The Dark Sunrise

by Terrence McCauley

  Now, the word was that he was holed up in The Ruby and well on his way to becoming the town drunk. No one even bothered to talk about him anymore except to remark about how far the mighty had fallen.

  As soon as he drank his money away, Jerry bet the Hancocks would throw him out on his ear. He would probably wind up sleeping beneath the back stairs of the very castle he had built for himself.

  Jerry looked over the crowd again, wondering if Grant might be there. It was almost impossible to pick out any one face among the mass of people who had packed Front Street for a glimpse at town history.

  The crowd roared as the men stepped up onto the platform. He half expected trumpeters to begin playing from the Municipal Building’s turrets. Maybe American flags unfurled from the top.

  He looked up at them in the hopes Pappy might have asked for that kind of theatrical flair. He would not put it past him.

  Instead, Jerry Halstead saw something else.

  Something had moved up there.

  It could have been a bird landing or a branch blowing in the breeze. But he knew no birds would come near Front Street that day, for the crowd was too noisy. And he knew there were no trees that grew that tall in Dover Station.

  Someone was up there.

  Jerry looked around the crowd for a path that could get him to the Municipal Building, but even though it was just across the street, the knot of humanity was impossible to get through. He tried to shout a warning to the deputies in front of the building, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

  He waved at them to get their attention, but they were too busy craning their necks to get a look at the spectacle on the platform.

  No one was looking up at the turret.

  Knowing there was nothing else he could do, Jerry brought his Winchester to his shoulder and aimed up at the top of the turret. The building was tall and the angle impossibly steep, but he figured the Winchester should have enough power to at least get close if he fired.

  He only hoped he could get close enough if he had to. Jerry stood rock still, the crowd ignoring him as he aimed as steadily as he could, hoping to God his eyes had been playing tricks on him. That it had been a bird, or a puff of smoke, or nothing at all. He wanted to be wrong but knew he had been right.

  Then, one of the children on the porch pulled on his pants leg. “Hey, mister. What’re you aiming at?”

  Jerry pushed the young boy away with his boot, keeping his aim on the turret. “Get away from me.”

  “Hey!” called out a man who must have been the boy’s father. “You can’t kick my son like that.” He pulled himself up onto the porch to confront Jerry, who pushed the man away, causing him to fall back into the crowd, who suddenly turned away from the platform to the jailhouse to see what the ruckus was all about.

  Jerry cursed and took aim again at the top of the turret.

  Now he saw it.

  The same thing he had seen before.

  A tuft of blond hair blowing in the wind.

  And a shape that could only be a man aiming a rifle.

  Jerry fired.

  The crack of his Winchester echoed loud, too loud for his to be the only gun fired.

  The bastard had gotten off a shot after all.

  The crowd descended into madness.

  Jerry racked in another round and fired again as men and women and children broke into panicked runs all around him. The boardwalk bounced as children jumped off and ran to the arms of their mothers and fathers.

  Jerry did not have a target but fired again. Another piece of turret cracked and threw up dust into the air. If he could not hit the rifleman, he could damn near block his shot while Pappy and the others got to safety.

  He kept his aim up at the building, half expecting one of Edison’s men to take a shot at him. But out of the corner of his eye, amid the screaming and sea of people crashing into each other, he saw three officers run into the building. He hoped they would get inside in time to trap the gunman and put a bullet in him.

  Seeing no movement from the turret for several seconds, Jerry decided to wade into the crowd to get to the Municipal Building. He used his Winchester to knock people out of the way. Men and women, he did not have the time to care. He could not allow the gunman to escape into the crowd.

  After almost losing his footing several times, Jerry bounded up the stairs of the Municipal Building and skidded to a stop on the marble floor. “It’s Jerry Halstead,” he yelled, his voice carrying throughout the cavernous building. “Did you get him yet?”

  One of Edison’s officers stuck his head over the third-floor banister. “Nothing here. No one at all.”

