CHAPTER 19

Dover Station

 

James Grant sat on the edge of the bed, still too drunk to rise to his feet to greet such an important day.

He had spent the past week of his return to Dover Station awash in future glory to come. He had made a great show of spending money among some of the more important people in town who had prospered in the months since his incarceration. Businessmen, shop owners, saloon keepers, and bankers who had prospered independent of the Dover Station Company’s blessing. People who had despised him when he tried to run them out of business, but now that he had won his freedom, looked upon him as the best hope to break the stranglehold the company had on the town.

None of them were much on their own, but together, they represented a base of the population that could propel him back into power when the time came. He had spent the past week or so wining and dining them, showing them a good time and allowing them to partake in the female companionship The Ruby offered in their cribs out back.

He did not expect their undying loyalty to him. He only needed it for as long as it took him to regain power over the town. To do that, he would need to be as lucky as he was prepared. And, with Rigg’s help, he happened to be both.

Through his hangover, he could hear a great many people outside who had gathered along the alleyways and byways off Front Street all the way to Lee Street. He checked the pocket watch he had cast on the nightstand before falling into bed alone in the early hours of the morning. There were no shortage of Hancock whores who wished to bed him, but save for the times he was securing new allies in his bid for the town, he lived a solitary existence. He feared he might say too much when he had drank too much, and the wrong people might hear his plans.

The success of his plan hinged on one absolute certainty.

Secrecy.

He knew the weight of his plan would collapse in on itself if anyone was to learn of it too early. Fortunately, today was the day it was scheduled to begin.

He opened his pocket watch and saw it was almost noon. He had not slept past the dawning of his new destiny after all.

He would have to be content to sit by the window and watch the aftermath from above. To do anything more would be dangerous. To do any less would rob him of his first taste of revenge against the town that had given him so much and had been only too happy to take it all away.

He closed the pocket watch and held it tight in his fist. “By this time tomorrow,” he said to the empty room, “the town will be mine again.”

James Grant fought off the wave of nausea that washed over him as he got to his feet and stumbled to the door. He pulled it open and yelled to the bar three levels down. “Coffee! Bring the whole pot! Now, damn you!”

He slammed the door shut and began to get dressed. He pulled a new black suit out of the wardrobe he had made in Helena for this day. It would show solemnity for the coming tragedy, but also convey the power he had acquired once again.

One of the soiled doves who worked the place knocked before opening the door and placing a pot of coffee and cup on the dresser. She looked him up and down in his new suit and said, “Lookin’ mighty spiffy, Mr. Grant.”

But Grant was too busy knotting his tie just right to take compliments from a whore. “Get out.”

When she did, he took a step back and looked at himself in the mirror. Yes, I suppose I do look spiffy at that.

He raised his chin, disappointed by how the collar seemed too big for him. The months he had spent recovering from the bullet that had almost taken his shoulder followed by the time in Mackey’s jailhouse had caused him to look gaunt and thin.

He would avenge every second of the pain he had felt. He would avenge every moment he had spent in prison. He took a final look at his pocket watch and saw it was five to noon. His vengeance would begin soon.

He slid the pocket watch into his vest pocket and walked over to the chair he had placed by the window. He pulled the drapes apart and took a seat, prepared to watch his destiny unfold before him.

“My time,” he said to the empty room. “My time.”

* * *

This is almost too easy.

From his perch in the turret of the Municipal Building, Colonel Nathan Rigg sighted his Sharps on the platform that had been built across the middle of Front Street. He had spent the past week or so watching the fools from the Dover Station Company build it from wood cut from the company’s new sawmill.

Paul Bishop, the new manager of the company, had made sure every piece of lumber was stamped with the ornate DSC symbol, designed for all the town to see. Red, white, and blue bunting had been hung from the platform. Across the length of Front Street, a canvas sign billowed in the wind that read, “God Bless Mayor Mackey, God Bless Our Town and God Bless the U.S. of A.”

Front Street was packed with townspeople and other spectators who had come from miles around to witness history in the making. He doubted a field mouse would be able to find enough of a path on the thoroughfare to scurry across.

Dover Station was set to throw itself the biggest party it had ever seen. Bigger, as he had been told by several drunks in The Ruby, than even James Grant’s swearing-in ceremony the previous year.

That day, the people told him, had been marred by the new mayor’s disappointment that he had not been able to get rid of Mackey and Sunday. They had gone and gotten themselves appointed U.S. Marshals.

Everyone was confident that Brendan Mackey’s swearing in as mayor would be a much more festive celebration. An event the town would not soon forget.

