“A little better every day. Mentioned Rice’s telegram to her. She has no problems being here by herself.”
“You’re good for her. She’s pretty good for you, too. Humanizes you a bit.”
Mackey was eager to change the subject. Billy might’ve been the best friend he’d ever had, but there were just some things he was uncomfortable talking about with anyone. “What are you doing with those papers? Looking at the ads?”
“Reading through the articles about the train robberies,” Billy said. “Same reason why you asked for them, I’d expect.”
But Mackey was confused. “I thought you said you couldn’t read.”
He lowered the newspaper. “I can read printed letters, like in newspapers and books, well enough. I’m not good at reading handwriting, though, and I never was much good at being able to write. That clear enough?”
“Was never clear at all,” Mackey said. “Now it is. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
If Billy was angry about the exchange, he got over it fast enough. “What do you think the dates of the robberies will tell us?”
“Not much on their own,” he admitted. “But when I replied to Mr. Grant’s telegram earlier, Joe Murphy at the telegraph office said James Grant demanded a copy of all telegrams sent across their lines since after the robberies started.”
Billy sat further back in his chair. “Now why do you think he’d go and do something like that?”
Mackey took off his coat and hung it on the peg by the door. “I don’t know much about railroading, but neither does Grant. He knows something about telegraphs, though. Heard he ran one at some point in his life. Could be there’s something interesting in those telegrams he wants to know. Lucky for us, he keeps all the copies down at the telegraph office right here in town.”
Billy stood up to free the chair for the sheriff. “And lucky for us that Joe Murphy is scared to death of you.”
Mackey sat down and took a pad and pencil from the top drawer of his desk. “Could come in handy. In the meantime, I promised Harrington an early look at the reports of this morning’s incidents for his morning edition. I’m already late. After that, I’ll read through these articles and put together a list of all the dates and times of which trains were held up. Maybe we’ll take a look at all the telegrams sent on those days. See why Grant got so curious about them after the robberies started.”
“What do you want me to do while you’re doing all of this writing and such?”
He looked at the Regulator clock on the wall. It was still too early for the evening patrol to start, but he decided that night might be a good time to break with tradition. “Might as well run an early patrol. See if you catch anyone off guard. Pay special attention to Tent City while you’re out there. If you see anything interesting, the two of us can take a look at it together.”
Billy already had his coat on. “Think there might be trouble on account of the shootings today?”
“Not sure,” Mackey admitted. “But something stirred them up. Maybe it’s this Marx character Grant was talking about. Maybe it’s that strange man who disappeared into the crowd after spouting off some nonsense. Keep an eye out for that raggedy bastard and bring him in if you see him.”
Billy selected a Winchester from the rack instead of his Sharps. Given it was going on dark, the buffalo gun’s power and distance wouldn’t count for much. “I’ll send up a shot if I need help.”
“And I’ll come running if you do.”
Billy closed the jailhouse door behind him. He knew he would.
* * *
Billy Sunday decided to begin his patrol by walking through the north end of town first before heading cross town toward Tent City. By the deputy’s thinking, it was still way too early for anything serious to happen anywhere in town, but it was good to shake things up after a shooting. He could feel a kind of undercurrent in town, but could not understand why. It was not just because of the shootings, but the reasons behind them.
Billy had never heard of Karl Marx before, but doubted a man’s words could stir up so much anger in people that they began attacking each other. At least, words in a book couldn’t do that, except maybe for the Bible. He had seen officers rally men in battle, but that was different. Book words burned slower in a man’s heart, and the events of the past twelve hours were outbursts.
He could tell Aaron felt it, too, but had no better luck describing it than Billy could. And if an educated man like him couldn’t put words to it, Billy would not even make an attempt.
As he began his patrol along Front Street, Billy could not help but give credit to James Grant for some of the improvements the company had made to the town. The streetlamps they had installed made patrols a lot less dangerous. Before, he and Aaron had to rely on whatever light bled out from the shops and saloons into the street. The new lamps not only helped him see better, they employed two of the town’s drunks as lamplighters. It had given both of the men some purpose and led them to cut down on their drinking. They lit them every evening and turned them down every morning.
The light also encouraged more people to be out on the street at night, even in cold weather like this. In fact, Billy had to sidestep several couples on the boardwalks as he began to make his rounds.
Visitors and the newer people in town saw the deputy badge pinned to the black man’s coat and quickly looked away. He knew they had probably never seen a lawman like him before and were not sure what to make of him.
But the people who had lived in Dover Station for a while recognized him and made a point of wishing him a good evening. Some men even tipped their hats as they passed. A few of their wives or lady friends smiled. He heard a couple of them whisper, “That’s Deputy Sunday. He helped the sheriff defend the town against the renegades” or words to that effect.
Billy could not think of another place in the world where that might happen. White folks simply did not respond that way to a Negro, especially at night, even if he was wearing a badge.
