Dark Territory

by Terrence McCauley

  “I’ve done nothing deserving a hanging.” Swain pushed himself upright in the bed. “I had no hand in those killings, Mackey. Young Joe will tell you that. I signed on well after that business.”

  Mackey shrugged. “For your sake, I hope you’re right, though a judge will probably see it differently. Accessory after the fact is the proper legal term. And seeing as how much Mr. Rice hates people stealing from him, I wouldn’t put a plug nickel on your chances, Swain.”

  Swain sounded much more sober now. The threat of death by hanging had a way of chasing the booze from a man’s system. “You’ve got to be able to do something for me, damn you. I’ve told you everything I know. And it’s all the truth. You know that. I can see that you know it. It matches up with what others have told you, doesn’t it?”

  “Would you be willing to put all of this in a statement in front of witnesses?”

  The man moved his bandaged hand. “I’m right-handed, or at least I was. But I’ll repeat everything I’ve told you in front of witnesses and make my mark beneath it. It’s a mark I’ve made in dozens of gambling dens from here to New Orleans.”

  That would give him more evidence for Mr. Rice and, ultimately, a judge. But he needed more. More, perhaps, than Swain’s sodden mind could offer just then. “You’ve told me a lot of things,” Mackey said, “but you didn’t tell me what I wanted to know. Who was Macum’s backer? Who was giving him all this gold he paid out each week?”

  “And I already told you he never said. I pushed and prodded. Hell, I even got him drunk and called on a sporting lady who owed me a favor to show him a good time. I tried like hell to get it out of him, but he never cracked. I know there were other people in on the plan, a big bastard by the name of Dave Aderson, but he sure as hell wasn’t giving out gold to anybody. That’s the God’s honest truth, or as close to it as I could ever get.”

  Mackey knew Swain was too drunk and hurt to lie convincingly, but there was something he was holding back. Something he might not have even known he was holding back. He pressed the wounded man further. “You’re a professional gambler. You made your life watching people. Understanding them. Well, so have I. I know you must’ve spent a lot of time with Macum and his bunch. You must’ve heard something about who was paying you.”

  The gambler closed his good eye. “I was saving this for later.”

  “There’s no later here, Swain. There’s just the here and now. Tell me what you know.”

  “It’s just a guess and you don’t strike me as the type who takes well to guessing.” Swain’s eye remained closed for so long, Mackey feared the man had passed out. His breathing became shallow, and his entire body relaxed. Mackey was about to kick the prisoner awake when he said, “Whoever Macum was working for, it was someone who can put his hands on hundreds of dollars in gold pieces at a time. Someone smart enough to pick a competent man like Macum to run the show instead of a criminal who’d go too far and kill a whole trainload of people.”

  “Macum and his bunch killed three people as it was.”

  “He said they’d given him no choice in the matter. The engineer tried to hit one of the boys with a wrench, and the conductor he killed pulled a gun. And the passenger he killed knocked young Joe on his ass and set to kicking hell out of him. Tom said he had no choice but to shoot the poor bastard.”

  Just then, Mackey did not care about the killings. He needed to make that last link between Macum and Grant. “Get back to the money man. Tell me more about him.”

  “I got the feeling whoever was paying him was close by on account of him never having a problem paying us before and after a job. Macum never took a cut of the take, either. Just let us split it evenly among the four of us, at least on any job I was on.”

  Swain opened his eye and looked at Mackey. “Someone was paying him good money to hit the railroad, sheriff, and I couldn’t tell you the first reason why. The money was so good, I didn’t care much, either. That’s the truth, too. Now you can drag me out of this here bed and across that glass on the floor like you threatened before, and I won’t be able to tell you any more than that. That’s all I know because that’s all I was told. I didn’t even know about the three killings until after I’d signed on. I was in it for the money, not the blood.”

