When he was an old man, Ben Drake sometimes looked back on those wild events in the Fall of 1879; scarcely able to believe his own memories. The Mason County War had been a bloody incident and it had been precipitated not by conflict with the Indians or the pursuit of some particularly ruthless gang of outlaws, but by something as prosaic and unromantic as a dispute over the supply of dry goods to an obscure corner of New Mexico. Just imagine that, thought Drake to himself in later years; all those lives lost, just to settle who should be able to sell dresses, pants, pots and pans, to a bunch of farmers and cowboys! In the late summer of 1879, eighteen-year-old Ben Drake left his grandparents’ house near Santa Fe and travelled south to the little town of Mason, where he had been raised. Since the age of seven, it had been drummed into Ben that his father was a no-good wastrel; a man who had kicked out his life at the end of a rope, after being lynched for rustling and the Lord knows what other low crimes and misdemeanors. His grandparents, his own mother’s mother and father, had impressed all this upon him most forcibly, hinting that he too was likely to go down the self-same path if he wasn’t careful. These stories had never rung true for young Benjamin and were greatly at odds with what he himself recalled of his father. Now, he had come to Mason to find out the truth for his own self.
Before he set out, Ben Drake had visited the minister of their church to explain what he had in mind. This good old man had been a great support to the boy and his mother over the years. At first, the Reverend Waterhouse had been shocked; misunderstanding the purpose of his young parishioner’s journey.
He said, ‘If this tends towards the seeking of revenge for your father’s death, then I can tell you now, it won’t answer! Read the book of Romans; chapter twelve, verse nineteen. “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord.”’
‘No, sir,’ said Ben, taken aback. ‘I ain’t about to go looking for vengeance, nor nothing of the sort. I just want to know what really happened to my Pa. And if he wasn’t as bad as some folks say, then maybe set things right and see the truth come out.’
‘Ah,’ said Reverend Waterhouse, vastly relieved, ‘You want only to vindicate a dead man’s name. That’s quite another matter. It’s a laudable enough enterprise, I‘ll allow.’
‘I don’t rightly understand you, sir,’ said Ben, ‘What’s vindicate mean?’
‘Vindicate? Why, bless you my boy, it means to clear somebody of blame, to free a body of suspicion of wrongdoing.’
‘Well, I reckon that about meets the case,’ said Ben, filing the strange and unfamiliar word away in his memory, for future use. ‘I should think that I am hoping to vindicate my dead Pa and see the truth coming out.’
Reverend Waterhouse looked at the earnest youth and his face became grave.
‘You go looking for truth, son, just bear in mind that you might not like it when you’ve found it. But good luck to you and I’ll remember you in my prayers.’
When he arrived in Mason, Ben expected to feel the stirring of familiar memories; he thought that his early childhood would all come flooding back to him. It was nothing of the sort. Sure, he recognized some of the buildings on Main Street and even remembered the general layout of the town, but none of it really meant anything to him. The town was of no greater significance to him than if it had been some place where he spent a vacation for a couple of weeks, many years ago.
The young man had never seen the inside of The Silver Dollar saloon. It was not a place where one would expect a seven-year-old boy to have visited. Well, he was no longer seven and the local saloon seemed to him as good a location as any to start his search and so within a quarter hour of leaving the stage, Ben was sitting at the bar of The Silver Dollar, sipping a glass of porter.
The barkeep was disposed to be chatty, saying as he served Ben with his drink, ‘New round here, ain’t you? Leastways, I don’t recollect seeing your face before.’
Young as he was, Ben Drake was not utterly devoid of sense. He knew instinctively that it would be a bad idea to broach the object of his visit to the town openly, to the first person he talked to. Instead, he decided to choose a neutral topic. He could hardly have guessed that this first casual remark of his would cut right to the heart of his mission, in a few brief words. He said, ‘No, I only just arrived in these parts. Tell me, I couldn’t help noticing, you only got but one store in this whole town. How come? Up my way, we’ve a dozen different little stores on Main Street. Our town’s no bigger than this.’
