CHAPTER 24
The first signs of sunrise had just begun when Jerry Halstead pulled back on the reins and brought the four horses pulling the prairie schooner to a complete stop. As if on cue, Mackey and Billy Sunday rode back to him from their outlier positions.
“What’s wrong?” Mackey asked. “Daylight’s just starting.”
“And a long night’s just ending.” Halstead set the wagon break and laid the team’s reins aside as the horses began to eat the grass at their feet. “We’ve been running these girls at a good clip all night, Aaron, and they’re mighty tired. Figured they could use a rest. Your mounts look like they could use it, too.”
That was why Mackey had always hated riding at night. It was easy to lose track of time and distance without the benefit of the sun and the shadows to help him keep track of where they were going. The high moon had helped show them the way across the rough country when they’d taken Van Dorn from the train the night before, but he found it difficult to remain centered in the darkness.
He was glad Jerry had not fallen into the same trap.
“Maybe stopping for an hour’s not such a bad idea.” Mackey began to dismount. “Best use the twilight to rest. I don’t think anyone’s on our trail, anyway.”
“I’ve been keeping an ear out for anyone riding out after us,” Billy said as he climbed down from the saddle, too. Like Adair, there was no reason to hobble her because she wasn’t going anywhere. The grass was too plentiful. “Didn’t hear anything, so we should be safe for a few hours.”
“Sounds good to me.” Jerry jumped down from the jockey box. “My backside could use the rest.”
Mackey climbed up on the tailgate and took a look at their charge hidden beneath a blanket. The wagon was actually a stripped-down prairie schooner with the bows and cover removed to make it less conspicuous.
Inside the wagon bed, Silas Van Dorn slept on a mattress as peacefully as a newborn baby. The man had just spent the night being bounced across a landscape that wasn’t meant for a wagon, but the last bit of laudanum the doctor had given him had served to keep him asleep the entire time.
Mackey had always had doubts about the wisdom of taking Van Dorn off the train, but doubted they could have held off an attack for very long. He didn’t know how many men the Hancocks would send to take Van Dorn or if they might use dynamite. Taking him via wagon was longer, but safer in the long run.
At least that’s what he had told himself when he devised the plan.
That was before he knew Grant had hooked Van Dorn on opiates. It had been too late to call off the plan by then, but after what Lagrange had told them, he still thought he had made the right move. Fending off gunmen from a railcar in the middle of nowhere would’ve been madness. At least they had a chance on the trail.
But he was beginning to wonder if reaching Laramie would prove too hard a task.
Billy was waiting for him when he stepped off the tailgate. “How’s the patient?”
“Still out of it,” Mackey said. “I don’t want to give him another dose unless we have to. I know the doc said a tablespoonful would do the trick until Laramie, but I plan on giving him more if he wakes up before then.”
“Shame,” Billy observed. “All that money and power and he’s still no better than a Tent City drunk.”
“Grant got him hooked on it without him knowing,” Mackey said. “I’d like to see him answer for that, too, but after we get old Silas here to Laramie.”
Billy leaned against the wagon and looked off in the general direction of the train. They had ridden well south of Chidester, but were still a good day or so away from Laramie.
They were too far away to hear anything, much less see anything, especially at night. “Wonder how Lagrange fared against the attack.”
Mackey said, “I’d say the chances of him still being alive are pretty good. Lagrange might be a dandy, but the man knows how to fight. Same can’t be said about the Hancock boys. Hell, I took them down in the open when they tried to run me down. I’m sure he’s just fine.”
“Still, bet they outnumbered him at least ten to one. That’d be tough for anyone, even us.”
Mackey looked off in the same direction. “We’ve been through worse.”
Billy dug out the makings of a cigarette and began to build one. “Think we’ll be through even worse before all this is done.”
“I believe you’re right.” He looked at Jerry, who was stretching his back after a long night’s ride driving the schooner. It had been a tough ride, even for a young man. “You sure you didn’t see signs of a camp when you brought the wagon to pick us up outside of Chidester?”
“I didn’t see one,” Jerry said. “That doesn’t mean one wasn’t there. But this wagon isn’t exactly quiet, and since no one rode out to give it a look, I’d say there wasn’t anyone in earshot of me. That might tell us something.”
“Something,” Mackey agreed, “but not enough.” His mind told him one thing, but his instincts told him another. He wanted to send one of them back to see what had happened to Lagrange but knew it would be a waste of time. Lagrange knew what he was doing when he had volunteered to handle the train. That part of the plan was his responsibility. Van Dorn was Mackey’s.
“We’ll need to be ready if the Hancocks track us down when they find out Van Dorn’s not on that train.”
