Mackey sipped his coffee. He loved when the mayor parroted big words he’d overheard or read elsewhere. “Then I’d be interested in any attempt on your part to enlighten me.”
The mayor cleared his throat. “Tomorrow may very well be the biggest day in the history of Dover Station, sir. As you know, I have gone through great expense and considerable effort to bring influential investors here all the way from New York so they can see us at our finest. Mr. Frazer Rice and Mr. Silas Van Dorn of the Rice Van Dorn Company are perhaps the most influential men on Wall Street.”
Mackey narrowed his eyes. “Come to think of it, I believe I’ve heard a few people around town mention it once or twice.” Mackey grinned as he sipped his coffee. Since making Dover Station a more civilized place, tormenting Brian Mason was one of the few pleasures Sheriff Mackey enjoyed. “Don’t know what Mr. Rice and Mr. Van Dorn have to do with what just happened down at the Tin Horn, though.”
“They are investors, sir. They represent railroad men and financiers and captains of industry, men who are serious about making major investments in Dover Station. And, much to my chagrin, they have expressed a great interest in meeting you personally, sir. It seems the idea of shaking the hand of the Hero of Adobe Flat holds some appeal.”
Mackey ignored the flattery and sipped his coffee. “Rice and Van Dorn are money men, Brian, and they won’t put a penny in this place unless they think they can get ten dollars out of it. All the glad handing and sign waving in the world won’t change that.”
“Perhaps,” Mason allowed, “but gunning down five men in the street won’t help matters any, either. In broad daylight less than an hour before they’re scheduled to arrive, no less!”
Mackey hadn’t known they were due to arrive so soon. Or did he? He remembered hearing Mason had invited dignitaries to the Veterans Dance. He remembered they were due to arrive soon, but he’d lost track of when they were scheduled to arrive. Was it today? He had thought it might be tomorrow. The pneumonia had made his mind so cloudy that he might have lost track of time.
Either way, he decided it wasn’t a good enough reason to concede the argument to Mason. “Investors usually like to know where they’re placing their money, Brian. And I’d bet a month’s wages that those men wouldn’t have come all this way if they didn’t already know this is still rough country. That’s probably why they’re coming here in the first place. Figure they can buy us up low and sell us out high later on.”
Mason smiled. “I wasn’t aware of your familiarity with financial matters, sir.”
“I’m not,” Mackey admitted. “I’m familiar with people. We’ve got cattlemen and loggers and miners and townspeople and every drunk, drover, and snake-oil salesman who come to town off the train all pushing each other for their piece of this place. Sometimes that pushing turns into more than that, and when it does, I’m paid to do something about it. That’s exactly what we did down at the Tin Horn just now, Brian, and you know it.”
“You’re paid to enforce the law, not to kill people.”
“That’s right. So, when Mr. Rice and Mr. Van Dorn and their friends get wind of what I did today, I’d wager they’ll like knowing there’s some law and order in this town. Could make you look mighty important in front of all your new friends from back east. Might be why they’re looking at Dover Station in the first place, as opposed to other towns out here.”
Mason rocked up on the tips of his shoes again and grabbed the lapels of his coat. “Butchering men in the middle of town won’t help our chances, I can assure you of that. You could have at least tried to get them to surrender or wounded them.”
“Spoken like a true grocer from back east.” Mackey took another sip of coffee. “And we gave them the chance to surrender and they went for their guns. But it’ll all be part of the official record, if that soothes your conscience any.”
Mason hadn’t been expecting that. “It will?”
“Everyone who saw the shooting is giving written statements down at the Horn right now,” Mackey told him. “Billy and Sim will have them in a couple of hours. I’ll have the report finalized and in Mr. Harrington’s paper tomorrow morning for the world to see. And, since I’m in a generous mood, I won’t mention that none of this would have happened if Sam Warren had obeyed the law and disarmed those boys before he served them.”
“You’ve always got an answer for everything, don’t you, Aaron?” Mason’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like losing arguments and he realized he was losing this one. “Well, even if this cost us major investment, at least you have a new crop to plant in that damnable garden of yours.”
