CHAPTER 2
It was just past dawn when Mackey rode into the town of Hancock with five horses in tow.
The lead horse Mackey was trailing had Henry Hancock’s body draped over the saddle. The lawman had bound the corpse’s feet and hands with a rope under the horse’s belly to make sure his body did not fall off on the way to town. Getting him on the horse had been difficult enough. He had no intention of doing it again.
Mackey was glad to see the boardwalks of Hancock were deserted so early in the morning. The fewer people who saw him ride into town, the better. Word of his bringing their dead relative back home would spread soon enough. They would not be hanging bunting and striking up a brass band in his honor.
Mackey steered Adair to the right and rode down a side street, pulling the five horses along with him. He found an undertaker’s office around the side of a larger building. The swinging sign read:
D. Dugan
Undertaker and Mortician
Mackey had no idea if this was the only undertaker in town, but it would be the one getting his business that morning.
He tied Adair to one hitching rail and the string of horses to the other. It was best to keep them separate from each other, as the Arabian did not abide the presence of other animals. Or humans, now that he thought of it.
After tying off the horses, Mackey adjusted his black duster and shifted the angle of his black, flat-brimmed Plainsman on his head before knocking on the undertaker’s front door.
The door opened almost immediately. Inside stood a round, pleasant-looking man in a crisp white shirt and black tie. His gray hair was perfectly combed, and he squinted out at the world from behind a pair of round spectacles.
He looked up at Mackey, then at the silver star on his chest, then at the horses tied to his hitching rail. “Yes, Sheriff? How might I be of service?”
“It’s not Sheriff or Deputy. It’s Aaron Mackey, United States Marshal for the Montana Territory.”
“Mackey?” the undertaker repeated. “The territory? Why, I thought you were the law down in Dover Station.”
“I was and still am,” Mackey told him. “Just got named as marshal of the territory a couple of months ago. Guess word hasn’t gotten around as fast as it should have.”
“No, I suppose not.” The undertaker flattened down his hair, though it didn’t need flattening. “I’m Mort Duggan.” He extended his hand, which the lawman shook. “My real name is David, but everyone here calls me Mort, which is short for mortician.”
“What does an undertaker do that a mortician can’t?”
Duggan seemed stumped for an answer. “Provide a greater range of services, I suppose. Proper embalming of the departed. A fitting setting for mourning and of course, a fine Christian burial.”
“That’s fine by me.” Mackey dug a paper out from the inside pocket of his duster and opened it. “I’ve got a prisoner who needs a burial. The government will pay for it if need be. You’ll see to it that the family is notified, too. I’ll pay extra for that if I have to. I just need you to make out a receipt on the back here and sign it.” Mackey saw fit to add, “With your right name.”
Duggan wiped his hands on his pants. Sweat had already appeared on his forehead despite the cool air of the morning. “I must say this is most irregular, Marshal. Usually, this kind of business is done in conjunction with the town sheriff. You see—”
“That can’t happen in this case because the dead man and the sheriff are related.” Mackey unfolded the piece of paper and held it up the mortician to see. “This is a federal warrant signed by a judge in Helena for one Henry Hancock. Wanted dead or alive for murder, armed robbery, cattle rustling, horse thievery, and just about every sin mentioned in both testaments of the Bible.”
Duggan frowned. “As a resident of Hancock, sir, I’m familiar with Henry’s reputation.”
“Good.” Mackey refolded the paper and inclined his head back toward the five horses at the hitching post. “Because Henry Hancock’s remains are draped over the saddle of the Appaloosa back there. I need you to take possession of the body and notify the family, and I need you to do it right now.”
Duggan’s small eyes grew wider before he rushed past Mackey to examine the body for himself. His hands passed over the two bullet wounds in Hancock’s back before he bent to take a better look at the dead man’s face.
Duggan stood up and leaned against the horse for support. “Good God, sir. That really is Henry Hancock.”
“That’s what I said.” He held out the back of the warrant to him. “Now, if you could write up that receipt, I’ll be on my way.”
“But how could this happen?” Duggan asked. “He and his gang were the terror of the territory. None of them had received so much as a scratch in all these years.”
“They received a hell of a lot more than that last night,” Mackey said. “I only had paper on Hancock, so I left the others where they died. I won’t need receipts on them, but I will for Hancock, so let’s get moving.”
Duggan squinted at him. “You mean you killed all of them?”
Mackey didn’t like the undertaker’s tone. “Did I stutter?”
“And you left them out there? For the birds and critters to gnaw on their mortal remains?”