Rigg grinned at the memory, for he knew no one would be forgetting this day any time soon, but not for the reasons they thought.

The simplicity of it would have made Rigg laugh had he not been hired to put James Grant’s “Grand Plan,” as he was fond of calling it, in place.

Right now, part of that job was to sit and wait for the festivities to begin. A glance at the Bank of Dover Station clock tower told him he had five minutes to go.

As he sat with his back against the turret, Nathan Rigg pondered the road that had led him here. He had spent the last week or so looking the town over and could not understand Grant’s fascination with the place.

It was no different than any of the other dozens of towns sprouting up west of the Mississippi. Its only virtue was that it was far enough from the other big towns to seem like more than it was. The buildings Grant had built when he had been in charge were overdone and overly built. He supposed that had been by design.

No, Dover Station was no different from the other towns Rigg had seen except in one respect. None of them had been controlled by James Grant.

And by the same time tomorrow, the town would be his once again. Nathan Rigg would see to it personally.

During one of Grant’s many drunken nights since returning to town, Grant had told Rigg repeatedly that he envisioned Dover Station growing into the ornate buildings he had built. He wanted it to becoming its own city-state, as it were, where no county or state or even federal government would dare question its authority. Let Helena be the capital, but Dover Station would remain the most important city in Montana. “Albany may be the capital of New York,” Grant often slurred at the top of his lungs, “but Manhattan is its power. Dover Station is destined for the same greatness.”

Nathan Rigg had been a soldier and an officer long enough to understand that power did not come from places or things. It came from men who knew how to wield it. And no number of fancy buildings could ever change that.

James Grant had envisioned himself to be one of those men. He claimed the only difference between him and Frazier Rice or Silas Van Dorn or Carnegie or Morgan was money and position. Judge Forester may have taken a large chunk of his fortune, but not all of it. Barely a third. And Grant remained confident that Rigg and the men he had brought with him, combined with the Hancock family, would be enough to help him regain the town that had been taken from him.

But Rigg knew Grant had lost far more than his position. His run-in with Mackey had cost him his mind. He was already beaten but had just enough money to convince himself otherwise for now.

J. D. Rhoades may have washed his hands of his client, citing the fact that Grant’s delusions made it difficult for him to continue to take the man’s money. If Grant was intent on wasting his money, Rigg saw no reason why he should not take as much of it as Grant was willing to part with. Nathan Rigg had always considered himself a practical man.

Which was why Rigg had tolerated Grant’s drunken ravings, listening dutifully to his nightly assurances that a single bullet would set the wheels of progress in motion that would return his fortunes to him once again. And when the calamity settled, he would regain his rightful place as the man in charge of Dover Station.

Rigg had nothing to lose in finding out if Grant might be right. It was far from a gamble on his part. His deal with Grant was for forty percent of every new enterprise in town. He had already been paid handsomely for his alliance with Grant, so if the Grand Plan worked, all the better. Grant may have lost his mind, but his plan was surprisingly sound.

Rigg knew that after he took the fatal shot, Front Street would descend into chaos. No one would notice him in the panic as he slipped out the back door of the Municipal Building, out through the secret back stairs behind the bookcase Grant had built for himself in the mayor’s office.

Rigg certainly was not concerned about Chief Edison or his men. They were already positioned too far up Front Street to reach the building in time before he escaped. And even if someone happened to see him run from the building, which was a distinct possibility, he would have a saloon full of witnesses at The Ruby who would swear Rigg had been there the entire time.

The fact that every witness would be a Hancock man would seem convenient to some, but would stand up in any court in the land.

Not that anyone would be making any arrests immediately after Rigg had accomplished his mission, for the assassination was only the first part of Grant’s Grand Plan. The second part would come later that night, during something that Grant called the “Purification.”

Rigg looked out at the crowd of revelers again. Every square inch of Front Street was filled with spectators jealously guarding their tiny piece of real estate to watch that blowhard Mackey take the oath of office.

Rigg, for his part, was glad of it. He had always been a frustrated showman. He had often wondered if he might have been successful had he followed his fellow Virginian John Wilkes Booth in a career upon the stage.

He only hoped his assassination would be just as obvious but, unlike Booth, end in anonymity.

The crowd below stirred and rose to a roar as Brendan Mackey, Doc Ridley, and Chief Steve Edison walked out of the Municipal Building and ascended to the stage. That Yankee popinjay Paul Bishop was with them, too. That was no surprise. Dover Station belonged to his company lock, stock, and barrel. He had no doubt Brendan Mackey would be in his pocket, too, if he was not already.

He would not be there long.

