CHAPTER FIVE
W ITH THE SUN SINKING IN THE WEST , M ASON POCKETED A FLASHLIGHT and a pistol, saddled a horse, and rode south across the pastures to the boundary of the Hollister Ranch. He didn’t remember much about the cave he’d discovered as a boy. But if he could find it again, it might prove useful.
Everything Sidney had said about conditions on the ranch was true—the broken fences, the weedy pastures pocked with clumps of thistle, prairie dog towns and badger holes; the scattered cows, barely enough for breeding stock, their ribs showing through their dusty hides. Everywhere he looked, he saw things that needed attention. But they would have to wait. Right now, he had more urgent matters on his mind.
Pausing the horse on a low rise, Mason surveyed the neglected land. His eyes traced a path along the foothills that bordered the farthest pasture. Beyond the flats, the ranch property was a wilderness of scrubby mesas and shallow box canyons, a hideout for occasional renegades and outlaws, unfit for grazing cattle or any kind of farming.
Shielding his eyes from the setting sun, Mason focused his thoughts on a time in the distant past. He’d been hunting varmints with Blake—back when the two half-brothers were boys and still friends. They’d been tracking a coyote when they lost the trail and came across the cave entrance. They might have gone exploring, but the large bones that littered the entrance had warned them off. Blake had sworn he heard a growl from inside the cave. Mason had taken him at his word. The boys had told no one and never returned to the spot.
Now Mason rode along the edge of the pasture, scanning the foothills for a clue to the cave’s location. The overgrown brush and the absence of tracks suggested that no one had been out here in a long time. But where was the entrance? Maybe he’d remembered the location wrong. He kept on looking.
The sun vanished below the horizon, leaving a glow like the last dying coals of a bonfire. Shadows lengthened as twilight crept over the landscape. Even with the help of his flashlight, Mason couldn’t see more than a few yards ahead. A bat darted past his face, then another and another. They swarmed into the sky, filling the darkness with their high-pitched cries.
Were they coming from the cave?
Looking toward the source, he saw it, darkly outlined against the risen moon. The craggy outcrop was familiar—he remembered the shape of it now, like the head of a giant wolf. The entrance to the cave would be behind it, concealed in deep shadow.
Senses prickling, he rode closer, dismounted, and tethered his horse to a dead stump. Before moving forward, he drew the pistol, a hefty Colt .45.
Moonlight flooded the ground. Mason breathed easier as he saw that the dry vegetation was untrampled. It appeared that no large animal had been here for some time. But that didn’t rule out snakes or even hornets. He’d already seen bats.
Willing himself to stay calm, he rounded the outcrop and stepped into the cave. The entrance was littered with bones, but they were dry and long since picked clean. The odor of bat guano assailed his nostrils. If he used the cave, something would need to be done about that, and the bats as well. That aside, as he directed the flashlight beam at the cave’s walls and ceiling, he liked what he saw. There was enough width and height in the entrance to park and unload a good-sized vehicle. From outside, the approach was well beyond the sight of anyone at the ranch house. There was no road to the cave, but the ground could be leveled to drive on. With no easy water source, grazing cattle would be unlikely to wander this far.
The entrance was clear of bats and their droppings, but Mason’s nose told him the creatures had come from this cave, maybe from someplace deeper inside. Gripping the flashlight in one hand and the pistol in the other, he followed the narrowing passage for a dozen yards until it opened up into a room the size of a large parlor.
Standing in the entrance, he directed the flashlight beam over the walls and ceiling. This was the bats’ roosting place. A few of them were still here, fluttering in the unexpected light. This appeared to be a dry cave. There was no sound of dripping water, none of the typical cave formations. All to the good for his purpose.
The floor of the cave—that would be the challenge. It was littered with droppings, the bones of dead bats, and heaven knew what else. Snakes? Rats?
Mason had tied his bandanna over his nose and mouth to keep out the worst of the foul odor. The place would need to be fumigated with smoke, or more likely burned out. But once it was clear, this room would be deep enough in the hillside to maintain a stable temperature, even in winter. And the space would hold enough crates of liquor to supply a town the size of Miles City for a year.
He could do this. If he could find the money and make his plan work, he’d be rich beyond his wildest dreams. Richer, even, than Webb Calder.
