Dark Territory

by Terrence McCauley

  The lack of wind also made it easier for him to hear James Grant calling his name.

  Mackey turned to see Grant standing in front of one of the newer hotels that had opened on Lee Avenue, a gawdy place called The Bedford Arms. From Mackey’s recollection, the hotel had been open for more than a month and neither he nor Billy had ever been called to settle a disturbance there. Whoever was in charge seemed to know what they were doing and how to handle their own trouble.

  Grant approached him, his red brocade vest and a white shirt making him appear woefully underdressed for the Montana fall. But if he was cold, he hid it well. “Sheriff Mackey, please join me for a moment. There’s a matter of great importance I wish to discuss with you.”

  Mackey kept his bundle under his left arm. He had planned on meeting Grant at some point, but at a time and place of his choosing. Something else he had learned while studying at West Point.

  But life did not always give people the luxury of choosing where and when they fought or if they fought at all. “I was on my way back to the jailhouse to finish up some paperwork. I can meet you later if you want.”

  “Nonsense.” Grant beckoned him to come to him. “I have a table inside already where it’s nice and warm. I won’t take but a moment of your time, I promise.”

  Mackey may not have liked the man, but he could understand why so many people did. He had a confident charm about him that was easy to like.

  Mackey knew he could have refused, but his curiosity got the better of him. He accepted the invitation.

  * * *

  The dining room of The Bedford Arms was affair of heavy wood, dark red wallpaper, and a roaring fireplace. It was the kind of room where a man could enjoy a good meal and wish for a place to sleep without ever stepping foot outside.

  The tables were sparsely populated as it was that dead time in the day of a restaurant. Too late for breakfast and not quite time for lunch.

  Mackey wasn’t surprised to see Walter Underhill already sitting at the table where Grant led him. The big man looked uncomfortable in the elegant setting.

  Grant said, “I know I don’t have to introduce you two, what with you being blood brothers in the Battle of Dover Station and all.”

  “Good to see you, Aaron.” Underhill looked at the bundle under Mackey’s left arm. “Looks like you’ve been doing yourself some reading.”

  Mackey felt like a schoolboy as he set the dead man’s belongings on the table and took a seat. He sat with his arm draped on the chair’s armrest. He liked Underhill, even considered him a friend, but the man worked for Grant. Mackey had no illusions about where the man’s loyalties ultimately lay. “Makes for some boring reading, given that none of it is in English.”

  “Which is exactly the reason why I wanted to talk with you.” Grant sat next to him on his right. “I understand there was a death in Tent City last night. The result of an altercation between your deputy and one of the unfortunates who call that pit a home.”

  Mackey shifted his chair to the left, putting a bit more distance between him and Grant. He sat so his hand was less than the length of his thumb from the handle of his Peacemaker. “Deputy Sunday had to kill a man who assaulted him while he was on patrol. The death was as unavoidable as it was unfortunate.”

  Grant clapped and cheered, drawing every eye in the room. “You bring happy news, sheriff. The happiest I have received in some time.” He raised his hand and caught the attention of the waiter. “It’s too early for champagne, but bring us another pot of coffee as soon as you can.” He waited until the waiter moved away to add, “Are those the contents of the dead man’s hovel?”

  Mackey placed a hand on them. “They are. But I can’t let you see them until I find out who this man is. They’re evidence.”

  “I don’t need to read it,” Grant said. “I’ve already read that nonsense several times.”

  Mackey caught that. “I didn’t know you understood German, James.”

  “I can’t read a word of it,” Grant admitted. “Have you ever heard it spoken? God-awful language. Harsh as hell. No, I recognize that book because I’ve already read its English translation. Das Kapital by Karl Marx and Frederich Engels. You remember Marx from our conversation in your office yesterday after that business with Eddows. I understand some of the translation lacks the nuance of the original language, but not enough to change my opinion of it. Just a bunch of childish nonsense if you ask me. I’m certainly not surprised you found such rubbish among the possessions of Ernst Mohr.”

