The Vindicators

Chapter 8

It is a matter of common observation that the young are, in general, a good deal more cruel than those of mature years. This trait is even more noticeable when youngsters are acting as a pack. Taken individually, none of the young men who massacred Angus McBride’s foreman were particularly vicious or unpleasant boys. When a dozen or so immature and restless men are working in concert though, they are capable of terrible things.

After Tim Johnson had shot the horse, Ben looked at his hands to see if he was trembling. He wasn’t. Shooting a man was not, after all, that different from letting fly at a bird or deer. Watching those others fire at the wounded man had been grim, but not unbearably so. When all was said and done, thought Ben to himself dispassionately, the man had almost certainly deserved his fate.

Having discovered that he was capable of shooting at and attempting to kill a man himself, Ben’s main thought now was how he would be able to find Angus McBride and exact private vengeance upon him. He didn’t want the death of that man to be a joint venture like this. It was important to him that McBride would know why he was dying and for whose death he was being called to account.

Something which none of the others had seemingly thought on was that although three of them were supposed to be deputized peace officers, there hadn’t been any real intention to take their first victim into custody. True, he had tried to flee, but after Ben had winged him, it would have been possible to take him into town and hand him over to the sheriff. Then again, it was the case that Sheriff Palmer was in some sense at least in cahoots with McBride, so that might not have answered. Ben wondered if the others were struggling with ethical and legal considerations of this kind. He looked at their faces and came to the conclusion that they were all untroubled by such niceties. It was enough for them that they had settled accounts with one of the men who had killed their beloved Mr Taylor.

‘What about that other you shot?’ Ben asked Johnson, ‘Was he one of them as well?’

‘I seen him around with McBride,’ volunteered Horse, ‘he was one of that set all right. Like as not, he was mixed up in Mr Taylor’s death as well.’

‘Question is,’ said Ben, ‘What do we do now? We got warrants for McBride’s sons as well. Anybody know where they’re like to be? I don’t reckon we ought to ride down on his ranch, we’ll find ourselves outnumbered.’

‘Might not be needful,’ said Ralphie, his face breaking into a wide and youthful grin. ‘I mind I saw Alexander McBride outside the smithy, when I was in town. Maybe he’s still around.’

‘What d’you say, boys?’ asked Tim Johnson. ‘You think we’re ready to declare ourselves? Let folk know that we’re the Vindicators and we’re a comin’ for the McBrides?’

‘We’re lawmen, ain’t we?’ said Horse. ‘Why the hell should we not ride in and take him?’

They were all of them, apart from Ben, flushed with the thrill of murder done, as they saw it, quite lawfully. It was plain that the ten young men all believed themselves to have a perfect right to go and inflict death upon whoever they thought worthy of it. Ben was a little taken aback at this development. He couldn’t see it ending well, because Joe Palmer would be sure to object if he saw some kind of posse galloping into his town and threatening mayhem and murder on the streets of Mason. Then again, he thought, some sort of ruckus in town might flush out Angus McBride and put him where I could take a shot at him by myself. A lot of chaos and confusion could help me. He said, ‘Hell yes, why not? We got the law on our side, as you might say.’

‘Well, what’re we waiting for?’ said Johnson. ‘Let’s go, boys!’

Leaving the two corpses lying in the roadway, along with a dead horse, the eleven riders set off down the road towards Mason. Ben rode at the head of the little column with Tim Johnson, thinking only of how soon he could disengage himself from the others and go looking for Angus McBride on his own account.

Alexander McBride and his younger brother Finley were sitting in the sheriff’s office, talking things over with him. This at least was how Joe Palmer liked to think of these occasional sessions; as, ‘talking things over’. The two younger McBrides had less need to disguise the nature of these chats and described them to each other as, ‘giving Palmer his instructions’.

‘What’re you doing about those boys up at Taylor’s place?’ inquired Alexander. ‘You given ’em their marching orders yet?’

‘I don’t see as I have any authority to turn them off that land,’ said the sheriff. ‘They ain’t doing any harm.’

‘They’re squatting,’ said Finley McBride forcefully. ‘Living on land that doesn’t belong to them. Turn a blind eye to that and before you know it, they’ll be a heap of drifters and saddle tramps arriving in the district and setting up tents, camps, shanty towns and I don’t know what all else. No, they have to go. You got to take a strong line with that kind of thing, right from the start.’