  “Did you check the roof?”

  The man’s quick disappearance told Jerry he had not.

  Knowing the rifleman could already be on his way out of the building, Jerry ran through the empty courtroom and out the back door next to the judge’s chambers. He jumped down the three steps to the ground and looked around for any sign of the gunman fleeing the building.

  He did not see anyone with a rifle. All he saw was a herd of people running in all directions along Lee Street.

  But he stopped when he saw something on the ground.

  The same kind of crater he had just left in the soft dirt when he had jumped down the stairs. And a single set of footprints heading down Lee Street before they were muddled by the hundreds of feet from panicked spectators.

  It was a thin trail, but it was the only trail he had, and he decided to follow it.

  He leapt onto the boardwalk, out of the fray of people in the street, and moved as quickly as he could through the jostling crowd. He looked all around for anyone who might be holding a rifle close to their side. Someone running. Someone trying not to run. Someone who looked too scared. Someone who did not look scared enough. Anything that might look out of place.

  He caught a glimpse of someone in the middle of Lee Street, walking at an even pace as he dodged the frightened people charging toward him. Walking stiffly with his right arm not moving.

  Jerry knew the man might have been just another spectator trying to get away from the scene, no different than any of the other people on the street that day.

  Except this man had blond hair. And he had to keep flattening it against the wind.

  With his left hand.

  Because, although Jerry could not see it, he knew the man held a rifle in his right.

  He pushed his way to the edge of the boardwalk and brought the Winchester up to his shoulder. “You with the blond hair. Stop!”

  But the man did not stop, for Jerry’s words were drowned out by the screams and shouts of the frightened people clogging Lee Street.

  Then someone either knocked into Jerry or pushed him. He did not know which. All he knew was that he had fallen and had to grab onto someone to keep from falling on his face.

  But he had kept hold of the Winchester.

  He quickly regained his footing and moved against the tide of humanity to walk in the same direction as the blond man had been headed.

  * * *

  A walk that should have taken him five minutes even at the slowest of strolls had taken him fifteen. He jumped up every so often to try to see the blond man over the heads of the crowd, but only caught glimpses of him now and then still heading north.

  Jerry pushed and pulled and shouldered people to the side, jumping up again when he reached the last place where he had spotted the man.

  Each time, all he saw was a man who might be him. Maybe. Even if he was the rifleman.

  He finally found a clear space on the boardwalk near the last place where he had seen the blond man and rushed for it. Upon climbing it, he held on to the porch post and searched the crowd of heads in the hopes of seeing the man again. But all he saw was the worried and sometimes bloodied faces of people still caught in the throes of panic.

  And not a blond head in the bunch.

  Jerry had lost him.

  He resisted the urge to curse and yell. To punch
the porch post. His rage compounding by the second, he looked for someone, anyone, who might be looking to start a fight with the man they called a half-breed.

  But as he looked around, none of his tormentors were in sight.

  Jerry looked up at the sky and closed his eyes, drawing the air deep into his lungs in a bid to calm himself down. Now was not the time for anger. Now was the time for calm. To think. Because the gunman was still out there, and he was very calm indeed.

  And when Jerry opened his eyes again, he found what he was looking for. Not the blond man, but something that told him he had been right all along.

  A sign read THE RUBY SALOON.

  Of course, this would be the last place he had spotted the blond man. For this was a Hancock saloon. And who better to want Pappy dead than a Hancock man?

  CHAPTER 20

  The weather might have been cool outside, but inside, Jerry found it was full-on summer.

  The packed saloon was thick and humid in the way small spaces tended to get when they were too crowded with drinking men. The place was swamped with people who had just run in from the swearing-in ceremony. All of them were anxious to relate their version of events at the same time, though no one was really listening.

  Jerry bumped his way through the tight, crowded space. Some of the men turned to protest but, when they saw the star on his vest and the look in his eye, thought better of it.