Rigg ducked once more behind the balustrade of the turret. He held his rifle loose and listened for the precise moment when the ceremony began.

Then he would strike.

And the new Dover Station would begin to be born.

* * *

Jerry Halstead eyed the crowd from his spot on the jailhouse porch. He had done a good job of keeping the porch clear of spectators in general but allowed some of the smaller kids to climb all over it in the hopes of getting a good look at the platform. He doubted any of them cared what was going on, much less understood what was happening. But it was something to see, and kids always liked to be part of things.

With his Winchester on his shoulder, Jerry was glad to see Chief Edison had spread his men around the fringes of the group. The deputies Edison could trust were closer to the platform. He had made sure the Hancock deputies were farther back and on the edges. No sense in tempting fate. The rivalry between the Hancocks and the Mackeys was becoming the stuff of local legend. What better way to cement a legend than taking a shot at their rival’s old man as he was sworn in as mayor?

But Jerry had seen enough Hancock men shoot to know they would probably miss even if they were standing right next to them. But they were a mean and stupid bunch, and sometimes, that was enough to put a man down. He was sure Walter Underhill would have attested to that had he still been aboveground.

His killing of a Hancock man at the station a week ago had not won him any friends among the clan, but they had given him plenty of space in the days since. He figured one of them might make a run at him today once the whiskey started pouring and family pride took hold.

Jerry looked to the platform when the crowd began to cheer. Pappy, Doc Ridley, Mr. Bishop, and Chief Edison were walking down the stone steps of the Municipal Building and making their way to the platform.

Pappy looked as proud as a Mexican general. His black morning coat buffeted in the cool breeze blowing along Front Street. Only the white sash he wore with the word “Mayor” stitched into it kept it closed. He had to hold on to his black top hat to keep the wind from carrying it away.

He was glad the town committee had decided against having the stage in front of the Municipal Building. It had to be the gaudiest building Jerry Halstead had ever seen. The round turrets on the corners and the balustrades atop it made it look more like a castle than an office building. Maybe that had been Grant’s idea when he had built it? A king surveying his kingdom from his castle.

Now, the word was that he was holed up in The Ruby and well on his way to becoming the town drunk. No one even bothered to talk about him anymore except to remark about how far the mighty had fallen.

As soon as he drank his money away, Jerry bet the Hancocks would throw him out on his ear. He would probably wind up sleeping beneath the back stairs of the very castle he had built for himself.

Jerry looked over the crowd again, wondering if Grant might be there. It was almost impossible to pick out any one face among the mass of people who had packed Front Street for a glimpse at town history.

The crowd roared as the men stepped up onto the platform. He half expected trumpeters to begin playing from the Municipal Building’s turrets. Maybe American flags unfurled from the top.

He looked up at them in the hopes Pappy might have asked for that kind of theatrical flair. He would not put it past him.

Instead, Jerry Halstead saw something else.

Something had moved up there.

It could have been a bird landing or a branch blowing in the breeze. But he knew no birds would come near Front Street that day, for the crowd was too noisy. And he knew there were no trees that grew that tall in Dover Station.

Someone was up there.

Jerry looked around the crowd for a path that could get him to the Municipal Building, but even though it was just across the street, the knot of humanity was impossible to get through. He tried to shout a warning to the deputies in front of the building, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

He waved at them to get their attention, but they were too busy craning their necks to get a look at the spectacle on the platform.

No one was looking up at the turret.

Knowing there was nothing else he could do, Jerry brought his Winchester to his shoulder and aimed up at the top of the turret. The building was tall and the angle impossibly steep, but he figured the Winchester should have enough power to at least get close if he fired.

He only hoped he could get close enough if he had to. Jerry stood rock still, the crowd ignoring him as he aimed as steadily as he could, hoping to God his eyes had been playing tricks on him. That it had been a bird, or a puff of smoke, or nothing at all. He wanted to be wrong but knew he had been right.

Then, one of the children on the porch pulled on his pants leg. “Hey, mister. What’re you aiming at?”

Jerry pushed the young boy away with his boot, keeping his aim on the turret. “Get away from me.”

“Hey!” called out a man who must have been the boy’s father. “You can’t kick my son like that.” He pulled himself up onto the porch to confront Jerry, who pushed the man away, causing him to fall back into the crowd, who suddenly turned away from the platform to the jailhouse to see what the ruckus was all about.

Jerry cursed and took aim again at the top of the turret.

Now he saw it.

The same thing he had seen before.

A tuft of blond hair blowing in the wind.

And a shape that could only be a man aiming a rifle.

Jerry fired.