What if the cave went even deeper? Mason used the light to search for another opening. But he found none. This chamber appeared to be the end. For now, it would be enough.
Preparing to leave, he used the flashlight to give the place a final inspection. That was when he noticed something moving through the debris on the floor. A rat—and where there was one, there were bound to be others. Mason hated rats. He’d seen too many of them in prison. Still, he followed the animal with the light as it foraged toward the back of the cave.
That was when he saw something else. His throat jerked as if a noose had been pulled tight around his neck.
Lying against the far wall was the desiccated body of a man.
Mason had seen death before. But the scene that met his eyes now jolted him like an electric shock. Knowing better than to walk into the morass on the cave floor, he stood rooted in the entrance, his hand gripping the flashlight.
It appeared that the man, whoever he was, had been dead for a long time—months or even years—if the cool, dry cave air had helped preserve the body. His rat-eaten face was nothing but bones, crowned by wisps of brown hair, but Mason could see that he’d been tall in life. He was dressed in moldering cowboy clothes—jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, a belt with an ornate brass buckle, and boots with soles that had come loose and curled away from his feet, showing the remnants of worn socks and the bones of his toes.
Did he have a family somewhere—people who’d loved him and might want to reclaim his body? But that didn’t matter, Mason reminded himself. He couldn’t allow news of this discovery to get out. When he cleansed the cave with fire, every trace of the man, whoever he’d been, would be burned to ashes.
For now, there was nothing more to do here. The next time he came, it would be with enough kerosene and wood to do what needed to be done. Meanwhile, he’d have his hands full finding the money and setting up the connections he needed for moving and selling the liquor.
As Mason turned to leave, a vague awareness stirred in the depths of his memory. A chill crawled up his spine before it passed. What was it?
Stopping, he redirected the flashlight beam on the remains of what had once been a man. Once again, he felt it—the gut twinge that told him he was missing a vital clue.
He stared at the dried-out, decaying figure. Something about the dead man touched a familiar chord. It wasn’t possible, he told himself; but it was almost as if he’d known the fellow in life. Maybe his imagination was working overtime. But he couldn’t shake the feeling. Mason swore under his breath.
“Who are you?” he muttered, speaking to the corpse. “Who in hell’s name are you?”
* * *
The two strangers had taken a table in a quiet corner of the hotel dining room. They rose to their feet as Ruby walked in with her father. Immaculately groomed and dressed in custom tailored suits, they stood out among the locals who frequented the place. Glancing at Art, Ruby could tell he was impressed.
Both men had a European look about them. The tall one, who appeared to be in his thirties, had luxuriant black hair and the kind of well-tended body that a man would take pleasure in showing off. His smoldering eyes roamed over Ruby with an entitled look that made her seethe.
Suppressing the impulse to confront him, she turned toward his younger companion, who was built like a fireplug, with heavy brows, a fleshy face with a scar slash across one cheek, and cold, intelligent eyes.
“Well, Colucci,” the shorter man said. “Are you going to stare at the lady all night, or are you going to introduce us?”
The color deepened in Colucci’s florid face. Evidently Ruby’s father had met him earlier. “Sorry, Boss, this is our pilot, Art Murchison, and he’s brought along his daughter, Miss Weaver.”
“It’s Mrs. Weaver,” Ruby said. “And I’m a pilot, too.”
“An admirable accomplishment, if I may say so. I’m a family man myself.” The shorter man raised Ruby’s hand to his lips and brushed it with a courtly kiss. “Alphonse Capone at your service, ma’am. We’ve already ordered dinner. Now let’s enjoy it before we get down to business.”
* * *
The roast beef, served with potatoes and gravy, was as good as could be expected, but Ruby had to force down every bite as she listened to the dinner conversation. She could tell her father was excited, and the more engaged he became, the more she worried. It didn’t ease her discomfort any that Colucci, who was seated across from her, was watching her as if he’d already staked his claim. Avoiding eye contact with the big man, Ruby willed herself to focus on the talk at the table and learn as much as she could.
Capone, she gathered from the talk, was on his way to heading up the Chicago bootleg operation. Torrio, the big boss, was in ill health. When he died or retired, Capone would be first in line to succeed him. What kind of talent did it take for a younger man to rise so fast in an organization that was known to be ruthless? Ruby suppressed a shudder at the thought.
