Where the Bullets Fly

by Terrence McCauley

  “Men like these wouldn’t do that,” Pappy said as Mackey struggled to get his breath. “They rode in on tired mounts. They were armed and ready to fight when Aaron and Billy braced them outside the Tin Horn. Men like that wouldn’t be apt to just leave their gear behind unguarded and ride into town.”

  Mackey stopped coughing and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The effort weakened him even further. He felt like he was breathing through wet cheesecloth. “They’re probably camped some place close by. At least one of them stayed behind to mind their gear, but I’ve got a feeling there’s a lot more than just one of them.”

  “And when their dead friends don’t come back,” Pappy added, “whoever’s watching their stuff is liable to come looking for them.”

  Harrington looked as though he had finally grasped the complexity of the situation. “Could be just one man. A reasonable man at that.”

  Pappy said, “If those men were reasonable, they’d be in Aaron’s jail cells right now, sleeping off their hangovers.”

  Mackey drank his coffee. The warmth of it felt good in his raw throat. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions. We won’t know anything until they get here, if anyone shows up at all.”

  But Harrington never had any shortage of questions. “But what happens if they have friends who ride in here looking for trouble?”

  Mackey set his coffee mug on the desk. “That’ll depend on them.”

  Pappy cleared his throat. “Sounds like you, Mr. Harrington, have plenty of material to get started on that story of yours. Better get back to your shop and get a jump on that morning edition. Them articles don’t write themselves, now do they?”

  “I get it.” Harrington tucked the flask into his coat pocket as he slowly stood up. “The men of the Mackey clan wish to discuss certain matters that are not for my ears.”

  Pappy smiled. “Your powers of perception are rivaled only by my own, Charlie darling. Drop by the Tin Horn later for a snort or two. On me. I’m sure Sheriff Mackey will be by your shop with the official report once it’s been written.”

  Mackey stifled a cough.

  The newspaperman bowed, then closed the door behind him as quietly as Mayor Mason had, but with much more of his dignity intact.

  Once they were alone, Pappy said, “I found out something I didn’t want to tell you in front of that nosey lush.”

  Mackey wasn’t surprised. His father was the biggest gossip in the territory and usually heard everything first. The only thing he liked better than a good fight was good dirt. “What is it?”

  “I heard those boys you killed were drinking down at Katie’s Place for the better part of the morning. Before they raised hell over at the Tin Horn, that is.”

  “Katie’s Place?” Mackey repeated, though he’d heard it clear enough the first time. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure that’s what I heard. As for whether or not it’s true, that’ll be up to you and Billy to find out.”

  But that didn’t make much sense to Mackey. “Why would they be down at Katie’s? Her place is too spiffy to cater to that kind of trash.”

  “Don’t ask me.” Pappy drained the last of his coffee and stood. “I’m just an old gossip who hears things. Take it with as many grains of sand as you are of a mind to.”

  “I’ll head down and ask her.” Mackey stood up, but was hit by another wave of dizziness. He felt his father’s thick hand grab his arm to steady him. Mackey didn’t like being touched, and he had been grabbed twice within the past hour.

  Pappy eased him back over to his chair. “You should be in bed, boy, not running around town. You’ll need to be in good form for the dance tomorrow night.”

  Mackey pulled his arm free. “I’ve never gone to that goddamned costume party of yours, and I’m not going to start now.”

  If his father was hurt, he hid it well. “Even so, let Billy dig around about these boys today. He’s more than capable and . . .”

  “Billy’s every bit as capable as I am. Maybe even more capable.” It came out harsher than he’d intended. He’d always been touchy when it came to talk of Billy’s abilities. “But he’s not paid to be the sheriff. I am. Finding out who those men were and where they were staying is my job, not his. Or yours, either. I’ve been sick long enough. Time to get back to work.”

  Pappy moved away from his son. “You’re a disagreeable, stubborn son of a bitch.”

