Where the Bullets Fly

by Terrence McCauley

  “They’re dead, not murdered,” Mackey said. “There’s a difference.”

  “Yet the result is the same.”

  Mackey had no intention of debating him. “You sure they’re your friends?”

  “Of course. The whole town is abuzz with your thrilling exploits this afternoon. How you and your deputy bravely cut down five rabid dogs threatening the citizenry of Dover Station. Some of the townspeople were so proud, they directed us to the undertaker so we could see them for ourselves. The undertaker, Mr. Wallach, was kind enough to show us their bodies. At ten cents per corpse, of course.”

  Mackey was glad his back was to his house. No one could get behind him. Darabont was in front of him, and his four men were across the street. If anything was going to break, it would break now. He’d make sure Darabont died first. He’d worry about the four men across the street after that.

  “I didn’t know about Wallach charging to view the bodies,” Mackey said. “I’ll put an end to that tonight.”

  Darabont’s eyebrows rose. “You object to the fee, but not their deaths?”

  “Your friends had a chance to surrender, but went for their guns instead. You’d have done the same thing in my spot and don’t tell me otherwise.”

  “You think we are violent men, sheriff?”

  “You boys don’t look like a band of roving preachers.”

  Darabont gestured to his empty holsters. “Yet, as you can see, we are unarmed. We only seek information about what happened to our friends, not gunplay or vengeance.”

  Mackey didn’t trust Darabont or the men he had stationed across the street. But since they were friends of the men he’d killed, they were entitled to some answers. “Your friends got drunk and started trouble in the Tin Horn. They terrorized the customers and beat the hell out of the owner and his bouncer. When we ordered them to surrender their weapons, they tried to pull on us.”

  “Tried?”

  “Tried but failed. The shooting was legal, Darabont. Straight down the line, all the way legal. I’ve even got sworn statements from over twenty witnesses who were in the Tin Horn and on the street at the time of the shooting. It’s all written up in an official report down at the jailhouse if you want to read it.”

  “No need,” Darabont said. “I’m sure the report will read exactly as you say, but then again, I’ve never held much stock in written reports. I prefer the oral tradition, to hear things from the people who’ve actually done them. I owe my dead friends that much, because, like the saying goes, ‘there is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.’”

  Mackey recognized the quote from Shakespeare and responded in kind. “‘When beggars die, there are no comets seen.’”

  Darabont’s pleasant demeanor became something else. “And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means me and my men legally gunned down five drunks who refused to disarm when ordered to do so. It means it was one of the most cut-and-dry shootings I’ve ever been involved in and I’ve been involved in my share.” Mackey kept the Colt level as he took a step closer. “And it means my patience for your grandstanding is wearing thin.”

  “You consider a polite request for information on the death of my friends ‘grandstanding,’ sheriff?”

  “I consider your air of refinement to be grandstanding,” Mackey said. “And the implied threat of you and your men lurking around my house unsettles me. Bad things happen when I’m unsettled. You already lost five men today. Best cut your losses and ride on.”

  Darabont’s smile returned. “I could be forgiven for taking that as a threat.”

  “Take it any way you want, so long as you take it with you on your way out of town.”

  But Darabont was in no hurry. He leaned against the porch post and rubbed at his beard in the same places where it was thinnest. “I’d wager that you don’t know much about the whiskey making process, do you?”

  “Can’t say as I do.” Mackey subtly moved his thumb to the hammer of his Colt. He didn’t cock it, but he kept it there. He kept the gun aimed at Darabont’s belly, too. “Couldn’t care less, either.”

  “When bourbon is placed in the barrels for the aging process,” Darabont explained, “a certain amount of it always evaporates, no matter how well the barrel is sealed. Distillers call that ‘the angel’s share.’ They just bottle what’s left and sell it. But the strongest, most potent liquor is still in the pores of the wooden barrel. And if you can get it out, one sip will send you on your way and then some. That stuff in the barrel is called ‘the Devil’s cut.’”

