Where the Bullets Fly

by Terrence McCauley

  The three men Taylor had brought with him rode out to where their boss had fallen. Mackey, Billy, and Underhill rode out behind them. They came to a halt when they saw Taylor lying facedown in the tall grass. Two bullets clean through his back about six inches apart.

  Mackey climbed down and rolled him over to see if the rancher was still breathing. His vacant eyes looked up at the high blue sky.

  Two more shots rang out, the bullets striking the ground about a foot away from where Mackey stood. Billy and Underhill already had their rifles out, using their mounts as cover as they scanned the hillside for something to shoot at.

  But Mackey didn’t flinch or run for cover. Neither did Adair, who stood in the same spot where he’d left her. If the shooter had meant to hit him, he’d already be lying dead next to Taylor in the grass. He stood up and looked at the hillside instead. All he saw were the jagged rocks and boulders among the tall grass that led up to the top of the hill that surrounded Dover Station.

  “That was some mighty fine shooting, wasn’t it, sheriff?” a familiar voice echoed from the hillside. “Even by cavalry standards.”

  “Congratulations, Darabont,” Mackey yelled back. “You just killed an innocent man.”

  “Don’t be so naïve, sheriff. Innocence is a relative term. Surely they taught you army boys that back at the Point.”

  A round of laughter echoed throughout the hillside. Mackey tried to get a fix on where Darabont might be, but the contour of the valley made it impossible. “I figure you’ve got a point to make, so go ahead and make it while you still have time.”

  A single loud cackle came from the rocks above. “Christ, how I love your bravado, sheriff. I guess that’s why I’m going to do my level best to make sure you die last. But I do have a point to make and, over the coming days, I intend on making it very loud and very clear. Not just to you, but to everybody in your pretty town. You people killed some of ours. You’re going to learn there’s a price for that. A price that can only be paid in blood.”

  Mackey walked closer to the hillside. “Billy and me are the only ones who did any killing, Darabont. You got a score to settle, then settle it with us. We’ll meet you and your boys anywhere you want. Yours against mine, just like it was at the Tin Horn. It’s only fair.”

  Another chorus of laughter rolled down the hillside, Darabont’s grating cackle loudest of all. The sound was not unlike the yips he’d heard from coyotes and wolves at night on the desert plains of Apache country. He figured that was the point.

  “Jesus,” Underhill said loud enough for Mackey to hear. “There’s dozens of them up there.”

  Billy kept eyeing the hillside. “Don’t know that for sure. Echoes don’t mean a damned thing.”

  Mackey didn’t respond. He didn’t move. He simply stood there alone, waiting for the laughter to die down.

  “Fair has nothing to do with what’s happening here, sheriff,” Darabont went on. “You and I will settle accounts soon enough. Your nigger deputy, too. Got something extra special in store for him.”

  Billy fired at a rock in the center of the hillside. One of Darabont’s men flinched from behind it, but not enough to present much of a target.

  Darabont said, “What we’ve got planned for you folks is what your instructors back at the Point would call a good old-fashioned siege. No one comes into town and no one leaves. All your telegraph wires have been cut and my men have blocked the roads. Yanked out a good section of the train tracks north and south of here, too, so you can forget about anyone coming to rescue you by rail. We’ll also kill anyone on the roads and that means stagecoaches, too. That dead man at your feet is only the first victim. There will be many, many more.”

  “That’s a tall order for bunch like you,” Mackey yelled back. “Anyone can burn down a whorehouse and steal women. Sieges take discipline. A lot more discipline than you think.”

  “Then it should prove to be an interesting experiment on both sides, won’t it, sheriff?”

  Barely moving his lips, Mackey whispered to Billy, “You got a fix on him yet?”

  “No. I think he keeps moving around, high up among the rocks up there.”

  Mackey had figured as much. It’s what he would’ve done if he were in Darabont’s position. “How about you sprout a pair of balls and come out and face me. Man to man. Right here in front of all your men. You’ll look like a big shot if you gun me down. Think of the songs they’ll sing and the books they’ll write about The Man Who Killed the Hero of Adobe Flats.”