Mackey looked at Mason for a long second. “Careful, Brian.”
“You need to be careful, sheriff. You’ve been down with pneumonia for the past month, so perhaps you haven’t noticed that Mr. Rice already opened one bank over on Grant Street last week. Mr. Van Dorn and his other partners are seriously looking at developing other parcels, perhaps as a hotel. The railroad may be changing its schedule to stop here more than once a week. Hell, the telegraph is thinking of adding another line to run from here clear down to Butte. Things are changing for the better in Dover Station and changing fast. And all of that is threatened if you keep gunning men down in the street like this.”
Mackey set his mug down on his desk. “When I first took this job, men like you were begging me to kill men like that. That’s how the whole ‘damnable garden’ of mine got started in the first place. I do what I’m paid to do the best way I know how. I don’t shoot drunks for pissing in the street, and I don’t beat card sharps half to death for keeping aces up their sleeve. But when someone goes for their pistols, I put them down. You don’t like that, get yourself someone else for the job.”
“You speak of another time,” Mason said. “This town’s industry and commerce have matured since then and are poised for exponential growth. I’ll not have you stand in the way of . . .”
When Mackey heard clapping and whistling coming from the boardwalk, he knew his father, Brendan “Pappy” Mackey had just arrived at the jailhouse.
Mackey’s father could never have been described as a tall man, but what the Irishman lacked in height he made up for in size. He had broad shoulders, a strong back, and thick forearms worthy of a blacksmith rather than the shopkeeper he was. He was going on sixty, but still often did the work of three men half his age. His hair and beard had long turned steel gray, making his stern countenance appear even more so, though his eyes belied a vibrant spirit.
“A grand speech, Brian,” Pappy said as he entered the jailhouse, his brogue adding just a hint of sarcasm to his words. “Too bad Election Day is so far off, or you’d be a shoe-in for another term. Maybe even governor, by Christ, if they ever get around to making this territory part of the Union.”
The mayor and Pappy had been rivals since Mason had come to Dover Station and opened his own dry goods store. That had been almost twenty years ago, but the elder Mackey still treated Mason like a newcomer. “We are in the middle of discussing important town affairs that are none of your concern, Brendan.”
“Nonsense.” Pappy took a chair next to Harrington. “I’m a town founder, a town resident, and the owner of the largest store within fifty miles. I was one of the men who brokered a peace with the Blackfeet when we came to this country, so I’d say town affairs are very much my affairs.” He nodded toward his son. “The fact that my boy here killed those five men just now makes it even more of my affair.”
Charles Everett Harrington cleared his throat. “Technically, your son only shot two of the five men. Billy shot two on his own, but the responsibility for the death of the last man is still a matter of some dispute.”
“I stand corrected.” Pappy bowed humbly. To Mason, he said, “I wouldn’t fret about a couple of dead criminals scaring off these wealthy friends of yours. Those boys’ll be buried and forgotten by lunchtime tomorrow. And when the dance starts, they’ll be nothing more than a fart in the wind.”
But Mas
on held his ground. “The burials won’t be held until tomorrow, and I’ve got Mr. Rice and his friends coming in this afternoon by special train and . . .”
“Special train? That must’ve set you back a pretty penny.”
“Not at all,” Mason stammered. “Mr. Rice paid for . . .”
Pappy wagged a finger at him. “I know what this is really about. You’re worried about how we’re going to split the dead men’s property between your shop and mine, aren’t you?”
Mason’s eyes narrowed again. Over the years, each store purchased the possessions of whomever Mackey had killed, then resold them to the public. The profits went to the sheriff’s office, which turned a nice profit. “How dare you imply that I might allow my own personal business to conflict with my duties as mayor of this town. I . . .”
“I was thinking about how we usually split things,” Pappy said. “Sixty-forty in my favor is unfair to you. And seeing as how you’re under special stress given these visitors coming to town and all, I’d be amenable to cutting you a break. Maybe discussing a fifty-fifty split.”