  Grant leaned in closer toward Mackey. “Tell me, did Mohr suffer much before he died? Please tell me he did. I heard your deputy killed him with a knife to the belly. I hope that’s true.”

  Mackey was in no hurry to answer him. Everything was happening too quickly and all of a sudden. One moment, he was walking down Front Street, wondering how he could approach Grant about this, now he was having coffee with Grant, who admitted he knew Mohr. “How did you know this man?”

  “Most reluctantly, I can assure you, sheriff,” Grant said. “The son of a bitch was an anarchist, sir. A troublemaker and a rabble-rouser who had caused no end of grief for my employers. Since arriving in our fair country ten years ago, Ernst Mohr has organized numerous work stoppages at Mr. Rice’s various holdings. He has attempted to organize several groups of workers everywhere between Chicago and Montana. Stevedores, warehouse workers, railroad workers, builders. The list is nearly endless, but it doesn’t matter now that the bastard has finally met his end. His death is all that really matters.”

  Grant winked. “And don’t think I forgot about my original question, sheriff. Did he die from a knife in the belly like I’ve heard? Or did he die slow? If he did, I’ll give your deputy a hundred dollars in gold just to hear it for myself.”

  Underhill said, “As you can guess, Mr. Grant here didn’t care much for this Mohr fellow of yours.”

  Mackey wanted to ask him why he had visited Mohr the night before, but decided to hold that question back for a later time. “Have you met this man before? We could use your help in identifying the body, maybe notifying his family of his passing.”

  “Not only can I identify the man,” Grant said, “but I can also point out a few scars he has received by my own two fists. Mohr and his rabble tried to organize a work action in Butte when I first joined the company as Mr. Van Dorn’s assistant. He got the laborers to refuse to unload the boxcars until we discussed fair wages. So, I rounded up a group of bullyboys from a local tavern to help us unload the train ourselves.” Grant smirked. “By then, the workers had formed a line around the boxcars and I knew they’d never let us unload them without a fight. The men I had brought with me were more brawlers than workers anyway. We took a few hits, but when the dust settled, the bastards were back at work and Mr. Mohr was in a hospital ward with a fractured skull.”

  Mackey was surprised by how much information Grant was feeding him. He decided to press his luck. “When was the last time you saw Mohr?”

  Grant frowned. “After Eddows spouted off that workers-of-the-world nonsense, I feared Mohr might have come to Dover Station. Yesterday afternoon, I began reviewing the passenger records of train passengers coming and going from town. I noticed an old alias of Mohr’s on the list. Ernst Hendrik. I found he was in Tent City among my people like a cancer among healthy cells and told him he had exactly two days to leave town. He had already held one of his meetings here, which only served to get some of the men worked up. Men like Eddows. Mohr’s poison spreads quickly among the working class, sheriff. I can’t allow the future of this town to be held for ransom every time some hammer monkey thinks he deserves more money for driving a nail into a piece of wood.”

  That struck Mackey as odd. “You always check the passenger manifests, Jimmy?”

  “Damned right I do, especially given the recent spate of robberies on the railroad. I like to find out everything I can about our town, sheriff. I hate Tent City as much as anyone, and if I can curtail people from coming here
before we have proper space for them to live, all the better. Inconveniences like train robberies and social unrest caused by men like Mohr can cripple a town on the rise. I have no intention of allowing that to happen here, so I keep an eye on things. As do you, I’m sure.”

  Mackey was curious. “Why did you go to see Mohr instead of sending Walt, here? That’s what you pay him for, isn’t it?”

  Grant added, “Given my long history with him, I thought it best if I went to see the troublemaker personally. I gave him the cost of a train ticket and told him if he wasn’t on the next train out of town, his next conversation would be with Mr. Underhill. I had no idea he’d be having a final word with Billy so soon.”

  Mackey knew he couldn’t pin Mohr’s death on Grant, but that didn’t mean Grant hadn’t played some kind of role in his death. “You two argue? Any punches thrown?”