  Rifle shots rang out from the hillside as bullets began to pepper the ground at Mackey’s feet, but Mackey didn’t budge.

  After the shooting stopped, Darabont called out, “My men are impressed with death, sheriff. They’re impressed by the amount of gold we take and how much blood we spill getting it. Don’t worry. Your time will come in the manner of my choosing. Tell Mayor Mason I’ll be sending an emissary down in due time with our terms. For now, you and your men can ride back to town without incident.”

  Mackey saw no point in standing there any longer. He climbed back into the saddle and led Underhill and Billy back into town.

  They suddenly had plenty of work to do.

  Chapter 19

  Back at the jailhouse, Mackey brought Taylor’s men inside along with Billy and Underhill. The first thing he did was unlock the Boudreauxs from their cell.

  He knew he had to get men with rifles in place at both ends of town, but first he had to figure out what he had. In Spanish, he asked the two Mexicans, “You just saw your boss gunned down on the road. You still up for this?”

  Both said they were.

  “Either of you boys handy with a rifle?”

  Both nodded again, with Solomon adding, “We have brought our own.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Mackey said. “I need one of you take up position near the livery at this end of Front Street. I need the other one to go to the other end of town and takes up position on the top floor of Katie’s Place in the room facing west. That’ll give us a good vantage point if these bastards decide to ride into town from either end. We’ll get more men into position as we get organized, but for now, you boys are it. I’ll send one of the Boudreaux boys with each of you, too. I’ll send Billy with you to square it away with Old Wilkes.”

  “Wilkes is dead,” Billy reminded him, “but I’ll talk to whoever’s running the place. Make sure they keep quiet.”

  With everything that had just happened, Mackey had forgotten about poor Old Wilkes dying last night. His death should have been the worst event of the past year. Unfortunately, it he’d already damned near forgotten it.

  To Billy, he said, “After you get Solomon and one of the Boudreauxs in position, get the mayor, Doc Ridley, and Pappy in here, but do it quietly. The town’s probably already buzzing from the gunshots they’ve heard. If word gets out about this too soon, we’ll have a goddamned panic on our hands. Darabont would like nothing better than to get people running out of here so he can set to killing. We’ll fill them in on everything once they get here.”

  Billy, the two vaqueros, and the Boudreauxs got going, leaving Brahm, the German, and Underhill in the jailhouse with Mackey. The sheriff asked the German, “You any good with a rifle?”

  The German teetered a thick hand back and forth. “Better with a pistol and a knife.” He balled his hand into a fist the size of a small ham. “Even better with my fists.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t have to prove it before all of this is done. For now, I need you to mount up and keep an eye on the street for me. Warn anyone you see on the street to get back inside. Don’t let anyone leave town. Drag them off their horse if you have to. Nothing gets out. Wagons, riders, no one.” He dug an old badge out of his drawer, blew the dust off it and tossed it to him. “Pin this on. If anyone gives you any trouble, tell them to come talk to me.”

  The German left, leaving Underhill and Mackey alone in the jail.

  Mackey could tell Underhill had something to say. “Spit i
t out, marshal. Might as well get whatever’s on your mind out in the open.”

  “The current situation aside, the Boudreauxs are still my prisoners, sheriff.”

  “They’re Darabont’s prisoners, just like the rest of the town,” Mackey said. “But you saw how close those boys came to putting a bullet between our eyes. They’re two of the best shots in the territory and I need them out there doing what they do best. If they try to run for it, Darabont’s men will shoot them down.” Mackey went over to the small oven and began filling it with wood. He stuffed in an old edition of The Dover Station Record, struck a match and started a fire.

  Underhill watched Mackey dig out some coffee grinds from the burlap sack and begin to brew some coffee. “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Making coffee.”

  “The town’s under siege and you’re keeping house?”

  “I’m keeping a semblance of order, marshal. Something you’d appreciate if you’d been through something like this before.”

  “You speak to me like I’m a tenderfoot. I’ve seen my share of blood in my time.”

