The Vindicators

Chapter 6

By all the conventions prevailing at that time, Joe Palmer would have been well within his rights to shoot down the young man in front of him, on the spot. Johnson had gone for his weapon in the presence of a dozen witnesses and nobody would blame the sheriff for pulling his own piece and firing first. But Tim Johnson was not sober and had never drawn a gun in a real, life and death, situation before. The hammer caught on his belt as he drew and while he was fumbling to free it, Joe Palmer took pity on the boy and knew that it would be sheer murder to shoot him at that moment. Instead, he pulled his own gun out and smashed it into the side of Johnson’s head. The two pound chunk of steel was enough to settle the matter for the time being, because it had the effect of sending young Tim Johnson crashing to the floor, knocked out by the blow.

The sheriff might not have been the most popular man in Mason, but the men drinking in The Silver Dollar that night were appreciative of the way that he had settled a tricky problem without resorting to bloodshed. They were particularly impressed when they saw Palmer take out a handkerchief and wipe away the spittle from his face. Few of them would have been forgiving enough to ignore such a deadly insult as that and the sheriff’s stock rose accordingly.

‘You fellows,’ said Palmer to the frightened-looking youngsters who had been standing next to Johnson, ‘why don’t you get yourselves off and leave your friend here. He’ll come to no harm. I just aim to put him in the cell in my office, ’til he sobers up.’

The four young men needed no second bidding and left the saloon at once. When they had gone, the sheriff said, ‘Can one of you men lend a hand here? I want to carry this young fool down the street to my office. I fear to pick him up unaided, for fear of doing my back a mischief.’

There were several volunteers and in a short time, Tim Johnson was securely lodged in the single cell which occupied the back portion of Palmer’s officer. Before they left, one of the men said to Palmer, ‘You handled that right well, sheriff. You’d have been in your rights to shoot that kid.’

‘Ah, he’s only a boy. Like as not, he’ll sober up and by the morning he’ll be apologizing to me.’

By the time the four remaining members of the party which had set out from Pat Sweeney’s ranch a few hours earlier, got home, it was nearly midnight. Sweeney and his men had gone to bed and only Chuck Taylor’s young workers were sitting round a little fire and talking about the next stage in bringing Angus McBride to justice.

Because he was still elated at having only that day learned for sure that there was no substance in the accusations levelled against his father which had led to his being lynched; Ben Drake said little during these conversations. This gave some of the others the impression that he was a little lukewarm on the subject of avenging Mr Taylor’s death. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The reality was that Ben had an even stronger motive than any of those others for wanting to settle accounts with Angus McBride. He had lost his real father due to the man’s lies and crooked dealings. None of the others knew this, though, so they had decided that because the new fellow wasn’t joining in their extravagant protestations of loyalty to the memory of their boss, he wasn’t really that fussed about going after McBride.

When they heard the rumble of hoof beats, the boys seated around the fire assumed that Tim Johnson and the others were returning from town. Only four riders arrived though, leading a riderless horse.

‘Where’s Tim?’ asked somebody.

‘Town gaol, most likely,’ was the surprising reply.

Once the story had been told, there were various exclamations about the unfairness of it all and the fact that Joe Palmer was no more than McBride’s lapdog. Ben Drake kept his own counsel during this talk, having already decided what he himself would be doing about this. After the others had exhausted the topic and were more or less resigned, despite all the big talk, to leaving Tim Johnson in the cell overnight, Ben said quietly, ‘Who’ll come with me to free Tim from the gaol?’

There was a dead silence. The idea that they could really march into town like that and take such a hazardous action had never really crossed anybody’s mind until Ben put the idea notion into words and spoke them out loud. He said again, ‘Who’ll help me? Tim Johnson is a duly authorized peace officer. Sheriff’s got no business at all locking him up in that way. A bunch of us could go up there this very night and bust him out.’

‘You mean fight the sheriff?’

‘Maybe,’ said Ben, ‘but it might not come to that. Does Sheriff Palmer sleep over his office?’

‘No,’ said another of the young men, slowly, ‘him an’ his wife live out on the edge of town. A fair pace from the office.’

‘Tell me now,’ said Ben, ‘what’s this office of his like? How secure is this cell?’