  Mackey smiled. “Let me guess. You and your bunch over there think of yourselves in pretty much the same way.”

  Darabont laughed and slapped his leg. “Well, sheriff, that just about sums it up. We’re just about the best and the worst all at the same time.” He nodded back toward the others across the street. “And there’s plenty more of us out there. A whole lot more.”

  Darabont’s friends heard him and cheered him on.

  Mackey kept his Colt level. “Never been much for whiskey. Never been much for talking, either. So why don’t we settle this right here and now.” He thumbed back the hammer of the Colt. “Tonight.”

  Darabont kept his hands raised and eased off the porch post. “You sure you want to do that, sheriff? Especially after your run-in with Mayor Mason this afternoon? What would those fancy guests of his think when they heard you’d just killed five more in the same day, especially when five of those men are unarmed, as my friends and I are most certainly unarmed now? That’d put your score at ten men before the clock strikes midnight. All those wealthy New York types might get scared off by all that violence. Surely, they’d be shocked to see such behavior from the hero of Adobe Flats.”

  Mackey didn’t have to ask where Darabont had heard about his run-in with Mayor Mason. If the townspeople talked about the shooting, they had probably talked about that, too, and a lot more.

  Darabont held his hands even farther away from him as he began to slowly back away toward his friends. “Now, I don’t want to take up any more of your precious time and I don’t want to get arrested for loitering, so my friends and I will be on our way. I want you in good spirits for the next time we meet.”

  Mackey matched him step for step; the Colt leading the way. “Next time we meet, you won’t be enjoying anything.”

  “So many have said.” Darabont grinned. “Yet here I am.”

  “Don’t forget to collect your friends on your way out of town. The dead ones.”

  “We won’t forget.” Darabont stepped down the two steps to the street without even looking. A sure-footed man. “We don’t forget anything, sheriff. Ever.”

  Mackey got to the edge of the boardwalk just as Darabont reached the four men across the street. “Then you won’t forget to stay out of Dover Station.”

  Mackey expected some kind of comeback from Darabont, especially now that he had rejoined his friends. But all he did was touch the brim of his bowler as he led his men across the dense mud of Front Street and back toward the livery.

  Mackey watched them the whole way. He managed to hold his coughing jag until he got back inside.

  Chapter 10

  Mackey had already been sitting alone at the Dover Station railroad station for some time before the sun began to rise. The cold air of the morning should have hurt his lungs, but he was glad it hadn’t. For the first time since he could remember, nothing hurt him at all. He felt quiet and peaceful, even on the hard wooden bench outside the deserted station building.

  The bench he sat on wasn’t nearly as comfortable as his rocking chair on the porch of the jailhouse, but he hadn’t come to the station for comfort. He had come for solitude.

  There were other quiet places in town where he could’ve gone, of course, especially so early in the morning, but Mackey believed there was nothing as quiet and peaceful as a train station at an off time. The creatures of the night were already headed home and the creatures of the morning were
still asleep. The sky had only begun to brighten, but he could sense a quiet renewal already in the air. And if Mackey needed anything following his run-in with Darabont, it was quiet.

  He didn’t want to go to the jailhouse and risk waking up Billy with his rocking and sporadic coughing fits. His deputy was a light sleeper; always had been, even back in their cavalry days. A church mouse pissing on cotton would be enough to wake him. Billy needed his sleep. Mackey didn’t. The pneumonia had made him sleep long enough, maybe too long.

  The events of the day before had shown him that.

  His run-ins with town elders and with Mary. His disgust at the welcome ceremony at the station. Tangling with Darabont on his front porch, too. He’d handled it all, but it had taken more out of him than it should have, even considering the pneumonia. All day long, people had been telling him that Dover Station wasn’t the same any more. Mackey was beginning to wonder if he wasn’t the same any more, either.