The crack of his Winchester echoed loud, too loud for his to be the only gun fired.

The bastard had gotten off a shot after all.

The crowd descended into madness.

Jerry racked in another round and fired again as men and women and children broke into panicked runs all around him. The boardwalk bounced as children jumped off and ran to the arms of their mothers and fathers.

Jerry did not have a target but fired again. Another piece of turret cracked and threw up dust into the air. If he could not hit the rifleman, he could damn near block his shot while Pappy and the others got to safety.

He kept his aim up at the building, half expecting one of Edison’s men to take a shot at him. But out of the corner of his eye, amid the screaming and sea of people crashing into each other, he saw three officers run into the building. He hoped they would get inside in time to trap the gunman and put a bullet in him.

Seeing no movement from the turret for several seconds, Jerry decided to wade into the crowd to get to the Municipal Building. He used his Winchester to knock people out of the way. Men and women, he did not have the time to care. He could not allow the gunman to escape into the crowd.

After almost losing his footing several times, Jerry bounded up the stairs of the Municipal Building and skidded to a stop on the marble floor. “It’s Jerry Halstead,” he yelled, his voice carrying throughout the cavernous building. “Did you get him yet?”

One of Edison’s officers stuck his head over the third-floor banister. “Nothing here. No one at all.”

“Did you check the roof?”

The man’s quick disappearance told Jerry he had not.

Knowing the rifleman could already be on his way out of the building, Jerry ran through the empty courtroom and out the back door next to the judge’s chambers. He jumped down the three steps to the ground and looked around for any sign of the gunman fleeing the building.

He did not see anyone with a rifle. All he saw was a herd of people running in all directions along Lee Street.

But he stopped when he saw something on the ground.

The same kind of crater he had just left in the soft dirt when he had jumped down the stairs. And a single set of footprints heading down Lee Street before they were muddled by the hundreds of feet from panicked spectators.

It was a thin trail, but it was the only trail he had, and he decided to follow it.

He leapt onto the boardwalk, out of the fray of people in the street, and moved as quickly as he could through the jostling crowd. He looked all around for anyone who might be holding a rifle close to their side. Someone running. Someone trying not to run. Someone who looked too scared. Someone who did not look scared enough. Anything that might look out of place.

He caught a glimpse of someone in the middle of Lee Street, walking at an even pace as he dodged the frightened people charging toward him. Walking stiffly with his right arm not moving.

Jerry knew the man might have been just another spectator trying to get away from the scene, no different than any of the other people on the street that day.

Except this man had blond hair. And he had to keep flattening it against the wind.

With his left hand.

Because, although Jerry could not see it, he knew the man held a rifle in his right.

He pushed his way to the edge of the boardwalk and brought the Winchester up to his shoulder. “You with the blond hair. Stop!”

But the man did not stop, for Jerry’s words were drowned out by the screams and shouts of the frightened people clogging Lee Street.

Then someone either knocked into Jerry or pushed him. He did not know which. All he knew was that he had fallen and had to grab onto someone to keep from falling on his face.

But he had kept hold of the Winchester.

He quickly regained his footing and moved against the tide of humanity to walk in the same direction as the blond man had been headed.

* * *

A walk that should have taken him five minutes even at the slowest of strolls had taken him fifteen. He jumped up every so often to try to see the blond man over the heads of the crowd, but only caught glimpses of him now and then still heading north.

Jerry pushed and pulled and shouldered people to the side, jumping up again when he reached the last place where he had spotted the man.

Each time, all he saw was a man who might be him. Maybe. Even if he was the rifleman.

He finally found a clear space on the boardwalk near the last place where he had seen the blond man and rushed for it. Upon climbing it, he held on to the porch post and searched the crowd of heads in the hopes of seeing the man again. But all he saw was the worried and sometimes bloodied faces of people still caught in the throes of panic.

And not a blond head in the bunch.

Jerry had lost him.

He resisted the urge to curse and yell. To punch the porch post. His rage compounding by the second, he looked for someone, anyone, who might be looking to start a fight with the man they called a half-breed.

But as he looked around, none of his tormentors were in sight.

Jerry looked up at the sky and closed his eyes, drawing the air deep into his lungs in a bid to calm himself down. Now was not the time for anger. Now was the time for calm. To think. Because the gunman was still out there, and he was very calm indeed.

And when Jerry opened his eyes again, he found what he was looking for. Not the blond man, but something that told him he had been right all along.

A sign read THE RUBY SALOON.

Of course, this would be the last place he had spotted the blond man. For this was a Hancock saloon. And who better to want Pappy dead than a Hancock man?