Where the Bullets Fly

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Where the Bullets Fly Page 12

by Terrence McCauley


  Mackey could see the dim glow of the fire against the night sky just above the crest of the hill.

  He didn’t have to spur Adair on to run any faster. The horse was already running flat out. Billy and his mount struggled to keep up.

  As soon as he crested the hill, Mackey found Sim Halstead already there, his mount already tied to a small tree off the path. Sim threw up his hands and motioned for them to slow down, but he didn’t have to. An invisible wall of heat prevented Mackey and Adair from going any closer to the house.

  Katherine.

  Mackey dismounted and had to fight to keep Adair steady as the entire building of Hill House succumbed to the inferno. Orange flames leapt through the broken roof and from every window of the two-story house. The sounds of wooden boards snapping under the intense heat echoed through the hillside. The walls of the house began to sag inward before the roof finally collapsed with a sickening crack, bringing the four walls of the house inward. The gray smoke drifted toward them, burning his eyes.

  But despite the heat and the smoke, Mackey wouldn’t look away. He owed Katherine that much.

  Neither did Billy. “Jesus Christ.”

  Mackey kept watching.

  As the wind shifted and began to blow the smoke and the heat toward the north. Mackey could hear the clamor of wagons and other riders coming up the hill from town. Sim Halstead tapped Mackey on the shoulder and pointed down toward a body at the foot of the stone path leading to the house.

  Even in the shimmering light of the blaze, he knew it was the body of a man on his back with his arms and legs spread wide like a starfish. Mackey had seen enough corpses to know no one ever died like that.

  Someone had placed him that way. Displayed him that way. And as his eyes grew accustomed to the flickering light, he saw that the man’s hands and feet had been tied to pegs in the ground.

  Mackey handed Adair’s reins to Billy as he went to check the man for signs of life. He had to hold his hand out in front of his face to shield himself from the growing heat of the building. He crouched low to the ground and found it slightly more bearable there.

  The man on the ground was Old Wilkes, still in his sergeant’s uniform. His outstretched arms and legs had been tied to small stakes pounded into the ground. His body was crushed and broken and looked like it had been trampled to death by a herd of horses.

  He knew this manner of death. Apaches usually killed this way.

  Old Wilkes’s mouth hung slack and both of his eyes were covered with a silver dollar coin. A paper note had been pinned to his blue tunic. Mackey yanked the paper from the pin and moved back to the edge where the heat of the blaze was a bit less intense.

  Mackey showed the note to Sim. “Did you read this?”

  The silent man nodded.

  By the light of the flame, Mackey read the handwritten note to Billy without reading it first himself:

  Sheriff Mackey—

  As I don’t believe in free advice, please accept the dollars I have left on Mr. Wilkes’ eyes as payment for the wise words you offered me in front of your home yesterday. I’ve also helped relieve your town’s moral burden by taking some of the whores of Hill House with me. They should bring a hefty price.

  I know you felt cheated when we took the bodies of our murdered friends with us last evening. That’s why I left a few people in the house to burn. I’m sure they’ll make lovely additions to your garden.

  I set pen aside, assured in the knowledge that you’ll try to stop me. In fact, I’m rather looking forward to it.

  With Warm Regards,

  Darabont.

  P.S.—The pregnant whore foaled. It was a girl.

  Billy kept looking at the burning house. “Damn.”

  Mackey folded the note and slipped it into his saddlebag.

  Sim kept a look out for the other riders coming up the hill behind them.

  Mackey watched the flames engulf the remains of the house. He didn’t know if Darabont had taken Katherine or if she was still inside. He didn’t know if the girl and the baby were still inside either. That was the damnable horror of it.

  That was what Darabont had wanted.

  Underhill and some of the townspeople came up the hill just ahead of a dozen other men on horseback. Pappy was whipping a team of horses pulling his wagonload of sloshing buckets from his store up the hill.

  The heat from the burning building kept the men and horses at a tight ring around the top of the hill. Pappy brought his team up beside Mackey and threw the brake on the wheel.

  “It’s burning too hot,” Pappy said. “We’ll never get near it.”

  Mackey handed Darabont’s note up to his father. “I think that’s the general idea.”