“Assuming they even care,” Billy added. “Assuming they tried to kidnap him in the first place. There’s a lot of land between here and that tunnel. Car could’ve stopped anywhere if it got uncoupled at all. They could be waiting to hit him in Laramie.”
“That’s a Pinkerton problem,” Mackey said, “not ours.”
Jerry Halstead seemed confused by the conversation. “If this man Grant is so bad, why doesn’t someone just shoot him and get it over with?”
Mackey felt Billy’s eyes on him but didn’t look back. “Not one word, Deputy Sunday.”
Billy smiled and kept building his cigarette.
* * *
Back in Dover Station, Joshua Sandborne had just finished cleaning the last Winchester in the rack when he heard a great ruckus out on the jailhouse porch.
His first instinct was to investigate, but the memory of Billy’s final words to him before he left held him back. “We’re deputizing you to keep an eye on the place while we’re gone. Nothing else is your concern.”
He took down the Winchester he had just finished cleaning and leveled the rifle at the door. He did not have to rack a round into the chamber. The marshal wanted the rifles kept fully loaded and Sandborne had obeyed his wishes.
Now was the time to wait and listen. The time to aim and fire might never come. Mackey had taught him the difference.
As Sandborne listened, he heard the unmistakable sound of splintering wood. He knew it wasn’t coming from the heavy wooden jailhouse door, for the wood was still intact. It was coming from outside. He saw a chunk of dark wood pass by the window and knew the attackers must be breaking up Billy’s bench and Aaron’s rocking chair.
But why? Didn’t they know the lawmen would be back and, when they were, would not be happy to find their seats ruined.
He braced himself when he heard a key in the lock and it began to open. He took a step back behind the desk for cover and dropped to one knee as he raised the Winchester to his shoulder.
The door swung open and three men walked into the jailhouse. The gold stars on their brown dusters showed they were Dover Station policemen.
“Don’t move,” Sandborne shouted from behind the desk.
The three men saw the rifle and stopped just inside the doorway. All three had pistols on their belts. None of them threw up their hands, but none of them reached for their guns, either.
The policeman in the middle peered into the jail. “That Joshua Sandborne from The Campbell Arms I see hiding behind the marshal’s desk? What are you doing here, boy?”
Another one, who Sandborne recognized as a man called Harry, laughed, “I know what he’s doing here, Sam. He’s trespassing. Playing marshal while the big man’s away.”
The third man, Leonard Penn, did not laugh. “Best put down that gun, boy, before you get hurt.”
But Sandborne remained exactly where he was, and the gun did not move. “Looks to me like you three are trespassing on federal property.”
He stood up slowly so they could see the Deputy Marshal star Mackey had given him before he left on the train to Laramie. The Winchester remained aimed at them. “You back out of here right now, and I won’t tell Mackey or Billy what you did to their chairs.”
Sandborne was glad he had managed to keep the fear out of his voice. He thought he sounded downright serious, just the way the marshal always did.
Only none of the men backed up. None of them even moved.
Only Leonard Penn spoke. “You think you’ll run us off just by pointing a gun at us, boy?”
The man in front, who Sandborne now remembered was called Steve Edison, said, “We’ve lost count of how many times we’ve had guns pointed at us. And we’re still here to tell the tale.”
From his spot on the right, Harry said, “We didn’t run then and we’re not running now. We’ve got a writ signed by Mayor Grant himself authorizing us to take this building, and that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
“A writ?” Sandborne had spent most of his life on cattle ranches, not in jailhouses. He had a vague idea of what a writ was but knew it sounded official. Official enough to give these three the notion they had a right to come into the jail and take it over. The fact they had a key, too, only strengthened their claim in young Sandborne’s mind. “What kind of writ and from whom?”
Edison slowly dug into his coat pocket and brought out a folded piece of paper with fancy typing on it. “An order signed by the honorable James Douglas Grant, mayor of the town of Dover Station, Montana Territory. Said this here is a federal facility that has sat vacant for too long and, as such, is now property of the municipality.”
“That’d be us,” Penn added.
“Damned surely would be,” Harry agreed.
Edison continued. “Now, I’ll be happy to lay this right on your desk there, Deputy, and maybe even agree to step outside while you read it over. Assuming you can read, of course.”
Sandborne didn’t know if that was meant to be an insult, but given the number of illiterate people he had worked with over the years, he could understand the concern. “I can read just fine. The marshal can read even better than I can.”
Edison shook his head. “We’ve been given orders by the mayor to seize this property today and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. We’ll be damned before we let some damned waiter stand in our way.”
“He’s not a waiter,” Walter Underhill said as the big man easily pushed his way past his men and into the jailhouse. He snatched the writ out of Edison’s hand and stood between Sandborne and the others as he began to read it.
