?” He cocked his head to the side. “Or will it depend on more than that? I wonder. Territorial capitals can be such complicated places. I guess it’s something for all of us to think about in the miles ahead.”
Mackey pointed at the pile of clothing on the stool next to Grant’s cot. “Be ready in the morning or you ride all the way to Helena in your drawers.”
“But fly to my eternal reward on angel’s wings,” Grant called after Mackey as the marshal walked into the jailhouse. “Enjoy the funeral. Give my condolences to—”
But Mackey had slammed and locked the door before he could finish his sentence.
It didn’t matter much to Grant. The marshal had always been an easy man to read and even easier to rile. Grant had always had an uncanny ability to get under his skin, though he had never been able to figure out why. Perhaps it was because he—a stranger—had amassed so much power so soon in Mackey’s beloved hometown?
Grant did not bother wasting time wondering about the reasons for Mackey’s hatred. As the lawman had said, all the words in the world ended with Grant still being in jail and Mackey taking him before Judge Forester.
At least for now.
He looked through the bars of his cell at Brenner as the big man began to moan. The left side of his jaw was already beginning to swell and possibly was broken. It served him right. The big fool had run directly into Mackey’s trap.
Just as Mackey was about to run into Grant’s.
CHAPTER 3
Just before dawn the following morning, Mackey stood on the porch of the old jailhouse, sipping coffee as he looked up Front Street. A chilly night breeze picked up as the first rays of dawn began to crack across the horizon.
The funeral procession of Walter Underhill would start soon, as per the wishes of the dead man.
And as was his custom, Billy Sunday said what Mackey was thinking. “Sun’s coming up.” Like Mackey, he was clad in all black, save for a starched white shirt and the star pinned to his duster. “Gu
ess they’ll be bringing Underhill along any time now.”
“Guess so.” Mackey took another swig of Billy’s coffee. His deputy had always made a fine pot. “That’s the way Walter wanted it.”
Billy cleared his throat and mimicked Underhill’s deep Texas voice. “Put me in the ground just after sunrise, boys.” Billy shook his head. “Don’t know what’s so special about getting planted at sunrise.”
Neither did Mackey, but he saw no point in talking about it. “It’s what he wanted.”
“But he’s just as dead now as he would be at a more sensible hour,” Billy went on. “Like ten, maybe.”
Mackey did not understand Underhill’s reasoning, either. He did not understand why Underhill was even dead at all. Despite Doc Ridley’s best efforts, the big Texan had finally succumbed to the knife wound that had festered in his belly for weeks. One day, he looked like he might finally be strong enough to get out of bed.
By the following evening, a raging fever had set in and killed him.
No, Mackey may not have understood Underhill’s reasons for wanting a sunrise burial, but the dead did not need to explain their choices to the living. They were beyond all that now, and Mackey hoped they were the better for it. Especially in the case of his friend, Walter Underhill.
“The least we can do is grant his last wish,” Mackey said, “seeing as how he was the town’s first chief of police.”
“Wonder if we’ll get to be that lucky.” Billy lit a cigarette. “About getting dying wishes granted and all.”
“Given our line of work?” Mackey took another swig of coffee. “Probably not.”
“Probably not.” Billy let the smoke drift from his nostrils. “Don’t know that Underhill deserves the privilege, either.”
Mackey knew where the conversation was headed and decided it was too gloomy a morning for a debate. “Not now, Billy.”
But Billy did not stop. “Walter was James Grant’s police chief. He helped Grant get a lot of the power he had over this town. No reason to forget all that just because he went and died.”
But Mackey had no intention of forgetting it. He could not forget it even if he wanted to. James Grant had done a lot of damage to Dover Station since the day he had come to town. He had won the confidence of Silas Van Dorn, the man who oversaw the town’s expansion for the Dover Station Company. Grant had gone as far to poison the man so he could take control of the company and all of its investments in the Montana Territory. Grant had then set about getting himself elected mayor soon after.
Once he had appointed Underhill to head the new police force in town, Grant controlled all of the business and legal aspects of the town.
After bringing in the murderous Hancock clan to take over the criminal element of Dover Station, there was hardly a crooked or honest dollar spent in town limits that James Grant did not get a piece of.
Underhill had reluctantly helped Grant in the beginning before turning on him, but he had helped him just the same.
Mackey took another sip of coffee. No, he had no intention of forgetting the role Underhill had played in all of that. But when Underhill stopped obeying Grant and started enforcing the law in town, he had been killed on Grant’s orders. Mackey was sure of it.
Now Grant was sitting in one of his cells, waiting for Mackey and Billy to bring him to Helena for trial. Underhill’s ultimate defiance had bought him a lot of forgiveness as far as Mackey was concerned.
“Underhill was far from perfect,” Mackey said, “but he was a friend to us when we needed him, especially during that Darabont business. And times since then, too.”
Billy took another drag on his cigarette and joined Mackey in looking up Front Street.
Mackey knew Billy disagreed, but would not argue. The two men had never argued in the ten years they had known each other. Not while they had been in uniform and not as lawmen. They had always spoken their minds and, when there was a rare difference of opinion, let it sit for a while, gradually finding some kind of unspoken compromise before they picked up the conversation again. It had always been like that between them. It was why they were silent now.