  Pappy read the note, then looked up at the fire. “My God.”

  Mackey stared at the burning building and took a step closer, ignoring the heat and the smoke of the shifting wind.

  Katherine.

  Chapter 15

  As the sun began to rise the following morning, Mackey’s blue tunic was filthy, as were the tunics of all the other former soldiers and the clothes of the regular citizens who had worked through the night to clear the smoldering rubble of Hill House.

  The remains of the house had burned for more than three hours throughout the night before it cooled down enough for the men to get close enough to dump Pappy’s buckets of water on the flames. A pump out back hadn’t been damaged in the fire and a line of men passed full and empty buckets to and from the pump. Several torches had been set up to make sure the men had enough light by which to work.

  Mackey spotted Mr. Rice at the front of the line working the pump, passing buckets along as soon as they were filled. Mr. Van Dorn was right behind him. It was a sight that Mackey knew should have surprised him, but didn’t.

  As the flames had gradually begun to die down and the rubble had begun to cool, Mackey, Billy, and some of the others tied ropes around the biggest pieces of rubble and had the horses pull them away. There was no need to be gentle. No one expected to find any survivors in the remains of the inferno. Darabont would have never left anyone alive.

  It was already close to seven in the morning by the time the largest parts of the rubble had been cleared. A thick cover of haze and smoke had settled over the hilltop, blurring everything around them, including the sunrise. The women, led by Mary, had brought up coffee and food from the dance hall. They had also thought to bring up blankets to cover the charred remains of the people they had found inside.

  Frontier women were nothing if not practical.

  So far, the burned remains of seven people lay beneath blankets in the back of Pappy’s wagon. Four women Mackey believed to be prostitutes. Two men, one he believed to be the Swede. And a blanket with a much smaller bundle beneath it. The infant Darabont had written of in the letter he had pinned to Wilkes’s chest.

  The veterans of Dover Station had already brought Old Wilkes’s remains back to town.

  Eight bodies in all. So far, none of them had been Katherine.

  So far.

  After a night of grizzly labor, most of the townsmen were exhausted. Many sat in various places around the rubble, drinking their coffee in quiet solemnity as the coming dawn brightened the sky around them.

  But Mackey had no time for coffee. He hadn’t found Katherine yet, so he ignored his own fatigue and kept working. So did Billy. And so did Sim and Underhill.

  No one had any idea of how many other bodies might still be in the debris, or if they did, none of the townsmen had the decency to admit to it.

  The dead people beneath the blankets in the back of his father’s wagon were the charred remains of those he had sworn to protect, but didn’t. Much like Nero, he had been dancing while his people burned. He had indulged in fantasy and nostalgia and guilt of a by-gone age while his own citizens were being slaughtered by Darabont’s men. But at least his father had seen his son in uniform and his wife had one last night with the man of her dreams. Unfortunately, that man wasn’
t Aaron Mackey. Not anymore.

  He knew he should have thanked God that Katherine hadn’t been one of the women he had pulled out of the rubble. But Mackey wasn’t in the mood to thank God. If she wasn’t in the rubble, then Darabont had taken her with him, and he cursed himself for wondering if being dead might not be a better fate than being Darabont’s prisoner.

  As Mackey and Billy pulled another piece of debris from the pile, they saw Doc Ridley and Mayor Mason approaching him slowly. They’d been on the hill the entire time, as well, helping with the effort as best they could. Mason’s shirt was black and filthy as was Ridley’s gray Confederate tunic.

  When Doc Ridley spoke, his voice was deep with emotion and smoke. “If it’s any comfort, all of the victims appear to have been dead by the time the fire started. I can . . .” He paused to clear his throat. “I believe they were all shot before they burned.”

  Billy’s movements faltered for the first time all night. “And the little one?”

  “Given its size and condition,” Doc Ridley explained, “I believe it was stillborn, thank God. I never thought I’d ever say a thing like that, but in this case, it’s the most Christian thought I can have at the moment.”

  Mackey pushed aside a large piece of charred timber. “Nothing Christian about what happened here last night, Doc.”