  “That so?” Mackey set the coffee pot on the stove and faced him. “You ever been in a siege before?”

  “Been in my share of tight spots.”

  “But not a siege. Because if you had, you’d know the appearances of normalcy, little things like making coffee, are essential to maintaining order and morale within the besieged area. Whether it’s a fort, or a town, or a squad pinned down in an arroyo, panic and disorder get you killed. Sticking to as normal a routine as the predicament allows leads to discipline and discipline increases our chances of living. Things like making coffee leads to people remaining calm and remaining calm quells panic. Panic kills.”

  Underhill folded his arms and glared out the window at the hillside. “We ought to be riding up there and gunning down those sons of bitches before they get a foothold.”

  “They’ve probably been dug in since last night. And we’re not going to hit them until we have a better of idea of where they are and how many they are. The best time for that will be when Darabont makes his demands. Until then, you and that federal star on your chest are going to help me keep order.”

  “How?”

  “By sitting right next to me and agreeing with everything I’m about to tell Mayor Mason and Doc Ridley. I want them to see the big, bad United States marshal backing me up and doing what I tell them to do. Agreement from you will make them less likely to argue.”

  “And keep them fancy investors at ease.”

  “They’re the mayor’s problem,” Mackey said, though he doubted Mr. Rice would lose his cool so easily.

  Billy came through the door with Doc Ridley, Mayor Mason, and Pappy in tow.

  Doc Ridley was still wearing his black frock coat from the funeral service. The dusty Bible was still tucked under his left arm. “Thought you would’ve been on the trail of your whores by now, Aaron.”

  “Something’s come up since then.” He motioned to the coffeepot. “Coffee will be ready in a couple of minutes. When it is, I’d suggest you take some. You’re going to need it.”

  Chapter 20

  It didn’t take long for Mackey to explain the situation. He kept the details sparse because he knew there would be plenty of questions.

  He concluded by saying, “I want to move all the women and children into Harrington’s press office. It’s the sturdiest building in town and the printing equipment will give them plenty of cover if shooting starts.”

  Everyone agreed, though Mayor Mason looked paler than normal. “I can’t believe Jeb Taylor is dead. Christ, he lived through Shiloh. Bull Run.”

  Pappy puffed on his pipe like he’d been discussing the weather with his cronies back at his store. “Didn’t live through this Darabont bastard, though, did he?”

  If Mason had heard him, he didn’t show it. “How many of them are up there?”

  “At least the four men he brought to my house to brace me the other night,” Mackey said. “Probably a lot more than that. No way of knowing for sure yet.”

  Doc Ridley clutched his Bible as he slumped in his chair. “There’ll be panic when word of this gets out.”

  “Not if we do it right,” Mackey said. “That’s why I need all three of you to quietly spread the word that people are going to have to stay indoors for a while.”

  “They’ll want to know why,” the mayor said. “They won’t stay put just on our say so. They . . .”

  But Mackey already had a plan. “Tell them we’ve got word of hostiles stalking the town, but keep it vague. Don’t tie it to what happened at the Tin Horn or up at Hill House last night. If people think they’ll get burned alive, they’ll panic and just might get themselves killed.”

  Pappy took the pipe from his mouth. “I’ll take to arming all the old soldiers we’ve got in town. Between the rifles I’ve got in my store and Mason’s got at his, we should have plenty. Ammunition won’t be a problem for a while, either.”

  “Get a handle on how many men are in town before you run around handing out rifles,” Mackey said. “When you hand them out, hand them out quietly in your store and tell the men where we need them. I want them spaced out equally throughout town. That includes the side streets, not just at the ends of Front Street. I want good shots facing the hills, too. Darabont’s not stupid, and there’s no reason to expect he’ll just come charging in at us from the thoroughfare.”

  “If he comes at all,” Doc Ridley said. “Bastard could just sit up there and starve us out if he’s of a mind to.”

  “It won’t last that long, doctor,” Underhill said. “You’ve got my word on that.”