They had saved each other’s lives more times than either of them could count had they cared to try. And although neither man had siblings, Mackey figured Billy Sunday was closer to him than any brother could be. Their friendship was one made by choice, not blood.
Mackey took another sip of coffee as the sky began to slowly brighten with the rising sun. This had always been his favorite part of the day. The town was quiet. No echoes of the constant hammering from the new mill being built over on River Street. No drunken laughter or bawdy piano music from the saloons or joy houses that were now scattered all over town. No crowds milling along the boardwalks or heavy wagons of freight clogging the thoroughfare.
No trace of the mob that had threatened to overwhelm him and attack the jailhouse, either. The night had a wonderful way of scrubbing the town clean only to dry it anew each morning.
That early, quiet time of day reminded Mackey of the Dover Station of his childhood, back before the railroad came. Back when it had been called Dover Plains. It had been a booming town of loggers and ranchers back then. Miners and merchants, too. A place settled by men from both sides of the War Between the States. A place where the differences of the past had been set aside for the promise of a better future. The town had avenues named after Lincoln and Davis and streets named after Grant and Lee and Longstreet and Sheridan.
Men and women from North and South and across the oceans had been able to make a good living in the town they had hacked out of the wilderness. Even after the railroad came and the town changed its name to Dover Station, it had still felt like home to Aaron Mackey.
Now, because of the Dover Station Company, his hometown was a boomtown once again with all of the good and bad elements that came with such a place.
Many new buildings had gone up in the past year or so, with none more imposing than the Municipal Building directly across the street from the jailhouse. Its red brick walls and rounded turrets looked like a medieval castle he had read about in history books more than an office building for a small Montana town.
No, Mackey did not recognize his hometown anymore and wondered if he was supposed to. Towns were like people; living things meant to grow and change and, ultimately, die. No one ever got anywhere by standing still. He imagined towns were not much different.
Mackey figured Dover Station was no exception.
And neither was he.
Billy broke the silence that had settled over them. “Underhill was a good shot. Brave, too, when it came down to it. He was a fair horseman, too.”
Mackey knew that was as close to a concession as he was likely to get from Billy. He decided to change the subject to something they could agree on. “Think Joshua’s ready to go to Helena with us?”
Billy glanced back toward the jailhouse, where the young deputy was still sleeping. “He’s getting enough rest for the journey, that’s for sure. Didn’t even stir when we walked out here. For a boy eager to get himself shot at, he sleeps pretty soundly. Maybe too soundly for the trail.”
Mackey remembered how they had found young Sandborne half dead after Darabont’s men had burned his ranch to the ground the year before. He remembered how Sandborne had handled himself when they had cornered Darabont’s men and in the dustups they had endured against Grant and his men ever since.
“Spending time with us will do him some good,” Mackey said. “And I feel better leaving Jerry behind to keep an eye on things.”
“Jerry’s a good man to have around,” Billy agreed. “Reminds me of his daddy.”
Jeremiah Halstead reminded Mackey of Sim Halstead, too, and made him miss his old friend all the more. “He’ll give the Hancocks all they can handle if it comes to that.”
“The Hancocks being Hancocks,” Billy said, “it’ll probably come to that.”
Mackey heard the jangle of a bridle carried on the dying night wind blowing
down Front Street. The funeral procession for Walter Underhill was almost certainly underway. He pulled out the pocket watch Katherine had given him from his vest pocket and checked the time.
“Almost seven. Right on time.”
He turned the watch around to take a look at the inscription on the back. To the finest man I’ve ever known. With all my love, Katherine.
Jerry Halstead’s presence in Dover Station may have made him miss his friend, but reading the inscription on the watch made him miss Katherine all the more. He had sent his father with her to Helena weeks ago for her own protection when things with Grant and the Hancock clan had gotten ugly. He could face them better if he knew the love of his life was safe. And under Pappy’s protection, he knew she was as safe as she could be.
Billy said, “Still think we’ll make that nine o’clock train to Helena?”
“Depends on how long-winded Doc Ridley will be when we get to the cemetery.” In addition to being the town doctor, Ridley was also the closest thing to a preacher the town had. “If he sticks to the gospels, we stand a chance. If he starts with Genesis, we might have to catch the afternoon train.”
Billy flicked his cigarette into the thoroughfare. “Then let’s hope he starts with Revelation, because we’ve got a train to catch.”
They could hear the hooves of the draft horse pulling the cart with Underhill’s body plodding its way up Front Street. It had been a dry summer and the thoroughfare had dried into a passable muck.
Billy drained the rest of his coffee and set it on the porch railing before pulling on his black hat. “Here they come.”
Mackey pulled on his hat, too, and walked down the steps to greet the procession.
* * *
Twenty-one men from the Dover Station Police Department led the somber procession up Front Street. The new chief, Steve Edison, led the way. All of his men held Winchesters at their shoulders, and their gold badges gleamed against their brown dusters. It wasn’t a cavalry honor guard, but as proper as the reformed gunmen could muster.
The Dark Sunrise Page 2