Dark Territory

by Terrence McCauley

  Mackey threw a straight right hand that caught Grant flush on the left cheek, knocking him out of the chair and on to the floor.

  By the time the sheriff came around the desk, Grant was still lying on his side without having much luck.

  “Katherine was helping a woman give birth when Darabont took her. A woman knocked up by one of the good citizens of this fine town who refused to claim the baby as his own. But you don’t need to worry about that, Grant. Katherine’s my business. So is Billy, and so is this town. And I’ll be goddamned before I let a carpetbagger like you come in and take over.”

  “No one will stand with you,” Grant said. “They’ll all turn on you the moment I tell them to. Even your own father will back me.”

  “I don’t care what anyone else does, including Pappy.” Mackey put a boot on Grant’s back and pinned him to the carpet. “But I do care about the three people you got killed during those train robberies. And all the glad-handing and backslapping in the world isn’t going to change that. I plan on putting you in jail the second Mr. Rice gets a judge who’ll swear out an order for your arrest. Then I’m going to be there the morning you hang. Until then, I’ve still got two years left on my term as sheriff. You stay away from me and my family or next time, we won’t end our conversation on such good terms. Do you understand?”

  Mackey let up just enough weight off Grant’s back so he could answer. Grant spat, “You’re a dead man, Aaron. You think you’ll last two years? You won’t last two weeks!”

  The sheriff pulled the Peacemaker and pressed the barrel hard against Grant’s temple. He knew killing him right here would solve all of his problems. He also knew Grant’s death would cause more problems than he could imagine. He had made a deal with Mr. Rice to spare Grant’s life. He had to live up to his side of the bargain. He had to give Mr. Rice time to work.

  But Grant didn’t need to know that. He pressed the barrel harder against Grant’s temple. “Tell me you understand what I said.”

  “I understand, you son of a bitch.”

  Mackey pressed the barrel harder into his temple.

  Grant yelled again, “I said I understand, damn you! What more do you want from me? Blood?”

  “Not right now.” Mackey stood up and tucked his pistol away. “I’ll get that soon enough. Until then, you can run your company and you can run for office and stay the hell away from me. You don’t, there’ll be trouble.”

  Mackey stopped when he reached the study door. “Crossing me would be the dumbest thing you’d ever do, Jim, and you’re not stupid. You’re a smart man. So smart, you knew Mrs. Macum was dead. That’s funny, because Billy and I didn’t mention that to anyone and we’re the only people who knew. How’d you find out?”

  By then, Grant had made it up to his hands and knees as he tried to shake the cobwebs from his mind. He acted like he hadn’t heard the question, but Mackey knew better.

  He decided not to force the issue. But he made a point of slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter 25

  As he sat in the Rose of Tralee Saloon, one of the newer places in town, Charles Everett Harrington of The Dover Station Record sipped his whiskey as he listened to Pappy’s third telling of the Siege of Dover Station of the evening.

  Harrington had heard his old friend tell the tale no fewer than a hundred times in the six months since the incident, mostly for the benefit of the newcomers to town. He noticed Pappy was drunker than normal on that particular evening, though the newspaperman could not imagine why. The dry-goods business was booming like everything else in town and likely to only improve as the town grew.

  Harrington wondered if Pappy had experienced some difficulty with Aaron. His son was usually prickly, even more so after such a long time away from home. One of the few failings the younger Mackey possessed was his ignorance of how easily his mood affected his father. One of the many failings of the elder Mackey was his indestructible visage. It was only when one spent a significant amount of time with him, particularly late at night while sharing a bottle of whiskey in a loud saloon, did one learn how truly sensitive Brendan Mackey could be. He may have won the Congressional Medal of Honor in the War Between the States, but had a soft spot in his warrior heart, particularly where his son was concerned.

  Harrington could only guess at the reason for Pappy’s excess that evening, but he enjoyed how the liquor had put him in good voice as he brought his triumphant tale of siege and salvation to a rousing close.

