From the time he had been a boy on his family’s plantation, Nathan Rigg had always known he would die in bed. He was certain of it, just as he was certain the sun would rise in the east each morning and set in the west each night. It was why he had taken so many chances in battle and why he had never lived in fear of any man. White, black, or red. He only hoped, that when that day ultimately came many years from now, that he would show as much grit as Brendan Mackey had shown when he faced the reaper’s scythe.
Rigg could feel the people watch him as he walked across Front Street. Laborers clearing out the debris and shopkeepers who no longer had shops to keep. Men building tents in the burned-out lots that had already been cleared of charred wood. New buildings were already beginning to go up, with credit extended by James Grant and lumber provided by his sawmill.
The townspeople who dared to look at him did not look upon him with admiration. They looked at him in fear. Rigg drank in that fear as happily as he had forced down Mad Nellie’s rotgut that passed for whiskey at The Ruby. The time to enjoy fine spirits would come soon enough, but for now, the wretched drink reminded him he still had much work to do.
Keep at it, you damned fools, he thought as he passed another work crew. I own forty percent of your labor.
He laughed to himself as he passed by the burned-out husk of The Campbell Arms. The place had been the pride and joy of Aaron Mackey’s woman, Katherine Campbell, the Boston whore who let a good man die so she could be with her lover. He had known and admired Major Campbell as the only officer he had ever met who could match his own brutality. His wife’s betrayal had practically forced him to charge the Comanche the fateful day he lost his life. At least he had died honorably, if foolishly clouded by notions of honor.
Honor was a luxury that outcasts like Rigg could ill afford.
Yes, Rigg was glad the rioters had burned the hotel to the ground. It was a fitting blow to the vain widow and a fitting price to be paid by any ally of Aaron Mackey. He only wished he had ordered it burned himself.
Grant had wanted the ruin pulled down immediately, claiming the plot where it stood was a prime location for a grand hotel. But Rigg had ordered the workers to clear other lots first. He wanted to be able to sit on his porch for a while and gaze upon the fallen hotel as a trophy to forever casting out Mackey and his ilk from the town he now controlled. Yes, he would enjoy the view from his porch indeed.
He tipped his hat to a wagon full of church women who rumbled past his house, but the women all turned away. He imagined they must be the women of the men at the logging operations on the outskirts of town. He wondered why a wagonload of church mice would be coming to town at this hour. It was not Sunday, and there were no sick left to attend to. The violence that accompanied the riot had been as efficient as it had been destructive. The dying were all dead, and the living were all who remained.
He wondered if the church women would throw in a good word with the Lord for him, though he doubted it would do much good.
He walked up the steps of his house and opened the door. He had not been able to spend much time there since Bishop had moved out and Grant had given the house to him. Grant had decided to move into the Municipal Building lock, stock, and barrel; preferring to live and breathe the future of Dover Station. The constant presence of armed guards in a fortified building to keep the townspeople at bay did not hurt, either.
But Nathan Rigg had refused to allow any guards near his place, especially while he was not there. He knew the five remaining men he had brought with him to town, and he would not trust any of them to be near something so personal to him. He was enough to face down any threat to him, including Aaron Mackey.
Besides, he believed being surrounded by gunmen exuded weakness, not power. Grant’s ego dictated that at least one guard be with him at all times, even though Grant was fairly good with a firearm himself. Rigg was happy to oblige. They were all Rigg’s men and would keep him apprised of Grant’s activities. It was almost as good as being there himself.
He closed the door behind him and set the latch. He took off his hat and tossed it into the front parlor. He did not bother to see where it landed, for wherever it landed, it was in the house that now belonged to him.
He would take his time to explore the house later, but he was anxious to change out of the clothes he had been wearing for two straight days. He might even call over one of the ladies from The Ruby later to draw a bath for him to christen the new house.
His hand glided along the smooth handcrafted railing as he went upstairs. Silas Van Dorn may not have been much of a man, but he had impeccable taste. Rigg would make it a point to enjoy the house he had left behind.
At the top of the stairs, Rigg opened the door to the large bedroom that was now his. The thought of lounging in the soft four-poster bed delighted him.
But he stopped short when he saw something hanging from the canopy.
A scalp.
Mackey.
He reached for the Colt on his hip just as the bedroom door slammed behind him, and he felt four sharp blows to his kidneys.
An intense pain webbed through his body as he sank to his knees. He felt the Colt being ripped from his hand before he was struck with the butt of the pistol in the back of the head.
The blow sent him flat on the floor. The room was now spinning, but instinct replaced his dulled senses. He flopped over on his back and reached for the second Colt at his left side.
But Mackey had beat him to it; snatching the pistol from its holster and tossing it to the other side of the room.
Rigg gripped the small blade he kept tucked beneath the holster and drew it, slashing out at Mackey’s throat.
But the younger man was fast enough to pitch back just in time for the blade to slice across his chest.
Seeing the blood of his assailant gave Rigg new energy as he scrambled to his feet and lunged at Mackey, blade first.