The mayor stopped sputtering.
Pappy sweetened the pot a bit. “Hell, given the occasion, I’ll even give you three out of the five horses we’ve taken from the dead men if it’ll make you feel any better.”
Mackey watched Mason flinch as his brain went in two directions at the same time. The politician in him was still riled up about the possibility of the shooting scaring off investors. But Pappy’s offer to increase his customary share of the dead men’s possessions appealed to the shopkeeper aspect of his nature.
When the mayor’s face softened, he knew Mason’s shopkeeper side had won out. “A sixty-forty split in the possessions sounds even better. In my favor, of course.”
“Then we have a deal.” Pappy spat in his palm and held it out for the mayor to shake. Mason did the same, though reluctantly. After the two men shook on it, Pappy added, “Now get the hell out of here.”
Mason quickly withdrew his hand. “I’m still the mayor and I still have town business to conduct with Aaron.”
Pappy beckoned Harrington to hand over his flask, which he did. “You’re only the mayor because no one else wanted the goddamned job in the first place. You’re mayor because the men who built this town let you be mayor. Men like me. So when you speak to my son, you’ll speak to him with respect. In public, in private, or any other time you see him. Or you’ll stop being mayor and go back to being the second-largest store owner in this here town.”
Mayor Mason flushed. “Now see here, Brendan . . .”
But Mackey could tell his father was in a talking mood, and there was no stopping him once he started. “You’re not the only one in this town who can charm the high rollers you’re bringing in here tomorrow night, Brian. Me and several of the others can put on quite a show for these folks if we’re of a mind to. One more word out of you and that’s exactly what I’ll do. We’ll bar you from the dance tomorrow night. Make you watch the whole thing from the street like a goddamned stable boy.”
Pappy dismissed the mayor with a wave. “Now, off with you and not another word about it.”
Mason balled his tiny fists at his sides. Like Sam, the mayor had plenty to say, but clearly thought better of it. Like Mackey, Pappy wasn’t renowned for his patience of love of debate.
Instead, Mason cleared his throat and said; “Sheriff, you and I will discuss this at a later date. In the meantime, I’m headed down to the station to oversee the final preparations for our welcoming ceremony. Good day, gentlemen.” He then left the jail, careful to close the jailhouse door quietly behind him.
“That’s the spirit,” Pappy boomed after him. “Make straight their path.” He took a final pull from Harrington’s flask before handing it back to him. “Jesus, that stuff tastes like turpentine.”
“Perhaps, but it’s still sweeter than either of you.” The reporter toasted the Mackey men with his flask. “You two were a little rough on the old boy, don’t you think? He has gone through the trouble of getting quite a number of potential investors to attend the dance tomorrow. He succeeded, too. There’s something to be said for that.”
“Here’s what I have to say for it.” Pappy hawked and spat in the spittoon by the door. “To hell with him. That weasel is only doing this because he sees something in it for him, just like with them horses.” He laughed. “Probably thinks I gave in too easy on that score. Well, I checked them over before I came over here. Never saw a sorrier example of horseflesh since the one my son married.”
Mackey looked at his father over the rim of his mug. “Enough.”
But his father ignored him. “Every single one of them mounts is fit for the glue pot and little else. I just gave Mason sixty percent of nothing. Poor things seem to still be alive out of sheer habit and little else.”
“Kind of like someone else I know.” Mackey got up and refilled his cup at the stove. “I was handling Mason just fine before you walked in, old man.”
“Old man?” Pappy flexed his arm so the muscle bulged against the sleeve of his shirt. “How’s that for an old man? Besides, if anyone was ever born to be given a hard time, it’s Brian Mason.”
“He’ll sulk for the rest of the week.” Mackey sat behind the desk again. He was still lightheaded and hoped the others couldn’t tell. “He’ll take it out on me in a thousand different ways, not you. You think you did me a favor, but all you did was make things worse. Like always.”
Pappy laughed and slapped his own leg. “You’re just grumpy because you’re feeling so poorly.” He eyed his son closely. “Say, how are you feeling anyway? You look like hell.”