It turned out that the cell at the back of Sheriff Palmer’s office was anything but secure. There had already been one break-out from it in the past, when the blacksmith had been locked up for the night. He had managed to force apart two of the bars in the window and climb out. Since that time, the window had been strengthened and now consisted of a strong lattice of steel bars.

Ben thought about this and then said, ‘The bars may be strong enough and I daresay they’re fixed firmly enough to the frame of the window, but I wonder how that’s fixed to the wall?’

‘How d’you mean?’ asked somebody.

‘Well, I’ve seen a house being built. Window frames are made of wood, right? They’re only secured to the brick walls by a nail or two and a smear of mortar. How’d it be if we took a rope with us and fixed it to the bars of this window? Think a horse might pull it out altogether, rip it from the wall?’

‘It might,’ said one of the boys, admiringly. ‘It just might!’

Nobody thought that it was a good idea to awaken Mr Sweeney. This was less out of consideration for the man and a desire to avoid disturbing his slumbers, than because they were all of them aware that Sweeney might forbid an expedition of this sort. Twenty young men riding down on Mason at this time of night might be expected to invite questions. At the very least, it was a circumstance which might later be remembered by somebody living in the town. It was accordingly thought wise if only three of them went to town to try their luck at the rescue. Ben was one, since it had been his idea. Horse was an obvious choice for another; because of his strength. Young Ralph Moore was chosen as the third, because he was desperately keen to put one over on Sheriff Palmer since the murder of his boss. They took Johnson’s horse along with them.

The streets of Mason were as quiet and dark as the middle of the prairie at that time of night. On the one hand, thought Ben, this was good. It meant that with a little luck, nobody would mark their presence that night. On the other hand, it mean that if they made any noise while freeing their friend from gaol, it would most likely draw attention to them and lead to the Lord knew what complications.

Although the sheriff’s office was right on Main Street, in the most prominent location imaginable, the cell was at the back and the single window faced an empty lot. There were no lights on, either in the office or in any of the neighbouring buildings. In fact, glancing up and down the street, Ben Drake couldn’t see a single glimmer of lamplight anywhere.

‘Looks promising!’ he said to the young men at his side, ‘What say we dismount and lead our horses round the back of the office?’

When they were round back of the office, Ben went up to the window, which was about five feet from the ground, and hissed in a low voice, ‘Tim, you in there?’

‘Yeah, sure I’m here. Who’s that?’

‘It’s me, Ben Drake. We’ve come to set you loose.’

There was a long silence, until Ben began to be worried that the other man had fallen asleep or something. He said, ‘Tim, you still there, man?’

‘Yeah, course I am,’ said the other, with a slight catch in his voice. It sounded as though, although of course it was quite impossible, that the young man in the cell was choking back tears. Ben thought that it might be tactful to take no notice of this and said, ‘Listen, we’re going to pass a length of rope through the bars. Can you push it back again? Well, do that a few times and make sure as the rope is firmly fixed to them bars.’

When the rope had been securely lashed to the bars of the little window, the other end was made fast to the saddle and bridle of Ben’s horse, in an improvised harness.

When this had been done, he said to the other two, ‘Well, let’s do this. Listen, you boys had best have Tim’s horse there ready and waiting. You can ride it up to the window if this works and he can climb straight onto it.’

With that, Ben mounted up and got his horse moving. At first, nothing happened and he began to fear that the window was too well attached to the fabric of the building, but then there was an unearthly, metallic screeching, which must have been audible for half a mile or more and Ben’s horse lurched suddenly forwards. Nearby, a dog began barking at the noise that they had made and across the lot, there was a flicker of light as somebody lit a lamp. It was time to go.

When he turned in the saddle, Ben saw that Tim Johnson had scrambled out of the window and was already mounted on his horse. Ben untied the rope from his own horse and tossed it to the ground. There was nothing to distinguish that length of rope from any other.

‘Let’s head out!’ he said to the others.

On the way back to Sweeney’s ranch, Tim Johnson would not leave Ben’s side. He had learned from the others that it had been Ben’s idea alone to come and rescue him, and that nobody else had even thought of such a thing.

He said to Ben, ‘I ain’t ever goin’ to forget this. Not ever, in the whole course o’ my life. I swear it.’

‘Hey, it’s nothing,’ said Ben, embarrassed, ‘it’s nothing at all.’

