The Dark Sunrise

by Terrence McCauley

  “I’m hit.”

  Jerry dropped to a knee beside him and noticed the blood on the front of Mackey’s shirt. “You got lucky, amigo. It’s just a graze. That one could’ve ended you.”

  “That’s a knife wound.” He took his hand away from his left side and showed him the blood. “This is a bullet wound.”

  Jerry moved to take a closer look as the sound of bullets slamming against the jailhouse died off. “Looks like a ricochet took a small chunk out of you above your hip. It’s a nasty scratch, but it’s better than a hole in your belly. Got anything in this dump by way of medicine?”

  Despite his condition, Mackey resented his jailhouse being called a dump. “This dump has kept us alive more times than I can count. And no, we don’t have any medicine. Doc Ridley always came by whenever we needed tending to.”

  Jerry stood up and looked around. “Looks like I’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.”

  With the initial shock of his wounds wearing off, they began to hurt like hell. “You sure this is just a flesh wound? That’s an awful lot of blood.”

  “Of course, I’m sure,” Jerry said as he walked over to the stove. “To listen to you, you’d think you’ve never been shot before.”

  “Because I haven’t.”

  Jerry turned to look at him. “That so? After all the scrapes you’ve been in?”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” Mackey had not thought much about it until that moment. “Guess it’s only fitting that my last day in Dover Station is also the first time I’ve been shot.”

  Jerry went back to the cells and came out tearing a sheet in half. “If you die, it won’t be from that paper cut on your side.” He grabbed the coffeepot from the stove and crouched beside the marshal.

  Mackey shied away from the hot pot. “What are you doing?”

  “You don’t keep whiskey in here and you don’t keep medicine,” Jerry said. “Best I can do for you is to pack that wound with coffee grinds to help ease the pain and soak up the blood.”

  Mackey began to object, but remembered the Apache and Comanche often used poultices to mend gunshot wounds and cuts. “Those grinds must be boiling.”

  “Ran out of firewood for the stove yesterday.” Jerry dumped out the damp coffee grinds into his hand and packed them on the wound. “But coffee’s still coffee, even when it’s cold.”

  The grinds stung at first, but the pain quickly died away as Jerry folded one half of the torn bedsheet over and over to place on top of the grinds and used the other half to tie it around Mackey’s waist to hold it in place. “I’ve only got enough grinds to pack the wound in your side. That cut on your chest will have to wait.”

  “At least I’ll smell good,” Mackey said. “Always did like the smell of coffee.”

  Jerry inclined his head toward the door that continued to be peppered by bullets. “Hope you like the smell of gunpowder, because we’ve got plenty of that coming our way.”

  Mackey held out his hand to Jerry. “Help me up.”

  But Jerry pushed Mackey’s hand aside. “You’re not getting up until that bleeding lets up some. Give the grinds a chance to stop the blood. I’ve got enough to worry about around here without you passing out on me. A few minutes won’t make much of a difference. I’ve been holding them off for a day or so.”

  Mackey had no intention of passing out or sitting down while Billy was outside fighting for his life. He tried to get up on his own power, but the lightning flash of pain that coursed through his body sent him flat.

  Jerry eased him back against the wall. “I told you not to move. What’s your hurry?”

  Mackey spoke through clenched teeth. “We need to distract the Hancocks while Billy gets clear of the rocks. He’s out there all by himself.”

  “I thought I heard his Sharps banging out from the rocks,” Jerry said. “He’ll be fine, Aaron. This isn’t his first dustup.”

  “But he’s up there all alone, damn it! We need to give him cover while he makes a break for it.” Mackey reached for his Winchester, but it was too far away. The effort left him winded as sweat broke out on his forehead. “Can’t let him get pinned down behind those rocks. They’ll be riding after him soon.”

  Jerry eased him back against the wall again. “And you’re no good to him in the shape you’re in. You’re hurt. Give yourself time to heal. I’ll mind the door. They haven’t been able to get in here yet, and I’m not going to let them get in here now.”

