The Vindicators

Chapter 4

The exhibition of a bloody corpse in the little church was such a novelty as to ensure that many in the town found their way to church that Tuesday afternoon. When Patrick Sweeney was glimpsed, striding purposefully towards the place of worship, there was a discreet hurry to leave. Nobody wished to appear ghoulish, not with the dead man’s friend about to arrive. The church was accordingly quite empty when Sweeney entered it.

The dead man just fitted neatly onto the trestle table, which was more commonly used for outdoor barbecues than serving in this fashion as an impromptu bier. Somebody, Sweeney guessed the minister, had lit two candles and left them burning near Taylor’s head. He was not an emotional man, but Patrick Sweeney was almost overcome with grief when he saw the indisputable evidence of his friend’s death. Not having yet received the ministrations of a mortician, the corpse had a hideous aspect; with one eye hanging out of its socket.

Sweeney had encountered death in many forms during the war, but nothing had ever affected him in this way. He rubbed his eyes, shook his head and then left the church in search of Sheriff Palmer, to see what steps would be taken to hunt down the men who had done this. From the number of bullet wounds, it was pretty plain to Sweeney that his friend had been attacked by a gang of men; rather than jumped by a lone assassin.

As chance would have it, Sweeney reached the sheriff’s office at pretty much the same moment that Joe Palmer returned from his wanderings. The sheriff had not gone straight back to Mason after the killing, but had instead gone off alone to reason matters out.

Deep inside, the sheriff knew that he had allowed himself to become mixed up in something downright criminal. He did not believe for a single moment that Patrick Sweeney had borrowed $10,000 from McBride, and nor did he think that Chuck Taylor had been threatening to kill anybody when he was gunned down by those damned greasers. Truth was, he had witnessed a cold-blooded murder and done nothing either to prevent it or bring the perpetrators to justice after the event.

These were sobering reflections and the sheriff of Mason County knew that somewhere down the line, he must have taken a wrong turning to find himself in a position where he felt himself obliged to turn a blind eye to such goings-on. He knew that he had accepted Angus McBride’s assistance in securing his present post, and that he had repaid the favour by not being strictly impartial when dealing with the McBrides, but he had never looked to find himself embroiled in covering up a murder.

It was in this low frame of mind that Joe Palmer, as he dismounted outside his office, saw Patrick Sweeney walking purposefully towards him. This promised to be a trying interview, to say the very least of it.

‘Sheriff Palmer,’ said Sweeney firmly but politely, ‘there’s a man lying dead in the church down the street. He was a friend of mine, but that’s nothing to the purpose. I hear he was dumped here by a bunch of vaqueros.’

‘I know all about it, Mr Sweeney,’ replied Palmer, with an air of confidence and authority that he was very far from feeling within. ‘I’m dealing with this. You don’t need to involve yourself.’

‘You mean you’re on the track of those responsible?’

‘I mean it’s law business. You’re a private individual and it’s for me to decide what happens next.’

Something about Joe Palmer’s attitude rang false. Sweeney said, ‘Are you investigating this death or not?’

The façade slipped a little and the sheriff of Mason County looked a little shifty and evasive. Then he blustered, saying, ‘I don’t answer to you, Mr Sweeney. The boot’s on the other foot. Now if you’ll let me get into my office, I’ve work to do, even if you haven’t.’

‘What aren’t you telling me? Do you know who killed Taylor?’

‘I do.’

‘When are you going after them?’

‘I’m not, as you put it, ’going after them’. Far as I can gauge, there’s no crime been committed.’

Patrick Sweeney could hardly believe his ears. ‘No crime? What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Don’t come here cursing and blaspheming,’ said Sheriff Palmer prissily, ‘there ain’t no call for it. There’s no crime, because that friend of yours was killed by a duly appointed deputy.’

‘What deputy?’ asked Sweeney incredulously. ‘You don’t have a deputy.’

‘I authorized some men this very day to help me in a specific case I was handling. Taylor, God rest him, drew down on them and he was shot. There’s no more to be said. I’m sorry and all, but there it is. He shouldn’t have gone for his gun.’

‘You going to tell me more about this?’

‘It concerns you, Mr Sweeney. I don’t think that it would be proper for me to do so. You best consult your attorney, if you have one. I got nothing more to say on it.’

