Dark Territory

by Terrence McCauley

  Lagrange grinned. “I think you can take them if it comes down to that, but if they come for you, it won’t be head-on. It’ll be at an angle, and it’ll be fast and mean. You need to be ready for that when it happens because, after you disarmed them yesterday, it’s going to happen.”

  “Agreed.” Mackey finished his coffee and stood up. “I’d appreciate it if you could stay around here. Mind the place and Mrs. Campbell for me. Help Sandborne if he needs it.”

  “That boy will need it,” Lagrange said. “He’ll be good someday, but that day is not today. But now that I have an idea of how many people Grant has, I’ll hang around until you tell me otherwise.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  Mackey had begun to walk away when Lagrange said, “Sheriff, do you think Grant will go against you? With guns, I mean. He’s got nothing to gain by it at this point, does he?”

  “He knows I’ve got evidence that ties him to the robberies. And, by now, he probably already knows you’re working with me. All the more reason for you to stay close.”

  “Take care of yourself, sheriff.” He tapped the Record. “I’d hate to have to read about you in tomorrow’s edition.”

  Chapter 29

  Mackey walked out the back door toward the livery where he’d boarded Adair for the night. The groomsman knew enough to keep out of Adair’s way. Just feed her and give her water and leave her alone. It was a lesson he had learned through bitter experience. His hand bore the scar as a reminder that she was particular about who touched her.

  Mackey gave her black coat a good brushing before he secured the saddle on her. He could not explain the connection he had with this animal. In the cavalry, he had lost count of the number of mounts he had used, but the Arabian had always been different. More spirited, faster, braver than any other mount he had ever known. He placed his Winchester in the scabbard and led her out into the daylight. It was late morning by then and his brief sleep with Katherine had made him feel as though he had slept for a week.

  He stepped in the stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. He never minded walking, but there was no other feeling in the world quite like being on horseback. The world looked different and everything felt different.

  You heard things, too.

  Like the unmistakable cocking of a rifle.

  Adair must have heard it, too, because Mackey’s heels had only glanced the horse’s flanks before she took off at a dead run.

  A rifle shot echoed, but the bullet had gone wide of its mark as Mackey and Adair raced west out of town. Another blast echoed and another miss.

  The sheriff had no idea who was shooting at him and did not bother trying to find out. Trying to hit anything from a galloping horse was pointless, and a stray bullet from either side could kill someone in town. Best to get clear of town and find out who was trying to kill him later on.

  Mackey looked back when he cleared the last building and saw three men chasing him on horseback. He couldn’t see who they were, but could tell they had their faces covered, looking just like Tom Macum and his men had when they robbed those trains.

  Mackey guided Adair to the right and up the trail that led into the rocky outcropping that surrounded the town. He brought her around a large boulder just off the trail and quickly dismounted. He pulled the Winchester from the scabbard and slapped Adair in the rump to send her on her way.

  But Adair skittered only a few steps away before calmly walking off at her own pace. She had never been one to shy away from gunfire.

  Mackey crouched behind the boulder and waited for the riders to come barreling past in pursuit.

  But after several seconds, the sheriff had not heard any riders or shooting. Most horses weren’t like Adair. They bucked around gunfire or at least made a fuss. Mackey should have heard something by now, even if the men had been smart enough to dismount and approach on foot.

  All he heard was the cold Montana wind blowing in his ears.

  He set his rifle leaning against the boulder and drew his Peacemaker as he slowly crept around to get a better look at the trail. He stole a quick glance before pulling back, expecting a bullet to ricochet off the rocks.

  But no shot came.

  He looked again and saw no sign of the gunmen. He chanced a look out into the trail and saw only one set of prints in the soft dirt.

  Adair’s.

  He heard the booms of rifle fire coming from the town and knew what had happened. The men had not been trying to kill him after all. They had simply tried to run him off while they attacked elsewhere in town.