As if on command, another wracking cough overcame him.
“You sound wonderful.” Pappy got up and walked around his son to pour his own cup of coffee. “Serves you right for staying in a damned drafty jail instead of with me at my place.”
“I’m better off here.” Mackey spat phlegm into the spittoon by his desk. “You run your goddamned mouth so much, I’d never get any rest.”
Pappy spiked his coffee with a healthy pour from Harrington’s flask. “Maybe, but you should be home in your own bed where you belong, if you ask me. And you would be, too, if you hadn’t gone and married that miserable wife of yours.”
Even when he was in the best of health, Mackey knew winning an argument with his father was next to impossible. Given his present condition, he didn’t even try. “Mary’s a complicated woman with a strong will. She . . .”
Mackey realized Harrington was still sitting there, taking in every word, as reporters were apt to do. Harrington might drink all day and most of the night, but he never forgot anything he heard. And whatever he heard was often repeated either in conversation or printed in his newspaper.
Mackey pointed at the newsman. “If I hear or read one word of this anywhere else, Charlie, I swear to Christ, I’ll . . .”
Harrington threw up his hands in surrender. “My only concern is the chronicling of the town’s daily affairs. The domestic bliss or lack thereof of Sheriff Aaron Mackey falls far beyond the scope of official town business.”
Pappy grinned. “If you’re so damned honorable, Charlie, what the hell are you doing running a paper way out here in the wilderness?”
Harrington regarded his silver flask for a moment. “A valid question I’ve asked myself a great many times.” He took a healthy pull and screwed the cap back on. “And while I might not have any interest in your familial difficulties, the matter of the five men lying dead out on Front Street is of great interest to the town and to my readership. I plan on using it as my lead story in tomorrow’s edition. Might even manage to get a whole week out of it if I play the angles right. What can you tell me about the newly departed strangers?”
Mackey had nothing to tell him, so he stalled. “Everything you need to know will be in my official report.”
“And when will that be ready?”
“The sooner you two bastards leave, the sooner I can ge
t working on it and get it to you.”
Pappy spat his spiked coffee back into his cup. “Heathen. Calling your own father a bastard. Your own flesh and blood.”
“You’ve call me a bastard at least once a day for most of my life. A stupid bastard at that.”
“I’m your father,” Pappy said. “I’m entitled.”
But Harrington wouldn’t be distracted by the banter between father and son. “Nice try at distraction, you two, but I still have an open question on the floor. Can you tell me anything in advance of the official report? Who were these men? Where were they from?”
Since Harrington would know the truth soon enough, Mackey saw no reason to stall. “There’s not much to tell. None of the men had anything on them. No letters, no pictures. Nothing in their pockets, either, except about ten dollars between the five of them.”
Pappy lowered his cup. “Nothing?”
“No bedrolls. No saddlebags. No pack animals, either. At least none we’ve been able to find yet. None of them had a goddamned thing but the clothes on their backs, the guns on their hips, and the boots on their feet.”
“Damned strange, isn’t it?” Harrington asked. “For men all the way out here to have nothing by the way of trail gear?”
Mackey felt his lungs begin to clog again, and he stirred them to clear them. “Those mounts show signs they’ve been on the trail recently, maybe even as late as today. They should’ve had provisions, but we didn’t find as much as a slice of bacon among them.”
“Maybe they were staying somewhere in town?” Harrington offered.
Mackey was seized by another deep coughing spasm, so Pappy answered for him. “If they did, they would’ve had a hotel room key or a receipt on them for the room. And if not, some hotel keeper would’ve claimed them by now. No saddlebags or bedrolls or pack mule means they were most likely camped somewhere else. Somewhere they felt comfortable leaving their things behind.”
Harrington still didn’t look troubled. “I know I’m still naïve to quite a few things about life out here, but I still fail to see the cause for concern. Perhaps they simply left their things at an isolated camp site and rode into town.”
Where the Bullets Fly Page 3