The barkeep looked curiously at Ben, as though wondering how much to say. At length, he said, ‘Green, ain’t you? You see the name of that one store?’
‘Yes, it was something like McBride.’
‘The McBride Trading Company is the full name. Ain’t just the store they own. Nothing so much as farts in these parts, ’less the McBrides give the go-ahead.’
‘They’re powerful?’
‘Powerful?’ said the barkeep, winking at Ben. ‘Powerful? I believe you! Yeah, you might say as they’re that all right.’
After the man who had served him went off to tend to another customer, Ben mulled over what had been said. He seemed to remember his grandfather telling him about some small and out-of-the-way towns where one man and his commercial concern more or less ruled the roost. Maybe Mason was such a place. As he supped his ale, Ben listened casually to the conversations taking place at the bar on either side of him.
‘Old man McBride won’t wear it…’
‘Mark what I say, it’ll end in tears…’
‘Said he was a rustler…’
When he caught the word ‘rustler’, Ben Drake’s ears pricked up and he turned his full attention to the two men on his left and tried his best to hear what they might be saying. But their conversation was moving on to other matters and the next thing he clearly heard was, ‘Lot of damned nonsense spoke about this crop rotation caper, if’n you ask me!’
Ben wasn’t a pushy sort of youth, but thought that this was an occasion when a little brashness might be forgivable. He turned to the two men and said, ‘Pardon me, did I hear something about rustling?’
‘If you were eavesdropping on a private conversation, then it’s very likely you did,’ said an elderly man with a bristling white moustache.
This was discouraging enough, but Ben pressed on, saying; ‘I have a reason for asking about rustling. I’m sorry to butt in, but could you tell me something about this rustling? Was it round here?’
The old fellow with the moustache exchanged looks with the man he had been talking with and said, ‘What’s it to you?’
‘I knew somebody lynched for rustling near here. It was a long time ago.’
‘It’s not uncommon for people to shout about rustling,’ said the man with the white moustache, ‘there was somebody shot just a few days back. Man was supposed to have been a rustler.’
The other man, who was staring at Ben, said, ‘Mind, not all those who stand accused of rustling are really guilty. And some of those who do the accusing … well, it’s not the first time there’s been such things that take place near this town.’
The two men turned their backs pointedly and continued talking about agricultural subjects, but Ben was tremendously excited by even this brief snatch of conversation. Unless he misread their meaning, those two men had been hinting that there had been wrongful accusations of rustling in these parts. He could hardly believe his good fortune in hearing something of this sort, so soon after fetching up in Mason.
It struck him that he would be unwise to attract further attention by pursuing the subject of rustling, so Ben thought to take a turn around the streets and then give some consideration to where he might stay that night. This last was not a big concern to the youth, because the weather was so fine that he could, at a pinch, sleep out in the open.
The town of Mason might have only the one store, but it was surely an impressive establishment. It stretched for the width of an entire block; far bigger than the average kind of store one might expect to see in a town of that size. The reason for this was pretty obvious when you looked at the variety of goods on sale there. There appeared to be nothing at all that could not be purchased in the McBride Trading Company’s General Store and Emporium; as the gaudy, painted sign up by the eaves of the building proclaimed this to be.
Judging by the displays out on the front and in the windows, there was everything that one might require and all under the one roof. Brooms, zinc buckets, firewood, lamp oil, clothes, food and drink of all kinds, firearms, harnesses for horses and china tea services could all be acquired at the store; either for cash or according to ‘easy terms’.
While he was standing on the boardwalk and admiring the range of goods on offer, Ben saw a troop of ponies heading along the street in his direction. He knew a little about horses and these looked to him to be tough little Indian ponies. The six ponies were roped in a line and being led along by a young man riding a taller and more elegant horse. When he saw Ben looking, this fellow shouted across the street to him.
‘Hey, you looking for work? Or are you like everybody else in this town, beholden to Angus McBride?’
