Page 2 of Calder Country

Mason had expected to fall asleep at once. But his mind was churning with plans. His prison time hadn’t been entirely wasted. He’d met other men there—men who, like him, had been sentenced for trafficking in illegal liquor, home-brewed or smuggled from Canada.

Mason had listened and learned, especially from the more recent arrivals. His former operation, trucking in crates of bottled Canadian whiskey and selling them out of his barn, was small-time now. And hiring local help, as he had done, carried a high risk of getting caught. If bootlegging had been big business back then, it was even bigger now. But even in a backwater like Eastern Montana, a man who was serious about getting rich these days needed access to a big-city network. An up-front cut paid to the right connections would enable him to tap into the market, find buyers, and arrange for delivery. Once trust was established, much of the business could be handled by wire or a simple telephone call.

Mason had emerged from prison with an education; but the lessons hadn’t been free. He’d paid for information with favors— everything from delivering cigarettes and messages to serving as protection for his mentor, Julius Taviani, who was doing ten years for violating the Eighteenth Amendment, which prohibited the production, importation, transportation, and sale of alcoholic beverages.

Taviani’s sentence was double Mason’s because he’d controlled a much bigger market, including a private source with a secret route from the Canadian border—for which he’d gone to jail rather than divulge. A diminutive, graying man who looked more like a bank clerk than a bootleg king, he was in frequent touch with his team of lawyers who, he insisted, would soon have him cleared of all charges.

Meanwhile, Mason had served as the man’s unofficial bodyguard in exchange for a master course on how to set up and run a successful bootlegging operation. All that he’d learned, including contact information, he had committed to memory. The startup would take time, which he had, and cash, which, for now, would have to come from the ranch income. Once the bootlegging operation was bringing in good money, the cattle would serve as a front for the real business.

His strong-willed mother might be an impediment, especially since she was the legal owner of the ranch. Maybe he could persuade her to retire and move to someplace like Helena, where she could live in a stylish town house and enjoy social activities such as shopping, restaurants, and the theater. At the very least he needed to get power of attorney, something she’d never been trusting enough to give him.

Toward dawn, he drifted off. He was awakened by the mutter of voices and the sound of footsteps outside his door. For an instant he struggled to remember where he was. But then it all came back to him. He was in Miles City. And he was free to start his new life.

The morning light pouring through the cheap calico curtains told him he’d overslept and would likely have to wait for the bathroom. He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. His heel kicked the metal chamber pot, partly hidden under the bed. He pulled it into view and made do with it.

The bank wouldn’t open until nine o’clock. Until then, his prison-issued suit would have to suffice. But once he withdrew enough cash to spend on a bath, a good barbering, and a quality suit of clothes, he would begin to feel like himself again. He’d noticed a couple of taxicabs parked along the street last night. He would take one home to the ranch, on the far side of Blue Moon. The ride was long and wouldn’t be cheap. But once he accessed the ranch funds, he could afford to arrive in comfort and style.

Downstairs, he spent his last dollar on a simple breakfast of coffee, toast, and fried eggs. By the time he’d finished eating, it was almost nine o’clock.

He cut through an alley to the bank, which had just opened. Jason Coppersmith, the balding, middle-aged assistant to the bank president, recognized him at once.

“Mr. Dollarhide.” There was no mention of how Mason looked or where he’d been. The man was nothing if not discreet. “How good of you to stop by. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to withdraw some cash from the Hollister Ranch account,” Mason said. “Five hundred dollars should be enough for now.”

Coppersmith’s expression did not change. “Would you kindly step into my office, Mr. Dollarhide? There’s something you need to see.”

Nerves prickling, Mason followed the man to his office behind the row of teller windows. As in the past, he’d expected to be handed the cash without question. Was something wrong?

The office was small and impersonal, the walls bare except for a calendar, a modest-sized desk, a metal file cabinet, and three chairs. Most of the desktop was taken up by a tray of papers and a large, leatherbound book which Mason recognized as an account ledger.