“You can hitch up a wagon and go out and get them if you want,” Mackey said, “but on your own time and only after I get my receipt.”
Duggan took another look at the face of the dead man slung over the saddle. “Henry. It’s really you, isn’t it? I never would’ve imagined.” He looked up at Mackey. “Good God, Marshal. Do you have any idea what you’ve done by bringing him here? You’ve brought a dead Hancock boy to the town of Hancock. His family owns this town and everyone in it.”
Mackey knew exactly why he had brought him back to his hometown, but that was none of the ditch-digger’s business. “I’m the one who shot him, so I know what I did.” He beckoned to the doorway of the undertaker’s office. “Now, I’ve asked nicely for that receipt a couple of times now, but I’m beginning to lose patience. I haven’t had my supper, and I’m anxious to get something to eat before news of this spreads. I’ll probably be dropping off a few more of his relatives before the day is done, and I’d like to do it on a full stomach.”
Duggan trudged back up the stairs to his shop like a man in a trance. “A black day. The blackest, indeed. Hell has broken loose in Hancock now.”
Mackey followed the undertaker inside. “It was like that long before I showed up. All I did was poke the devil in the eye.”
Duggan looked up at him as he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk. “I’ll probably be working on you before sundown.”
Mackey set the warrant on the desk so Duggan could write the receipt. “Not likely.”
* * *
Mackey rode Adair over to the livery, trailing the five horses behind him on a line.
The liveryman was a black man named Arthur, who was enthusiastic at the prospect of acquiring five quality mounts he could resell at great profit. But he quickly soured on the idea when he recognized the saddles and the horses as belonging to Harry Hancock and his gang.
“Well, I’ll be,” Arthur said as he took a closer look at the horse that had carried Hancock’s corpse to town. “This animal’s still got blood on her.”
“Hancock’s blood,” Mackey said as he leaned against the livery entrance, keeping an eye on the street. “No extra charge for it, either. You could probably charge people a nickel apiece just to look at it. What do you say?”
“I don’t know, mister. The Hancock family won’t look too kindly on me purchasing a death horse, especially when that horse belonged to their kin and his friends. They’re likely to take these animals off me after I pay you good money for them.”
Mackey noticed the boardwalks of Hancock were starting to fill up with people. They were mostly shopkeepers opening for business. He could tell they were too calm for the news about Henry Hancock to have reached them yet. Once it did, they would be abuzz with activity, flitting around from one store to another like bees in a flower garden.
That’s when the trouble would start.
Trouble he knew he would not avoid. Trouble he had wanted to start by bringing Henry Hancock’s body to town.
“You hear what I said, mister,” Arthur repeated. “The Hancock family will just take these animals away from me if I buy them from you.”
Mackey had heard him. “I’ll arrest them if they do.”
“You wouldn’t even know about it,” Arthur said. “Hell, I’ll likely be dead and strung up from that rafter up there before I had a chance to yelp, much less get word to you about it.”
“They won’t hurt you.” Mackey kept watching the street. “They come for anyone, it’ll be for me.”
“You don’t know the Hancocks, sir,” Arthur said. “I thank you for the offer, but the answer is no. You might as well take these horses to a ranch someplace. They’d likely give you a better price for them than I ever could, anyway.”
But selling the horses to Arthur wasn’t about profit, just like bringing Henry’s body to town wasn’t about burial. It was about more than that.
It was about making sure the Hancock clan knew their place. That’s what Mr. Rice had wanted. That’s what Mackey had wanted, too.
“What if I agreed to stay in town until tomorrow? Agree to protect you until all of this blows over? You can keep the horses and pay me tomorrow if I’m still alive. That way, if they take them from you, you’re not out any money. You can even charge me for stabling Adair if you want.”
“You think this will just blow over?” Arthur looked up from one of the horses he had been examining. “Hell, mister, you just killed a Hancock. The breath of God himself couldn’t blow this over.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” He looked back at the liveryman. “Keep them overnight and see how it goes. What do you say?”
Arthur looked at the marshal and swallowed hard. “I’d say my business is horses, mister, and not men. But you look just as bad as those crazy Hancock bastards. Maybe even worse.”
Mackey turned so he could look back at the street. A bell above a storefront door tinkled as someone got their first customer of the day. The sky was high and blue. The harsh light of morning made the entire town look clean and new. It had the promise of being a nice day, but he knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
“Write up that receipt for the horses and we’ll consider it a done deal,” Mackey said. “You can give me the money tomorrow before I leave town.”