Without looking at the young deputy, he said, “You lower that Winchester now, Joshua. There won’t be any gunplay today.”
Sandborne did as the police chief said, but kept the rifle at his side. He was fairly certain that Underhill didn’t want gunplay, but he wasn’t so sure Harry, Edison, and Penn shared his opinion.
He watched Underhill hold the paper up to the window so the sunlight could come through it. “Looks official enough, but I’m not sure it’s legal.”
“The hell you talking about?” Edison asked before a glare from Underhill reminded him to add, “sir.” “I mean, the mayor signed it. You can see so yourself. If you don’t believe us, we’ll wait right here while you go check it with him.”
Underhill crumpled the writ as he faced his men. “I’ll wait anywhere I please in this town, including right here if I choose to, just like you three go wherever I say. And I’m telling you to get out of here right now and head back to the office until I come get you. That’s an order.”
It was an order he only had to give once, because, unlike young Sandborne’s order, the men immediately obeyed it.
Underhill eyed them until all three had gone back inside the Municipal Building across the street before turning his attention back to Sandborne. “I can’t give you any orders, especially with that federal badge on your shirt, but I’d appreciate it if you’d put that rifle down. You’ve got nothing to fear from me.”
Sandborne had almost forgotten he was holding it. He eased down the hammer and set the Winchester back in the rifle rack where it belonged. He wouldn’t lock the rifles in place until he was ready to leave the jailhouse. Doing otherwise would only leave him at a disadvantage. A locked-down gun wasn’t much good to a lawman. Mackey had taught him that.
Underhill handed the writ to Sandborne and he took it. “Lots of legal language in there that I’m not sure I understand. It claims the federal marshals that are supposed to be stationed here aren’t here enough to keep the property from being vacant and becoming town property. I don’t think they were counting on you being here, much less being deputized. Guess there’s got to be something to the law if Mackey posted you here.”
“He didn’t tell me why he deputized me and sent me here.” After a few sentences, Sandborne gave up trying to make sense of the writ and handed it back to Underhill. “Guess that’s the reason why. Could’ve gotten me killed, come to think of it.”
“Don’t look at it that way,” Underhill told him. “I’ve seen how you can handle yourself in a gunfight. You’d have held your own against those three just now. Better than any other available man in town, under the circumstances.”
Sandborne took some pride in that. “Even better than you?”
“Don’t go getting carried away,” Underhill admitted, “but I’m not available. Still, this writ doesn’t look legal.” He looked back out at the remnants of the shattered chair and bench on the porch. “Too bad I couldn’t get here before those three idiots wrecked the bench and rocking chair, though. But that’s the ruckus that brought me over here in the first place, so at least their destruction served a purpose.”
Sandborne walked out onto the porch and took a look at the damage for himself. The bench looked like it had been caved in by a rifle butt and smashed to pieces. The rocking chair looked like it had been kicked apart and thrown into the thoroughfare. Some people had recognized it as belonging to Mackey and scrambled to take pieces of the chair while the getting was good.
Sandborne saw a boy dart out from their side of the street, grab a chair arm, and run down the alley of the Municipal Building toward River Avenue. “Why would anyone want a piece of a busted chair? Even a kid?”
Underhill leaned his big frame against the porch post. “Guess maybe he thinks it’ll be worth money someday, seeing as how Aaron’s managed to get himself famous.” He nodded at the Municipal Building. “And I’d wager he’s about to get himself even more famous after his fight with the mayor comes to a close.”
“I sure hope it doesn’t come to that,” Sandborne said. “I’ve got no love for Mr. Grant, but if Aaron and the mayor go at it, it just might tear this town apart.”
“Hoping won’t keep it from happening,” Underhill said as he patted Sandborne on the back before stepping off the boardwalk. He had meant it as a friendly gesture, but it had almost knocked the young man over. “You just keep that star pinned to your chest and your gun on your hip. You’ve got nothing to fear from me, but Edison, Harry, and Penn might have revenge on their mind. I’ll have a word with them, but they’re a testy bunch, so be careful.”
Sandborne knew he was young, but he didn’t like being taken lightly. “And you tell them to mind their step around me, Commissioner.” It didn’t come out as forceful as he had hoped.
Underhill glanced back at Sandborne, amused. “I’ll do that. And while we’re giving each other advice, I’d suggest you send a telegram to Aaron. Tell him what happened here today and what the mayor tried to do. It’d be best if he knew what he was riding into before he came back here, whenever that is. Be sure to lock down the rifles and the front door when you do. Might even want to take one with you, just to be safe.”
