Where the Bullets Fly

by Terrence McCauley

  Mackey nodded at the door. “Let him in. Better stay with him while he’s working. I’d just as soon shoot both of the sons of bitches.”

  * * *

  As Billy went back to help, Doc Ridley worked on Berrie’s leg, Sim and Underhill sat and sipped coffee while Mackey read through the report Sim had written out. It had always amazed him that an old scout with little education had managed to keep such an elegant hand.

  “I doubled back when I followed the trail this morning and saw that Darabont’s men headed back towards town. Approximately fifty men are camped along the hillside in a crescent formation. No tents. Supplies and rations appear low, so expect them to try raiding the town for supplies. A couple of men were busy repairing rifles and pistols, so armaments appear to be in poor condition. An old covered wagon in the middle of their camp up in the trees. I heard women’s voices in there, but couldn’t see them. Too many guards near them to get close. I managed to sneak back into town during the shooting, killing one on my way down to get through.”

  Mackey set the sheets aside. Between what he’d gotten out of Berrie and Sim’s report, he figured he had a close-enough idea of what he was facing and what Darabont might be planning. “We saw a column of smoke earlier. That Jeb Taylor’s ranch?”

  Sim nodded.

  “Any survivors?”

  Sim shrugged.

  From the doorway, Underhill chimed in. “What about the miners? The loggers? Other people outside of town?”

  Sim slowly drew his thumb across his throat.

  “All of them?”

  Another shrug.

  Mackey knew what a shrug from Sim Halstead meant. If any of the loggers or miners survived, it wasn’t enough to do the town any good. Not against a bunch like Darabont’s men.

  He sat back in his chair and hooked his heel under the lip of his desk. “The only way we’re going to beat Darabont’s men is to kill them ourselves. Can’t expect any help from the outside. Not before Darabont makes his move, anyway.”

  Underhill cleared his throat, as if to remind them he was still there. “Since Darabont hit that mining camp, he might have grabbed any dynamite those rock scrappers might’ve kept up there.”

  Mackey knew even one or two sticks could wreak havoc amongst the wooden buildings of Dover Station.

  “If they found any, they’ll be using it on us come nightfall, especially if they’re as desperate for provisions as Berrie said they are.” He handed the sheets comprising Sim’s report to Underhill. “From what Sim writes there, I’ve got a feeling this siege is more about them being broke than it is about avenging their fallen friends.”

  Underhill barely glanced at the pages. “So what?”

  “So, desperate men are more predictable than vengeful ones,” Mackey explained. “Less committed and more erratic. That charge they just made down the hill in broad daylight proves that out.”

  Underhill put the sheets back on Mackey’s desk without even reading them. “Think they could’ve gotten anything useful off that stagecoach before they set flame to it?”

  “It’s possible,” Mackey admitted. “This run usually just has passengers, but it could’ve been carrying money. Maybe a few rifles for some store further along their run. Not much in the way of food, though. Not enough to feed the forty or so men they’ve got left.”

  He remembered the image of the burned bodies in the coach right outside on Front Street and quickly put it out of his mind. The dead were better off, and Mackey had troubles of his own.

  To Underhill, he said, “I’d appreciate it if you’d get an accurate account of the number of men we’ve killed on both sides of town. I’m figuring it’s close to ten, but I want a hard number within the hour. Make sure all bodies within reach have been stripped of weapons and ammunition. I don’t want Darabont getting a single round out of us if we can help it. Then have Pappy double up guards around his store and Mason’s store to make sure Darabont can’t pilfer anything.”

  The marshal seemed to appreciate the responsibility. “Think that old man of yours will listen to anything I tell him?”

  “If he doesn’t, tell him to come see me.”

  The marshal touched the brim of his hat and went off to carry out his assignment. Mackey figured it’d be good for the town to see more of the federal lawman at a time like this. Might put their mind at ease. He already had enough to worry about with Darabont on the hillside. He didn’t need enemies inside his own camp.