  He scrambled back to pick up his rifle and climbed back on Adair.

  The fight was not on the hillside surrounding the town but within the town itself.

  * * *

  Lagrange hit the floor as soon as the bullet struck the coffeepot, causing it to explode.

  He rolled as he fell, knowing the shot had come from somewhere behind him, through the same door Mackey had just used a few moments before.

  He drew his revolver as he rolled and came up on one knee, aiming in the direction of where the shots came from. He saw a man by the door with a rifle, sweeping the room, looking for something to shoot at. Why he hadn’t seen Lagrange yet, the Pinkerton man did not know nor did he wait to find out. He fired once, ricocheting off the rifle instead of hitting the man holding it. But the impact raised the man’s arms, exposing his chest. Lagrange fired twice more, hitting him in the chest both times.

  He heard more gunfire, screams, and a shattering of glass coming from the front of the hotel and ran in that direction. He ran through the lobby and into the gaming room next to the hotel’s front parlor. Another man with a kerchief pulled up over his face was leveling round after round into the gambling hall. Gamblers had overturned tables, others crouched beneath them, as bullets bit into the wood.

  Lagrange drew down on the gunman, only to see the man jerk to the left from the impact of a bullet to the side. The man turned and began to raise the rifle in the direction from where he had been shot when Lagrange fired twice more, striking the man in the shoulder and back.

  The man dropped his rifle as he fell to his knees.

  Then Lagrange saw young Sandborne run toward the fallen man, place the barrel of his revolver against the man’s temple and squeeze the trigger, killing the man for good.

  Lagrange raised his hands and yelled, “It’s me, Joshua. Don’t shoot.”

  Fortunately, the young man recognized him and lowered his weapons. “You get any?”

  “One out back where I was having coffee. Any more out there than him?”

  “Nope. Saw three more riding down Front Street when this bastard burst in here and started shooting. He winged Jessica, but I think she’ll be okay.”

  Then he remembered. “Mrs. Campbell! Have you seen her?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  But Lagrange was already on his way to find her.

  * * *

  Despite having been in love with two military men in her life, Mrs. Katherine had never taken enough of an interest in weapons to consider herself proficient. She knew how to handle a gun, of course, but she was by no means a sharpshooter.

  But as she tracked the three riders shooting their way up Front Street from the open window of a vacant guest room, she hoped the Winchester was as good a weapon as Aaron claimed it was.

  She had grabbed the weapon as soon as she heard the gunfire when Aaron left. She ran upstairs, rifle in hand, and watched the three riders chase her beloved from town, only to turn back when they lost him among the rocky outcroppings surrounding the town.

  Now, she looked down the length of the rifle at the men who had shot at her hotel and tried to kill the man she loved. She drew a bead on the central rider and squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle bucked more than she had anticipated. Her weight had been off and the recoil knocked her back, making a second shot impossible.

  Her arm was too weak to hold the rifle any longer, but she saw the results of her sh
ot. Unfortunately, she missed the rider, but hit the horse. The man had been thrown headlong into the thoroughfare as three more riders fell in with the remaining two. None of them looked back at their fallen friend, who by then had gotten to his feet and ran behind his friends on foot.

  The workers on the scaffolding of the new Municipal Building across from the jailhouse scrambled inside as they saw the five gunmen heading their way.

  “Mrs. Campbell!”

  She turned and saw the Pinkerton man, Robert Lagrange, standing in the doorway. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, but I only hit the bastard’s horse, not the bastard himself.”

  Lagrange rushed to her side and helped her to her feet, mindful that she was favoring her right shoulder. “You did fine, ma’am.” He looked out the window. The five riders continued up Front Street toward the jailhouse. The man whose horse had been shot menaced people on the boardwalk as they dodged away from him. “The rest is out of our hands.”

  Katherine knew Aaron had been safe, but he would not be safe for long.

  He would rush toward the gunfire. He always did.