Sandborne hadn’t thought about sending a telegram to the marshal about all this, but figured it might be a good idea. He’d get to writing it now so he could cut down on the extra words. He had never sent a telegram before, but was pretty sure they charged by the word, so the shorter it was, the cheaper it would be.
“Thanks for the advice,” Sandborne called out to Underhill just as the commissioner reached the front steps of the Municipal Building.
Underhill waved back at him without looking around and walked inside.
Young Sandborne had a horrible feeling that would be the last time the two men would ever see each other alive.
* * *
Walter Underhill’s mind was busy as he threaded his way through the crowded boardwalk toward The Campbell Arms for an early supper. He imagined Katherine would be missing Aaron something awful and decided she could use some company. Underhill knew he could use some.
He had never been able to understand her attraction to the marshal. She was so refined and polite, while Mackey was usually reserved to the point of being downright nasty at times. But there was no doubt that the two of them loved each other, and love was rare in this world and should be cherished when found.
Cherished in the way he valued his place in Dover Station. There was no denying that the place had changed since the day he had ridden into town looking for the Boudreaux boys over a year ago. The amount of building that had taken place then would have been impossible to comprehend had he not been there to witness it. Money was an amazing thing. Almost anything was possible if you threw enough of it at something you wanted done fast. That and owning your own railroad certainly helped.
Money and a railroad had been the reasons why Mr. Rice had been able to transform the sleepy town of Dover Station into a main attraction along the Great Northwestern Railway. Walter Underhill was proud to have played some part in it all.
That pride did not necessarily extend to his association with James Grant or many of the accusations that had been leveled against him, but at least Underhill had gotten something out of it. He would always be the first police commissioner in town history. Whether the town flourished to be the London of the Northwest or got buried under sand like one of those old cities in Egypt, no one could change that he had been part of history.
He wished his success had not cost him Mackey’s friendship, but if there was one thing he had learned in his forty-five years of living, it was that time waited for no man. Every man had his day and, if that man was not careful, the day would pass without his notice.
Besides, Mackey had sensed what Grant was going to do and finagled himself a federal badge out of Mr. Rice before Grant had the chance to drop the hammer on him by abolishing the sheriff’s office. A smart move.
Which led Underhill to question once again why Grant had done something as shortsighted as issuing a writ to seize the jailhouse. He must have been looking for a way to pick a fight with Mackey when the marshal returned home. Directing the men to smash his prized rocking chair was evidence of it. The act wasn’t enough to bait Mackey into a fight, but the intention behind it certainly was.
It showed Grant was now in control of every aspect of life in Dover Station. He was the mayor, the acting head of the Dover Station Company, and quite possibly, the man who had brought the Hancock clan into town. If so, that would make him responsible for a vast majority of the crime that happened within town limits.
Given that Grant had directly ordered Penn, Harry, and Edison to enforce the writ proved to Underhill that not all of the men in his department were loyal to him. Underhill had known that since the beginning, but now Grant didn’t seem the least bit interested in allowing Underhill to even think he was in charge.
Underhill wondered if he should do something about that. He was not interested in only being an honorary police chief. He may have his flaws, but he was a lawman, and by God, he was no one’s puppet, either. Perhaps throwing whatever influence he still had behind Aaron Mackey might be the best thing for the town?
Perhaps it was because Walter Underhill’s mind was as crowded as the boardwalk he walked on that he did not see the short old man with the missing teeth and bad leg waiting in front of The Order of the Garter Saloon on Front Street. The chief of police had been too deep in thought to notice the man was watching him through the bobbing heads of the men and women going to supper, going to work, or just going home.
Underhill hadn’t even noticed when the man dove through the crowd and drove a dagger deep into the left side of Underhill’s belly.
The big police chief staggered back as the men and women around him screamed at the sight of the attack. The old man’s bad leg gave out, and he stumbled into the street as people rushed to restrain him.
But Underhill drew his Colt and fired three shots into the old man’s chest before anyone could reach him. The Texan fell back against the wall of The Order of the Garter Saloon, the handle of the dagger still protruding from his belly. He felt himself sink to the boardwalk as his legs grew numb.
He laid his pistol on the boardwalk and looked at the belly wound. The dagger was still in his stomach, but had been driven down at an angle that he knew could only be fatal. He shoved away the hands of well-meaning townspeople who offered to pull it out. He knew he was already a dead man, but pulling out the knife would only hasten the inevitable.
He glanced up at the sign for The Order of the Garter Saloon with its fancy red cross on a shield and garter design. His mother had been from England and would have been proud. “Well,” he said out loud, “at least it ain’t a whorehouse.”
Despite the earnest attentions of the people who had come to his side, Walter Underhill allowed the darkness to take him.