  He knew Mayor Mason and his wealthy friends wouldn’t like hearing the JT Ranch and the mining camp and logging operation were gone. The thoughts of a quick profit had brought Frazer Rice to Dover Station in the first place. Now that they were gone, it’d be a while before those concerns turned a profit.

  He knew a conversation with Sim would be a one-way conversation, but sometimes, airing out a thought was the best way to find out if it made sense. “Seeing how desperate they are, I figure Darabont will take another run at us tonight.”

  Sim blinked and drank his coffee. That was another way he signaled agreement.

  “I’d like to hit them now, but not while they’re in fixed positions on the hill and certainly not with night coming on. I plan on hitting them hard at first light.”

  Sim set his cup down and pulled the pages of his report closer to him. He picked up a pencil and wrote: Just like at Adobe Flats.

  Sim had been with him at the battle. “We’ll have to kill them all.”

  Sim underlined what he’d just written. Just like at Adobe Flats.

  Chapter 25

  Doc Ridley and Billy came out from the cells. Ridley’s hands were still damp from working on Berrie. “The son of a bitch will live, I’m sorry to say.” He dried his hands with one of the towels he always carried with him. “Did you get anything out of him?”

  “I got enough.” Mackey saw no reason to tell him more than that. The less the doctor knew, the less he could tell his wife who would spread it around town as quickly as she could. The old battle-axe had a unique talent for changing the information she heard just enough to make a bad situation worse. If he told Ridley how many they were facing, the townspeople would soon believe Darabont had thousands of men with him. Forty was bad enough. “We’ll gather the dead at the undertaker’s for the time being. Don’t know if you’ll have enough on them to identify them for death certificates. Not sure it matters, either.”

  Doc Ridley had always believed in individual human dignity. He believed each life deserved acknowledgment, especially in death. He didn’t look like he appreciated Mackey’s glib comment about the certificates, but he didn’t argue about it, either.

  Mackey asked a question Ridley would love to answer. “How’s the mood of the town through all this?”

  The doctor dried his hands. “You mean are they starting to turn against you. You want to know if word about Darabont’s demands have gotten to them?”

  Sometimes, Ridley was too smart for his own good. “Who told them about the demands?”

  “Word spreads even in the best of times,” Ridley said. “Worse when people are scared. In the absence of fact, rumor takes hold. Maybe if you told them what Darabont wants, it might settle them some.”

  Or scare them worse than they already are, Mackey thought. “I didn’t ask for advice, Doc. I asked about the mood of the town.”

  “They’re resolved for the moment, or at least they were until that burning carriage came down Front Street. That flat shook up some folks and for good reason. But they’re willing to fight, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Ridley dropped his towel into his medical bag. “I owe you an apology for what I said to you up at Hill House, Aaron. That wasn’t your fault and neither is any of this. I was just overwhelmed by the sight of so much carnage, especially the baby.”

  Mackey hadn’t been expecting an apology. He wasn’t even sure he wanted one. He certainly wasn’t ready for it. Then something Doc Ridley had just said hit him.

  Seeing things.

 
Billy asked, “You getting sick again, Aaron?”

  “Far from it. Do you remember how far we can go outside before we’re in range of Darabont’s rifles?”

  “Don’t need to remember,” Billy said. “There’s still a dead guy at the spot where you killed him. Why?”

  “Because I need you to round up every torch you can find in town,” Mackey said, “then post them around the perimeter out of range of their rifles.”

  Billy smiled. “I thought Darabont told us not to do that.”

  “Which is exactly why we’re going to do it. Then order all buildings to keep the shades drawn and the lights low. Not seeing what they’re walking into will make these bastards think twice about hitting us after dark.”

  “And what if they come anyway?” Doc Ridley asked.

  Mackey drained his cup and set it back on the desk. “We make them pay.”