‘It’s something,’ said Tim. From that night onwards, it seemed to Ben that some part of the dog-like devotion which Tim Johnson had felt for Chuck Taylor was transferred to him. He’d never thought that Tim was all that keen on him, but from then on in, the fellow was always at his elbow, just waiting to be of use.

When Sweeney heard the next day what had happened, the boys thought that he’d be furious, but he just shook his head despairingly and said, ‘You men’ll be the death of me.’

Ben said, ‘When do we go after Angus McBride, sir?’

‘Not this day, if you’ll all be guided by me. He’s like to be on edge right now. I’m strongly of the opinion that we should let things cool off a little.’

‘For how long?’ asked Ben, acting naturally as the spokesman for the others.

Sweeney gave him an odd look and said, ‘Only a day or two. No more. What I suggest is that you men go back to Chuck Taylor’s ranch today and then spend the night there. I make no doubt that there’s plenty of food for you all about the place. You may as well help yourselves to aught that you need, you being the nearest thing Taylor had to kith and kin. There’s animals need tending to, apart from any other consideration. I’ll ride over tomorrow and we’ll lay our plans then.’

So definite did Pat Sweeney appear to be about this plan, that none of the youngsters had the courage to gainsay him. They saddled up and left within a half hour. None of them ever saw Sweeney alive again. Whether he had some premonition about this or if it was just because having discovered that Ben was the son of an old friend, just before they left, Sweeney went to Ben and handed him a sheaf of papers, saying, ‘You best take charge of these.’

Ben looked at him inquiringly and Pat Sweeney told him, ‘These here are the warrants for those men. You keep ’em safe now.’

There was a whole heap of work to be done when they got back to the Taylor spread, and Sweeney had been right about animals needing to be looked after. Some would certainly not have made it if they hadn’t come back today to see to them. It felt wrong, but two of them went into the big house and found Taylor’s keys there. As Sweeney had said, Chuck Taylor had had no other kin and they might as well try and keep things running, now that he was gone. For that, they would need the money which he kept locked away in his house.

It was a hard day’s work for them all and when evening came, they were about ready for an early night. They retired to the cabins and by eleven were all asleep.

It was Ralph Moore who woke Ben up in the early hours of the morning. He had gone outside to make water and seen an eerie glow in the sky, over to the east. At first, he had thought that it might be later than he realized and that this was the first light of dawn. Then he saw that the ruddy light was flickering and knew that it was flames.

It was something of a mystery to Ben why it should have been to him that Ralph carried this news. Did he but know it, his determination to free Tim Johnson from the sheriff’s office the night before had raised his status greatly among the other youngsters. Some of them were looking upon him almost as a leader.

‘Show me, Ralph,’ said Ben, as he climbed out of the bunk. ‘Wait ’til I get on my boots.’

As soon as he was outside, it was plain that there was a fire raging somewhere, over in the east. With a sinking heart, Ben knew that the ominous light was coming from pretty much the same direction as Sweeney’s spread. He toyed with the idea of waking the others, but then decided against it. It would have been madness for them to go chasing off in the middle of the night to investigate this. Better by far to wait until morning.

He said to Ralph, ‘You did well to tell me about this. You get back to sleep now and we’ll see what’s what when dawn comes.’

The next day, Ben waited until everybody was awake before talking about what had been seen in the night.

‘What d’you make of it?’ asked somebody.

‘I’d say it means mischief of some sort or another,’ he replied. ‘I’d take oath that somebody raised a fire on Mr Sweeney’s property last night. I vote we get over there right soon and see what we can do to help.’

It took a little while for them all to get ready, break their fast and so on, but it wasn’t long after eight when they set off to see what might have happened at the Sweeney ranch. Most of them were thinking in terms of rick-burning or something of that nature. They were quite unprepared for what greeted them.

Facing Patrick Sweeney’s house was a substantial barn, with a hay-loft. This was now a charred ruin. The air was sharp with the tang of burned wood; you could smell it a good half mile before reaching the scene of the fire. Ben was relieved to see that it was only a barn and not Sweeney’s house which had been fired. He had had a terrible feeling when he saw that glow in the sky and had expected something worse than merely a fired barn. Then he caught sight, as they approached the yard in front of the house, of a knot of men. They were not busying themselves with tidying up after the fire or doing anything much, other than standing around, looking down at something which lay on the ground. As they came nearer, it was obvious that this was a body and Ben didn’t need to go any further to know that it was that of Patrick Sweeney.