  Grant shook his head. “Men like Mohr are only tough on a stage in a saloon or warehouse surrounded by fellow malcontents. When the odds are less in their favor, their bravado tends to shrink accordingly.” Grant held up his hands for inspection. “I didn’t lay a finger on him, sheriff, because I didn’t have to, not because I didn’t want to. And the only thing I threw at him was money. One hundred dollars, to be exact. To encourage him to leave town without further incident. He agreed to do so.” That smirk again. “I suppose even socialists have their price.”

  The waiter brought over the pot of coffee as Mackey stood. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Jimmy. I’ll need to put it all in my report while it’s still fresh in my mind.”

  “I’m sure you’d prefer Billy’s coffee to what they serve here,” Grant said. “From what I understand, Billy makes a fine pot.”

  “That he does.” Mackey gathered up his bundle and once again placed it under his left arm, leaving his shooting arm free. “I’d appreciate it if you could find the time to stop by Cy Wallach’s place and make a formal identification for the file. Cy can take down your statement and give it to me.”

  “We’ll be glad to, sheriff, as soon as we’re finished with our coffee. Do I have your permission to spit in his eye when I see him?”

  “Don’t see as how it would hurt him any.”

  Grant surprised him by standing and extending his hand to Mackey. “You’ve done the people of Dover Plains a great service, sheriff. A greater service than you know. You have my gratitude, and I’m sure the gratitude of the people of this fine town.”

  Mackey shook his hand and looked at Underhill. The former marshal looked away.

  That told him all he needed to know. Something was going on here. Something more than Grant was letting on. He remembered what Pappy had told him the day before. What Ridley had told him as well. Something about the upcoming election. And he decided to play a hunch. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sounded like a goddamned politician.”

  Grant laughed like a politician as he sat back down. “One never knows where life’s journey will take them, do they?”

  Mackey pressed his hand flat against his coat, hoping it soaked up some of the moisture from Grant’s hand. “No, I suppose we don’t.”

  “One more question before you go,” Grant said. “You didn’t have your deputy following me, now did you, sheriff?”

  “Billy was on routine patrol when he saw you leave the place.”

  “A happy accident, then.”

  Mackey left before he could be asked any more damned fool questions. Mohr’s death was a happy accident for someone. But for who?

  Chapter 10

  Billy Sunday may not have been an educated man, but he had always considered himself to be a clever man. But he was having a hell of a time following Mackey’s logic.

  “So you think Grant and the Mohr guy were working together?”

  Mackey slammed the copy of Das Kapital on his desk. “That’s exactly what I think.”

  Billy drank his coffee while everything his friend had spent the last hour telling him sunk in. “I’m sorry, Aaron, but I’m not following you. I’m not arguing with you, just saying I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  Mackey took another run at it. “Mohr and Grant have a history. Mohr causes trouble. Grant stops him. Mohr spreads his message. Grant looks like a hero. I think Grant either allows or brings Mohr here to stir up unrest in Tent City.” He held up the letter addressed to Mohr. “I’ve got no idea what this says, but I do see the words ‘Dover’ and ‘Montana’ in here. Mohr comes here, starts up trouble, Grant looks like a hero, and all is supposed to be well. But Eddows takes it to heart and goes too far. Grant tells him to leave, maybe pays him off, but then you come along, Mohr panics and strikes first.”

  “And I did Grant’s dirty work for him.”

  “I’m getting tired of telling you to quit blaming yourself for any of it. You had no choice.”

  Billy didn’t entirely agree, but let it go. “Still don’t know what he gets from stirring up labor trouble here when he’s got so much going on.”

  “Could be enough to get him the amount of votes he needs to get himself elected mayor,” Mackey said. “Word’s been spreading about him having higher ambitions for the town. Putting down a rabble-rouser makes perfect sense. He’s controlling both sides of the argument and comes out looking like a hero and Mohr walks away the richer for it.”

  “Didn’t find any money on him,” Billy said, “even before I left the shack. I mean, he could’ve hidden it in one of the other books in the trunk, but I don’t think so. All he had was that letter he had sewn into his jacket for safekeeping.”