But Mackey parried the swipe and followed up with a vicious left hook that caught Rigg square in the jaw.
Rigg staggered, but kept his feet, intending to stab Mackey when he drew closer.
But Mackey followed up with a savage uppercut that shattered Rigg’s nose and sent him flying back onto the bed.
Dazed and bleeding, but not out of the fight yet, Rigg bounced off the bed and roared at Mackey as he plunged the blade at his assailant’s face.
But Mackey grabbed his right hand, stopping the blow, and fired an elbow into Rigg’s ruined face. Stars exploded before his eyes, and he fell back on the bed empty-handed and exhausted.
His head was throbbing, and he shut his eyes to keep the room from spinning lest he throw up. He would not give Aaron Mackey the satisfaction of seeing him be sick in his own bed.
Rigg’s eyes sprang open, but he saw nothing. He remembered his own prophecy.
I will die in my own bed.
A searing pain in his left leg caused him to cry out as he shut his eyes again, followed by an equal pain in his right.
He did not have to reach down to know what had happened. Mackey had used his own knife to cut the tendons at the backs of his legs. Just as he had taught him to do to fleeing Apache prisoners.
His eyes bulged when he felt Mackey grip him by the throat and raise him from the bed. He expected to see rage in the man’s eyes. Hate, even.
Instead, he saw nothing. No spark of humanity or emotion at all as he dropped Rigg higher up on the mattress.
“You coward!” Rigg screamed, though his voice was barely a rasp. “You didn’t give me a chance.”
“You got more of a chance than Pappy had.”
Rigg watched in horror as Mackey took a lamp from the side table and began to pour the kerosene over the length of Rigg’s body. “At least you’ll die the same way.”
Rigg gagged as some of the fluid found its way into his mouth. He clawed at the bedclothes that pulled free as he gripped them. “I’ll see him in hell and spit in his face.”
“Remember what you used to say, Na
than? How you always wanted to die in bed?” Mackey thumbed the match alive. “You’ve got your wish.”
The last thing Rigg saw, as the flames began to consume him, was Aaron Mackey standing in the doorway. He could not see his killer, only the vaguest outline of him as he watched the fire take hold.
And then the pain began.
CHAPTER 34
Mackey sat atop Adair in front of Rigg’s house as flames began to shoot out from the bedroom. His chest hurt from the blade that had sliced across his chest, but at least it was not a deep cut. It could wait. He bit off the pain it caused by gripping the Peacemaker tighter.
Adair ignored the inferno that was beginning to consume the top floor of the old Van Dorn house. Other flames had ruined the town. Mackey hoped these might begin to purify it.
Mackey didn’t have to wait long before six Hancock men came at a dead run to see what was happening.
And they stopped just as quickly when they saw the black Arabian and its rider standing stock still in the middle of the street.
“You boys are too late,” Mackey said. “Your boss is dead.”
The man in the middle went for his gun first.
Mackey raised the Colt and gunned the man down before he could clear leather.
Then, he shot the man to his left.
Then, the man at the far end.
As the three Hancock men fell, the remaining three backed off and broke toward Lee Street.
Mackey did not have to urge Adair to chase them. The warhorse knew what had to be done.
She easily ran them down as Mackey drew close enough to shoot two of three fleeing men. The last one managed to turn and snap off a quick shot before he stumbled backward into the choppy mud of Front Street.
Mackey brought Adair around, took careful aim down at the cringing Hancock man, and ended him.
Adair shuddered as Mackey reined her in and dumped out the empty cartridges onto the dead man. The mare’s blood was up now. She had caught the scent of gunpowder and blood and was anxious to get back to work.
Mackey felt the stares he had drawn from the few townspeople and workers on the street. They were too tired to run and had seen too much to look away.
He slowly fed six new bullets into the Peacemaker. He felt relief course through the growing crowd as they recognized him.
That’s right, he thought as he slid the last bullet into the cylinder. Aaron Mackey has come home.
He looked up when he heard the boom of Billy’s Sharps echo through the dead town like a thunderclap.
He had barely touched the reins before Adair bolted down Front Street toward the sound of thunder rolling down the hills.
* * *
Billy had been lying prone among the rocks for fifteen minutes when he saw the flames shoot out from the upstairs window of the Van Dorn house. Six shots followed, and he knew Mackey had stopped at the top of Front Street to reload.
Billy had kept the Hancock officers crouched behind the wagon dead in the sights of his Sharps the entire time. When one of them popped up to see what was happening at the north end of town, Billy fired.
The fifty-caliber slug hit the Hancock man in the side of the head. What was left of him was still twitching as it fell back against the Municipal Building.
Billy ejected the round and fed a new one into the chamber before drawing a bead on one of the men who had crept over to the dead man’s side. Most of him was still under the cover of the toppled wagon, but enough was exposed. His next shot took off the man’s hat and the top of his head with it. He landed atop his fallen kin, just as dead.