  This time, it was Mayor Mason who cleared his throat. “I heard there was some kind of letter pinned to Wilkes’s shirt, Aaron. I’d . . . I’d like to read it.”

  Mackey grabbed another piece of debris and threw it to the side.

  Doc Ridley glared at Mackey. “Don’t waste your breath asking him for anything, Brian. He won’t show it to you because he knows what it says. It says the monster who did this was getting back at the good sheriff for killing his friends the other day.”

  “The men who set the fire are responsible for this,” Mason said. “Not Aaron. It’s been a raw night for everyone involved.” He cast a look over at Mr. Rice, who was still manning his station by the pump. Of all four investors, he was the only one who had ridden with the rest of the townspeople when the fire broke out.

  Doc Ridley stormed away as Mayor Mason nervously wiped his blackened hands on his blackened shirt. “I . . . I’m sorry about that, Aaron. You and I have had our differences, of course, but . . . Ridley’s wrong. I . . . I’m sorry. Please let me see the letter whenever you’re of a mind to.”

  Mason moved away to join the doctor.

  But Mackey didn’t move. He just kept looking at the pile.

  “Sorry I didn’t keep them away,” Billy said. “Doc Ridley’s a good man, but he’s wrong.”

  Mackey threw a final piece of debris off the pile and stood up. “No, he’s not.”

  Underhill handed Mackey a canteen full of water. The sheriff took it, but didn’t drink from it.

  “I think we’ve found everyone there is to find, Aaron,” Underhill said.

  Mackey knew he was holding a canteen, but drinking from it was the furthest thing from his mind. He looked at the debris area and saw most of the large piles had been pulled apart by the various work crews on the site. He could see charred ground and the smoldering remains of the foundation of Hill House. He thought Underhill was right. They’d probably found everyone there was to find.

  Mackey handed the canteen to Billy without touching it. Billy took a healthy swig. “I’ve got to agree with Underhill, Aaron. I think we found everyone. It’s cold comfort, I know, but . . .”

  “Yeah.” Mackey looked at the seven blankets in the back of his father’s flatbed wagon. “If there was anyone else, Darabont took them with him.”

  Billy handed the canteen back up to Mackey. “What do you want to do next?”

  Again, Mackey took the canteen, but didn’t drink. The sight of the seven blankets haunted him; the smallest most of all.

  “I’m going to kill him, Billy. I’m going to kill him and everyone whoever rode with him.” He took a deep pull from the canteen, gargled it to clear his throat, then spat the rest of it into the pile. “I’m going to kill them all.”

  Sim snapped Mackey out of it by reaching up and quickly tapping him on the shoulder. Sim never spoke. He never touched anyone either.

  Mackey looked at where Sim was pointing. The other men of the fire brigade gasped as they saw it, too.

  The gray smoke of Hill House had begun to clear enough to reveal the upper portion of the hillside.

  And the bodies of three of the men they had shot the other day, crucified on wooden planks.

  Townspeople gasped as the sight slowly came into view.

  The fat man had been placed on the middle crucifix, with two others flanking him, exactly like biblical paintings portrayed Jesus and the two thieves on Golgotha. The two youngest gunmen had been propped up at the foot of the fat man’s cross. Their bodies buffeted by the morning wind.

  “Jesus Christ,” someone said.

  And once again, Billy spoke for Mackey. “Jesus got nothing to do with this.”

  Chapter 16

  Most of the men who had worked the rubble eventually made their way to the Tin Horn once Mackey told them to go home. Many began drinking away the images of what they had seen that night. They were still in their clothes from the gala, but there was nothing festive about them. Each man looked dark and grimy. Their minds needed cleansing before their bodies or clothes.

  Those men who had been working on the pile told the few who hadn’t been on the hill about what they had seen and done. They spoke about the destruction of the whorehouse and removing the charred remains of the whores they had pulled out of the ruin. Of the baby, too. The Tin Horn’s sporting girls gasped at the tales. Most of them went up to their rooms without customers. A few drank at the bar without soliciting business. And Sam Warren, in a move contrary to his entrepreneurial nature, allowed them to do just that. He even made sure every one of the workers drank their fill for free.

