CHAPTER 3
The sheriff’s office was as plain as Mackey had expected it to be. The jail consisted of an old, beat-up desk, a couple of busted wooden chairs, and two cells in the back of the room that looked like they had been put there as an afterthought. Large windows that seemed to only be cleaned when it rained looked out over Main Street and whatever happened to be going on out on the thoroughfare.
As he waited for the deputy on duty to fetch the sheriff, Mackey noticed the foot and horse traffic along Main Street had picked up considerably since he had ridden into town. He figured part of that was normal, given that people in Hancock had businesses to attend to and things to buy. But he could tell by the way people darted from one business to the next that there was an undercurrent running through town. An undercurrent that likely involved him and the death of Henry Hancock.
When Sheriff Warren Hancock came to the jail, he came alone. He didn’t offer Mackey a greeting, and the marshal had not expected one, either, especially after killing a relative, even if that relative was Henry Hancock.
The sheriff shut the door and plodded over to his desk. He looked like a man who had known how to handle himself once but had allowed himself to go to seed. Too many years of easy living in the town controlled by his family had made him soft. Mackey judged the sheriff to be about thirty or so, but his swollen belly had already begun to spill over his gun belt.
Sheriff Hancock dropped his bulk into a swivel chair that protested the burden with a series of cracks and squeaks. “I just can’t believe it.” The sheriff’s skin turned red and splotchy in some places. He looked like he might cry. “I just can’t believe old Henry’s gone.” He looked up at Mackey. “And you’re the one who killed him. Why? He never went anywhere near Dover Station.”
“I’m the marshal for the territory now, Sheriff.” Mackey took out the warrant and laid it on the desk. “I had paper on him, so everything that happened is legal.”
The sheriff looked at the warrant without really seeing it. “That doesn’t make it right. You didn’t have to kill him like that. He’s got a mama still above ground, you know? And a daddy, too.”
“I gave him the chance to surrender peacefully,” Mackey told him. “He refused. That warrant reads dead or alive. Straight up or over the saddle makes no difference to me.”
The sheriff scowled at Mackey. “And you walking into my office and telling me that is your way of rubbing it in my face, is that it?”
That was part of it, but Mackey said, “I’m here because you’re the closest thing this town’s got to a lawman, and I’m a federal marshal depositing a dead fugitive in your jurisdiction.”
Hancock bolted out of his chair, but stayed on his side of the desk. “That dead fugitive you claim you’re depositing is my kin, Mackey. My own first cousin, damn you. My aunt’s boy.”
“Henry stopped being a boy when he started robbing banks and killing people, Sheriff.” Mackey pointed down at the warrant on the sheriff’s desk. “I can read off the list of charges for you if you want.”
“Charges he had a right to answer in a fair and open court,” Warren said with more grit than Mackey thought he had. “Charges to be brought before a judge, not gunned down in cold blood while he was sleeping.”
“He wasn’t sleeping,” Mackey said. “He was up drinking with his gang around a campfire, celebrating after robbing a bank in Tylerville. I called out to them from the darkness and gave them the chance to give up. They went for their guns instead. If it’s any consolation, none of them made it out alive.”
Warren slowly wiped his soft, pale hands on his pants. “You mean you killed all of them? Where are the rest of them?”
“Hank’s the only one I brought back.” Mackey took the warrant from the desk and put it back in his pocket. “I brought him back because I had paper on him. I left the rest where they died.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He pointed at Mackey. “I’ve heard plenty about you, and I’m not talking about all of that glory stuff about you being a hero or a savior, neither. I’ve heard you’re a stone-cold killer and don’t care about snuffing out a man’s life as if it was nothing more than a candle. And for what?” he sneered. “Dover Station? Another dot on a map of the territory, no different than any other town out here. What makes Dover Station so special, anyhow?”
Mackey was glad to tell him. “A railroad station for one. A brand-new town for another. Banks, cattle, mining. Just about everything the town of Hancock wants to be, but never will.” He took a step closer to the sheriff. “At least not until you and your people start realizing who your friends are and who they’re not.”
Warren Hancock’s eyes grew small and nasty. “Is that what Henry’s death was? A message from the railroad to me and my people to stay in line?” Mackey saw Warren’s hand drop to the gun on his hip. “Is that—”
Mackey nailed him with a left cross to the jaw that sent him tumbling back into his chair.
Before the sheriff could recover, Mackey took the man’s pistol from its holster, opened the cylinder, and let the bullets drop out onto the jail floor before tossing the empty weapon across the room.
Warren was just beginning to come around when Mackey snatched the fat man by the collar and hauled him up out of the chair, pinning him against the wall. “Henry and his bunch got killed because they refused to surrender when I gave them the chance. They got killed because they didn’t think anyone would come for them for the men they killed in Tylerville. That’s not going to happen anymore. Anyone who breaks the law in this territory answers to me and my deputies. Anyone in this territory who’s got paper on them gets brought before a judge, no matter who they are or what their last name is. You’d best make damned sure your family understands that before any more of them try to go up against me in Dover Station or anywhere else.”
Mackey released the fat man with a shove that dropped him back into his chair before Mackey backed away toward the door.
Warren recovered in time to say, “You can talk as fancy as you want in here, Mackey, but smacking me around don’t mean a damned thing. You’re in Hancock country now, boy. Best you remember that. Mad Nellie’s going to be none too happy over what you’ve done. Nothing sticks together like the Hancock family.”
While still facing the sheriff, Mackey opened the jail door and glanced outside. A few of the horses hitched to posts across Main Street were making manure. Great clumps of it had piled up on the thoroughfare.
Mackey grinned back at the sheriff. “Lots of things stick together, Warren. Some more useful than others. Tell your people to watch their step around me. Here in Hancock or anywhere else.”
He didn’t bother to close the door behind him.