Aaron had done that for him, though Billy knew the sheriff would never take credit for it. Aaron always got angry whenever Billy tried to thank him for bring him to Dover Station and giving him a home, so Billy avoided the topic as much as possible. But he knew without Mackey’s friendship, no one would be tipping their hat or curtseying to him now. Aaron always said that Billy had earned their respect on his own, through the strength of his own actions and character.
But Billy knew it was not that easy. He knew how people were; how they felt deep down about men like him, though they were usually too polite to ever say it until they were pushed to it. He never allowed himself to believe any of them actually liked him, though he imagined some of them probably did. The fact that they put so much effort into simply appearing to accept him was more than he would have expected.
That was the part about Aaron that Billy knew few people ever had the chance to see. They saw him as the Hero of Adobe Flats or by the even more ridiculous name of the Savior of Dover Station. They saw a sheriff, a tough man who locked men up or put men down who stood against him. They saw him as a killer with his own section in the cemetery someone had taken to calling Mackey’s Garden.
They thought of him as nothing more than a figure, the same mistake Aaron’s wife, Mary, had made. And just like her, they did not take the time to consider the man behind the story. They did not understand him and ultimately resented him for what he did to protect their town. They could not understand his loyalty to Billy Sunday or Billy Sunday’s loyalty to him. To the people of Dover Station, Aaron Mackey was a hero, a savior, a sheriff, and a captain. He was a gunman, a lawman, and a soldier. They never thought about the qualities that made him, above all, just a man. In their defense, Billy knew Aaron never encouraged anyone to get too close.
Not even Mary.
When she finally understood there was no room in his heart after the cavalry had broken it, she took her resentment of her husband and left. Besides, any undamaged parts of his heart had already lo
ng since been occupied by Mrs. Katherine Campbell.
Billy thought of all of these things and more as he passed by the newer saloons and shops along his patrol route.
Soldiering, scouting, and now peacekeeping had long ago taught him how to think of two things at once. One part of his mind thought of how much happier Aaron seemed to be now that he had Katherine at his side. She had been damaged by Darabont, though Billy had never known how or how much. It was not his place to ask and it was not his business. All he knew was that Katherine had needed him since he had brought her and the other captives back to Dover Station. And Aaron Mackey was a man who liked to be needed. Just like the town needed him. Just like the cavalry before it.
The other half of Billy’s mind heard the tinny pianos and the forced cackle of whores as prospective clients pawed them among the poker tables while they whispered prices for services rendered in each other’s ears. He saw the cold eyes of the riflemen perched in lookout chairs watching the gambling and the feeling going on in the saloon beneath them, ready to blast the first drunk who pulled a knife or a gun from his boot.
Billy moved along the boardwalk, through the light and shadows of his patrol. He had long since become familiar with the shadows and night sounds of Dover Station. Settling sounds like the clink of a dinner plate or a squeak of a mattress or a hushed conversation deep in the darkness. A glance at the shadows could tell him if a door was open or if a curtain was out of place.
That night, Billy found everything in the north end of town as it should be.
He crossed Front Street and made his wide turn back south toward Tent City. He doubted the rest of his patrol would remain as peaceful.
The newer bars and saloons along the north end of Fourth Street ended. Here, the newer construction in town began, with several buildings in various states of construction or demolition. Among this disorder, Tent City thrived.
Not even the streetlamps could hide the dinginess of this part of town. He could smell Tent City before he could see it. The shadows were a little darker there. A little deeper, too. The conversations were raspy whispers carried on the dank night air. No one ever laughed in Tent City, at least not out of any sense of humor. Only pain and suffering thrived there.
The boardwalks were empty, and most of the people of Tent City were already in bed. Those who had jobs, anyway. They worked construction or in shops or in bakeries or did other people’s laundry. They didn’t venture out at night because those who did were rarely up to any good. The night creatures of Tent City slept during the day, conserving their strength to prey at night.
All the while Billy and Mackey hunted them. Tonight, it was Billy alone.
He caught a sudden hint of movement from one of the newer ramshackle structures that had been cobbled together at the far edge of the encampment. Instinct drove him to duck into the shadows of a building site just off the boardwalk.
There may not have been much light in Tent City, but there was more than enough for Billy to see what was going on.
Billy stayed in the shadows as he watched a man leave one of the shacks. The stranger pulled his coat collar up and his hat lower as he quickly walked north, the same direction Billy had just left. This man did not move the same way most citizens of Tent City moved. Those with enough strength and daring to venture out at night were often tired after a long day of work. They tended to shamble a bit when they walked; hunched from hours at the washbasin or the cookstove in a restaurant. They had just finished hours of hard labor and did not have much to come back to when their day ended.
That was why Billy knew this man did not belong in Tent City. He moved like he had just enjoyed a good meal in a part of town where food was scarce. He moved like he had somewhere to go, whereas the people of Tent City had nowhere to go but work the next morning.
No, Billy knew this man had no business in Tent City and was anxious to leave it.