  “And that’s exactly the way it happened, my friends. Eight men rode out and eight men returned with a complete accompaniment of the women stolen by the heathen horde in tow. Darabont suffered savage justice at the hands of the mighty Blackfeet Indians on the very same night as those poor women enjoyed hearth and home, thanks to the bravery of none other than the Savior of Dover Station himself, my son Sheriff Aaron Mackey, and his loyal deputy Billy Sunday. All of this happened one thousand, eight hundred and eighty-eight years after the good Lord above sent His only son to die for our sins.”

  Pappy raised his glass of whiskey. “So let us make a toast to the tale of the humble home we call Dover Station. Those who believe me can buy me a drink for having the pleasure of saying you met the man who sired such a heroic figure. And those who do not may kiss my royal Irish ass.”

  Harrington watched everyone in the saloon cheer and thump tables at the conclusion of Pappy’s performance. Even the stoic Walter Underhill and his men raised their glasses. Neither Underhill nor his new men were known for their good humor, but it was Harrington’s experience that Pappy’s stories often brought a grin to even the grimmest countenance.

  Most of the men called over the saloon’s Young Roses, as the waitresses were called, and flicked coins and tossed greenbacks at them to buy Pappy a drink.

  Yet through the shouts for more drinks and more stories, Harrington heard one voice ring out as clear as it was shrill.

  “I’ve got a third option, you donkey bastard. How ’bout you kiss my ass and keep your goddamned mouth shut?”

  Most of the men whooped and hollered at the suggestion, including Pappy himself.

  Harrington noticed Underhill looking around. The Texan’s booming voice cut through the noise. “That better not’ve been one of mine who said that.”

  A scrawny, bedraggled man whose prairie hat had seen more than its share of harsh weather got to his feet. Harrington didn’t know this man’s name for certain, but believed he had heard him called Trammel at some point.

  “I ain’t one of yours, you rebel bastard. I’m one of Jim Grant’s own men, by God, and I don’t take orders from you or any other man walking.”

  Harrington looked through the crowd and saw Trammel was one of a table of three newcomers he had seen running errands for Grant and Van Dorn over the past month, Trammel and his friends usually bringing people to and from the Van Dorn House at all hours of the night and day.

  Underhill reached out for the man without standing up. “Quit your yapping and have a drink. You’re sobering everyone up by barking like that.”

  But Trammel easily avoided Underhill’s grasp. “I told you I don’t work for you, and you don’t get to boss me, neither. I’m not drunk, and I’ve got a mind to have words with that mouthy foreigner over there whether you like it or not.”

  Harrington watched Pappy stop in mid-drink, before slowly lowering his glass to the table. The newsman had long known there were few things in this world that could rouse his old friend to anger than referring to him as a foreigner. Although he had spent his tender years in Ireland, like most Irish, he considered himself as American as any native son.

  Pappy turned and faced the man. “Well, if it’s words you want, I’ve certainly no shortage of those, as any man here will say.” The crowd laughed. Pappy did not. His large fists hung at his sides like an ape. “And if it’s a lesson you need, you’ll find me a fair teacher.”

  It was at this point that Harrington noted that young Trammel made the great error of pushi
ng a chair out of his way as he stormed toward Pappy. “I’ve had just about enough of you and your damned family, grandpa! Pushing people around like they ran this town!”

  When he drew close enough, Trammel threw a haymaker at Pappy’s chin. It was a blow he easily evaded, despite being forty years older than his assailant. Pappy buried a massive left hand deep in Trammel’s stomach before throwing the gasping man back against the bar.

  “Knock it off,” Pappy warned, “before you get hurt.”

  Whether it was merely bravado or the fog of war, Harrington could not be certain, but something caused young Trammel to launch himself at Pappy. The storekeeper connected with a powerful right hand to the jaw that rendered Trammel unconscious before he hit the sawdust on the saloon floor.

