CHAPTER 5
Back in Dover Station, Deputy U.S. Marshal Billy Sunday leaned against the porch post in front of the old jailhouse while he built a cigarette with dark, nimble fingers. He was glad the wind was not strong enough to blow his tobacco leaves all over Front Street.
The wind in that part of town had changed considerably since they had finished the ornate Municipal Building across the thoroughfare a few months back. Billy mourned the loss of the quaint blacksmith shop and hotel they had torn down to make room for the red brick and iron monstrosity that now lorded over the town like a castle.
The new building even had a clock in it that chimed like a church bell every hour on the hour all day and all night as if to remind all within earshot that another hour of life had just passed by. Billy thought it was a quaint enough sound when he was on the other end of town or riding on the hillside, but being right across from the damned thing when it rang wasn’t so quaint, especially when he was trying to sleep.
But neither he nor Mackey had given Mayor James Grant the satisfaction of complaining about it.
Grant’s first order of business upon his election to mayor had been to abolish the office of the town’s sheriff department and replace it with a larger police department made up of gunmen loyal to him. Grant had been smart enough to hire their old friend Walter Underhill as chief of police. After all, their town was on the rise, and terms like “sheriff” did not quite fit with the Dover Station Company’s plans to make the town the jewel of the territory.
Grant’s second official act as mayor was to lead his new police force to the old jailhouse and demand Mackey and Billy’s stars and the key to the jailhouse. He planned to destroy the squat old building and expand the livery to include horse stables for his new police force.
Grant did not know that Mr. Rice had pulled strings with his friends in Washington to get Mackey named United States Marshal of the Montana Territory and that the jailhouse was now federal property.
The black man smiled at the memory of the look on Grant’s face as he sealed his cigarette around the tobacco.
He stood because he didn’t feel much like sitting on the wooden bench, and the rocking chair beside it had always been Aaron’s. Plenty of other people had taken a seat in the rocking chair, though, after Aaron got famous following the whole Darabont business a year or so ago. Nearly everyone who came to town or was just passing through wanted to see the jailhouse from where the Savior of Dover Station defended justice. They all wanted to sit in the great man’s rocking chair and pepper Billy with questions he usually ignored.
Does the sheriff’s Peacemaker really have pearl handles? Has he really killed all those men the papers say he did? Is he really seven feet tall?
Billy never ceased to be amazed at how so many facts could be jumbled in the retelling or just flat-out made up. His friend hated his newfound notoriety, which men like James Grant had turned into a tourist attraction, but Billy managed to find a way to enjoy it. It was nice to see people genuinely happy to see them, which was rare for a lawman.
After answering a few questions, Billy usually directed them over to the Dover Station General Store and Mercantile, where Aaron’s father, Brendan “Pappy” Mackey, would gladly tell them all about his part in the Battle of Dover Station and how his son had come to be known as the Hero of Adobe Flat when he was in the cavalry.
Billy imagined Pappy’s store was the birthplace of a lot of the embellishments in what had become known as the Battle of Dover Station and other stories associated with Mackey.
Billy Sunday had been with Aaron at both engagements and at a few dozen more that had been too bloody for anyone to want to hear about. People tended to only like the stories they wanted to hear. The kind where the heroes and the villains were plain to see, like lines of troops on a battlefield. They didn’t like it if the tales blurred lines between good and bad. They shied away from stories of the real world where the hero didn’t always get the girl and the villain didn’t always die on the last page of the story.
They didn’t like stories where the hero wasn’t always the hero.
In that regard, Billy Sunday had never thought of Aaron Mackey or of himself as heroes. He thought of Aaron as a good man who did right whenever he could. That was enough for Billy Sunday to consider him a friend.
Billy had struck a lucifer match off the post and lit his cigarette when he spotted Mayor James Grant and Chief Walter Underhill come down the stone steps of the Municipal Building and head his way.
He cursed to himself as he waved the match dead and tossed it into the thoroughfare. A pleasant Montana morning ruined just like that.
Mayor Grant was a tallish man in his mid-forties whose sandy blond hair and a full beard had begun to gray in all the right places for a politician. He had one of those faces where the gray made him look distinguished. He was broad shouldered and thick around the chest. Billy always thought he looked more like a laborer who had become a foreman than a man who had come to wield so much power.
He had the common man’s touch, having been a rancher, a stagecoach station manager, and operator of a telegraph office for the railroad. Rumor said that he had once served as a lawman in some capacity in Nebraska, though the town and the time of his service was a matter of some debate.
Somewhere along the line, he had managed to get the ear of Silas Van Dorn, Mr. Rice’s partner in the Dover Station Company, who hired Grant to manage the company’s operations and transformation of Dover Station.
Billy figured his agreeable appearance was a good reason why the people of Dover Station had seen fit to elect the son of a bitch mayor.
Since his election, James Grant had beaten or killed just about everyone and everything that had stood against him since he had arrived in Dover Station.
Everyone except Aaron Mackey and Billy Sunday.