  That was when they heard the first thud hit the jailhouse door. And despite his growing delirium, Mackey knew that was not a bullet.

  It was from something much bigger.

  Fresh sweat broke out on his forehead when the second thud came. “The bastards are ramming the door.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Billy knew he had hit Grant, but there was no way of knowing for certain if he had killed him. And he could not afford to stay where he was long enough to find out.

  Grant had no sooner disappeared from the window when Billy picked up his rifles and scrambled back up the incline toward the tree where his horse was tied off. He slid the Sharps into the scabbard before climbing into the saddle, keeping the Winchester in hand.

  He brought the horse around away from the trees so he could see any riders coming his way while he fed more cartridges from his saddlebag into the Winchester. He was far from empty, but doubted he would have the chance to reload once the Hancocks came riding after him.

  The rifle fully loaded, Billy stood up in the stirrups to get a look at the scene on Front Street. Six men were darting across the thoroughfare from the alley next to the Municipal Building lugging a large log from the sawmill. They were headed straight for the jailhouse.

  They were going to ram the door.

  Billy brought the Winchester up to his shoulder and snapped off a quick shot at the men. The bullet missed and struck the log instead. One of the men at the back flinched and fell back, letting go of the makeshift battering ram. But it was not enough to stop the momentum of the others.

  He levered in a fresh round and aimed at the prone man in the thoroughfare when bullets began to whizz past him from right to left. But none of them had found their mark, and Billy still had a shot to make. He aimed carefully down at the fallen man and fired. The shot struck his target in the chest and laid him flat in the mud.

  Billy dropped back into the saddle and snapped the reins. His horse broke into a dead run away from the gunfire toward the town cemetery. He did not bother to look back at his pursuers. He imagined there was a lot of them and there was no time to lose.

  He heeled his mount into a full gallop. The horse responded by giving him everything she had. The ridge behind him filled with rifle and pistol fire, but all of the bullets sailed wide of him. They’re firing at a dead run, Billy thought as he opened the distance between them. Good. Let them waste their bullets. My shots will count.

  For he knew however many of them were chasing him, it was that many fewer Hancock men firing at Jerry and Aaron in the jailhouse.

  The gunfire behind him continued to fall short and wide as he sped toward the cemetery.

  He had just about reached the low iron fence that enclosed the cemetery when his horse shuddered from the impact of a bullet in its left flank. The mare reared up from the shot but tried to keep her footing as her left leg failed.

  Training and instinct led Billy to spill off the right side of the saddle as the mare collapsed to the left. He hit the ground hard but kept his grip on the Winchester as he rolled free. He got to his feet and kept running toward the cemetery.

  He hurdled over the low iron fence before sliding to a stop behind a large gravestone.

  His fallen horse began to scream in pain as Billy aimed his Winchester at the mass of horses and riders bearing down on him. He judged them to be about twenty or so, clustered together in the narrow path along the ridge above Dover Station.

  Clustered together would be their downfall.

  Billy’s first shot put his mare o
ut of her misery with a single round to the head. She had been a good horse to him and did not deserve to suffer.

  He levered in a fresh round as he shifted his aim to the approaching riders, intent that her death would not be in vain.

  He shot the lead rider in the chest, sending him tumbling backward out of the saddle. The Hancocks were so bunched together on the narrow trail that the falling man caused chaos for the men and horses behind him.

  Billy watched several of the horses falter as they trampled the rider in their charge toward the cemetery. But there were still plenty heading right for him at a dead run.

  Billy aimed at the next man in the lead and fired. The bullet caught him in the right shoulder and sent his rifle back across the face of the man riding next to him. Both fell from their horses, causing even more of a knot of confusion on the narrow pathway.

  Two startled horses shied away from the knot and brought their riders with them as they slipped over the ridgeline and tumbled down among the rocks. The screams of injured horses and men would have bothered Billy if he had the time to hear them.