  Chapter 26

  That night, Mackey had every man who could carry a gun stationed in every building in town. Even those he wouldn’t arm with a slingshot, much less a gun, had been stationed as lookouts near alleys and the forgotten edges of town. Every back door that could be locked had been locked. If it didn’t have a lock, it had been barricaded or nailed shut. Lookouts were expected to call out if they saw or heard anything strange.

  He’d broken responsibility for the town defenses into two sectors. Billy was in charge of the north end of town; Pappy the southern end near Katie’s Place. Of the forty armed men and ten lookouts he’d pressed into service, every one of them would work through the night. He’d wanted to work them in shifts, but the possibility of Darabont using dynamite changed his plans.

  A ring of torches around Dover Station burned an uneasy light in the gentle evening breeze. Mackey’s men lay waiting, out of sight and in the shadows, for Darabont’s men to attack the town.

  With Billy overseeing the north end, Mackey and Underhill walked the interior perimeter together. It had been dark for more than an hour by then and Mackey was surprised Darabont hadn’t made a move yet. Then again, he was surprised Darabont had laid siege when his own supplies were so low. Very little about the man made much sense to Mackey. Maybe that’s what made him so dangerous.

  The two men stopped at the dead center of town—Mary Mason’s Dress Shoppe—while Underhill lit a cigarette. He offered one to Mackey, but he turned it down. He was just starting to feel better and didn’t want to push it.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you,” Underhill said as he smoked. “You got this town buttoned up pretty good. I’m impressed.”

  But Mackey wasn’t given to accepting flattery. “This is their town. They’re defending it.”

  “As opposed to how they sat on their asses when you asked for volunteers to ride after Darabont and his men.”

  Mackey wasn’t sure that’s what he’d been angling at, but he didn’t deny it. “Guess they see defending their town as a lot more important than avenging it.”

  “Most people are like that,” Underhill said. “They’ll fight danger if it’s within easy reach, but aren’t apt to do much about it once it’s out of sight. Not everyone in town is like that, though. Like that quiet fella. What’s his name? Sim?”

  “That’s his name. Sim Halstead. He’s a good man.”

  Underhill took a drag. “What’s his story, anyhow?”

  “He served with me in the army,” Mackey explained. “He was my sergeant and Billy was my scout. Sim stayed on as a scout after I left, then made his way here a year or so later.”

  “How come he don’t talk?”

  Mackey knew what he was getting at, but dodged it. “Sim never does something without a reason and his reasons are his own. If you want to know why he doesn’t talk, ask him. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Never know until you ask. Maybe you can charm him into breaking the fast.”

  Underhill laughed. “Even more unlikely, though not as unlikely as a cavalry big shot cooling his heels in a town in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I was never a big shot, just a captain. They’re a dime a dozen as far as the army’s concerned.”

  “I heard different,” Underhill said. “I heard some of those old boys at the dance call you ‘Captain Mackey.’ Also heard them talk about you and what you did at a place called Adobe Flats.”

  Mackey didn’t like talking about Adobe Flats with the other men who’d been there like Billy and Sim. He sure as hell didn’t want to talk about it with a total stranger like Underhill. “All I did was put the men in position, Underhill. They did the fighting.”

  “And just like here, you led. Leadership’s a rare quality, captain. Everyone wants to be boss, but few can lead. Still can’t figure out why you’re here. You ought to be a major by now. Hell, maybe even a colonel.”

  Mackey realized he was running out of reasons to dislike Underhill. He might be brash and fancy, but he’d held his ground when the lead flew and killed more than his share of Darabont men. Mackey guessed Underhill didn’t deserve to be treated like a fool all the time, even if he was from Texas.

  He decided to keep the details to a minimum. “A couple of junior officers under my command beat the hell out of an Apache prisoner. While pulling them off him, I hit one of them too hard. Scrambled his brains permanently.”

  Underhill took another drag on his cigarette. “Got no use for Apaches myself, but beating a prisoner’s pretty low in my book. Can’t see why the army would throw you out for that, even if one of the men got hurt.”