‘I ain’t beholden to nobody, nohow,’ called back Ben, a little affronted. ‘Who are you beholden to, if it comes to that?’
The man responded with a gale of laughter. ‘You got pepper!’ he said. ‘Come over yonder, we can’t shout our business to the whole town like this.’
As he walked up to the man on the horse, Ben said, ‘Weren’t aware we had any business, anywise.’
‘Seriously though, you live in this town?’
‘Not hardly,’ replied Ben. ‘Just visiting.’
‘You looking for work for a bit?’
‘Doin’ what?’
‘Helpin’ to build a new store, herding cattle, all kinds of things? Where are you staying?’
‘Nowhere in particular,’ admitted Ben. ‘I only just got here a half hour back.’
‘Well, we’re looking for young men as ain’t afeared o’ getting their hands dirty. Problem is, nobody in this here town wants to upset the McBrides by coming to work for us. Tell you what, why don’t you come out to the ranch with me and then if you don’t like what you see, we ain’t neither of us lost a thing.’
‘This ranch, is it far from town?’
‘Not a bit of it, five, maybe six miles. Can you ride bareback?’
‘I have done,’ said Ben. He made a snap decision. Somewhere to live and work, only a few miles from Mason, would do very well indeed. He smiled up at the other man and said, ‘My name’s Ben, Ben Drake.’
The rider reached down his hand and said, ‘Good to know you Ben. I’m Fenton Wilder. My friends generally call me Fen.’
As the two young men made their way north to the ranch where the ponies were being taken, Fenton Wilder filled the other young man in on what was going on. It was not a complicated situation and it could be summed up in a few short sentences. Angus McBride and his sons operated the only store in Mason County and were also heavily involved in raising cattle and supplying the army with beef, among other enterprises in which they were involved. They operated what was, in effect, a monopoly on the sale of dry goods, tin-ware, lamp oil and various other commodities in the county and it was their aim to keep things that way.
After this had been explained to him, Ben said, ‘I thought you said that you were going to be running a store? Doesn’t this McBride fellow object to that?’
‘Oh, he objects all right,’ said Wilder laughingly, ‘only there ain’t a whole bunch of things he can do about it. He owns the freehold on most of the property along Main Street, so he’s not about to let any rivals set up shop there, but we’re starting our little place on the ranch, on our own property. There ain’t a damned thing he can do to stop us.’
‘Who’s ‘us’?’
‘There’s a bunch of us, come down with our boss. He’s bought an old ranch, with a house and some cabins for workers like us to sleep in. Now he aims to build a store and start getting the folk from Mason to ride out and buy his goods. They’ll be a sight cheaper than those on offer at McBride’s spot in town.’
Almost as soon as Fenton Wilder had spoken McBride’s name, he and Ben trotted round a bend in the road and saw three riders heading towards them.
‘Lordy,’ said Wilder, ‘They do say, “Speak of the Devil and he’s sure to appear.” Here comes McBride and his boys now.’
The riders ahead of them stopped in the road, blocking the way entirely. The man in the centre was aged about sixty or thereabouts. He had a snowy white beard, but looked as tough as any youngster. His white beard and elderly appearance did not lend him the aspect of a favourite uncle or anything of that sort. If he resembled anything, it was one of the angrier prophets from the Bible; the kind who denounced everybody and called down fire from heaven upon their heads. He was flanked by two ill-favoured fellows who looked to be about thirty. As Wilder and Ben approached with their ponies in tow, the older man spoke, in a sharp and commanding voice.
‘What are you boys about? Where are you taking those beasts?’
Fenton Wilder touched his hat and said, ‘Good morning to you, Mr McBride. We’re taking these ponies up to my boss’s ranch. Will you hold the road against us?’
‘I might,’ said the old man, ‘I just might damned well do that very thing. I know you, but I don’t recognize that other lad, him riding bareback on the pony there. Who is he?’
Before Ben could speak for himself, Wilder said, ‘His name’s Ben Drake and he’s a friend of mine.’