  But he did not have time, for two riders pressed on beyond the fray and kept coming at him.

  Billy cursed as his next shot went wide, but his next shot hit the second rider low in the belly. The man cried out and dropped his rifle.

  But the lead rider kept coming, kicking his horse into a full gallop.

  The horse was faster than it looked and closed the distance quicker than Billy expected. His next shot only nicked the rider in the side as he tried to get the frightened animal to leap the low iron fence surrounding the cemetery.

  But the horse was not a jumper and its front hooves caught the fence, sending it and its rider tumbling into the cemetery, bowling over a few gravestones at the edge.

  He decided the fallen man would be out of the fight for now and shifted his aim back toward the main body of Hancock riders who had come gunning for him.

  The knot of horses in the middle of the path was beginning to loosen as another mount lost its footing and tumbled off the ridgeline.

  One of the riders managed to get off a lucky shot that struck the gravestone Billy was using for cover. The men were clustered so tightly together that Billy had no trouble picking them off as they tried to regain control of their mounts.

  Three more Hancocks fell before the remaining men brought their horses around and rode away from the killing ground as fast as they could.

  They had given up the fight, but Billy had not.

  He rose and drew careful aim at the last rider in the bunch, but his shot went wide as he was tackled by the Hancock man who had tumbled into the cemetery.

  The Winchester clattered among the gravestones as Billy was knocked off his feet. His attacker straddled him as he pummeled him with a flurry of blows that mostly struck the deputy’s back and shoulders.

  When the Hancock man finally stopped, he looked toward his escaping kin and was about to call out when Billy threw a right cross that connected with his attacker’s jaw.

  The man smacked his head off a gravestone as he tumbled back.

  Billy pulled himself up into a crouch and drew his bowie knife from the back of his belt. He was ready to plunge the big knife into his attacker’s heart when the man twitched as his last breath escaped him. His eyes fluttered before the last spark of life left them forever.

  The man was most likely dead, but Billy had learned most likely was never good enough where the Hancocks were concerned. He brought down the knife anyway, just to be sure. No sense in wasting a bullet. He would need every round he had left.

  Billy snatched his Winchester and took cover behind another gravestone. The Hancocks were still riding away from him, back toward the burning Van Dorn House and town, where he imagined they would come up with another plan to hit him.

  If they were smart, they would split their force and charge the cemetery from two directions at once. One from the ridgeline they had just fled and one from Front Street. Maybe bring more men with them this time.

  Billy knew that not even he could cover two positions at once. If he stayed where he was, he would never leave the cemetery alive. At least they wouldn’t have far to carry me.

  But one Hancock man had laid hands on him that day, and that was one too many.

  He might not be able to fight them all off before they got him, but if he had to go, he would bring as many of them with him as possible.

  If he was going to die that day, he might as well die among friends. His life after the cavalry had begun in the crooked old jailhouse on Front Street. He could not think of a better place to end it, if it came to that. Among friends. Among Aaron and Jerry.

  Not friends. Family.

  He tucked the bowie back in his belt and began to run down the hill toward the jailhouse when a loud boom carried on the wind from Front Street.

  The men were ramming the jailhouse door.

  Billy ran as fast as his legs could carry him.

  CHAPTER 37

  “That door won’t hold for long,” Mackey yelled over the rhythmic pounding of the door.

  Boom. Stop. Boom. Stop.

  Each blow shook more grout and dust from the wall around the door. Mackey knew the entire front side of the jail would cave in if they did not do something soon.

  Jerry ran to Mackey’s desk and tried to push it toward the door, but Mackey knew it was no use. The desk was too heavy for two men to move, let alone one man and another with a hole in his side.

  Mackey edged himself over to the rifle rack on the wall above his head and stabbed at the coach gun cradled there. He ignored the fire in his left side as he grabbed the shotgun.