  All but Underhill and Harrington cheered as Pappy stepped over Trammel’s body to face the two men at the table. A strand of thick gray hair fell over his eye. “You ladies wish to express an opinion, too, or are you too delicate to fight?”

  Harrington ran from the saloon amid the scrape of chairs on wood and shouts of men joining battle. Someone needed to get the sheriff before this spiraled out of control. And Harrington was just the man to do it.

  * * *

  Down at the jailhouse, Mackey drank coffee while Billy asked questions. The sheriff had always admired how his deputy could criticize him without actually doing it.

  “You sure hitting Grant was a good idea?”

  Mackey flexed his right hand. “Didn’t do any harm except to my hand. He was pretty clear he wants us out and his new police force in.”

  Billy winced at the notion. “Sorry to see Underhill’s name on the same sign as Grant’s. Just when I was beginning to like him. Can’t see him as a police chief, though. That boy couldn’t lead a mouse to cheese, much less a police force.”

  “Walt’s always wanted to be a lawman again. I don’t blame him for grabbing his chance. He’s being used just like Grant is using everyone else.”

  “Grant’s a smart son of a bitch, isn’t he?” Billy observed. “Smarter than I thought.”

  Mackey could not argue with that statement. “The damnable thing is I don’t really blame him for what he’s doing. He saw a chance to better himself, and he’s taking it. I don’t like it, but I understand it. Van Dorn’s the one I hold responsible. If he’d kept tighter hold of the company’s reins like he’s supposed to, Grant wouldn’t be able to get away with the shit he has.”

  Billy sipped his coffee. “I checked with Murphy over at the telegraph office.” Billy sipped his coffee. “No word from Mr. Rice yet.”

  “Won’t either. It’ll be tomorrow at the earliest. Until then, see if you can’t find Lagrange. See if he’s been able to get a better idea of how many extra guns Grant has hired on since we were gone.”

  “I did some looking around on my own,” Billy said. “I put the number at about fifteen, but that’s just those I saw. The real number could be higher than that.”

  Mackey figured it probably was. “I caught three of his newer boys waiting for me at the hotel when I rode back from the train. Must be new because I never saw them before.”

  “You punch them in the face, too?”

  “Worse,” Mackey said. “I made them hand over their guns.” He kicked the bottom drawer. “Got them right here. Told them to come ask for them. Haven’t seen them yet.”

  “Probably at the Tin Horn or some other hellhole drinking up the courage to do just that. And they’ll be trouble when they do.”

  “They’re trouble drunk or sober,” Mackey said. “But if they come here drunk, they can sleep it off back in the cells.”

  Billy smiled. “Grant won’t like that much.”

  “Then he’s going to have to learn how to live with disappointment.”

  Both men looked up when someone began frantically banging at the jailhouse door. They normally kept it open, but after his fight with Grant earlier that day, he thought it best to keep it locked for the time being.

  Mackey pulled his Peacemaker as he called out, “Who is it?”

  “It’s me, Charlie,” Harrington answered through the door. “You’ve got to come quick. Your father’s about to kill someone who was running down you and your pa!”

  “Fists or guns?” Mackey asked as he stood up and pulled on his coat. Goddamned Pappy was always getting into something. “This one of Grant’s new men?”

  “Yes, sir,” Harrington said through the door. “Man by the name of Trammel.”

  Billy stood also, but Mackey held him back. “You’d best sit this one out. Might be a trap to draw both of us out. I’d feel better if you hung back and kept an ear out in case I need you.”

  “Hell, that saloon is two blocks from here. I can’t hear anything from there, especially with the door closed.”

  Mackey knew that, but couldn’t think of another excuse to keep his friend from joining him. “You’ll hear it, believe me. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, come looking for me.”

  Billy stopped Mackey from opening the door. “I can help you a hell of a lot better from across the street with the Sharps.”

  Mackey looked at his deputy’s hand until he removed it from the door. “Like I said, fifteen minutes.”