‘Gee, I don’t know…’

‘What don’t you know?’ said Alexander, roughly. ‘You don’t know which side your bread’s buttered on? Want us to spell it out to you? Get rid of them.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. Although he was under no illusions at all about his situation, Sheriff Palmer did not take to having it spelled out with such brutal directness, and was on the verge of kicking against the traces. Sensing this, Finley McBride sought to smooth matters over a little, by saying, ‘Alex, what the devil is wrong with you? There’s no cause to speak to the sheriff so. It’s downright rude. I’m sorry, Sheriff Palmer. Listening to my brother sometimes, you’d think he’s had no raising at all!’

Hearing his title used in that way, twice in quick succession, had the effect of mollifying Palmer, who said, ‘I’ll look into it and see what ought to be done. Not that I’m promising anything, you understand.’

‘That’s all we ask, Sheriff,’ said Finley McBride. ‘Only that you investigate the business and see if those boys have a right to remain on Taylor’s property. Lord forbid that me and my brother here should try and exert any undue influence upon an officer of the law.’

‘Yeah, well,’ said Palmer, so long as that’s understood.’

The sight of eleven heavily-armed men riding through Mason, three of whom wore tin stars, was an exceedingly curious one to the citizens of that town. This was especially so, because until a week ago, these same men had been no more than cowboys, working on a local ranch. You had no need to be skilled in the arts of prognostication to know that the arrival of this band of riders was likely to bring trouble. Mothers who saw them gathered their children to themselves and hurried them away towards their homes. Men on the boardwalks stared uneasily as the group of riders trotted past, wondering what was in the wind.

The blacksmith was no more pleased at the sight of the self-styled Vindicators than anybody else. He said, ‘Seen both the McBride brothers here this day, Alexander and Finley. Couldn’t say where they got to now. You tried The Silver Dollar?’

He had no idea whether either of the men they were seeking was likely to be found in the saloon; he was just eager to get them away from his own property before the trouble began. Because Tom Carter, leaning there on the hammer in front of his forge, had not doubt at all that some species of mischief was about to descend upon the town. His only aim was to keep it from his own doorstep.

They hitched their horses outside the saloon and entered the place together. Because they didn’t know if and when they were going to come across the men they were seeking, the boys thought it prudent to carry their rifles and scatterguns with them. They presented a fearsome aspect to the drinkers in The Silver Dollar, who began to sup up swiftly, with a view to leaving as soon as was humanly possible. None of them wished to appear before his fellows in the character of a coward, but the truth was, nobody wanted to spend any time in the place when these young bloods were so obviously on the rampage and looking for violence. They might some of them be sporting badges, but they had the look about them of men who were seeking death, rather than taking those they were after into lawful custody. Later, when the bodies of Francis Xavier and Valentin Canalizo were found, out on the Santa Fe road, the drinkers who had been in The Silver Dollar that day congratulated themselves on their perspicacity.

‘Anybody seen any of the McBrides today?’ asked Tim Johnson of the barkeep. ‘We’ve a few words to say to ’em.’

‘No, son,’ replied the man, ‘they ain’t none of them been in here so far today. That’s not to say that they won’t be in later, of course.’

‘Son?’ said Johnson softly. ‘Did I hear aright there? I ain’t your son.’ He pointed to the star on his shirt. ‘I’m a deputy, legally appointed and seeking men on sworn warrants for murder. Is that how you’d address me? As ‘son’?’

It was clear to Ben Drake that Johnson was growing into his role pretty fast. He would not have believed a week ago that the young man would have been able to speak with such confidence and assurance.

‘No offence meant, I’m sure,’ said the barkeep. ‘I didn’t see your badge. Those men you asked after ain’t been near nor by this place all day. Deputy.’

‘That’s better,’ said Johnson. He turned to address the bar generally, saying loudly, ‘Anybody seen the McBrides in town today? We know they were at the smithy a few hours since.’