  Boom. Stop. Stop. Boom. Stop. Stop.

  The blows were coming slower now. The men were tiring.

  Mackey did not have to check to see if the shotgun was loaded. His guns were always loaded.

  Jerry saw what he was doing and stopped trying to move the desk.

  “After the next strike, throw the door open and get the hell out of the way.”

  Jerry ran to the door.

  Boom.

  A beam in the ceiling cracked.

  Jerry slid the latch open and threw the door open wide.

  Mackey flopped onto his belly as Jerry fell back.

  The attackers staggered in the doorway to keep control of the log.

  Mackey cut loose with the right barrel of the coach gun.

  The heavy log slammed down into the boardwalk as the men on one side of it were cut down in a cloud of gunsmoke.

  The two men on the left side of the log fell toward the doorway, carried by the momentum of the falling ram.

  Mackey fired the left barrel of the shotgun.

  The men who fell past the door did not get up again.

  The heavy wooden beams in the ceiling cracked again, and Mackey ignored the fire in his side as he cast away the coach gun and got to his feet.

  He drew his Peacemaker from his belly holster and scrambled toward the door. He caught a Hancock man running away from the jailhouse toward the shelter of the Municipal Building.

  The Colt bucked as Mackey shot him in the back. The fleeing man fell to his knees before skidding to a halt at the bottom step of the Municipal Building.

  Mackey’s pain was gone. So was his fear. So was his rage. All he could see was that damnable fortress across Front Street. The gaudy monstrosity that had meant the death of all that he once held dear.

  His town.

  His childhood.

  His life.

  His father.

  No, he was not afraid and could not feel pain as he stood on the boardwalk and yelled, “Is that all you bastards have? Send Grant out here and let’s finish it! Right now!”

  He heard his own voice echo in the quiet street save for something else. Something that almost sounded like singing. He wondered if he might already be dead, when the pain from the wound in his side told him he was still very much alive.

  But he bit off the pain as he y
elled at the men he could see still crouched inside the doorway of the Municipal Building. “Are you going to send him out, or do I have to come in there and drag him out?”

  The man in the doorway disappeared and, over the roar of his own blood in his ears, he heard the sounds of a scuffle from inside the building. He wondered if Grant was trying to come outside, only to be held back by his own men.

  He kept watching the Municipal Building as he heard Jerry walk out onto the boardwalk beside him. “He still in there?”

  Mackey would not take his eyes off the door. “Looks like. Anyone else on the street?”

  “No,” Jerry told him. “But Billy’s walking up on your left.”

  Mackey looked and saw his deputy come around the side of the jailhouse, his Winchester aimed at the Municipal Building entrance.

  “Put it down for now,” Mackey said. “Sounds like they’re making up their minds.”

  Billy reluctantly lowered his rifle, but kept watching the entrance, too. “Looks that way.”

  Mackey suddenly felt tired and leaned against the doorframe for support. “How are you fixed for bullets?”

  “Nearly out.” Billy stepped up to the boardwalk and looked at the five dead men scattered in front of the jailhouse. The log they had been using to ram the door had fallen and broken the steps. “You boys have been busy.”

  “You too, from what I heard. You all right?”

  “Fine.” He stopped when he saw the blood on Mackey’s shirt. “Damn it, Aaron. You’ve been shot.”

  “I’m fine. Jerry patched me up using some old coffee grinds.”

  Billy looked at Jerry. “Comanche teach you that trick?”

  “I’ve picked up a few things along the way. Say, anyone else hear singing?”

  Mackey was glad someone else had heard it, too. “Thought it was just me.”

  The three lawmen looked up Front Street and saw a group of men and women walking toward them through the encroaching darkness. Many held torches as they moved along the width of the thoroughfare.

  They were singing “Amazing Grace.”

  Doc Ridley led them, his Bible clutched against his chest just as it had been when he had led Walter Underhill’s funeral procession a month before.