Chief Underhill hung back as Mayor Grant approached the jailhouse alone. The big Texan with the long blond hair usually looked robust and powerful, but on that morning, his skin was pale and he looked sick.
Billy knew this was going to be an interesting visit.
Grant removed his hat before speaking to Billy. A delicate gesture of an indelicate man. “Morning, Deputy Sunday. I suppose I can still call you that, given your new post with the federal government.”
“The badge is different,” Billy said, “but the title’s the same. Easier to remember that way.”
Grant forced a smile as he asked, “Is the marshal around, by chance? I’d like to talk to him about a matter of some urgency.”
“Just so happens that he’s away on a matter of some urgency. Federal business.” Billy had no intention of telling Grant that Aaron was off tracking down Hancock and his gang. Grant might already suspect that Mackey was after his allies, but Billy would be damned before he confirmed it for him.
“Do you have any idea where he is so I might send him a wire?” Grant asked. “As I said, it’s a matter of some urgency.”
“I’ll tell him to stop by to see you when he gets back to town,” Billy said.
“When will that be?”
“Don’t have any idea. Could be a day or two. Could be a week. Federal business is hard to peg down sometimes.”
Grant masked his disappointment well. He glanced back at Underhill, who silently prodded him on.
Billy could tell by the glance that something good was, indeed, coming his way. “Do you think you might be able to help me?”
Billy blew out the smoke from the side of his mouth. “Depends on what it is.”
Grant looked back at Underhill once more. “What do you think, Chief? Could Deputy Sunday help us?”
Underhill squinted as he slowly nodded. It was as if he was trying hard not to be sick. “I already told you he could, didn’t I?”
Billy saw Mayor Grant bristle at Underhill’s tone. He tried to cover it, but not quick enough for the deputy to miss it. “I’m afraid you’ll find the chief in poor spirits today. We have something of a situation on our hands, one that I believe your time and experience on the Great Plains might help us understand.”
Billy had no idea how his time in the cavalry could help either Grant or Underhill. But given Underhill’s sickly expression, he imagined it wasn’t anything good. “I’ll be happy to help. Lead the way.”
“You won’t need my assistance.” Mayor Grant quickly put his hat back on as he stepped back into the thoroughfare. “Chief Underhill here will be able to show you everything far better than I could. Besides, I’m already late for a meeting in my office.” He touched Billy’s arm and lowered his voice. “Thank you in advance for your discretion, Deputy. We deeply appreciate it. Please come by my office later once you’ve had a chance to fully grasp the situation.”
Billy squinted through his cigarette smoke as he watched Mayor Grant walk across Front Street and go up the stairs into the Municipal Building.
Billy noticed Underhill still hadn’t moved. The big man just stood there as if he was waiting to be helped across the street. “Should I bring my rifle for this help I’m providing?”
Underhill slowly shook his head. “Just a strong stomach.”
Billy pulled the jailhouse door shut and locked it. He couldn’t recall a time when the Texan had been so subdued. He slipped the key into his pocket and walked down the steps to the thoroughfare where Underhill stood. “Sounds serious.”
“It’s worse than serious, Billy. It’s evil.” He nodded to the alley across the street next to the Municipal Building. “Follow me. I’ll show you.”
* * *
Billy had always been able to sense trouble before and after it happened.
Whether he was out on the trail or in town, that sense of death and danger had been the advantage that had saved his life more times than he could count.
And as he followed Chief Underhill through the alley and toward three new houses that had just been built across the street behind the Municipal Building, Billy’s instinct kicked up once again.
A hint of stale blood and worse reached him as they cleared the mouth of the alley.
Billy looked at the three new buildings. They had been painted a dark blue, and he could still smell the fresh-cut wood underlying the stench of death. “What happened in there, Chief?”
“Talking about it won’t do it justice. You’ll have to see it for yourself, and I mean that, Billy. You’ll have to go in there by yourself. I went in there once.” He stopped and brought a hand to his mouth. “I won’t be making that same mistake again.”
The wind picked up, and the stench of death grew even stronger. Underhill stopped again and turned to the side as he retched.
Billy walked past the chief, knowing the Texan wouldn’t be much use to him anymore.
He saw the door of the third house on the right was open. He also saw a dark smear on the boardwalk connecting the three houses, a smear that ended in the dirt below the porch.
Billy pulled the Colt from the holster and held it at his side as he walked toward the death house. He slowly stepped up onto the boardwalk and squatted to take a closer look at the smear on the porch. He saw a bloody footprint leading off the boardwalk.
A very large boot print.
He looked back at Underhill. “That would be your boot in the blood, wouldn’t it?”
The big Texan nodded the best he could as he heaved once more into the mud.
Billy slowly stood up and saw the trail of blood led back to the house with the half-open door.
This is where it happened. This was why they had asked him here.
He nudged the door inward with the barrel of his gun, and the putrid smell of death only grew worse.
Billy minded his step as he moved inside. There was no reason for him to wait. Death was no stranger to him.