It wasn’t really necessary for Palmer to say anymore, because Patrick Sweeney had already put together the pieces of the puzzle, as he was talking to the sheriff. It was common knowledge that Joe Palmer owed his very job to Angus McBride. Add to that, he knew it had been vaqueros who had left Taylor’s body in town, and that the sheriff had admitted that he had deputized some men that very day, therefore the whole thing added up to a conspiracy against him and Chuck Taylor.

It was no surprise to Sweeney that the McBrides had taken some action against him and his friend and business partner; he had been expecting some trouble from that quarter. But that it had taken the form of a murder was unexpected. He would have thought that Angus McBride was more one for misusing legal processes, rather than just ordering his men to kill an enemy like this. Then Sweeney recollected what Joe Palmer had said about deputizing men in a matter which affected Sweeney himself. He didn’t know the details, but it struck Patrick Sweeney that the sooner he was off the streets of Mason and back on his own territory, the safer he’d feel.

When Taylor’s boys saw Patrick Sweeney riding back from town, they hoped in their hearts that he would tell them that the whole thing had been a ludicrous mistake, and that their boss was alive and well; mad as hell at them for abandoning their work on account of some silly rumour. When he was close enough for them to mark the expression on his face, this hope faded and died. They could see at once that their worst fears had been realized.

‘Well, sir,’ called one of the younger men, who was barely eighteen years of age, ‘did you find out anything?’

The ranch owner reined in his horse and dismounted before replying. Then he said, ‘Some of you boys go and round up my men. Tell ’em to drop what they’re about and come to the house at once. The rest of you, come with me.’

When Ralph Moore and another youngster had gone to look for Sweeney’s men, he said to the others, ‘I’ll tell you now, there’s no doubt that your boss is dead.’

‘How d’you know?’

‘’Cause I saw his corpse, that’s how.’

‘Had he been shot, like Ralphie said?’

‘He’d been shot all right. A dozen times. And it was McBride’s men who did it as well. No doubt about that either.’ In as few words as possible, Sweeney set out for them what he’d seen in town and also the gist of his conversation with Sheriff Palmer. There was a stunned silence.

‘You mean sheriff’s in on it?’ asked somebody.

‘Not willingly, maybe. I’m guessing as McBride’s hooked him in on some legal thing. I don’t rightly know what. But Palmer’s not a bad fellow. I’d say he’s in over his head here.’

‘What do we do now?’ asked Ben Drake. ‘Do we go back to the store or what?’

It was now that Patrick Sweeney unfolded to the young men who were gathered around him in a circle, the idea which had been fermenting in his mind on the way back from town. Had he but known it, the plans that Sweeney set out to those hot-headed youths were to trigger what later was known as the Great Mason County War, although that was the last thing in Sweeney’s mind. He only sought justice for his murdered friend and also hoped to make provision for these young fellows who had suddenly been deprived of both a good friend and their jobs; all at one fell swoop. They do say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and Patrick Sweeney’s intentions that afternoon could hardly have been better.

‘I know you boys are grieved about this,’ said Sweeney. ‘Some o’ you saw Taylor like a father, I know that. But we need to think now on how we can bring those as killed him to justice.’

‘You mean like vigilante justice?’ asked Ben. ‘’Cause from all I apprehend, you’re saying the sheriff had a hand in Mr Taylor’s death. I reckon that means that we can’t go to law over it.’

‘You’re a smart one,’ said Sweeney admiringly, ‘but no, all the same I ain’t talking of vigilantes nor nothing of the sort. Palmer deputized some of those vaqueros as work for McBride, if I understand the situation correctly. But it was a crooked business for all of that. Two can play at that game. I’m wondering how you boys would feel about being deputized yourselves? You’d get a dollar a day and I can’t see any reason why you couldn’t carry on living over at Chuck Taylor’s place. Hell, you could even keep running the store, maybe.’

The youngsters looked at each other, unsure what to make of this notion. It was Ben Drake who asked, ‘How would that work, Mr Sweeney? Meaning, how could we become deputies?’