There was a shaking of heads and mumbled denials of having seen any of the McBrides since the Devil was a boy. It wasn’t too hard to work out that the less one became embroiled in this affair, the healthier it was apt to be. For a short space, the young men looked baffled, until Ben suggested quietly to Tim Johnson, ‘You know, we’re acting legally and above board here. Why not go down to the sheriff’s office and set out for him how matters stand? Strikes me as he’s bound to help us if he can. He’s a sheriff an’ we’re deputy constables.’

‘Say,’ said Johnson, ‘that sounds a right good notion. What do the rest of you say on it?’

None of the others had any strong feelings about the proposal, either one way or the other. That being so, they were quite willing to take their lead from Ben and Tim Johnson. All eleven of them accordingly made their way out of the saloon; to the enormous relief of the other patrons.

In Sheriff Palmer’s office, the McBride brothers had finished handing out their advice on what their father expected of the sheriff. It had been a long list and Joe Palmer was, frankly, getting a little ticked off with being treated as little more than a glorified errand boy for the McBrides. He gazed idly from the window and then sat up sharply, spilling his coffee. Some of the hot liquid splashed on Alexander McBride’s hand, causing that individual to exclaim, ‘Mind what you’re about there, you clumsy bastard!’

‘Never mind that,’ said Palmer urgently, ‘there’s a dozen o’ Chuck Taylor’s boys marching down Main Street in this direction. From the look of ’em, some are toting rifles. You men had best get in the back and hide.’

‘Hide?’ said Finley McBride angrily. ‘Have you taken leave of your sense? We ain’t hiding from that rabble of snot-nosed kids. I’ll send ’em packing, you’ll see.’ He and his brother stood up and strode to the door.

The men walking down the street to see Sheriff Palmer were not in any special hurry. They strolled along in the middle of the road, like they owned the town. Until a few days ago, they had been just young cowboys, nobody to take any note of, nothing important. Now, they conceived of themselves as being men on a mission, men moreover who were backed by the law. They felt invulnerable and it was a heady and intoxicating sensation.

Finley McBride opened the door to the street and stepped out into the warm sunshine. His brother followed him. When their eyes became accustomed to the glare, they saw that what Palmer had said was perfectly correct and a gaggle of Taylor’s cowboys were heading up Main Street in their direction. Some of the boys were indeed, as the sheriff had said, carrying rifles. One boy was holding a fowling piece and one or two even had swords hanging from their belts. The McBrides walked off the boardwalk into the road and took up positions right in the middle, so that the oncoming group could not fail to see them. Both were carrying iron, but neither thought it at all likely that they would be called upon to fight. It was too absurd for words, to see these youngsters, little more than children, playing at being gunfighters!

‘Well, boys, what will you have?’ asked Alexander McBride when the posse was some twenty five yards away. ‘You seeking trouble?’

‘We’re seekin’ you and your brother. We got warrants as charge you with murdering our boss,’ said one of the young men.

This was an unexpected development and the McBrides didn’t know for a second how to deal with it. Then Alexander said, ‘You think you can take us down?’

‘Shut up, Alex, you damned fool,’ hissed his brother, ‘don’t go provoking them.’

‘Take you down?’ said Tim Johnson. ‘Take you down? You see these stars? Means we’ve been appointed deputies. So yeah, I reckon as we can take you down.’

It was the last thing on God’s earth that he wanted to do, but Joe Palmer knew that he couldn’t shirk his duty. He would have to leave his office and sort this mess out. He was standing in the doorway, hoping against hope that matters would resolve themselves in such a way as his intervention was not necessary. It was becoming increasingly obvious with every passing second that that was not to be the case. He had to act.

From the doorway of his office, Sheriff Palmer called out, ‘What are you boys about? Why’re you waving guns round in that way?’

Ben called back, ‘We’ve a warrant for the arrest of these two men, Sheriff.’

‘A warrant?’ said Palmer in amazement. ‘The hell you have. You goin’ to let me have a look at it?’

‘Sure. Come right over,’ said Ben, pulling two folded pieces of paper from inside his jacket. ‘They name Alexander and Finley McBride as suspects in the murder of Chuck Taylor.’

Joe Palmer’s not overly efficient brain was racing like some steam engine with the regulator removed.

‘What in tarnation is going on here?’ he shouted. ‘Any of you youngsters have authority to make an arrest? I’ll take oath as that’s not the case!’