  “Runs in the family.” Mackey took his straight-brimmed hat from the desk and set it on his head. “I’ll head over and talk to Katie myself. Find out what those men were doing there, if they were there at all.”

  Pappy opened the jailhouse door and let his son walk out first. “How about I walk with you for a bit?”

  “And disappoint all your old army buddies waiting at your store? I’ll be they can’t wait to hear all about the shootings. Like the mayor said: the people of Dover Station deserve better than that.”

  Pappy pulled the jailhouse door shut behind him. “I didn’t beat you enough when you were a boy.”

  Mackey pulled out the key and locked the door. “You never laid a hand on me. Not even once.”

  “And I’m paying for it now. ‘Spare the rod’ and all that. And if you had any sense, you’d take up with Katie instead of that wizened beast you’re chained to now.”

  Mackey didn’t bother arguing with his father. He walked away from him instead, down Front Street toward Katie’s Place.

  But Pappy still wasn’t done. “Christ, the woman moved all the way out here just to be with you. That ought to count for something.”

  Mackey lowered the brim of his hat against the strengthening wind and not break his pace. There was no use in arguing with his father.

  Especially when he was right.

  Chapter 4

  The few people who were still on the boardwalk made it a point not to meet Mackey’s eye as he walked along Front Street. It was widely known that the sheriff was a man to be avoided in general and after a shooting in particular.

  That was just fine with Mackey. Their avoidance allowed him to see Cy Wallach, the town undertaker, and an assistant loading the bodies of the dead men in front of the Tin Horn onto a flatbed wagon. The old German would most likely take the cadavers over to his workshop to prepare them for burial the following day in that part of the cemetery the locals had taken to calling Mackey’s Garden. Every year since he’d been elected sheriff, a couple of rows were added to the garden. Come tomorrow, there’d be five more holes dug. A good number, but by no means a record for a single planting. Not by Mackey’s standards.

  Wallach had recently taken to calling himself a “mortician,” an artist with cotton wadding and chemicals and powder that made the dead seem more alive. He always cleaned up the men Mackey killed as practice for the higher-paying clients in town who eventually requested his services on behalf of their newly departed loved ones. Mackey didn’t see the point in Wallach’s experiments because Wallach was the only mortician in town. People had no choice but to use him, no matter how much rouge he slapped on a corpse.

  But Mackey had never seen the value in cleaning up a body or praying over it, either. He’d seen enough death in the cavalry to know there was nothing lifelike about death. If it was up to him, he’d just drop them in a hole and shovel the dirt back on them the same day they died. No reason to draw out the inevitable rot that always followed life.

  But life was never that simple, so he shouldn’t expect death to be simple, either. Morticians had to eat. Coffin makers and preachers, too.

  As Mackey navigated the buckboards that had been laid across the muddy thoroughfare to reach the next boardwalk on his way toward Katie’s Place, he spotted Doc Ridley trudging toward him through the dense mud of Front Street. Given his weakened condition, Mackey did his best to outpace the pious town doctor and the sermon he knew would follow his greeting.

  Although Doc Ridley had once been Captain William Ridley of Virginia in the War Between the States, he now saw himself as a Christi
an soldier sitting at the Lord’s own right hand. He’d never made a secret of disagreeing with what he viewed as Mackey’s harsh, sometimes brutal enforcement of the town’s laws. Now that Mackey had just shot five men, he knew he was in for a healthy dose of fire and brimstone from the good doctor.

  But Mackey was only interested in getting to Katie’s Place to find out if those dead men had been drinking there before the Tin Horn.

  Doc Ridley called to him when he got within earshot. “You must be awfully proud of your handiwork here, Aaron. Feel like justice has been done?”

  Mackey stepped up on the boardwalk ahead of Ridley. “It’s already been a long day, Doc. How about you skip the sermon and sign those death certificates? I’ll need them as part of the official report.”

  “I don’t need you to remind me of my duty, sir. You’ll get your damned certificates in due course.” Ridley climbed up to the boardwalk after him; trying to keep pace with the taller, younger man. “For although I may disagree with your butchery, the Lord tells us to give unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s and give unto to Him that which is His.”