  The jostling caught the notice of the man in the lookout chair. Although his rifle remained across his lap, Jerry could feel him watching him.

  Jerry looked at every head he could see for any trace of the blond man he had just chased up Lee Street.

  And when he found it, the man he had been looking for was sitting alone at a table by a thick wooden beam that held up the roof.

  The same fair-haired man he had seen strolling around town from time to time for the past week or so.

  The man people called Nathan Rigg.

  Jerry pushed his way through the crowd toward the table where Rigg was sitting. The closer he got, the clearer it became that the man had just gotten there. He was winded, his clothes were disheveled, and his hair was wild despite his repeated attempts to pat it down with his hand. Thin beads of sweat peppered his brow.

  The man was still trying to flatten down his hair when Jerry reached his table.

  “The wind’s mighty bad out there, isn’t it?”

  Rigg looked up at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Your hair. It got messed up by the wind just now.”

  Rigg stopped trying to flatten his hair and flashed a smile. “I’m afraid you’ve had too much to drink, my friend. I haven’t left this table all morning.”

  “That so? You’re sweating awfully bad for a man whose been in a nice, cool bar all morning.”

  “Far from it.” Rigg looked at the star pinned to Jerry’s vest, but did not comment on it. “I’ve always been a sucker for sentiment, and despite the fact that I despise every member of the Mackey clan, I took it upon myself to venture out to see the ceremony. How often does a man get to witness history in the making? I had no sooner rounded the corner off Lee Street when I found myself carried backward by a tide of humanity. Why, it’s only by the grace of God Himself that I found safe harbor here or I might have been trampled to death.”

  Jerry watched Rigg smile. He was back in control. “Ever see a man trampled to death by a mob, Deputy? I have, and I assure you it’s an ugly sight you won’t soon forget.”

  Rigg seemed to remember himself. “All of this excitement has made me lose my manners. Forgive me for not offering you a drink. You look just about all done in.”

  Jerry ignored the offer. “You mean you were just off the corner of Lee Street here. No closer to the platform than that?”

  Rigg laughed. “Heavens, no. I was taken by a rash impulse to take a look for myself and it almost cost me my life. No, sir. I never got closer than the corner just outside that door.”

  Jerry Halstead had been watching Rigg the entire time he had been talking. He had all the mannerisms of some Virginian gentlemen he had run into in Texas. The breezy way he spoke. He showed a lot when he spoke, probably charmed a lot of people, too.

  Most people were easy to charm, but not Jerry Halstead. He had been charmed enough in his young life to see his way through the show. Families who had promised to adopt him, only never to be seen again. Sheriffs and townspeople who had said they would back him in a gunfight, only to stay back in the jailhouse when the ring finally dropped. Judges who had promised him a slap on the wrist for doing his duty and sent him to prison for three years.

  Yes, being gullible had cost Jerry Halstead dearly. It had almost cost him his life. He had learned how to spot the truth and how to smell a lie. The stench of lies coming from Rigg just then was almost overwhelming.

  Rigg raised his hand and snapped his fingers to get the barman’s attention, only to frown when he had failed to do so. “Fred,” he called out. “I’ll have another, and my friend here will have—”

  Rigg’s smile infuriated Jerry.

  “Forgive me, Deputy. I forgot to ask what you wanted.”

  “How about the truth?” Jerry said. “In fact, I’ll take a bottle of it. And not from the barman, either. From you.”

  Rigg casually lowered his right hand. “I’m afraid I don’t follow the implication.”

  “Maybe, but I was the one following you. All the way up Lee Street. All the way from the Municipal Building where you had taken a shot at Pappy.”

  He gripped the Winchester tightly in his left hand. The crowd in the saloon was too packed to raise it, but he had plenty of room to go to work with his pistol if Rigg gave him cause.