The McBrides were fast losing patience. Standing in the middle of the road, having folk discuss them like they weren’t even present was not at all how Alexander and Finley liked things to be conducted. They expected to be treated with a mite more respect and consideration than this.

Finley said, ‘You boys clear the way now. We had enough of this foolishness. You’ll find yourselves in trouble, you carry on down this path.’

This wasn’t precisely a tactful line to take when facing eleven armed men, all of them young enough to be hot-headed and aggressive. It was especially unfortunate when taking into account that ten of those young men had personal reasons for harbouring the most bitter and abiding hatred for the McBride brothers.

Joe Palmer knew, when once Finley McBride had spoken so contemptuously to Taylor’s boys, that there was to be no going back and that bloodshed was all but inevitable. He ducked back into his office and snatched up the Winchester that he kept leaning in a corner for just such an emergency. It was ready loaded and all that was necessary was to cock it. Then he hurried outside, in time to hear Alexander McBride shout to the men blocking the road, ‘You boys ain’t going to shit, then get off the pot. You take my meaning?’

This was enough for Ralph Moore, who called back, ‘Yeah, I take your meaning, you son of a bitch!’

He raised the scattergun to his shoulder and fired at the McBrides. The echo ricocheted back and forth from the surrounding buildings. Being unused to the kick of such a cumbersome and unwieldy weapon, the charge of buckshot went high; shattering a first floor window of the store next to the sheriff’s office. Say what you would of the McBrides, they were none of them afraid to fight. Both Alexander and Finley drew their pieces before the roar of the shotgun had died away. As they pulled their pistols, they ran for cover, behind a cart parked across the road. Tim Johnson fired at them as they ran, also missing completely.

‘Ah, shit,’ muttered Joe Palmer under his breath, this being the very thing he had feared and been so determined to avoid. He raised his rifle and pointed it towards the group of men in the road, shouting optimistically, ‘Throw down your guns, now!’ For answer, two of the boys fired at the sheriff; both balls missing him, but one breaking the window behind him. He dived down and then snapped off a shot without really aiming. It caught Ralph Moore in his belly and he cried out in his high, boyish voice, ‘Oh God, I’m hit!’

‘You bastard!’ shouted Johnson and fired three times towards where Sheriff Palmer was lying prone on the boardwalk. The first two bullets, smacked into the brickwork above him, but the third struck him in the right eye, killing him at once.

Meanwhile, the McBrides were leaning round the wagon, taking shots at the boys in the road who, not having much experience of such things and being unversed in the best way to conduct a gunfight, had not sought cover, but continued to stand in full view of the two men who were trying to kill them. After another of them fell, a fellow known as Beany McPherson; the remaining nine fanned out and started firing everything they had at the cart behind which the McBride brothers were sheltering.

The wood began splintering and cracking; it would have been madness for either of the McBrides to lean out now and try to fire. Then a ball passed right through the side of the wagon and took Finley in the upper arm. He gave an oath and moved back a bit. This brought him into the view of one of the boys who was armed with a rifle and he fired at once, blowing Finley McBride’s kneecap off.

Throwing caution to the winds and perhaps realizing that he and his brother had misjudged things in the most horrible way imaginable, Alexander McBride came charging out of cover, firing as he came. It was his misfortune that in the heat of battle, he failed to recollect that he had already fired six shots and so as he lurched forwards, there came only the repeated metallic clicking of the hammer falling on spent cartridges. He took three bullets in his chest and fell to the dust.

Finley, although grievously injured, was still trying to get up and fight, until a ball struck his head, rendering him senseless.

The silence which gripped the street, following the gun battle, was positively uncanny. Not a sound could be heard; even the chirruping birds appeared to have fled the scene. Beany McPherson was stone dead and it looked as though Ralphie would not be long in following him. Other than that, only one fellow was wounded; a clean tear through the muscle of the shoulder. It was bleeding freely, but did not look likely to be mortal.

Ralph Moore lay in the road, saying over and over again, ‘I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die!’

The ball had passed clean through him; entering his stomach a little below the ribs and leaving his body via the region of his kidneys. No great medical knowledge was needed to see that he was not long for this world. So it proved, because while the others were fetching the horses, from where they were tethered outside The Silver Dollar, Ralph Moore lapsed into unconsciousness and soon after, stopped breathing entirely.