‘Sheriff Palmer’s not the only law in Mason County. Sure, he’s county sheriff, but there’re justices as well, justices of the peace. Then again, there’s a town a few miles from here that has a constable. He’s regular law. These are men I know and trust. I’ll warrant I can get them to swear you men in and then you could legally arrest those men who killed your boss.’

This was all doubly pleasing for the boys who had been working for Chuck Taylor. On the one hand, they were all genuinely grief-stricken at the death of a man that they all loved and respected. Then again, there was an element of selfishness bound up in it all, because with Taylor dead, most of them didn’t know where their money would be coming from. Some of them had been with Chuck Taylor for years; even before he relocated to New Mexico. Sorry though they’d been to learn of his death, they were also anxious for their immediate future.

‘You think as you could do that for us, sir?’ asked Tim Johnson. ‘Have us sworn in and paid as deputies, I mean.’

‘I’m damned sure I can. There’s one or two favours to call in, but yes, I think I can swing it. Angus McBride ain’t the only one hereabouts that can exert undue influence in such matters.’

That night, Sweeney invited the fellows from Chuck Taylor’s ranch to stay and eat with his own men, hunkering down for the night afterwards as best they could in the bunkhouses and barns. The next day, he roused them early and chose three men to accompany him on a little trip. Ben Drake was one of these; the other two were Tim Johnson and a boy they all called Horse, because of his prodigious strength.

‘You others,’ said Sweeney before they left, ‘try and make yourselves useful around the place. My boys’ll show you what needs doing. You know they say that the Devil makes mischief for idle hands.’ The young men laughed at this, telling each other later that that Mr Sweeney was a real card.

It was a good morning to be out and about on horseback. The sky was as blue as robins’ eggs and there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. They rode north and after a time, Ben asked how far they would be going.

‘Only twenty miles or so,’ said Sweeney. ‘You know a little hamlet called Fiddler’s Creek?’

‘Heard of it,’ said Johnson, ‘never been there, though.’ The other two shook their heads.

‘Only a dozen families live there now. Used to be a fair-sized town for a while, after they struck silver. Then the lodes ran dry and everybody moved on elsewhere. It’s near as damn a ghost town now. But anyways, you fellows don’t want a history lesson. Fact is, they have a town constable still, old friend of mine. He’s more or less retired now, getting on a mite in years. But he still has as much authority as a regular sheriff or marshal. More than that, there’s a justice of the peace living nigh to Fiddler’s Creek. That’s another happy circumstance.’

Back in Mason, Joe Palmer was not having an easy time of it. Angus McBride and his two sons had come calling on him at home, before the sun had hardly risen.

‘All right, all right,’ he said, as the hammering on his door intensified, ‘I’m coming.’

He opened the door and was then compelled to step back smartly as Angus McBride pushed past him. His two boys, who were the meanest pair of bastards that Palmer knew or ever had heard of, followed their pa into his home without so much as a by-your-leave.

‘Make yourselves at home,’ muttered Palmer, as his visitors led the way to his kitchen.

‘I hear where you were shooting the breeze with Pat Sweeney yesterday, after we parted company,’ said Angus McBride. ‘Care to tell us what you said to him?’

‘Nothin’ much. He wanted to report Taylor’s death to me. Told him I already knew all about it.’

‘Ah. What did he say to that?’

‘Didn’t say nothing much. Just lit out.’

‘You didn’t maybe tip him the wink that we might be coming to take his stock?’

Sheriff Palmer shook his head. ‘No, course not. I’m as deep in this as you. I wish to God it weren’t so, but it is. You and me swim or sink together.’

To his surprise, McBride gave him a wide, friendly grin and said, ‘Maybe I was wrong about you. I reckon you understand how we’re situated as well as I do.’ He turned to his sons and said, ‘Come on. We got work to do.’ As he headed down the hallway, McBride turned back and said to Sheriff Palmer, ‘Sorry for troubling you. Let me know if Sweeney comes sniffing round again. Secrets make me nervous.’

When the three men had gone, Palmer found to his chagrin that he was all covered in sweat. One of the McBrides alone was enough to make him uneasy; the three of them together like that was almost more than flesh and blood could endure. He truly was beginning to wonder since yesterday’s little adventure if the game was worth the candle anymore. Maybe he’d do better just digging up and starting afresh somewhere on his own account. But then, he was thirty-eight years of age. The prospect of starting anywhere from scratch was not an enticing one.

