Get Out of Town

It was just after nightfall when Mackey found the Hancock camp. The sounds of their drunken laughter were carried on the night wind.

Mackey brought Adair to a halt and climbed down from the saddle. There were no trees or bushes nearby to tie the horse to, but the black Arabian had been in enough fights at her owner’s side that the sound of gunfire no longer startled her.

He crept up the edge of a box canyon where Henry Hancock and his gang had been hiding out since robbing the First National Bank in Tylerville two days before. They had done a poor job of hiding themselves and seemed to be in no hurry to run. Their camp was spread out beneath a craggy outcropping on the canyon floor about twenty feet below the spot from where Mackey watched them. They had a big fire going and from the way they were staggering, it looked like they had already killed one jug and were starting work on another.

Mackey wondered if the corn liquor helped dull their memory of the two guards they had killed in the bank back in Tylerville. There was some dispute among the locals as to whether or not Henry Hancock had killed both men himself. The dead men’s widows clung to that belief, hoping a death by a dangerous man like Henry Hancock would give some merit to their deaths.

But Aaron Mackey didn’t care.

The new U.S. Marshal of the Montana Territory already had a federal warrant from Judge Forester for Hancock’s arrest on murders that had taken place in three other bank robberies elsewhere in the territory. A couple of dead guards tacked on the list of charges would not make the drop at the end of the hangman’s rope any harder on him.

If Hancock lived long enough to hang, which was doubtful. The gang was drunk and dug in deep. The odds of them coming along peacefully were slim and the mandate from Mr. Frazer Rice had been simple: kill them all. The Hancocks were proving to be more than a nuisance to the powerful railroad magnate.

In aligning themselves with Mayor James Grant of Dover Station, they were becoming a threat to his organization. A message must be sent. A message wrapped in a federal warrant delivered by Rice’s new marshal, Aaron Mackey.

Mackey didn’t mind being caught between Mr. Rice’s wealth and James Grant’s ambitions. Mr. Rice happened to be right, and men like Henry Hancock needed killing if the Montana Territory was going to be allowed to become a state later come the winter. If hurting the Hancocks hurt James Grant and helped Mr. Rice, all the better.

Mackey stood crouched at the rim of the canyon as he watched the drunken gang stumble around the fire in some kind of dance. He could see their saddlebags swollen with the cash they had stolen from the bank were being used as pillows by the men when they rested or passed out from too much drink.

Mackey knew why they had camped here. They were less than a day’s ride back to Henry’s hometown, which was aptly named Hancock for his family that had settled the town. But he hadn’t bothered to go that far because he was not afraid of anyone coming after him.

The neighboring town of Tylerville didn’t have a sheriff of its own, and none of the men who lived there would dare ride out after a dangerous criminal like Henry Hancock and his men.

Hancock and his gang were not afraid of the men of Tylerville. They were not afraid of the law, either.

Mackey was going to show them how wrong they were.

He watched one of the men jump to his feet as he slurred through a story before gyrating like a man being hit with bullets before he dramatically fell to the ground to the laughter of his audience. Mackey figured he was reenacting the death of Ben Harper or Van Deutcher, the two bank guards who had been killed during the robbery.

The men whooped and cheered, and one of them fired off another pistol shot in the air.

Mackey went back to Adair and pulled his Winchester from the saddle scabbard. He dropped to the ground when he reached the canyon rim. He had an ideal angle of fire down into the camp, and none of the five men were near any cover.

All five were still wearing their pistols, but their rifles were leaning against the canyon wall. Their horses had been hobbled nearby, but there was no grass in the canyon for the animals to eat and no water for them to drink. They had that restless look that hungry, untended mounts got after a day or so. At least the drunkards had removed their saddles.

Mackey watched the Hancock gang continue to laugh and goad each other on as they passed around the jug. The campfire cast sinister shadows on their faces.

Mackey brought his Winchester to his shoulder and drew a bead on the men to gauge the distance to his targets. Given the angle, he might have to aim a bit higher than normal, but the group was well within range of the Winchester. Besides, Henry Hancock had long boasted that neither he nor any of his men would ever be taken alive by a lawman, so announcing himself ahead of time would be foolish. Mackey would give them a chance to surrender after the odds had been knocked down to four-to-one or better.