  Chapter 30

  Billy Sunday had grabbed his rifle when he had heard the first gunshot on Front Street.

  He was about to open the door when the first rounds began slamming into the thick wood of the jailhouse door. He was not worried about any bullets getting through. The ironwood door was over six inches thick. Nothing short of a cannon would make a dent in the damned thing. The walls were a foot thick and made of stone and plaster. Nothing was coming through the walls, either.

  Billy was not worried about anything getting in. He was worried about who was on the other side of the door and about how long they would stay there shooting at him. He wondered where Aaron might be and if he had already been hurt.

  He did not know much and would not know much more unless he got out there to see for himself. And with them shooting at him, there was not much he could do. Or could he?

  An idea came to him as round after round kept slamming into the hardwood.

  * * *

  On the other side of the door, Trammel paused to reload his six-shooter as the other men poured lead into the jailhouse. He couldn’t see much with all of the gun smoke, but he knew some of the bullets had to be getting through. The old building looked like a good wind might bring it down.

  One of the boys cut loose with a shotgun and struck the door.

  Trammel quit reloading when he heard the men cheer as the jailhouse door finally swung inside. It was too dark inside to see anything, but he knew no one could have lived through that barrage.

  Trammel closed the cylinder and cheered. Mackey had been run off and now his colored deputy was dead. “We done it, boys. We finally cracked that son of a bitch!”

  The gunmen were still cheering when a fifty-caliber round from Billy’s Sharps turned Trammel’s head into powder. His body twitched in the saddle as the panicked horse ran into the others in terror.

  Before any of the men could regain their composure, another blast from the jailhouse hit another rider in the side, punching him out of the saddle and into the rider next to him.

  The three remaining men fought to get their mounts under control as they tried to escape the carnage.

  Harrah was the farthest away and spurred his horse as he broke free and headed in the opposite direction.

  The gunman on foot leapt onto the jailhouse boardwalk and approached the open door in a crouch, his six-shooter in his hand. The Sharps boomed again from the darkness, sending a third horse bucking as its rider screamed. The last horseman wheeled his mount around and got the hell out of there.

  The remaining gunman kept moving toward the open door, pistol ready to shoot the bastard who had killed his friends. The man who had taken Trammel’s head off.

  He was about to fire through the doorway when he was thrown against the wall not once, not twice, but three times. It was not until he fell backward and saw the blood on the jailhouse wall—his blood—did he realize he had not been pushed. He had been shot.

  As he lay on his back, he looked up at the sky and saw a man on a black horse speeding by.

  He wondered if that was the man who had killed him.

  It was the last thought he had before he died.

  * * *

  Mackey caught up to the rider who had cut right, riding back toward the old JT Ranch. He brought Adair to a halt, leveled the Peacemaker at the fleeing rider, and fired. The bullet caught the man in the center of the back. He slumped forward as the horse continued at a full gallop. The motion of the animal dropped the rider from the saddle within a few strides.

  Mackey brought Adair around to chase the last rider who’d set out for the hills. He was a good distance away, too far for his Winchester and way too far for his Peacemaker.

  He was glad to see Billy appear at the end of Front Street, aiming the Sharps at the fleeing man.

  “You think you can get him?” Mackey called out to him.

  Billy Sunday grew very still, then squeezed the trigger. The great rifle boomed, and when the gun smoke cleared, Mackey watched a horse, unencumbered by a rider digging spurs into its sides, running off into the distance.

  Billy lowered his rifle and looked up at Mackey. “What do you think?”

  Mackey flinched when another gunshot came from behind him.

  The man he had shot in the back was on the ground just off the trail. He had raised his pistol and fired at them, but missed. The effort appeared to have taken all of his remaining strength, for he lay on the frozen ground panting.

  Billy approached cautiously with the Sharps at his shoulder, ready to fire again if necessary.

  Mackey brought Adair around and trotted toward the dying man. “Do that again and we’ll bring you to the doctor. You can die easy out here or in a couple of weeks after more pain than you can imagine.”