  As the sun began to rise, he could see the remnants of the previous day’s celebration. The flatbed carrying Hill House’s piano was long gone, as were all traces of the ramshackle band that had come with it. Some freight had been placed at the loading area again, but not as much as usual. The red, white, and blue bunting still hung on the railings and the windowsills, billowing and forgotten in the indifferent morning breeze. The decoration that had looked so festive the day before now looked forlorn and ridiculous, like a ball gown at breakfast or a Christmas tree in the middle of January.

  Mackey supposed Mason would keep the decorations in place until Mr. Rice and Mr. Van Dorn boarded their train back to New York with the dreams of the townspeople in their wallets.

  He wondered what would happen during the course of their visit. He wondered about Darabont and his men, too. He didn’t like how the stranger knew how far to push him without going too far. He had made his point carefully and clearly and refused to lose his temper when Mackey had baited him.

  Mackey had come up against men like Darabont before. Smart, unpredictable, and prideful men; too prideful to let an affront to their honor pass without adequate satisfaction. And Mackey was pretty sure that losing five men to a small-town sheriff would rank as an affront to Darabont’s honor.

  Mackey was sure Darabont would do something to avenge the men—and the honor—he had lost. The question was what. And when.

  Mackey’s hand went for the handle of the Colt when he heard something thumping on the station’s boardwalk. He relaxed a little when he saw a man with a walking stick round the corner of the station building.

  The man walked with a slight limp but was not stooped. Despite the chilly morning, he was hatless and wore a black coat lined with fur at the collar and sleeves. The tweed suit beneath his open coat fit his thickening form too well to have come out of the Sears Roebuck catalogue.

  Mackey noticed the brass handle and tip of his walking stick must have cost him a pretty penny. But, then again, the man could afford it, for Mackey recognized this man from the celebration of the previous day. He was Frazer Rice of New York City.

  Mackey took his hand away from the Colt on his belly. “Morning, Mr. Rice.”

  “Morning,” the man called out as he hobbled closer. “I take it you’re Sheriff Mackey.”

  “You take it correctly, sir.”

  “Thought so,” Rice grunted. “I’ve heard of you.”

  Mackey didn’t know how to take that, so he took it as it was. “Same here, though the newspaper likenesses don’t do you justice.”

  “Damned things never do. Just as well. Never liked my picture being taken anyway. Fame never does the infamous any good.”

  Mackey was glad they had at least that much in common. “I hope you’ll accept my belated welcome to Dover Station.”

  “And I hope I’m not disturbing you by wandering over here like this,” Mr. Rice said. “Needed to stretch my legs a bit after being crammed in the same train car as those ninnies the entire ride out here. If my cigar smoke didn’t bother them, my silence did. And when I needed their silence, they chattered on like old hens, mostly complaining about the conditions of my train car. Silas Van Dorn was the worst of them.” Mackey watched him bend forward at the waist, then slowly ease himself back upright. “You’d think railroad men would be made of tougher stuff than that, but I guess that’s the difference between railroad men and investors. I’m a railroad man myself.”

  “I knew that, too.”

  “From the gossip or the papers?”

  The sheriff smiled. “Heard about it plenty from both sources. Given how the mayor talks about you, I half expected you to be carried into town by a company of angels.”

  “Yeah, I gathered that.” Rice squinted into the mist of the near distance. “Everyone’s always looking for a Messiah even though they didn’t treat the last one very well. And when they find out all I am is a man with a railroad and some money to spend, they tend to think less kindly of me.”

  Mackey remembered how people’s opinions about him had changed since he’d come out of the army, especially Mary’s. “Yeah. I know something about that, too.”

  “I noticed you walked away yesterday when the mayor called you to the stage,” Rice said. “I’d like to know why.”

  “Why?”

  “Just curious is all,” Rice admitted. “Men usually like adulation, especially men like you and the good mayor.”

  “I’m nothing like the mayor.”

  Rice nodded. “Didn’t think you were, but I’m glad to hear it for certain. Hope you didn’t come to the stage on account of the shootings. I heard all about that, no matter how Mason tried to cushion it for me. Got to say I’m impressed. I like my money to be secure. Your conduct yesterday puts me more at ease about investing in a wilderness.”