‘Drake, you say? You’re not from round these parts, are you, boy?’
‘I don’t take to being called ‘boy’,’ said Ben stoutly, ‘but no, I’m not from Mason.’
The old man stared at Ben Drake for a few seconds as though he wanted to ask more questions. He contented himself in the end with saying, ‘You’ll do yourself no favours by getting mixed up with this crew. You looking for work? I can always use a likely-looking fellow such as yourself.’
‘Thank you, sir, but I already have a job. I’m working with this man and his outfit.’
‘Too bad. I would o’ thought you had more sense.’ The man with the white beard said to his companions, ‘Come, we’ve more important fish to fry than these young rascals.’ He and the two men with him rode forwards, and went past Wilder and Ben Drake with no more ado.
‘He thinks a good deal of himself,’ said Ben. ‘You know him?’
‘Know him? Why, that’s the famous Angus McBride himself, large as life and twice as natural.’
‘He sets a store by his own self from what I can make out.’
Wilder looked thoughtful and remained silent for a minute or two. Then he said, ‘You know, I had the notion that McBride might o’ known you. He gave you a good hard look, at any rate. You say you don’t know him?’
Rather than tell his new friend a direct lie, Ben said, ‘Like I said, I’m only visiting. Say, is that the ranch we’re heading for, over there across the plain?’
‘That it is.’
Memory is a strange and unreliable thing. Ben Drake would have taken oath an hour earlier that he remembered little of the town of Mason, and nothing at all about any individual person living there. But as soon as Angus McBride hove into view, Ben’s heart had begun beating a little faster and he knew that this was a man that he had seen before. Not only that, this was somebody associated in the inner recesses of Ben’s mind with disagreeable emotions and bad feelings. He couldn’t quite call them to mind just now, although he had an idea that if he left the matter alone, the memories would before long return to him unbidden. Of one thing he had not the slightest doubt; he knew Angus McBride and the remembrance was not a pleasant one.
Chuck Taylor, who had, according to Wilder, bought the ranch and was intent on setting up a store there, came across as a good-natured and fatherly individual. That at least was the impression that Ben formed of the man, as soon as they had been introduced.
‘So you want to join our little band, is that it?’ said Taylor. Well, you’re right welcome. The more men here, the better. You can use a saw and tack up a horse?’
Ben smiled. ‘I can do a sight more than just those two things, sir.’
Taylor patted Ben on the shoulder affectionately. ‘Good man. I’m sure you and me’ll get along together well enough. Fenton here will show you where to stow your gear.’
It soon became clear to Ben that all the other men working for Chuck Taylor had known him for a good long time. He had been running some cattle business up near the Rockies, and for some reason, had taken it into his head to come south and combine cattle trading with setting up a store. Most of his hands had come with him to New Mexico. On the face of it, it was a smart move, at least viewed from a purely economic perspective. With only one store in the whole of Mason County, the folk living there had little choice but to pay the prices being charged by Angus McBride. Sure, they could ride a round trip of fifty miles and buy their goods elsewhere, but that would mean sacrificing a day’s work. It was cheaper to pay what the McBride Cattle Company’s General Store and Emporium were asking.
Cornering a market in this way is every businessman’s dream and Angus McBride had been in this happy position for the better part of fifteen years. Some misguided souls had, over the years, tried to break McBride’s stranglehold on the commercial life of the county; but such efforts invariably came to nought. There was good reason for this. Angus McBride had lent large sums of money to the Territorial Governor, who was consequently in his pocket. The sheriff in Mason was also in the pay of McBride, who had put him in his job. In addition to this, the McBride Trading Company had a fair number of wild Mexican cowboys working for them; vaqueros who would stop at nothing, up to and including murder if the need arose. All in all, Angus McBride and his sons had Mason County pretty well tied up and were in the habit of regarding it as their personal fiefdom. It would be a brave man, or a foolish one, who tried to rock that particular boat.
A different tack on this story Simon, looking interesting.