  “His father is a senator from a southern state,” Mackey said, “and became something of an institution after the war. He wanted me court-martialed and thrown in the stockade for what I’d done to his boy. The army refused.” The next part was harder to say. “Asked me to quietly resign my commission instead.”

  Underhill stopped smoking. “Must’ve stung, going out like that.”

  Mackey was about to answer, but down the alley, he saw a lit stick of dynamite tumbling through the night sky, high over the torches.

  * * *

  Mackey brought his Winchester up to his shoulder, but the stick exploded in mid-air; shattering every window on that side of town.

  Rifle fire began to erupt all over town, and Mackey knew Darabont must be making some kind of move.

  He told Underhill to head south toward Katie’s Place while he broke to the north. From the sound of the rifles, it sounded like both ends of town were seeing action. The stick that had just exploded could’ve caused one man to get jumpy and fire, but not forty guns all at once.

  As soon as he reached the north end of Front Street, another stick exploded well in front of the blacksmith’s shop, sending dirt and rock hurtling through the air. Another explosion echoed up Front Street from the south end of town. He saw another stick of dynamite fly toward the stable, only to be shot out of the sky. He figured one of the Boudreaux boys had done that.

  Mackey stayed low as he ran to Billy’s position at one of the broken windows in the blacksmith shop.

  “How many have they lobbed at us so far?” Mackey asked his deputy.

  “About seven,” Billy said. “I shot two of them out of the air myself. The rest were either duds or blew up well short. I think that dynamite is in bad shape. Surprised they didn’t blow up on Darabont when he moved them.”

  “Must’ve gotten some old sticks from one of the miners,” Mackey said. “Just like Underhill figured.”

  “Even a busted clock is right twice a day,” Billy said. “Where is he, anyway?”

  “Sent him to the south end of town with Pappy when things started popping.”

  Billy grinned as he watched the sky for more dynamite sticks. “Your old man will love that.”

  Mackey didn’t doubt it. “Keep an eye on things here. I’m going to see how we’re faring elsewhere in town.”

  More rifle fire rang out from the hillside as he jogged from the blacksmith shop to the south end of town. Shots rang out at him every time he ran past an al
ley, so he figured Darabont’s men had found a way closer to town by getting farther down the hill. Come first light, Mackey would have to find a way of driving Darabont out.

  But first, he’d have to make it to daylight.

  As he made his way south, he was glad to hear the rifle fire from his own men was sporadic. That meant the men were picking their targets and not firing wild into the darkness. Better on ammo and even better on morale.

  When he reached the offices of The Dover Station Record, Charles Everett Harrington came out of his print shop. Mackey had to pull him out of the way as bullets peppered the ground at his feet.

  The newspaper man looked like he was about to faint. “Sorry. I’m not used to this.”

  “Run out like that again, you won’t be used to anything. How’s everything in there?”

  “All those screaming, whiney children only reaffirms my bachelorhood,” Harrington said. “But the women are doing all they can to make the best of the situation. Mrs. Mackey is particularly good at enforcing order.”

  Mackey wasn’t surprised. Mary had always been good at telling people what to do. He thought of going in to see her, but not now. He still had to check on the south side of town and had no time to be sentimental.

  Thinking of Mary made him think of Katherine; something he’d been trying to avoid all day. Where she was. If she was hurt. What Darabont and his men might be doing to her.

  He pushed it as far back in his mind as he could.

  Harrington helped by asking, “What’s the overall situation, Aaron? The explosions have caused some concern in town, especially with the children.”

  “Bastards got hold of some dynamite from one of the mines. None of them have landed close enough to do much damage yet, but all it takes is one stick to get through.”

  “How do you know he didn’t bring the TNT with him?”

  “I don’t. But it’s unlikely. And if they got it from the miners, then I’d say that wasn’t good news for them. Not the way Darabont’s bunch does things.”