“There’s a big untapped market for us in Montana,” Capone was saying. “But so far, the problem has been with delivery—all that open space and road time, with our trucks and drivers exposed. Airplanes could make all the difference, but we’ll need to set it up right. First off, we’ll need good, experienced pilots who can land and take off in rough places.”
“I’m your man, Mr. Capone,” Art said. “I trained pilots all through the war. And Ruby here, she’s been taught by the best. A little more practice, and she’ll be able to fly for you, too.”
“You won’t be working for me,” Capone said. “I’m just here looking things over before I take the morning train back to Chicago. It’s Mr. Colucci here who’ll be in charge of the operation—if we can make it work.” He turned to his companion. “So what do you think so far, Leo?”
“We won’t know for sure until we’ve taken a few trial runs,” Colucci said. “Mr. Murchison, I’m willing to hire you on a probationary basis. You’ll be paid a hundred dollars, plus the cost of fuel, at the end of each successful run. Do you understand?”
“And if the run is unsuccessful?” Art was clearly hoping for a better offer.
“You mean if you crash the plane or get caught?” Colucci raised an eyebrow. “If you’re as good as you say you are, that shouldn’t happen. But if it does, that’s your responsibility. Understand?”
The big man’s cold gaze met Capone’s. It was only for an instant, but what Ruby read in that glance chilled her. For the pilot, getting caught wouldn’t be an option.
“Do you understand?” Colucci demanded again.
Art nodded. “Yes, I understand.” Ruby’s fear deepened. She knew how much her father wanted to buy a better life for her and for himself. But the price was too high. This job was too dangerous.
“Wait.” She broke into the conversation, hoping to stall his decision, give him time to change his mind. “I have some questions, Mr. Colucci. What if the buyer doesn’t show up, or doesn’t pay?”
Colucci shrugged. “The buyer doesn’t get the product until he’s paid for it in full. And the pilot gets paid after we get paid, Mrs. Weaver. That’s how it works. Any more questions?” His manner made it clear that as a woman, she’d spoken out of turn.
“This isn’t really a suggestion, Mr. Colucci,” Ruby said. “But you need to be aware of something. The Jenny is a small plane—and an old plane. Even stripped down, with no spare fuel and only one person in the cockpit, it can’t carry more than a few hundred pounds of cargo. And when you’re talking glass bottles in crates, that isn’t much. If you want to make money, you’re going to need a bigger airplane.”
Again, Capone and Colucci exchanged glances, as if the latter needed approval for what he was about to say. “We’re aware of that, Mrs. Weaver. But before we invest in an expensive new plane, we’ll need to know whether the plan will work. We’ll go with your Jenny and pick up another one to use as backup and for your training. Does that meet with your approval, Mr. Murchison?”
“Yes. Yes, I believe it does.” Art was nodding, almost smiling. That these men planned on buying a new plane, and that they were willing to train Ruby for future work, appeared to outweigh the risk to their lives.
But then, as she met her father’s eyes, the truth struck home. The two of them had already met with these gangsters. They had seen their faces and heard their plans. They couldn’t just reject their offer and walk away—not if they wanted to live.
* * *
Three nights later, Mason loaded a cart with a stack of firewood and two gallon-sized cans filled with kerosene. With a calm horse hitched to the load, he drove out through the back gate and headed south. Forty minutes later, he reached the entrance to the cave.
Steeling himself for a dirty job, he unloaded the wood and fuel outside the cave. The bats were gone. In the morning, they would have to find a new place to roost.
After moving the horse and empty cart to a safe distance, he soaked the woodpile with kerosene, carried each piece into the cave and tossed it into the dark, hollow space at the rear. He didn’t use the flashlight, but he could hear each piece thudding against the wall or clattering onto the floor. Sometimes he heard nothing at all. That was when he imagined the wood striking the soft clothing and crumbling bones of the corpse that had begun to haunt his nightmares. Several rats fled past him as he used the last of the kerosene to pour a trail leading out of the cave. There was just enough to get him past the outside entrance and into the open.