  “Might want to let the mayor know your sentiments,” Mackey said. “He’s afraid you’ll think we’re barbarians.”

  “Heard you went to West Point,” Rice said.

  “Yes I did.” Mackey saw no reason to say more. This was Rice’s discussion. Let him take it where he wanted to.

  “Me too, though it was well before your time. Never graduated, though. Slipped on ice and shattered my knee while getting on my horse.” He thumped his cane on the boardwalk. “Not much room in the cavalry for a cripple with a bad knee. I was only there a year before it happened, but I’d like to think some of the training stuck. Acquired a taste for history while I was there, an interest which has stuck with me my whole life. Barbarians get a bad rank as far as most history books are concerned. But it takes barbarians to win wars and build things. Things like Dover Station. There’s profit to be made in law and order. My kind of profit.”

  “Glad we’re of the same mind, Mr. Rice.”

  He watched the investor place his hands on his hips as he looked along the track bed. The railroad engineers had placed the tracks so they skirted the hills that surrounded the town, creating a gradual, meandering curve. The diversion had made for a wider distance between two points, but bending track was cheaper than dynamiting through the hills that surrounded the town, so the railroad had taken on a meandering path.

  Rice’s chest expanded as he drew the chilly Montana air deep into his lungs. “You smell that, sheriff?”

  Mackey didn’t smell anything except Dover Station. “Not sure what you mean, sir.”

  “Sure you do. You just don’t know it. Same smell in every train station and depot the world over. Some say it’s just train grease and steel with a little anxious sweat from the waiting room thrown in, but I know better. That, sir, is the smell of progress. Of opportunity.” His eyes narrowed as he seemed to look at nothing in particular. “Of money.” He nodded in agreement with his own point. “That’s my kind of smell.”

  Mackey didn’t know what to say, so as was his custom, decided it was best to say nothing.

  Rice went on. “I hired a perfumer once to try to duplicate that smell. Brought the son of a bitch all the way from Italy to do it, too. Guinea bastard tried lik
e hell to match it, but failed at every attempt.” Rice shrugged. “Guess some things aren’t meant to be duplicated.”

  Mackey thought of it another way. “My guess is you have too much money.”

  Rice laughed. “No such thing as too much money, sheriff, and the only people who believe such nonsense are the people who never had much in the first place.”

  Judging by the words, Mackey might have taken offense. But the way Rice had said it told him no offense had been meant. And if there was one thing Mackey had learned, it was that a man’s tone made all the difference. “Kind of hard for people to get any money, especially when people like you have it all.”

  “True,” Rice admitted, “but that won’t be the story in this town. Not if Silas and I have anything to say about it, and I have plenty of say in that matter. I hope you don’t have any designs on leaving anytime soon, sheriff, because I’ve got big plans for Dover Station. Bigger than anyone has dared to dream. Lumber, cattle, horses and farmland all within spitting distance of my station. In two years, I plan on making this town a full-fledged depot that will bring wood and cattle and crops to every point on the compass.”

  “Don’t forget about the miners,” Mackey said. “They’re awfully proud of what they do and get testy when they’re forgotten.”

  “Mining men are speculators,” Rice told him. “Gamblers. Plenty of men are ready to waste their lives and fortunes digging holes in the ground. Let them. I’m not a gambler, son. I’ve always been interested in the things I can see shit and grow. Things like cattle and crops.”

  “And railroads.”

  Rice smiled to himself. “I like your thinking, sheriff.”

  Mackey looked out on the brightening dawn. Faint pink ribbons had just begun to appear in the eastern sky, just as they had on similar mornings back when he had been a cadet at West Point and a lieutenant in the Arizona territory and a newly appointed captain as the Hero of Adobe Flats back in Boston all those years ago, back when the future was something to be dreamed of and hoped for. Back when the future had meant something to him.