What had happened was brutally simple. Somebody had set fire to the barn in the middle of the night. Being so close to the house, it was a certainty that Patrick Sweeney would have seen the flames and then come out; either to investigate the blaze or to help with extinguishing it. Someone had been waiting with a rifle, off to the side of the house a little way, possibly behind the low stone wall which ran alongside the yard. As soon as Sweeney had come running from the house, he had been silhouetted by the blazing barn and the hidden gunman had fired just a single shot; killing him immediately. It was, it had to be admitted, a brilliantly planned assassination.

It looked as though, for Angus McBride, the gloves were well and truly off. He had put up, grudgingly, with competition in the cattle business for better than ten years, but the opening of the new store had acted as a catalyst and prompted him to settle all outstanding business. Having disposed of Chuck Taylor, he had seemingly thought that taking a shot at Sweeney under the cover of darkness would be a smart move. Perhaps he was right, because now the only other person in the district, probably the entire county, who would stand up against the McBrides, was gone.

Sweeney’s men didn’t look over pleased to see the posse of youngsters. They were calculating that with Pat Sweeney dead and gone, they would all be out of jobs and homes. Since the death had been precipitated by the trouble between Taylor and McBride, they tended to blame his former employees for matters reaching such a point. One of them said as much, when the young men dismounted and came over to view the body.

He said, ‘You men are the cause of this here. Weren’t for you, none of this woulda happened. You’re not welcome here.’

The others standing round their boss’s body said nothing but stared balefully at the young men, until they felt it best to get back on their horses and ride off again.

As they trotted back to Chuck Taylor’s ranch, Ben remarked to Tim Johnson, ‘That’s a facer and no mistake.’

‘Yeah, I kind o’ liked that Mr Sweeney,’ said Johnson. ‘D’you really think he was killed ’cause of us?’

‘No, I wouldn’t have thought so. I think as that Angus McBride’s just thought it’s time to clear up all his outstanding problems and deal with everything at once. He woulda killed Mr Sweeney, even if he hadn’t helped us.’

‘What do you say we should do now? I can’t live with that bastard McBride getting away with murdering Mr Taylor. You still game for going after him?’

Ben Drake turned in surprise and said, ‘Course I’m going after him. I figured you might want to as well, but I don’t know ’bout some of the others.’

‘Half o’ them’ll cut and run,’ predicted Johnson gloomily. ‘I’d be right taken aback if we end up with more’n a dozen of us.’

‘That’s enough to do the job,’ said Ben, with a new-found confidence.

By the time they got back to the Taylor place, the twenty one riders had split up into small groups, discussing what had chanced that day and working out the best course of action for the future. There were two main motives at work. Those who had folks or friends they could go and stay with, or who had not worked very long for Chuck Taylor were in favour of leaving at once and avoiding any further danger. Those, on the other hand, like Tim Johnson, who had no family or friends apart from those he had made while with Taylor, were still hot for vengeance against the men who had killed him. A cynical observer might have remarked that this party, about half the men in total, were only keen on staying put in New Mexico because they had nowhere else to go.

When they had returned, Johnson suggested, somewhat aggressively, a show of hands to indicate who wanted to pursue the vendetta and who just wanted, as he put it, ‘to cut and run’. Precisely as he had prophesied, ten of the youngsters were in favour of going at once. There was nothing more to be said, and those who wanted to leave collected their gear from the bunkhouses and departed that very morning. There remained Ben Drake, Tim Johnson, Ralph Moore, Horse and seven others.

As though he were a kid starting a secret society in the schoolyard, Tim Johnson said, ‘Hey, we need to have a name for our outfit. What’s you fellows say to the Revengers?’

Ben laughed good-naturedly. He said, ‘Tell you what, I have the perfect name. What about the Vindicators?’

‘What in hell does that mean?’ asked Ralph.

Ben explained the meaning of the word to them, touching as it did upon restoring a man’s good name and reputation. They all agreed that it was a most apposite title for what they planned; which was nothing less than the vindication of Chuck Taylor’s name from the slur of being a rustler.

Johnson at once gave way and so it was that this group of eleven young men, ranging in age between eighteen and twenty three, came to call themselves, the Vindicators.