Four of the men encouraged a fifth to begin acting out another pantomime of one of their crimes. The man swayed as he got to his feet and staggered to the other side of the fire. And although the lawman couldn’t swear to it, he thought the performer might be Henry Hancock himself.

Mackey brought the rifle stock snug against his shoulder and took aim. He did not have to lever a round into the chamber. One was already there. When going alone against men like Hancock, Mackey found it best to be ready to fire at a second’s notice.

The echoes rising up from the canyon floor made it impossible for him to separate one voice from the other, much less understand what they were saying. But what they said no longer mattered.

Only their crimes mattered now.

He was about to fire without warning, but as he took aim at the man, decided that would be murder. It would make him no different than the men he was hunting.

Besides, he would probably have to kill them anyway.

Without taking his aim off the dancing man, Mackey called out, “United States Marshal!” The words echoed throughout the small canyon. “I have a warrant for your arrest. Throw up your hands!”

But most of the men were laughing too loud to hear him.

One of the men seated by the fire had heard him, and drew his pistol and shot in Mackey’s direction. The bullet glanced harmlessly off the canyon wall.

Mackey continued to track the dancing man and fired. The round struck the man in the back, spinning him completely around before he fell to a knee. The laughter from his drunken audience had drowned out the sound of the rifle shot. They thought the man’s spin was just part of his act. Mackey fired again, striking Hancock in the left side of the back. The bullet went through his chest and struck a man holding the whiskey jug in the face. Both men laid bleeding on the canyon floor.

The three remaining drunk men scrambled for their rifles as Mackey levered a fresh round into the chamber. He fired at the man who was closest to the weapons. The round caught him in the small of the back and slammed him to the ground.

The two remaining men stumbled off to the left and the right of the fire before realizing there was no cover available.

Mackey decided that now that the numbers had been thinned down, he should give the survivors a chance to surrender. “I’m Aaron Mackey, United States Marshal. Put down your weapons and throw up your hands. You boys don’t have to die.”

The men responded by firing their pistols in different directions where they thought the voice might be coming from. But given the echoes of the canyon, it was impossible for them to peg Mackey’s position. The bullets ricocheted off the canyon walls and never came near him.

At least I gave them a chance.

Mackey took aim at the man on the right, who had stopped firing his pistol to reload. The marshal put him down with one round to his chest.

The last robber on the left was in a crouch, yelling to his fallen friend. Mackey had a clear shot at him, but could not take it. It was too easy. He had to give him one final chance.

“You don’t have to die,” he called out over the neighing and ruckus of the screaming horses. “Just drop your gun and walk out of there with your hands up.”

The man yelled something as he aimed his pistol in Mackey’s general direction.

Mackey killed him before he had the chance to fire.

Mackey remained where he was for a few minutes and listened. When he was satisfied, he stood up and looked down into the canyon. A few minutes ago, they had been five drunks around a roaring fire, pulling on a jug while reliving past glory.

Now they were five corpses on a cold canyon floor. Five murdering thieves just as dead as all of the men they had killed over the years. It seemed a shame that, after all the blood they had spilled, he could only kill them once.

One of them was Henry Hancock. That’s what mattered most. To Mr. Rice and to Judge Forester. The judge would not be happy with so much death, but he would have to accept it.

Henry Hancock and his gang had been brought to justice, and that was all that counted.

Mackey began feeding cartridges from his belt into the Winchester as he walked back to Adair. The mare hadn’t moved an inch. He hadn’t expected her to.

He levered the last round into the chamber and tucked the rifle into the saddle scabbard. He knew he would need his weapons fully loaded for the next stop in this part of the territory.

He climbed into the saddle and patted Adair on the neck. “Come on, girl. Let’s take Hancock back home. It’ll be the first time in his miserable life he was ever worth anything.”

Adair moved forward, guiding herself and her rider through the darkness toward the fire in the canyon below.