  “In my experience, the two usually go together.” Mackey kicked the shards of glass out of the stall. He didn’t want the gambler getting ideas about using a piece to take his own life. “I’ll be back later with a lawyer if I can find one and a couple of witnesses if I can’t. We’ll get all of this down on paper and you can make your mark. You do that, and I’ll talk to Mr. Rice on your behalf when I see him. If I catch him on a good day, you might just get ten years from a friendly judge. I know that’s a long time, but that part’s out of my hands. You have my word on that.”

  Swain’s head bobbed as he swallowed hard. Drunk or sober, healthy or hurting, being told you were about to lose ten years of your life was not an easy thing to hear. “I’d appreciate that, sheriff. I’d also appreciate it if you got the hell out of here and let me get some rest. You’ll get your damned statement after I rest a spell.”

  Mackey watched the wounded gambler’s will finally give out as he fell asleep. He waited a few moments to make sure he was still breathing before leaving the stall.

  The doctor lowered his bottle as Mackey walked by him on his way out. “Wasn’t enough to cave in the man’s skull, but you had to threaten to drag him across broken glass, too? The Hero of Adobe Flats. The Savior of Dover Station.” He spat at a cuspidor by the desk but did not have enough on it to make it that far. “You must be awfully proud of yourself.”

  Mackey stopped and pointed out at the whorehouse across the way. “You proud of feeding off desperate women, doc?”

  The doctor sneered as he looked him up and down. “You make me sick.”

  “The whiskey’s making you sick,” Mackey said. “Save some of that for your patient. He’s going to need it where he’s going. I’ll be back later to take his statement, and I want him able to talk when I get here. Mr. Rice will see to it that you’re compensated for saving his life. Until then, do yourself a favor and keep your mouth shut and your opinions to yourself.”

  Mackey and Billy walked through the alley between the whorehouse and the stables where their mounts were kept.

  Billy asked, “Get anything out of him?”

  “Got enough to get him to give us a statement on paper,” Mackey admitted. “We’ll come back later with Lagrange and get his statement. We’ll need a couple of the passengers to serve as witnesses. That’ll delay their trip to Butte a little longer than they’d like, but they’ve got no choice. I’ll telegraph Mr. Rice now and let him know the latest.”

  “Not going to tell him everything,” Billy said. “I don’t trust the telegraph lines, especially with Grant getting a copy of every telegram sent.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Mackey said. “Mr. Rice doesn’t seem to trust them, either.”

  Chapter 20

  If he had not been so angry, James Grant would have enjoyed Murphy’s fear. He held the yellow sheet in front of him. “When did this telegram come across the wire?”

  “Late last night,” Murphy said.

  “I thought I left instructions to be immediately notified of any telegram leaving the last known location of Mackey’s train?”

  Murphy scrambled for his pad and dropped it. “You did, sir, but it was late, and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “I’m not aware that the word ‘immediately’ has a time limit on it.”

  “I know, but I thought you were asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. It’s just a telegram between Mr. Rice and the sheriff meeting in Butte. There’s nothing to tell.”

  Grant resisted the urge to backhand the son of a bitch. News of Rice being anywhere near the territory, much less in it, was of major importance.

  But he knew how much the people of Dover Station liked to talk. He had done a good job of making sure they
spoke in his favor up to this point. And with his major announcement at hand, he knew throttling the town’s telegrapher could only cause more trouble than it was worth.

  Grant balled up the yellow paper and tossed it across the office. “From now on, if you come upon any telegram from Mackey or anyone even mentioning him, you are to bring it to me immediately. No matter the day, no matter the hour. I don’t care if it’s midnight or lunchtime or anytime in between. Do you understand me?”

  Murphy quickly picked up the pad he had dropped. “Yes, sir. I didn’t mean to anger you. I’m sorry.”

  He decided to use the mistake of allowing his temper to get the better of him to his advantage. Murphy flinched as Grant patted him on the back. “No harm done, Joe. I hadn’t made myself clear before, but now I have. Thanks for showing it to me when you did.”

  Murphy smiled, relieved that the storm of his employer’s anger had passed and all was well. But Grant saw something else in the little man’s eyes. Something that hadn’t been there before.