Billy moved deeper into the shadows as he watched the man walk toward him along the opposite boardwalk. The longer he watched him, the more certain Billy grew of the man’s identity.
It was not until he crossed the street and into the light that the deputy could make a positive identification.
This man walked with purpose because he did, indeed, have somewhere to go. He was on his way back home to Van Dorn House.
His name was James Grant.
And he had absolutely no business being in Tent City at this time of night.
Yes, many of his workers lived there, but he could have summoned them to his office or to some other part of town. They would have eagerly gone to meet him, too, as the prospect of a warm meal would have been too tempting to ignore.
What had brought the great man to Tent City? Billy decided to find out.
He waited until Grant had moved farther up the street before stepping out of the shadows. Following Grant would have been pointless. The man was either going back to Van Dorn House where he lived or to a brothel for female companionship and perhaps a game of cards.
Billy did not care about where James Grant was going. He cared more about where he had been.
The deputy moved from the shadows of the construction site and resumed his patrol, keeping his Winchester low at his side. It was not raised high enough to be threatening, but visible enough for people to know he had it. Sometimes, just the sight of a rifle was enough to give a man pause.
The few people who had not buttoned their tent flaps closed against the bitter Montana night paid him little notice as they busied themselves at their small cook fires or, in rarer instances, by reading by candlelight.
Billy was not surprised to see all traces of the Bollard brothers’ tent had already been removed, undoubtedly picked clean of all earthly possessions before the hides and material of the tent itself had been repurposed by another family. He imagined the possessions had been scattered long before Cy Wallach and his helpers at the mortuary had even turned the corner toward Front Street. Tent City had a short memory, and sentiment was an expensive luxury they could ill afford.
Billy moved toward the shack James Grant had just visited, carefully making his way through the tents and dugouts hastily constructed among the ruins of the town’s past and the buildings representing the town’s future. The cloying mud and the stench of foulness were everywhere. He would have rather lived out in the woods on the outskirts of town than in the muck of this place. Yet, for all of its foulness, there was something to be said for safety in numbers.
Billy paused outside the shack Grant had just left. It was a lopsided structure that had been cobbled together with scraps of tin and wood cast off from the numerous construction sites around town. A tarp had been secured tightly around the top of the structure, serving as a crude, but effective roof.
He stood, quietly listening as he decided if he should knock. He had no cause to bother who was living there. And since the person obviously knew Grant, announcing himself would probably do more harm than good. After all, it was not illegal to be in Tent City. Just damned strange for a man like James Grant to know someone there.
He saw candlelight flickering through the space around the shack’s crude door. He listened, trying to separate the snores and the wet coughing and the other sounds of Tent City from what was happening inside that shack. Grant had left alone, and the candle had remained lit, so Billy knew someone must still be in there.
His question was answered for him when the shack door flew open and a man slashed wildly at him with a knife. Billy leapt back as best he could in the mud and rammed his attacker in the face with the butt of his Winchester.
His assailant fell back into the shack, and Billy moved in after him.
The man was lying on the wooden floor between his bed and the wall of the narrow structure.
Billy recognized him as the ragged stranger who had spouted words at Aaron after the Bollard shooting.
“Don’t get up,” Billy warned him. “I’m the town deputy. Stay where you are and you won’t get hurt.”
&nb
sp; The man said something in a language Billy didn’t understand and sprang at him again despite a bloody nose.
Billy hit him again with the rifle butt, catching him in the temple. He stumbled backward and raised the knife again. Billy brought the stock of the Winchester across the man’s jaw and watched him collapse onto the bed.
Seeing the man was unconscious, he looked for the knife and realized it must be beneath the man. When he grabbed the man by the shoulder and pulled him up, he found the knife was sticking out of the side of his stomach. Billy imagined he must have stabbed himself by accident when he fell. He checked the man’s eyes, but he was already dead.
Billy cursed to himself in the dank air of the shack.
He had not gone there with the intention of killing anyone. He had not gone in there at all. The man had attacked him. Why? Had he thought he was Grant returning to see him? Had he thought he was someone else?
Knowing Aaron would have questions, Billy left the man on the bed and decided to take a quick look around the shack. From the center of the structure, he could touch all four walls and the ceiling without moving much. The shack had no decoration of any kind. No windows, either. The mattress that served as a bed was thin and the heavy blanket was made of coarse buffalo hide.
But at the foot of the bed was a chest made of dark, heavy wood, the likes of which not many in Tent City possessed. It had a thick heavy lock on it, and given the fine condition of the wood, looked as though it had been enough to discourage anyone from trying to break it.
He looked around the shack for any sign of the keys. Finding none, he patted down the dead man’s pockets. He pulled out a single iron key, slipped it into the lock and opened the chest.
Inside, Billy found a map of Montana, with Dover Station circled in heavy pencil. He found train timetables and what appeared to be a train ticket with handwriting on it that eluded him. He also saw several books in the bottom of the chest. He lifted one of them out and saw the letters on the spine, but knew they did not form English words.
Dark Territory Page 7