Striking a match on a rock, he touched it to the spilled fuel and stepped back to watch. He held his breath as the flame snaked along the trail of liquid. Anything could happen. The flame could go out. The burst of heat could collapse the cave or set the prairie on fire. The light and smoke could attract unwanted attention from as far away as the ranch or even the town.
The flame vanished into the opening. Seconds crawled past. Drops of sweat trickled down Mason’s face.
From the depths of the cave came a roar and an explosion of flame and heat that seemed to suck the air out of his lungs. Tongues of fire leaped out of the cave entrance.
Mason retreated to where he’d left the horse, prepared for a fast escape in case the dry scrub caught fire. But that didn’t happen. As the minutes passed and the explosive roar faded to the crackle of burning wood, he realized that, aside from the foul-smelling smoke that rose from the mouth of the cave, everything had gone according to plan.
He waited long enough to make sure the blaze wasn’t going to spread, then headed the horse for home. He would give the embers a few days to cool, then return to clean up the mess.
By now it was well after midnight. The sky was clear. The light breeze, blowing from the northwest, would carry the smoke smell away from the ranch. He would put the horse away, sneak up to his room, and go to bed. His mother would be none the wiser.
The house was dark when he pulled through the back gate, unhitched the horse, and left it in its stall with food and water. Stealthily, he tried the kitchen door. It was locked, probably from the inside, and he didn’t have a key.
With a muttered curse, he stole around to the front of the house and mounted the porch steps. His mother had always kept a spare key under the doormat. Yes—there it was. He thrust it into the lock. It turned easily. Mason exhaled with relief and reached for the latch.
That was when he heard snuffling and scratching sounds, followed by a low growl from the other side of the door. Damned miserable dog.
“Brutus,” he whispered, trying to sound friendly. “It’s all right, boy. It’s just me.”
The growling ceased. He could hear the dog’s clicking toenails on the hardwood floor, fading toward the parlor. Mason opened the door, half expecting to be attacked. One hand gripped the pistol. He wouldn’t shoot the dog except to save his own life, but he couldn’t be too careful.
No attack came. As his eyes adjusted to the dark parlor, he could see the dog sitting next to his mother’s big chair. Only as she spoke and moved did he realize that his mother was there, too, concealed in the chair’s deep shadows.
“Aren’t you too old to be sneaking out at night?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “You could’ve at least let me know.”
Scrambling for his wits, Mason forced a laugh. “I’m not a teenager anymore, Mother. And since when do I need your permission to visit a lady friend?”
“Does your so-called lady friend entertain her customers in a gas station? Don’t lie to me, Mason. I can smell you from here.”
He hesitated, knowing he couldn’t tell her the truth. “All right. I didn’t want to worry you. A couple of saddle tramps were camped out on the range. The fools used some kerosene to start their campfire. I saw it from the house and went out to chase them off. When they heard me coming, they rode away. I had to stamp the fire out. That’s what you can smell.”
“A likely story!” she snapped. “But even if you told the truth, I wouldn’t know whether to believe you. That’s why I can’t trust you with my money.”
“Then how do you expect me to run the ranch? How do you expect me to pay for my own needs?”
“You mean, like your lady friends? I’d say that’s your problem. If you need cash for ranch expenses, you can ask me. As for your personal needs, I already mentioned that I’d pay you a small salary in addition to room and board. That should suffice until you’ve earned my trust, but you’ll be expected to earn every cent. And you can start now.”
She glanced from Mason to the restless dog. “Brutus needs to go outside and do his business. You can take him and bring him back when he’s done. I never let him out alone at night. He’s apt to run off and get into trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?” Mason couldn’t resist some wishful thinking.
“There are skunks out there, even coyotes and bobcats. And if there’s a female in season within a mile, he’ll smell her and be off like a shot. Not so different from you in that respect—or your father. So keep an eye on him, understand?”
“I understand.” Mason knew better than to argue. He switched on the flashlight, opened the door, and whistled for the blasted dog. Brutus trotted out the door ahead of him, crossed the porch, and vanished into the dark.
“Don’t just stand there! Go after him!” Amelia snapped.
“What if he won’t come when I call him?”
“There’s a tin of dog biscuits on the porch. Take one of those.”
Mason closed the door behind him, found the tin with the flashlight, and took out a bone-shaped biscuit. By now, the dog was nowhere in sight. He scanned the front yard with the light and caught a flash of tan going around the corner of the house.