  Rigg sat quietly, or as quietly as a man could in the raucous saloon. “I think you have me confused with someone else. Why, I don’t think I’ve fired a gun in some time, and certainly not today. Why would anyone want to shoot at such a charming man like Mayor Mackey?” He laughed. “He’s quite the colorful character, isn’t he?”

  But Jerry was beyond listening. The truth of what he had seen was too clear now to be anything else. He began looking around. “Where’d you stash it?”

  “Stash what, Deputy?” Rigg asked. “I believe I’m the only man in this entire saloon more confused than you at the moment.”

  “The rifle you used. Where—”

  Jerry saw a Sharps hanging on two pegs above the back of the bar. That explained the loud boom that had echoed a split second after his own. The kind of sound a fifty-caliber round made when it was fired.

  He had to admire Rigg’s craftiness. “That’s a neat trick you pulled. Hiding it in plain sight for the whole town to see above the bar. Another time, I might even be impressed.”

  Rigg slumped theatrically in his chair. “Now you have me at a complete loss, sir. I think you may need that drink more than I do. Fred,” he yelled out above the din of the crowd, “another one for me and make it a double for my friend here, if you please.”

  He looked at Jerry. “I’m sorry, Deputy, but I am afraid I’ve forgotten your name, assuming I ever knew it in the first place.”

  “The name’s Jeremiah Halstead. And my name’s not the only thing you’ve forgotten.”

  “Oh?” Rigg said. “Enlighten me? What else have I forgotten, sir?”

  Jerry looked at the clear table. “You’ve forgotten your glass.”

  Rigg’s eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Though the quick glance he threw at the table told Halstead he understood. He knew he had been caught in a lie. “You can’t order another drink if you never had one in the first place. Your table is clear.”

  Rigg laughed it off. “I suppose one of the girls must’ve cleared it off.”

  Jerry kept his eyes on Rigg. “What girls? There’s not a woman in this entire place. They’re all upstairs working. And it’s too crowded for anyone to clear a glass.”

  Rigg shifted in his seat. “Why do I have a feeling you’re working up to m
aking a rather ugly accusation, Deputy Halstead.”

  “I’m not working up to anything.” He was glad his hand was already close to his holster. “I’m stating a fact. You’re a liar.”

  Both men drew their respective Colt Thunderer revolvers.

  Later on and in the years that followed, the men who had been watching what had taken place that early afternoon in The Ruby disagreed on who had drawn first. All of the Hancock men said it was clearly Rigg. Their friends and a few impartial observers said Halstead had edged him out.

  None of the men who had seen it happen, though, were willing to stake their life on the claim. The winner was debatable. The fact that it had been close was undeniable.

  And so was the fact that, less than a second later, every pistol in the saloon—except his own—was aimed at Jerry Halstead.

  Jerry slowly raised his Winchester to his hip and aimed it in the general direction of the men around him.

  Except for the sound of hammers being thumbed back, a humid silence fell over the saloon.

  Jerry did not budge. “Nathan Rigg, I’m placing you under arrest for the attempted murder of Mayor Mackey.”

  Rigg flashed an infuriating smile. “I’m afraid you have found yourself at quite a disadvantage, sir. Not only are you outgunned, but every man in this saloon here and now is more than willing to swear that I was here the entire time, save for my brief excursion along Lee Street.” He raised his voice for the whole saloon to hear. “Why, I haven’t left the premises all morning, have I, boys?”

  All the men in The Ruby mumbled some form of agreement.

  “Did you hear that, Deputy?” Rigg asked. “A saloon full of unassailable witnesses. Why, I’d even wager a few of them are capable of writing out their statements and even signing their names.”

  “We’re here for you, Colonel,” a man called out from the crowd.

  But Jerry did not look around at the men pointing guns at him. He did not dare. He was a federal lawman with federal authority. He knew if he faltered now, there would be no way he could live in this town. He also knew his chances of making it out alive if he lowered his gun was slim. Rigg would shoot him and claim self-defense, backed up by a saloon full of witnesses.