  Awareness. Knowledge that there was another side to the affable Mr. Grant he had never seen before. Grant knew the memory of the incident would fade with time and continued praise, but it would always be there like a rock just beneath the sands.

  The idea was to use Murphy’s newfound awareness to his own advantage when the time was right. It was one of the many skills James Grant had acquired over the years.

  He pulled out his gold pocket watch from his brocade vest and compared it to the Regulator clock on the wall. Both timepieces said it was a minute before three in the afternoon. The watch had cost more than his father had made during an entire lifetime of punching cattle and plowing fields. Grant was proud that he had the money to be able to buy it. He intended on having more.

  He snapped the watch shut and tucked it back into his pocket before buttoning up his coat. “Keep up the good work, Joe. Talk to you soon.”

  The telegrapher tipped his cap as he stepped outside. He didn’t bother closing the door behind him, keeping the cold wind out of the office. If Murphy wanted it closed, he could do it himself.

  Walter Underhill was waiting for him outside, leaning against a post while watching a couple of women purchase train tickets. The fact each woman was standing beside her husband did not deter him from looking. Nor did it deter the women from stealing glances at the large Texan with the flowing blond locks.

  Grant cleared his throat. “Hope I’m not keeping you from any important business, Underhill.”

  “Not at all.” Underhill tipped his hat to the blushing ladies as they looked away, their husbands oblivious. “Where we off to now?”

  “Katie’s Place,” Grant said as he began to walk. “I have business to discuss with Mrs. Campbell.”

  “What kind of business?”

  Grant had always been careful of what he allowed Underhill to see. He knew the former lawman had become close to Mackey and Billy Sunday. He had grown tired of hearing the old-timers in saloons gas on about their exploits during the siege. When he had first come to Dover Station at Mr. Van Dorn’s request, Grant shouted out “the Savior of Dover Station” as a joke during a spirited debate over how many Darabont men Mackey had personally killed. The name took on a life of its own and Grant used it to his advantage whenever it served him. The town could use all of the heroes it could get. Not only did the name help improve the town’s image, it irked Mackey to no end.

  “Business that concerns her hotel,” was all Grant told him as they walked past the Municipal Building toward the hotel. Construction had resumed full tilt since Eddows’s ill-fated plan to execute Ross. He had brought Mohr to town in the hopes his message might strike a chord with some of the workers. He had never expected a simpleton like Eddows to take it literally.

  But now that Ernst Mohr was dead, Grant would use the radical’s death to his own advantage. The only question was how? Should he seize on underlying resentment towards the sheriff and claim Mohr’s death was caused by Mackey’s heavy-handed administration of the law? Or should Grant vow to use his office as mayor to stomp out the element that attracted such rabble in the first place?

  The only decision he had made was that he was running for mayor. After his meeting with Mrs. Campbell, he would know the nature of his candidacy.

  Underhill brought Grant’s thoughts from the future and back to the present. “This is the second time you’re meeting with Mrs. Campbell in two weeks.”

  “I wasn’t aware I was paying you to be my secretary, Underhill. I thought I was paying for your gun.”

  “You’re paying for my help,” Underhill said. “And advice comes with that help. Sniffing around Aaron Mackey’s woman is not a prescription for good health.”

  Grant straightened his topcoat. “My interest in Mrs. Campbell is purely professional. And even if it wasn’t, the sheriff is still a married man, so Mrs. Campbell cannot technically be his woman.”

  “Don’t know what it says in a town record, James. But I do know Mackey’s mind, and he and the Campbell widow are as close as you could get to being married without the vows or the hardware. I suggest you don’t get in the habit of having too many business dealings with her in the future on account of the sheriff not liking it.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the sheriff’s likes, Underhill. I do as I please.”

  He stopped himself before he said any more. He had said quite a bit as it was.

  But soon, Aaron Mackey’s opinion wouldn’t account for much in Dover Plains or anywhere else.

  It was time for James Grant to enlist Mrs. Campbell in a coin trick he had seen at a carnival once in Nebraska.