Knowing they had probably marked his position by now, Billy moved at a crouch to his left just as a bullet ricocheted off the rock he had just been using as cover. He dove for the next rock over, where he had stashed his Winchester.
Another round pinged off that rock, quickly followed by another that struck the dirt to his right.
He did not need to look to see the shots were not coming from the Hancock men below. They were coming from a much higher position.
Someone in the Municipal Building had seen him.
And now, Billy was the one who was pinned down.
* * *
James Grant had been reviewing the plans for the town with the men from the Dover Station bank when he heard the gunshots carry down Front Street. The three bankers backed away from the window and fled his office as Grant rushed to see what was happening.
Two Hancock men lay dead in the street as a rider on a black horse circled back and finished off a third. The rider and horse stood still in the middle of the thoroughfare as the killer appeared to slowly reload his pistol like he did not have a care in the world.
Grant could not see the rider clearly from this distance, but he saw the flames curling out of the old Van Dorn house and knew Rigg was probably dead.
That meant the rider had to be Aaron Mackey.
And where Mackey was, Billy Sunday was sure to be close by.
Grant flinched when he heard a thunderclap roll down from the rocky hillside. He looked down at his men keeping Jerry Halstead holed up in the jailhouse in time to see one of their heads disappear in a cloud of red mist.
Grant knew that would be Billy Sunday and his damnable Sharps rifle.
Grant scrambled back to his desk and snatched up the Winchester he had propped up against the wall for protection. He had just gotten back to the window in time to see a second Hancock man fall atop the first. The remaining three remained low behind the wagon.
Cowards.
But James Grant had cowered under Aaron Mackey’s gun once before. He had made a silent vow to never do it again.
He dropped to a knee and poked the barrel of the Winchester out the open window. He had seen the spot among the rocks from where the Sharps had been and fired in that direction.
The bullet hit where he was aiming just as the black deputy dodged from his position to the safety of another rock.
“I’ve got you now!” Grant roared as he levered another round into the chamber and fired. The bullet smacked off the rock Billy was hiding behind. He shifted his aim and sent the next round into the dirt. He had expected Billy to jump from cover.
But the lawman remained hidden behind the safety of the rock. Grant knew Billy would only remain hidden for so long before he stole a glance at the Municipal Building to see where the shot had come from.
And when he did, Grant would be ready. He would never be caught short by Mackey or Sunday ever again.
He did not have to wait long. He saw a flash of movement to the right side of the rock. Something darting past. He fired two shots at it before he realized it was not the deputy.
Just his hat.
He aimed his Winchester back at the rock as he levered in a new round.
Just as he barely glimpsed the outline of a man above the rock, the windowsill and frame exploded in his face.
Grant cried out as he fell back into his office. The Winchester skittered across the floor.
A searing pain filled the left side of his head as he pawed at the wound with a trembling hand. The entire left side of his face was peppered with shards of splintered glass and wood. He felt for a hole at the back of his head, fearing he might already be dying, but he only felt his own hair.
Grant began to pluck the splinters from the skin closest to his eye. He managed to get a few out before the pain grew too great, and he feared he might pass out.
But James Grant would not allow himself to pass out. Not yet. Not with the destruction of Aaron Mackey so close at hand. He would see that for himself with whatever eyesight he had left.
As he crawled across the floor toward his Winchester, more gunfire rose up from the street, and Grant knew the end was near, whatever that end might be.
This time, Aaron Mackey would be the one to falter beneath the gun. The guns of the Hancock family that lived to see him dead.
CHAPTER 35
Gunfire rang out all around Mackey as he and Adair raced down Front S
treet.
None of the bullets struck him, and none of them sounded like they had even come close as he sped toward the jailhouse to rescue Jerry. But there was no doubt the Hancocks knew he was in town.
Mackey steered Adair to the right side of Front Street, toward the wagon where he knew the Hancock men were hiding. He saw two dead men slumped against the Municipal Building and knew three more were likely still in hiding.
One man rose from behind the wagon to shoot at him, but Mackey fired first and put him down. Adair bolted past the wagon as Mackey fired another shot down at another Hancock man, but he had no idea if he had hit him.
A shot rang out from the front door of the Municipal Building. Mackey saw one of Rigg’s men crouched behind the building’s heavy metal doors.
Mackey’s shot hit the door, but Billy’s shot from up in the rocks struck the man in the chest and sent him backward.
Well past the Municipal Building now, Mackey brought Adair around and heeled her back toward the jailhouse. He pulled his Winchester from the saddle scabbard as he dropped from the saddle and headed for the jail. Adair ran off down the alleyway toward the back of the jail.
The jailhouse door opened and Mackey dove inside as round after round began to slam into the boardwalk and walls all around him. He felt a fire in his left side as he hit the floor and heard the heavy door shut behind him.
“Hot damn, Aaron!” Jerry exclaimed. “I’m glad to see you.”
But Mackey was in no condition to enjoy the reunion. He patted his left front side and his hand came up bloody.
The Dark Sunrise Page 24