“Brutus! Come back here, you miserable mutt!” He called and whistled, holding up the biscuit, but the dog ignored him. He could hear the dry grass rustling as Brutus left the yard and kept going, back toward the small, fenced square of land that served as the Hollister family burial plot.
The wrought-iron fence had a gate that fastened with a simple latch. Brutus waited by the gate, whimpering softly. As he realized what the old dog wanted, Mason’s dislike for the animal mellowed to a twinge of sympathy. He unlatched the gate. The dog passed through ahead of him, trotted to a low mound of earth marked with a headstone, and lay down on it, its massive head resting on its paws.
“So you miss your brother, do you, old boy?” Mason shone the light on the marker, a low granite block, a little bigger than a shoebox, with the names of the two dogs, Cassius and Brutus, etched on its surface. The birth dates were the same, the death date filled in for Cassius.
In all likelihood, Mason surmised, the two dogs were the only individuals his mother had loved and trusted. Her parents had separated when she was young. Her socialite mother had passed her off to her father, who’d died so long ago that Mason could barely remember him. Her husband, Joe Dollarhide, had left her to marry his true love, Sarah. As for her son, her only child . . . Mason had to admit that he’d let her down as cruelly as any of them. Even Sidney was only a paid employee. No wonder she’d turned to her dogs for affection and loyalty.
Not that Amelia was an easy person to love.
The dog hadn’t moved from the grave. Mason didn’t want to risk laying a hand on the creature to move it. It was none too friendly, and those jaws could be deadly. But he was tired, dirty, and impatient to get back to the house.
He still had the biscuit. Stepping back from the grave, he held it out. “Come on, Brutus,” he said. “Time to do your business and get back to your mistress.”
The dog’s nose twitched. It lurched to its feet, lunging for the treat so fast that Mason jumped away and stumbled over a rock. The biscuit flew out of his hand as he pitched forward, catching himself against the headstone.
Pain shot up his arm. For a moment he feared he might have sprained his wrist, but he forgot the injury as he realized that the stone, which he’d assumed was solidly set in cement, had shifted a couple of inches. His pulse raced. Where would his mother most likely hide her treasure, if not with her beloved pet?
While Brutus gnawed on the biscuit, Mason worked his hand under the stone and tilted it onto its side. Without disturbing the actual grave, the ground beneath the stone had been hollowed out. The hole was awkwardly dug, as if Amelia had done the job herself. Fitted into the space was a steel box.
The box was latched, but not locked. Mason held his breath as he raised the lid.
There it was—bundles of cash, most of it in hundred-dollar bills. There had to be thousands of dollars here, money that his mother had withdrawn from the bank and hidden in what she perceived to be a safe place. The woman was clearly not in her right mind. But he would deal with her later. Right now, all that mattered was having the funds to set up his business.
But as he stared down at the cash—more money than he’d ever seen in one place—Mason knew he had to handle this the right way. Siphoning off the money without telling his mother would have consequences when she found out—as she was bound to. So would seizing the funds outright and taking charge by force. The old woman would still have power. She could easily call the law on him or write him out of her will.
The best solution was the simplest—put the money back in the bank with his name on a new account and his mother as beneficiary. The bankers would accept his story that Amelia had grown irrational. There was every reason to believe she could no longer be trusted to handle the ranch’s money.
His mother would be furious. But with the bank backing him, there’d be little she could do. Everything would be carried out legally and openly. His action would be seen as that of a dutiful son protecting his family’s assets.
Mason hadn’t wanted to hurt his mother. But by withdrawing the ranch money from the bank and burying it next to her dead dog, she’d played right into his hands.
He would look after her, of course. He would even keep old Sidney around to make her little sandwiches and serve her tea. But he was the one in charge now—in charge of the money, the ranch and everything.
Mason lifted the box free, replaced the headstone, and whistled for the dog. First thing tomorrow, he would take the cash to Miles City and open a new bank account. Then he would go to the telegraph office and send a coded message to Julius Taviani, who coordinated bootlegging operations from his prison cell. Julius would connect him with the people who could help him set up his business.
He was on his way. Soon, everything he’d dreamed of in that hellhole of a prison would be his.