Arthur petted one of the dead men’s horses, then began writing out a receipt on the back of the warrant, next to Duggan’s list of mortuary services. “If we’re both still alive.”
“We will.” Mackey took Adair’s reins and climbed into the saddle. “Now, how about telling me where the telegraph office is?”
* * *
The telegraph office was close enough to walk to, but Mackey had been a cavalryman and never walked when he could ride. He took great pleasure in riding up the middle of the town’s Main Street to the telegraph office.
He enjoyed the looks and whispers he drew from the few people making their way along the boardwalk that chilly Montana morning.
At just a shade over six feet tall in his stocking feet and clad all in black astride a black horse, the clean-shaven Mackey knew he did not fit in easily. But the black outfit made the silver handle of the Peacemaker holstered to the left of his buckle stand out and the silver star on his chest gleam. Visibility was the point. A United States Marshal should not fit in with everyone else. Especially since he had come to town to make a point.
Adair seemed to enjoy the attention, too. He could swear the horse held her head a little higher and stepped a little livelier as she drew looks from the citizens of Hancock.
For a cattle and mining town, Mackey had expected to see more activity in Hancock, even this early in the morning. The Great Northwestern Railway had not stretched this far north yet and, according to its owner, Mr. Rice, was not likely to do so any time soon.
Not until some concessions were made by the Hancock family. Concessions Mackey had come to town to get on Mr. Rice’s behalf.
Although the railroad had not yet laid track as far north as Hancock, it had extended its telegraph lines northward as something of a concession to the town’s promise of a brighter future.
When he reached the telegraph office, Mackey climbed down from the saddle and tied Adair to the rail out front. He rubbed the horse’s muzzle as he walked inside.
The door was open and the office was empty. He rang a small bell on the counter, and a clerk scrambled out from a back room. The little man looked like he had just woken up and was still tucking his shirt into his pants. “Yes, sir. How may I help you?”
“I need a pad and paper to write out a telegram.”
“I’ll be happy to write it out for you, sir,” the clerk said. “After all, that’s what they pay me to do.”
Mackey looked at him until he got the point and handed the telegraph book and a pencil to him.
The clerk crossed his arms as he watched Mackey write out the message. “I hope you know we charge by the word. Don’t go getting too long-winded or it’ll wind up costing you a pretty penny.”
Mackey kept writing despite the clerk’s prattle. “I strike you as the long-winded type, boy?”
The clerk uncrossed his arms. “No, sir. No, you don’t.”
The marshal finished writing and shoved the book across the counter to the clerk. “You make out my handwriting?”
The clerk read the telegraph aloud to himself:
“Judge Forester, Helena—STOP—Hancock dead—STOP—Receipts to follow by post upon return to Dover Station—STOP – Signed A. Mackey—STOP.”
The clerk looked up at him. “Hancock dead? Which Hancock?”
Mackey placed enough money on the counter to more than cover the cost of the telegram. “Just send it. Now. I’ll wait.”
The clerk took the money and the notebook and sat down at the telegraph to begin tapping out the message to Judge Adam Forester in Helena, Montana. Mackey knew the judge would be furious with him about killing Henry Hancock instead of bringing him in alive. He had looked forward to the spectacle of a jury trial to show the rule of law had ridden west with him to Montana. He’d be annoyed, but smart enough to avoid raising a fuss about it. Forester was a presidential appointee, just like Mackey, but with one difference. There were plenty of lawyers who could be judges, even in Montana, but not many who could serve as United States Marshal. None who could have done the job well, anyway. And no one who had Aaron Mackey’s pedigree. After all, he was the Hero of Adobe Flat. The Savior of Dover Station.
Judge Forester was a good man, but he was just another attorney in a territorial capital filled with men eager to take his place, especially with statehood around the corner. Aaron Mackey, on the other hand, was a local hero.
Not that such notoriety would do him much good in the town of Hancock over the next twenty-four hours.
The clerk looked up at Mackey after the telegram was sent. “It’s all done, Mr. Mackey.”
“Marshal, not mister.”
The clerk seemed to notice the star on his chest for the first time. “Of course, sir. My apologies.”
He knew the clerk would start spreading the contents of the telegraph the moment he had the opportunity. Everyone in town would probably know its contents before Judge Forester had a chance to read it.
That was fine by Mackey. He could not stop it even if he had wanted to. If anything, he was counting on the gossip to speed things along.
It was time for him to set the next part of Mr. Rice’s grand plan in motion. “Tell me where I can find the sheriff.”