  “Well, seeing as how old Caesar’s gotten his due from you, how about you shut your mouth and head back home?”

  “You can avoid me all you want, but your conscience won’t let you rest.”

  Mackey smiled. “Hell, I left my conscience among the Apache down in the Arizona Territory, Doc. You know that.”

  “Do you mean to tell me, before God, that you had no choice but to kill those men this afternoon? That you couldn’t have merely wounded them and taken them to jail so that they may have had a chance to repent and change their lives?”

  “You’re the second man today who’s trying to tell me how to do my job.” Mackey stopped short so the doctor would bump into him. “I expected that from a civilian like Mason, but not from a man who has shed his share of blood. Billy and I gave them more of a chance than the men you killed at Bull Run or Vicksburg or anywhere else you fought.”

  As Mackey began walking again, the doctor scrambled to follow. “That was war, damn you. This is civilization.”

  “And civilizations have laws, Doc. Laws that need to be enforced. The town pays me and Billy to enforce those laws. Any time you or Mayor Mason want to run us out of office, go right ahead. Our stars come off just as easily as we pin them on.”

  “It’s not as simple as all that, and you know it.” Ridley struggled to sidestep the townspeople on the boardwalk as they cleared out of Mackey’s way. “Why, Mr. Rice and Mr. Van Dorn are coming to this town within the hour. Dover Station is changing in big ways. It’s on the verge of growing and becoming a better place to live. A more God-fearing town. Even you must be able to see that.”

  “So you and Mason keep telling me. But after what happened here today, looks like we’ve still got a ways to go before anyone mistakes Dover Station for the new and eternal Jerusalem.”

  “Blasphemer,” Ridley spat. “You’re such a barbarian that I often forget you’re an educated man. You should use the skills and experience West Point gave you for His purposes instead of those of the Devil.”

  “You want a glimpse of the Devil, Doc? Get Billy and me fired and see what happens in this town. Let the drunks and the drovers and the cowpunchers and the miners go back to cutting loose without us to keep them in line. Let the flakes and the gamblers who come in off the train have a free hand if you want. They’ll be strolling up Front Street with whores and squaws in broad daylight before you can blink. Why, I’ll bet old Beelzebub himself will be knocking on your front door inside of a week, and . . .”

  Another coughing spasm seized his lungs, causing Mackey to double over.

  Doc Ridley guided him out of the growing foot traffic along the boardwalk and eased him against the side of the town’s apothecary. Before the coughing let up, the doctor dug his stethoscope out of his bag, put the cold steel against Mackey’s shirt and listened.

  Mackey tried to push it away, but Ridley kept the stethoscope in place, frowning at what he heard. “Your lungs still have fluid, Aaron.” He felt Mackey’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Fever’s picking up again, too, and you feel clammy. I’ve already told you that you’ll need constant bed rest for the foreseeable future if you hope to improve your condition. It might take another week. A month. Might never completely go away. Pneumonia runs its course in its own time, but the best thing for you right now is bed rest.”

  “Hardly have a bed to go home to, Doc. Mary’s not exactly given to tending to the sick.”

  “She was practically a child when you married her,” Ridley said. “You were a man of the world. It was up to you to make her love the man you are, not the one she had dreamed you would be.”

  Since there were no women in sight, Mackey stirred his lungs clear, hawked, than spat into the mud of Front Street. It made him feel a little better. “You’re a hard man to peg, Doc. A minute ago, you were damning me to Hell. Now you’re trying to save my life.”

  Doc Ridley put his stethoscope back in his bag. “I hate the sin, not the sinner, Aaron. I’m fighting for your life the same way I would have fought for the lives of the men you’ve just killed if I had gotten there in time.”

  “Then you would’ve been pegged with lead from both sides, Doc. That ended the only way they wanted it to end. I know it and so do you. You can bang that Bible of yours all day long and you won’t change it.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But I believe life means hope for redemption, Aaron. I only wish you could find it in your heart to do the same.”