Coppersmith stepped behind the desk, opened the ledger, and leafed through the pages. The account names were listed alphabetically. It didn’t take him long to find the page he was looking for. He turned the ledger around so that Mason could see it from his side of the desk. “Here you are, Mr. Dollarhide. Take a look. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.”

Mason stared down at the page, scanning the lines and columns—the dates, the deposits from cattle sales, the withdrawals, mostly for ranch expenses, he surmised. Then, abruptly, the entries ended with a large withdrawal and a stamp that said ACCOUNT CLOSED.

Mason felt his stomach drop as if he’d swallowed a twenty-pound lead weight. This couldn’t be happening.

“Two years ago, your mother came in here, cashed out the account, and closed it,” Coppersmith said. “We suspected something might be wrong, and we tried to change her mind. But it was her money and her right to take it. There was nothing we could do.” He shook his head. “I take it she didn’t let you know what she’d done.”

Mason forced himself to speak calmly. “I only got a few letters from her, and none of them mentioned this. She’s managed the ranch for decades, ever since her father died. She’s always done fine. I just assumed she was angry. You know my mother. She’s not one to let go of a grudge.”

“I understand,” Coppersmith said. “But I suggest you go home and get to the bottom of this. Your mother isn’t getting any younger. She could be ill or under the influence of someone who’s out to take advantage of her.”

“Of course.” Mason’s plan to enjoy a clandestine drink of Canadian whiskey, groomed and dressed like a gentleman, was swiftly evaporating. “I’ll be heading right home. But first, I’m going to need your help with a small matter.”

Twenty minutes later, with the help of a one-hundred-dollar short-term loan from the bank, Mason was on the road back to Blue Moon and the ranch, which lay a few miles beyond the town. The taxi, a rusting Model T, had clearly seen better days, as had the driver, whose ravaged face bore the physical and emotional scars of war.

The taxi rattled along the unpaved road, leaving a trail of dust to settle in its wake. Mason sat in the back seat, hunched low as the cab neared the small town of Blue Moon. He cursed the prison staff for neglecting to give him a hat. The vehicle was missing its canvas top, which left Mason’s prison-pale skin bare to the brutal sun and exposed his downtrodden condition for all to see. There was more traffic on the road than he remembered, mostly autos and trucks these days, with an occasional horse-drawn buggy or farm wagon. Sooner or later, he was bound to pass someone who recognized him. Then, in the way of small towns, the word would spread that Mason Dollarhide had come back, sneaking into town like a whipped dog.

But that was the least of his worries. What had his mother done with the money from the bank? There’d been more than fifty thousand dollars in the account, including the income from his whiskey sales, which he’d mixed with the ranch funds to hide it from the authorities.

Had the money been stolen? he wondered. Had Amelia squirreled it away out of spite or distrust? And then there was the most pressing question of all—if the money was gone, what would happen to his plans to start a new business?

Mason hunched lower in the seat as the taxi passed the turnoff to the Calder Ranch. He had little doubt that Webb Calder would still be in charge, or that he would be wealthier than ever, damn his greedy, grasping hide. Aside from sharing the same father, Mason and Blake had one other thing in common—their hatred of the Calders and all they stood for.

Webb’s father, Benteen Calder, had been among the first to settle this part of Montana. He had consolidated the land grants so he and his men could claim the biggest plot of ranchland in the territory. Webb had continued the Calder practice of land grabbing, taking advantage of bad luck and hardship to expand the family kingdom. His teenage son, Chase, would no doubt grow up to do the same.

The taxi was coming into Blue Moon, a town that had known days of boom and bust before settling into quiet obscurity. The place didn’t appear to have changed much in the five years Mason had been gone. The grocery store, which also functioned as a gas station and a post office, was as he remembered it. Next door was a café, and, next to that, a roadhouse called Jake’s Place, with a private gaming room in the rear and rooms upstairs where Jake’s so-called nieces plied their trade. There was also a hardware and dry-goods store, an abandoned grain elevator, and a schoolhouse for the children who lived in town and on the surrounding farms and ranches. Nearby was the sheriff’s office and the adjoining jail, where Mason had spent time before being bound over for trial in Miles City.

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