  Billy finished his mug and got up to pour himself more from the pot. “I’ve heard a lot of lies and a lot of alibis since I’ve been on this job with you, Aaron. And I hate to believe Grant, but everything he said makes sense.”

  Mackey also knew some of the biggest lies were those closest to the truth. “I’m going to do some digging on this Mohr character. Maybe get Harrington to check some of his old newspaper records. If he was as active an agitator as Grant says, his name is bound to have appeared in some article somewhere.”

  “He should have plenty of time to look into it while we’re gone.” Billy opened the top drawer of the desk and handed him the envelope from the telegraph office. “Looks like Mr. Rice wants us on the next train out of town tomorrow morning. Said he’ll meet up with you in Butte to discuss matters further since he doesn’t trust the telegraph lines.”

  Mackey read the first telegram.

  BE ON 0830 TRAIN OUT OF DOVER

  STATION TOMORROW MORNING.

  YOUR ASSISTANCE REQUIRED TO

  GUARD IMPORTANT CARGO. TAKE

  ALL PRECAUTIONS FOR SAFE PASSAGE.

  The second telegram was more direct. It had been sent to every telegraph office along Great Northwestern Railroad:

  BEARER OF THIS TELEGRAM HAS FULL

  SUPPORT OF RICE VAN DORN COMPANY

  AND ALL OF ITS HOLDINGS. EVERY

  EMPLOYEE IS EXPECTED TO GIVE BEARER

  ANY ASSISTANCE ASKED OF THEM. ALL

  QUESTIONS REFERRED DIRECTLY TO RICE

  HEADQUARTERS NEW YORK.

  Mackey looked up at Billy. “You said you read this?”

  “I did.”

  “I thought you said you don’t read telegrams that aren’t addressed to you?”

  “Normally don’t,” Billy said, “but since I knew this particular telegram concerned me, I took the liberty of reading it. Because I’m going with you, Aaron. Whether you like it or not, there’s no way in hell I’m letting you go up against these people alone.”

  Mackey had no intention of turning down any help he could get, especially when that help came from Billy. It might leave the town in a bit of a lurch, but they had managed before with Underhill filling in. He worked for Grant, but Mackey still trusted him.

  “By what I read in those newspaper accounts,” Mackey said, “we’re going up against anywhere between five to seven robbers on an open track. They’ve already killed three men,
and we’ll need help to bring them down the right way.”

  “You thinking of the Boudreaux boys?”

  “I am. I’m going to need you to ride out and try to get them for us.”

  The idea of saying no never entered Billy’s mind. “What’ll you be doing in the meantime?”

  “Packing,” Mackey said, “and either calling in a favor or asking for one. I’m not sure which yet.”

  Chapter 11

  Mackey found Walter Underhill exactly where he had been told he would be, on the high hill overlooking the remnants of the old JT Ranch. The spread had once been the envy of the Montana territory, a thriving concern that grew beef, bred horses, and sheared wool to the great profit of John Tyler. But after Tyler was killed and his ranch burned out during Darabont’s siege, the place had been a shell of what it had once been.

  The Dover Station Company was slowly putting the pieces back together, but had already made great strides. The main house had, indeed, been burned down, but the bunkhouses had been replaced and so had the barn, giving the workers and animals a warm place to be now that the cold weather was fast approaching.

  Mackey had to admit that Walter Underhill was quite a sight atop his sorrel, looking out over the project he personally oversaw. His long blond curly hair and beard gave him an impressive, formidable look. He had proven himself to be an asset while Darabont laid siege to the town and in the weeks after while Mackey and his men were off chasing down the remnants of the raider and his gang.

  “Afternoon, Walter,” Mackey said as he pulled Adair to a stop next to him.

  “Afternoon, Aaron.” He looked out over the land. “What do you think of it?”

  “I think it’s in trouble. I think something’s going on in this town that threatens all of this as much as it makes it possible. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but it’s how I feel.”

  Underhill grunted as he shifted in his saddle. “It makes no sense, but I feel exactly the same way. Can’t say what it is, though.”