  “Not likely.” Mackey shook off his dizziness and drew a full breath of air into his lungs. He didn’t feel good, but good enough to resume his walk to Katie’s Place. “But thanks just the same.”

  This time, Doc Ridley didn’t follow. “There’s still goodness in you, Aaron. I saw it in you before you went to West Point, but I haven’t seen it in you since you’ve been back. I know it’s still in you.”

  Mackey stirred his lungs again and spat phlegm into the street. “That makes one of us.”

  Chapter 5

  Mackey was surprised to find Mrs. Katherine Campbell reading a book in a rocking chair on the boardwalk in front of the hotel that bore her name. He felt his breath catch and his pace slow. He wanted to blame it on the pneumonia, but it wasn’t. It was always this way whenever he saw her. Even a glimpse of her reminded him of what they once had meant to each other. Of what they could have been together if circumstances had been just a little different, though he knew if they had been different, their paths never would have crossed at all. Even the briefest thought of her was enough to remind him of what it was like to feel something. It had been that way even before the pneumonia and long before his marriage to Mary.

  He was surprised to see her on the boardwalk because he knew she had never been one for sitting outside her own hotel, especially with dusk coming on. She despised mosquitoes and bats and other flying things that tended to come around in the early evening. Mackey figured she had decided to sit outside for a reason. He hoped that reason could have had something to do with assuming he would be paying her a visit about the dead men. She might even be concerned about his well-being following the incident. He was just glad to see her.

  Mrs. Katherine Campbell was as handsome a woman as Mackey had ever seen, not that he had seen many before leaving—or upon returning—to Dover Station. She was tall for a woman, though not as tall as him. She was thin, but not as scrawny as Mary or hefty as some of Sam Warren’s whores. Her hair was light brown and suited her fair complexion. Her high cheekbones and bright blue eyes gave her a friendly countenance. Peaceful, Mackey thought, though not innocent. She came from a good bloodline, too good for a Montana town, yet here she was. And he was the reason why.

  It had been ten years since he had first been introduced to her at the Cavalry Officer’s dance she and her husband had hosted in their Boston home. He had decided that evening that it would be the last dance he would ever attend, for he kne
w he could never hope to meet another woman like Mrs. Katherine Campbell.

  She had smiled at him all those years ago when they first met at her home, when she was a major’s wife and he was the newly appointed Captain Aaron Mackey, the Hero of Adobe Flats. She smiled at him now on the boardwalk of her hotel, a building unlike her family’s townhome back east. But the smile was the same now as it had been that evening. The same smile whenever they found themselves alone. The smile she kept just for him. He felt himself smile back.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” She closed her book and tucked it between her and the arm of the rocking chair. “I was worried.”

  “I figured. I . . .”

  The spell was broken when Old Wilkes trudged out of the hotel and began to sweep at the dirt and dust of the boardwalk. He was careful to sweep in the opposite direction of the wind and away from Mrs. Campbell’s rocking chair, of course.

  “Evenin’, Aaron,” the old Union sergeant said. “How’s your pa?”

  Wilkes had asked Mackey the same thing every time they met for as long as he could remember, and Mackey had always given the same response. “As good as he’s liable to get. Thanks for asking.”

  “Good enough is better than most when you’re talking about your father. Served with him under Sherman, you know?”

  Mackey had grown up listening to Pappy’s war stories, and Wilkes had been a central character in most of them. “I think you may have mentioned that before.”

  Wilkes returned to his sweeping. “Great man, your Pappy.”

  Mindful that Wilkes was there, Mackey tipped the brim of his hat to Katherine and kept it formal. “Evening, Mrs. Campbell. I didn’t expect to see you sitting outside this time of day.”

  He saw her smile dim now that he had come closer, and she could see him better. She could see how gaunt he was and how much the pneumonia had taken out of him. “Wilkes, go back inside and check the tables, will you? I don’t trust those scoundrels at the blackjack table.”