  Doc Ridley was already a good part of the way through a bottle on his own, but insisted on paying his way. Sam Warren didn’t argue with him.

  Any chatter died away when they realized Sheriff Mackey had just walked in to the saloon flanked by Billy, Sim, and Marshall Underhill. Pappy trailed in behind them at some distance.

  The sheriff took his time looking over the crowd, making eye contact with every man he could. His own face and tunic was smeared blacker than anyone else’s in the Tin Horn, making his face appear even thinner and sharper than the pneumonia already had.

  But when he spoke, his voice rang out strong and clear. “I know all of us have had a rotten night. A lot of you worked hard up there without rest or complaint, and for that I’m grateful. I wish our job was done, but it isn’t. Far from it. After we bury those people tomorrow morning, Marshal Underhill and I will be riding out after the men responsible for all of this. Darabont and his men will have a couple of days head start on us by then, but we’ll be traveling light and with a smaller group, so I expect we’ll catch up to him pretty quick. Sim Halstead has signed on as our tracker. His reputation speaks for itself. I’m announcing that anyone else who wants to come along will be welcome. A two-week’s supply ought to cover it. The town will pay all your expenses.”

  Mayor Mason, the least filthy of the men who had been on the hilltop all night, practically leapt to his feet. “No just hold on a minute, Aaron. The town can’t . . .”

  “The town’s not paying for anything,” a single, weary voice rang out from the back of the room. “I am.”

  Everyone turned to see two men at a table. Their skin and clothes were blackened by as much soot and grime as most of the others in the Tin Horn. Their evening jackets and starched collars were gone, their silk top hats forgotten and their dress shirts were blacker than they were white. One of the men’s walking sticks leaned against the wall at his side, though even its brass handle had lost its luster.

  The thinner of the two men was Silas Van Dorn. He was staring down into a glass of whiskey he hadn’t touched.

&n
bsp; The man who had spoken was Frazer Rice and he poured himself another glass of whiskey. “Provisions, bullets, mounts, men, anything you need, Sheriff Mackey. Buy up ever damned bit of ammunition and food you can carry. You buy it. I’ll pay for it. Whatever you need while you’re out there, you wire me and you’ll have it.”

  “The wire’s been cut,” someone said.

  “Then we’ll make it our first priority to get it back in order,” Rice said. “Tomorrow, right after we bury those people.”

  A low murmur went through the saloon as Mayor Mason said, “But Mr. Rice, that’s liable to be a steep price.”

  “Price of justice is always steep,” Rice said. “I’d ride out with the sheriff myself, by God, if I didn’t have this damned knee holding me back. But just because I can’t go personally doesn’t mean my money can’t do some good in my absence. Spend what you need, Sheriff Mackey. The firm of Rice and Van Dorn will back you all the way.”

  Silas Van Dorn nodded in distracted agreement.

  Another murmur rose from the crowd before someone said, “All that money to avenge some dead whores?”

  Rice took a slug of whiskey from the glass. “Whores? Maybe. They’re worth avenging as much as the men who died protecting them. And that infant, too, who never did anything wrong to anyone except being born at the worst possible moment. And to bring Mrs. Katherine Campbell home where she belongs.” He poured himself another shot. “Now, if the man who just said that has the balls to walk over here to my table and repeat it, I’ll be happy to cave in his skull with my cane.”

  The crowd murmured, but no one stood up.

  Mackey doubted anyone would, so he said, “You’ve heard Mr. Rice’s generous offer. Now, I’ve known most of you people my whole life, so I know a lot of you agree with whatever that idiot mouthed off about dead whores just now. A lot of you think Mrs. Campbell is just a stranger to these parts. None of them are worth risking your neck over, especially against a bunch like Darabont and his men. But if this bunch took Mrs. Campbell, there’s no telling how many other women these bastards might’ve picked up with them along the way here. There’s no telling how many more they’ll pick up on their way down to Mexico, if that’s where they’re headed. The kind of men who did this to us will keep on doing it until someone stops them.” He realized he wasn’t reaching them, so he added, “And they’re not above coming back and doing it again if they think they can get away with it. Next time, maybe they’ll kill someone you feel is worthy of your vengeance.”

 

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