Get Out of Town Read online

  Sheriff Aaron Mackey Westerns

  by TERRENCE MCCAULEY

  Where the Bullets Fly

  Dark Territory

  Get Out of Town

  The Dark Sunrise

  GET OUT OF TOWN

  A SHERIFF AARON MACKEY WESTERN

  TERRENCE MCCAULEY

  PINNACLE BOOKS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  Teaser chapter

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PINNACLE BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 Terrence McCauley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  PINNACLE BOOKS and the Pinnacle logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7860-4652-2

  Electronic edition:

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7860-4653-9 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 0-7860-4653-8 (e-book)

  To J. D. Rhoades

  Fierce Warrior and Friend

  CHAPTER 1

  Montana Territory, early spring 1889

  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 wa
s 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.

  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.”