  Billy removed his hand as the sheriff stepped into the cold Montana night.

  * * *

  On the boardwalk, Harrington had to jog to keep up with Mackey’s long strides. “How many is he up against?”

  “Three,” Harrington reported. “He took down one, but the other two were ready to start swinging when I figured it was time to get you.”

  “You figured right, Charlie. They armed? Drunk?”

  “Trammel didn’t have a gun when your pa knocked him out. I didn’t see if his two friends had guns, but I don’t think they did. They seemed to be with Underhill, though they didn’t seem to like him very much.”

  Mackey kept walking. “Can’t see Walter having much of a role in this.”

  “He didn’t.” The cold air was beginning to hurt Harrington’s lungs. “Walt tried to stop Trammel from attacking your old man, but couldn’t. Pappy laid him out cold in two punches.”

  “Pappy’s getting old,” Mackey said as he turned the corner toward the saloon. “Not too long ago, he would’ve knocked out a man with one shot.”

  “I think he was trying to be nice.”

  “Good thing I don’t have to be.”

  * * *

  The wooden planks of the boardwalk in front of the Rose of Tralee Saloon smelled like new lumber. They had not been stained yet and did not sag as much as boardwalks in the older parts of town.

  Mackey was greeted by familiar sounds as soon as he opened the smoked-glass door of the saloon. A tinny piano banged out a sing-along he didn’t know but others obviously did. Men were gambling and grumbling at all of the tables, the clatter of chips and the thud of glass on wood.

  The sheriff began to wonder if Harrington was back on the bottle again. It didn’t look like a fight had just taken place or that anyone had been hurt. He knew saloons recovered quickly from brawls, even shootings, but there was something wrong here.

  It did not take long for the patrons to recognize him. An uneasy quiet settled over the saloon. The singing and the piano music died away. Sheriff Aaron Mackey was there, and he had not come for a drink.

  “I hear someone’s been offering to throw me a beating.” He looked at all of the faces for his father, but could not see him. “I’m right here if they’d like to try.”

  The barman held up both hands and got the sheriff’s attention. Mackey recognized him as Tom Holden, one of the old bartenders at the Tin Horn. He was a wiry man with quick eyes but short arms when it came to pouring whiskey. “Now, just hold on right there, Aaron. This here place is brand spanking new. Just opened up not a week ago.” He pointed at the ornate cabinet and mirror behind the bar. “Got shipped here all the way from San Francisco yesterday. Cost me damned near everything I had. I don’t want no trouble in here.”
>
  “All the more reason why you should point out the big talkers so I can be on my way.”

  Mackey turned when he heard a chair scrape across wood and a man twice his size stood up.

  Walter Underhill said, “Evening, Aaron. Sorry about the ruckus.”

  Mackey was in no mood for pleasantries, not even from Underhill. “No reason to apologize. Just point out the coward.”

  “It was one of my men who got out of line,” Underhill said. “I apologized to your father, bought him a drink, and everything’s fine now. Pappy went home, and I’ll make my boys pay for it. I apologize on behalf of the company and my man. I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “You and my old man had a drink together.” He remembered their first meeting on Front Street six months before, when Pappy told Underhill that Texans were the lowest form of white men alive. “I’d have paid to see that.”

  “Things change, Aaron. People, too. Your father has. I know I sure as hell have. Maybe you should give it a try.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment. Now where’s the windbag who called me out?”

  Underhill shifted a bit so his full bulk blocked Mackey’s view. Mackey could feel every eye in the place on him. “Now there’s no call for that. I’ve apologized for my men’s behavior and I take full responsibility for everything that happened and what was said. I’d be obliged to you if you could let it go at that.”

  Another time, Underhill’s word would have been enough. But with Grant planning to become mayor and take away his office, Mackey could not appear weak. Not now.

  He had no desire to go against Underhill, a man he considered an ally if not a friend. But Underhill was a Grant man now, and he would have to pay the consequences, if it came down to consequences being paid.