  But Doc Ridley didn’t look convinced. “Forgive me for not swooning at the assurance of federal influence, Underhill, but your assurances don’t mean much. Not with the telegraph wires cut and the train tracks pulled. Right now, you’re in the same mess as the rest of us.”

  Mackey had no interest in watching Ridley and Underhill spar. “You’ll need to arm yourself too, Doc. I know you’ve become a peaceable man since the war, but these are not peaceable times. It’ll mean a lot if the people see you fighting alongside us.”

  “Being peaceable doesn’t imply cowardice, Aaron,” Ridley said. “I’ll kill whoever needs killing.”

  Mackey was glad to hear it. “It’s important to remember these men have already killed a lot of people and defiled their own dead. There’s no way of knowing what they intend on doing. They could start taking pot shots at people through their windows. Might conduct night raids to try to break our spirit and whittle us down a bit. Since we don’t know what they’ll do, we’ve got to be ready for whatever happens. If we have enough men, I’d like to have them watch the town in shifts.”

  “This is a fighting town, boy,” Pappy boasted. “We built this town, and we’ll defend it.”

  “There’s something else.” Mackey wasn’t sure he should mention it yet, but since they were all in the same mess, he decided to level with them. “We still have one ace up our sleeve. Sim Halstead rode out at first light to scout out Darabont’s trail.”

  “So?” Underhill said. “What kind of chance does one mute have against men like Darabont’s bunch.”

  Mackey glared at him, trying to silently remind him of what they’d agreed to earlier. “Sim might not talk, but he’s the best tracker I’ve ever seen. My guess is that he must have seen signs of a big party in the area and is scouting out Darabont’s men. He’s probably doubling back here toward us as we speak. I expect he’ll make his way back into town come nightfall and let us know what he finds.”

  “Nightfall,” Mason said. “God, the stage from Butte is scheduled to come in at five o’clock tonight. We need to warn them they’re riding into a trap.”

  Mackey knew the stagecoach schedule. “No way we can do that unless Sim leaves some kind of sign for them on the trail. But they won’t be his priority. Gauging the size of Darabont’s force will be. Until then, we keep our heads down, g
et our defenses in order and wait for Darabont to make his demands.”

  “But what if this Sim is already dead?” Underhill asked.

  “Then we won’t be hearing from him, will we?” Pappy said. “But he’s not dead. Sim’s too smart to let himself get killed by the likes of Darabont’s men.”

  “And there’s Jeb Taylor’s boys,” Doc Ridley said, his voice thick with old Confederate pride. “Jeb’s horse probably rode back to the ranch after he fell. They’ll be riding out here to see what happened to him. And when they do, they’ll bring thunder with them.”

  From his spot at the open doorway, Billy said, “I think they’ve got problems of their own, mayor.” He pointed out toward the west. “Come look.”

  Everyone rushed to the door to see what Billy was pointing at. A thick column of black smoke billowed up from behind the trees in the distance. At about the place where Mackey figured the JT ranch house was located.

  “Christ Jesus,” Mayor Mason said. “It can’t be. Taylor had at least fifty men working his spread.”

  Mackey wouldn’t have believed it either if he hadn’t seen it. “Darabont probably hit them first before coming here. Fifty cow hands aren’t a match for Darabont’s crew.”

  “How can you say that?” Doc Ridley said. “Fifty men defending their home . . .”

  But his voice trailed off as he looked at the thick, black smoke rising in the distant gray sky. It couldn’t be happening, but it was.

  Billy brought up his Sharps and moved down the boardwalk toward a man walking toward town. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

  Mackey saw one of Darabont’s men walking down the trail toward them holding a torn piece of white cloth stuck on a thin tree branch.

  The sheriff moved his holster closer to his buckle. “You men have a lot of work to do. Best be on about your business. I’ll go see what this bastard has to say.”

  Chapter 21

  Mackey recognized the messenger as one of the men who had been with Darabont the night he had come to his house—a toothless, scrawny man with long stringy hair and nasty eyes beneath a faded hat with a torn brim.