Constable Ballard had kept order in Fiddler’s Creek when it was a boom town during the great silver rush of the forties. Now, there were only a handful of folk left in the place and most of them were, like Ballard, getting on in years. Visitors to the town were rare enough these days and to see three ride in together was almost unheard of. One of them turned out to be an old friend from way back; Pat Sweeney.

‘Pat, you old bastard,’ cried Constable Ballard, rising from the rocking chair on his porch, ‘what brings you to these here parts?’

‘Hallo, Sam. How’s it going?’

‘Quiet. Mighty quiet. Who’re your friends?’

‘These youngsters? Why, they’re your new deputies!’

‘Deputies? I don’t need no deputies. Ain’t work enough for one constable, never mind deputies! What is this, Pat?’

Briefly, Patrick Sweeney explained what was going on and old Sam Ballard pulled a face. ‘McBride up to his old tricks again, hey? This sounds worse than his usual games, though. So you want these boys to be authorized to bring in those that killed your friend, is that the way of it?’

‘Pretty much, yes. There’s another eighteen of these young rogues. You give me a commission to do so and I can then deputize them as well.’

‘You want me to swear out warrants for McBride and his boys?’

‘No, I thought I’d get that justice to do it, you know who I mean. Kershaw.’

Constable Ballard scratched his head. ‘So all you want me to do is swear in you and these three boys as deputies and my role in the matter’s done, is that the strength of it?’

‘’Part from their fees. Dollar a day, isn’t it? You give me the paperwork, I can recover the money from the Mason County Commissioners.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Come inside now and I’ll get the job done. Then maybe you’ll leave me in peace for another year. You ain’t come near nor by me for a twelvemonth, Pat Sweeney. Only time I ever see you is when you’re after something.’ The old man stood up and beckoned them. ‘Come into my lair, now.’

Ben wondered if they were about to be offered coffee or even something to eat. He was ready for both, but instead the old fellow rummaged around in an old bureau until he found a yellowing sheet of paper.

‘Come here, one o’ you!’ he said imperiously. As he was closest, Ben went up to Constable Ballard, who handed him the sheet of paper, saying, ‘read them words out loud now!’

The young man took the document and then, speaking in a clear and determined voice, read out, ‘I, Ben Drake, do solemnly swear that I will perform with fidelity the duties of the office which I am about to assume. I do solemnly swear to support the constitution of the United States and to faithfully perform the duties of the office of deputy constable for the Territory of New Mexico. I further swear that I have not promised or given, nor will I give any fee, gift, gratuity, or reward for this office or for aid in procuring this office; that I will not take any fee, gift, or bribe, or gratuity for returning any person as a juror or for making any false return of any process, and that I will faithfully execute the office of constable to the best of my knowledge and ability, agreeably to law.’

After he had finished, Ballard said, ‘Well, boy, you’re now a duly appointed deputy. You others, come now and read this out, one by one.’

When all four of them had repeated the formula, the old constable ferreted about further in a drawer of the bureau and came up with four tarnished badges; each in the form of a six-pointed star.

‘There now, they’re all I got. Pat, you can deputize those other men o’ whom you spoke.’ Ballard led them outside again and settled himself back into his rocker. ‘There now, I’m tired out with all them official duties. I reckon I’ll be taking a little snooze. Good luck with your huntin’!’

After they had mounted up and left Fiddler’s Creek, Sweeney said to the Tim Johnson and Horse, ‘You two ride on ahead for a spell. I want a few private words with young Ben here.’

Johnson and Horse exchanged puzzled glances, but did as they had been bid. When once they were out of earshot, Sweeney said, ‘I didn’t hear your last name ’til a few minutes since. Unless it’s a rare coincidence, I’m guessing that you are that same Ben Drake whose pa was Clarence Drake. Used to live near Mason. That right?’

‘I was raised in Mason County,’ said Ben, ‘left when I was seven years of age.’

‘After your pa was lynched?’

‘Yes, sir. You know about that?’

‘It was only ten or eleven years ago. Most everybody in Mason knows about it.’

‘Could you tell me what happened? I’d sure like to know.’

‘It was a bad business, son. But here’s how it went. I figure you got a right to know.’