Page 1 of Calder Country

CHAPTER ONE

Miles City, Montana

July 1924

AT TWENTY-SEVEN MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT, THE CHICAGO, MILWAUKEE, St. Paul, and Pacific passenger train pulled into the Miles City depot. Running late, it paused just long enough to let a solitary figure descend from the second-class coach. After a last-minute call of “All aboard” and a blast from its whistle, it picked up speed and raced off into the night, bound for the Dakotas and points east.

Mason Dollarhide gazed up and down the empty platform. A solitary light burning in the closed station house was the only sign of life. He’d wired his arrival time to his mother, but he should have known that she wouldn’t have sent anybody to meet him. Amelia Hollister Dollarhide had probably grown forgetful in the five years since he’d seen her. Or more likely, she hadn’t forgiven him for getting arrested and sent to prison, leaving her to live with his disgrace and run their ranch alone.

Miles City had grown in Mason’s absence. But some things didn’t change. At this late hour, lights along Main Street told him that, despite the government edict, the brothels were still thriving. He hadn’t been with a woman in more than five years, and the urge was there, like a hot coal smoldering in his belly. But that indulgence would have to wait.

On his release from the old State Prison at Deer Lodge, he’d been given fifty dollars cash, a shoddy, ill-fitting suit, and a pair of cheap shoes that pinched his feet. He’d spent a good part of the money on the train ticket; prices had gone up since he’d last traveled. What remained would be barely enough to buy him a few fingers of illegal moonshine and a private room with clean sheets on the bed.

Tomorrow morning, when the bank opened, all that would change.

Shouldering his duffel, which held little more than his work boots, a change of underwear, and a few toiletries, he ambled down the platform, taking time to stretch his cramped legs. He’d gone no more than a few steps when he realized he was being followed.

A furtive glance told him there were two men behind him—unkempt, ill-dressed thugs, husky but obviously none too bright. Otherwise they wouldn’t be sneaking up on a man who had ex-convict written all over him.

He slowed his pace, letting them get close before he turned around. “Gentlemen,” he asked politely, “is there something I can do for you?”

The pair looked startled, maybe because their quarry had shown no fear. Recovering, the bigger man flashed a knife. Glancing at the smaller man, Mason glimpsed a baseball bat. “We’ll take that bag off your hands, mister, along with anything that’s in your pockets. Play nice now, or we’ll gut you like a pig.”

Mason’s pockets were empty except for the few dollars that remained after buying his train ticket and a cheese sandwich at one of the stops. The contents of the duffel were worthless. He could hand it over without regret. But after five years behind bars, where a man could barely take a piss without supervision, a little action might be just what he needed.

He straightened to his full height of six-foot-two. “I’ve got a better idea,” he said, holding up the duffel. “If you want this bag, you can take it away from me.”

The two thugs glanced at each other. For an instant, Mason thought they might turn tail, which would have been a disappointment, since he was itching for a fight. But then the knife blade flashed in the moonlight as the big man came at him.

Mason swung the duffel hard. The blow knocked the man off balance, leaving him open to a crushing belly blow from Mason’s fist. The breath whooshed out of him. He staggered backward, still gripping the knife.

Mason dropped the duffel at his feet and flexed his fingers. The impact with the man’s gut had hurt his hand, but the pain felt good. In his prison time, he’d missed the thrill of an all-out fight with no guards wading in to break it up.

Now the smaller man charged in with a baseball bat. In a lightning move, he cracked the bat across Mason’s wrist. Pain shot up Mason’s arm. He lunged for the little man and aimed a hammer punch at his jaw. His doubled fist found its target with a satisfying crunch.

The man with the knife came at him again. Mason felt the blade slice into his cheek as he ducked. Adrenaline surged. He swung a solid kick to the man’s groin, a move he’d learned in prison, where there was no such thing as a fair fight. The man grunted and doubled over, dropping the knife.

Scooping up the weapon, Mason flung it past the far side of the tracks. Blood from the knife cut drizzled down his cheek. He would tend to it later.

The smaller man had retreated to the edge of the platform. He crouched there, whimpering and cradling his jaw, the fight gone out of him. As Mason swung toward the big man, emotions held back for five long years burst in him like floodwater through a broken dam. The chain gangs, the bullies, the long nights, the isolation, the vermin, the constant humiliation—memories crashed in on him, driving him to an uncontrolled rage. His first punch knocked the big man off his feet. Then Mason was on top of him, his fists pummeling the man’s face, his head, his body, pouring fury into every blow.

“Please stop, mister.” The voice filtered through his awareness. It was the smaller man, standing somewhere behind him, pleading. “Please, mister, don’t kill him. He’s my brother. He can’t hurt you no more.”

Don’t kill him . . . he’s my brother. Somehow the words got through. Mason forced himself back onto his heels. His enemy lay on the platform, his face purpled with bruises, his eyes swollen, his nose and lip bloodied. With effort, Mason pushed to his feet. The big man was stirring, trying to get up. His brother moved to his side, tugging at his arms and supporting him as he struggled to his feet.

Mason stepped back. “Take him and get out of here.” His voice was a growl. “Don’t ever come near me again.” Picking up the duffel, he watched the pair stumble away, the big man leaning on his brother.

He had a brother of his own, Mason reminded himself—a half-brother by the same father. But if he were to find Blake Dollarhide lying beaten and helpless somewhere, Mason would just walk away and leave him to bleed. And Blake would no doubt do the same to him.

Mason had a son, too—a son Blake had raised as his own. Joseph would be nineteen now, on the cusp of manhood. A bright, handsome boy to make any man proud. But after Mason’s arrest, Joseph had disavowed all kinship between them. Any hope for a reconciliation would be asking too much.

The cut on Mason’s cheek stung, but it didn’t feel deep. Rummaging in the duffel, he found a clean sock and pressed it to the wound. The blood was already beginning to clot. With a bit of cleaning, it would heal fine. And one more scar wasn’t going to make much difference in his looks.

Finding a pump outside the station house, he wet the sock and did the best he could to sponge away the blood. Then he left the platform and headed down Main Street. He’d meant to find a bar and pay under the table for a few fingers of moonshine before turning in. But he soon gave up on that idea. The few bars surviving as speakeasys had gone underground with Prohibition and wouldn’t be easy to find. Besides, he looked like hell. If word got around that Mason Dollarhide had turned up in town, dressed like a bum, bleeding from a knife wound, and searching for a drink of illegal booze, it was bound to be bad for future business. He’d be smart to lie low until he could show up in style.

Keeping his face in shadow, he checked into an older backstreet hotel where nobody was likely to recognize him. He’d hoped for a room with a private bath, but the only accommodation he could afford had a shared bath down the hall. Everything had gone up in price since his arrest ended the life he’d known—a life he was determined to get back, starting tomorrow.

The bathroom was empty, but there was no tub, and the hour was too late to ask for one. Mason splashed himself as clean as he could, returned to his room, and sank into the bliss of clean sheets, a warm blanket, and a padded mattress. No clanging of iron doors or moaned curses of prisoners. No snores from his cellmate. No squealing, scampering rats. No midnight inspections or communal showers. For the first time in five years, he was free.

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