  The dying man let his pistol drop above his head and pulled his mask down from his face. Mackey recognized this man as one of Trammel’s friends. “You’re Clarke.”

  The man coughed and a trickle of blood ran down his cheek. “What difference does that make now?”

  “Not much,” Mackey admitted. “Neither does the name of the man who paid you to attack us. Tell me and I end this quick.”

  Clarke lolled his head on the frozen ground. “I’m dead anyway.”

  “Don’t be so hasty,” Billy said. “Bullet struck you in the back, went out through the left. Not bleeding as much as you would if the bullet hit your gut.” He lowered his rifle and looked up at Mackey. “I can save this man, sheriff, if you want me to.”

  “Good idea. Let’s fetch a wagon for him and run him over to Doc Ridley. He’s Hell-and-Jesus with a scalpel. He’ll fix this man right up.”

  “No!” Clarke yelled out. “It was Grant, you bastard. It was Grant who paid us to shoot up the place. The hotel, the jailhouse, and once you were dead, anything else we wanted. Didn’t say nothing about that jail being a fortress, though.”

  Mackey pulled his Peacemaker and held it so Clarke could see it. “How many of you were there? Tell me and this ends here and now.”

  “Seven of us,” Clarke said. “We could only get seven. We wanted more, but no one would go against you after the way you stood up to Underhill and his Regulars.”

  A cold wind blew down the trail, but Adair held her ground.

  Clarke looked up at Mackey. “Damn you, sheriff. I made good on my end. Now it’s time for you to do the same!”

  The sheriff looked at his deputy. “You think he’s telling the truth?”

  Billy lowered his rifle. “I believe he is.”

  So did Mackey. Which was why he raised his Peacemaker and made good on his promise to a dead man.

  Chapter 31

  A harsh wind blew through the cemetery as Mackey and Billy watched the gravediggers lower the last of the dead men into the ground. The preacher, an old drunk with a Bible who claimed to be a cleric, muttered his final verse from the
good book before turning to the sheriff for payment. Mackey gave him the five dollars they had agreed upon and watched him toddle down the hill toward The Tin Horn Saloon.

  “Jesus.” Billy pulled his hat back on. “That’s the first man I’ve seen go into that place in months.”

  Mackey pulled on his hat, too. “It’s warm and it’s close. Besides, he lived up to his end of the bargain.”

  The two lawmen stood beneath a dirty gray sky as the ditchdiggers began to fill in the graves.

  “Glad the company’s paying for laborers to do the planting,” Billy said. “I’d hate to have to break up frozen ground like this.”

  “We’ve done our share of digging,” Mackey said. “Company’s been good for something, I guess.”

  Billy gestured back toward town. “Looks like these boys aren’t the only company men come to pay us a visit.”

  Mackey turned to see Walter Underhill riding up toward them on the big brown sorrel of his. The former marshal’s blond mane had streaks of gray in it, same as his moustache.

  Mackey thought he looked leaner now than he’d been when he’d first ridden into town looking for the Boudreaux boys more than six months before. He looked rested, less haunted than he had back then. He looked like a man at peace with himself and who liked what he saw in the mirror.

  Mackey was glad for his friend, and he had come to view Underhill as a friend, but knew, someday soon, he just might have to kill this man who now worked for James Grant.

  Underhill tied off his horse at the iron gate surrounding the cemetery and walked up the hill. “Mackey’s Garden’s more crowded than I remember.”

  Mackey ignored the comment. “Figured you’d be inside getting yelled at by Grant for losing control of your men.”

  “I didn’t lose control of anyone,” Underhill said. “These boys took it upon themselves to attack you on their own. Paid the appropriate price for it, too, I reckon.”

  Billy said, “You come up to congratulate us on beating your boss’s plan to kill us or you want a shovel? Maybe help with the graves, seeing as how they were your men and all.”