  The carnival hack called it: Heads I Win, Tails You Lose.

  * * *

  It was almost half past three by the time Mrs. Campbell came to the front parlor of the hotel. He had been waiting so long, Grant began to wonder if that idiot Sandborne boy had forgotten to tell her he was calling for her.

  Grant had always been a patient man. In fact, his patience had often been his salvation, the quality that had separated him from the rest. The frontier had taught him patience and the power of persistence. Of knowing when to act, when to watch, and when to strike. And now, as he sat in the elegant front parlor of Mrs. Katherine Campbell’s hotel, he was planning his boldest strike since coming to Dover Station.

  He rose when Mrs. Campbell glided into the room in that sophisticated East Coast manner Grant had always found appealing. He judged her to be around forty, but only because he had prided himself on his powers of observation. The tiny lines that appeared around her eyes when she offered him that indulgent smile whenever he visited her. As if he should count himself fortunate he was receiving that much from her.

  He comforted himself in the knowledge that very soon, he would be in a position to grant indulgences and not her. His first step toward that goal began now.

  “Mrs. Campbell,” he said as he rose to greet her. “You’re always a vision.”

  She wore a plain blue dress, as Grant knew was her custom during daytime hours. The dress had not been fashioned to accentuate her long legs, but Grant was able to admire them just the same. After all, he had always been a most observant man.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Grant.” She sat without offering him her hand. He took the lack of formality to be a sign that she may be finally warming to him. “I understand you wish to see me again, though I can’t imagine why. I’m still considering your request to rename the hotel ‘Campbell House,’ but I’m afraid I haven’t quite made up my mind just yet.”

  He could have sat and listened to her speak for hours. That high-class Bostonian accent she had enthralled him. Not out of any sense of love or attraction, but because he wondered how it would sound when her world crumbled before her very eyes.

  “I understand it’s a woman’s prerogative to take her time in making a decision,” Grant said, “but I’m here on a related matter. I know you’re a busy woman, so I’ll get to the heart of it. I wish to purchase this hotel fr
om you. Tonight. In cash.”

  Since the day he had come to town six months before, he had observed the Campbell widow from near and far. He had always admired her grace and poise, the way she held herself in all occasions. True, it was odd that she never left the hotel, not even to stand in the thoroughfare. It was rumored that this was due to some phobia she had acquired while she was held by Darabont and his men.

  It made his enjoyment of watching her fluster at the idea of losing her hotel that much better.

  It took her a moment to regain her composure, but she still looked flushed. “Mr. Grant. I was just considering changing the name of the hotel. I hadn’t expected you to offer to buy it outright.”

  He gave her the line that had worked so well on so many other people in town. “I apologize for the sudden nature of my request, but such is to be expected in a town on the rise. As you have undoubtedly seen, Mrs. Campbell, Dover Station is certainly that. Ideas and actions that often take days or weeks at other, more sensible times, take only hours in our present environment.”

  He leaned forward, respecting the proper distance between them. “That’s why I need your answer tonight. By tomorrow at the latest. Events in town are moving faster than even I could have foreseen. On the business front and, might I add, on a more personal front, too.” He looked down at his hat with that practiced look that had conveyed sincerity to so many in town before. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the details at the moment, nor the necessity for the urgency, but I assure you it is quite necessary.”

  He thought he saw a hint of dampness appear on her well-powdered brow. He had to fight himself to keep from smiling. Finally, a crack in that elegant Campbell façade.

  She blinked before replying, “It would take me at least several days to give you a fair price.”

  Yes, the crack in the façade had formed, but the longer he waited, the quicker the fissure would be repaired. He could not allow that to happen, so he kept at it. “Mrs. Campbell, I cannot impress upon you enough how vital it is that you make your decision now. Tonight, I can offer you top dollar for the hotel. I have seen the town’s records and know how much you paid for the property three years ago. I know you have made several improvements since then and, given that existing buildings are a commodity in town, I am prepared to pay you handsomely, but I am afraid my offer expires when I leave this room. That’s why I must have your answer now.”