Black Ransom (15 page)

“Why don't you ride back with me to my place?” she suggested. “Ain't far and I can fix you something to eat.”

“Ain't necessary,” Buck said.

“It's no trouble.”

Buck appreciated the invitation but wasn't sure if he should accept. He was feeling that his presence was keeping a memory alive that Melinda shouldn't have to deal with.

Melinda noted his hesitance and determined the likely reason for it.

“'Sides,” she added warmly, “I'd like you to meet my son.”

Buck looked momentarily puzzled. He didn't see the boy anywhere around, wondered why he wasn't with his mother.

Melinda read into what he was thinking and explained, “I have a neighbor, a nice Mexican woman, who comes by on occasion to look after Charlie when I come into town to do errands.”

Buck suddenly decided it wouldn't seem right if he refused her offer. And Melinda was genuine in extending it. It wasn't mere politeness.

He gave an appreciative nod. “All right, Melinda. And thank you. I'll follow you out on my mare.”

* * *

The meal Melinda fixed for him wasn't the steak and potatoes he'd earlier had a hankering for—rather, a plate of beans and some biscuits she'd had left over from breakfast, which she'd warmed atop the woodstove. But Buck enjoyed his supper and ate heartily, wolfing down two helpings with the gusto of a ranch hand on a cattle drive. After he was finished, Melinda eyed him suspiciously.

“Thought you said you wasn't hungry.”

Buck looked a little self-conscious, but he recovered swiftly.

“Well . . . wasn't,” he replied. “But been a long time since I et home cookin'. Most of my eatin' comes in restaurants.”

Melinda maintained her sly look as she brought the small pot of beans to the table to refill his plate. Buck considered, then he raised his hand to halt her.

“Temptin',” he said. He patted his belly. “But I think two plates'll suffice.”

He glanced across the table at little Charlie, who was still eating and eyeing the stranger warily. Buck gave him a wink and the boy frowned and went back to concentrating on his food.

Buck couldn't recall much about the way Ehron Lee looked, but he could see a resemblance between Charlie and his mother. He was an attractive child, though quiet, shy . . . and unsure of the stranger sitting across from him.

Buck smiled at the boy and accepted a refill of coffee from Melinda.

“Why don't yuh set yourself, Melinda?” he said.

“Should clean up the dishes before I get Charlie off to bed,” she replied.

“Tell yuh what. Join me in a cup of coffee and I'll lend a hand with the cleanup,” Buck offered.

“No, I couldn't ask that,” Melinda objected. “You're a guest.”

“You ain't askin'. I'm offerin',” Buck said pleasantly.

Melinda considered only briefly before she gave an appreciative nod. “That's awful kind of you.”

“Least I can do after yuh takin' the trouble to fix me this fine supper.”

“Wasn't nothin' special. Just beans and biscuits.”

A smile gradually worked its way across Melinda's face, and to Buck, it appeared the most genuine smile he had yet seen on her. He was about to comment on how nice she looked with a happy expression, then decided it might not be appropriate.

As Melinda went to pour herself a cup of coffee, Buck looked back over at Charlie, who was staring at him intently, curiously, but who instantly focused his attention back on his supper once he was noticed.

Buck chuckled and said to Melinda, “Fine boy, but he does have a mite suspicious nature.”

“He doesn't get to see a lot of people,” Melinda confessed meekly.

Buck attempted to put her at ease. “Well, reckon workin' 'round this place keeps yuh right busy.”

“Does,” Melinda said, exhaling a breath. “Abigail did most of the chores, then we hired a fella but turned out he did more sleepin' than work. But it's got to the point where I'm thinkin' ag'in 'bout taking on some extra help. That is, if I can find someone dependable.”

“If'n you'd like, I can put out a word,” Buck offered.

“I—I'd 'preciate that,” Melinda said gratefully.

“Well, gonna be a few years 'fore this here fella can lend a hand,” Buck said, tossing a glance at Charlie.

Melinda's face took on an odd look. “Ain't sure how much longer I'll be keepin' this place. Reckon I might only give it another few months.”

Buck suddenly understood. Without her having to elaborate or Buck having to ask, Melinda was saying that she would wait to see if Ehron Lee came back after his sentence was served. She obviously
did
know that his release would be soon. Whether this was something she'd had in mind from the first or a decision she'd just made based on the talk she and Buck had earlier, Buck couldn't be certain. But their initial conversation prompted Buck to believe that it was most likely she'd had a change of heart, now with the realization of her sister's probable deception.

He took a sip of his coffee. “Wonderin' why maybe you didn't think of movin' sooner.”

Melinda sighed. “Abigail wanted to, but not 'til after the baby was born. By then I hadn't heard from Ehron Lee and . . . I figured he didn't want to be a part of my life anymore. I was ready to go along with Abigail . . . then she got sick.”

“If'n yuh don't mind my askin', how long has your sister been gone?” Buck asked gently.

“Been almost two years,” Melinda said.

“And you decided just to stay put?”

Melinda nodded. “And reckon you now know why.”

“I do.”

“Guess I always held on to that fragment of hope that Ehron Lee might decide to come back,” Melinda admitted unashamedly.

“And still do?” Buck ventured.

Melinda's silence pretty much answered his question.

Buck truthfully wasn't sure how he felt about that decision. He had little doubt that if Ehron Lee did return to his family, he would be a changed man. He saw men who had survived Rockmound, and he could not remember one who was not damaged by the experience—and many were men who had already been hardened by life: criminals, outlaws, and murderers. Despite having served in the war, Ehron Lee, from what Buck could remember, was by nature a man of gentle persuasion—the type of person to be most affected by his years in prison.

What also troubled Buck was Ehron Lee's long separation from Melinda, his not having heard from her during the time he was locked away. How would he interpret that? Might he feel he'd been abandoned by his wife? If so, that did not suggest the promise of a happy reunion. If he did return home, it could be as a man consumed by hatred and bitterness, presenting the potential for an unpleasant, perhaps even threatening, environment for Melinda and their young son.

Buck never spoke his concerns. But he did quietly make up his mind that he would keep a careful watch on Melinda and Charlie.

But first he'd wire the prison through Allensfield and find out what he could about Ehron Lee. He wanted to know the exact date of his release. How his behavior had been during the last five years. Most important, he wanted to know from the superintendent the type of man who soon would be set free on society.

And then Buck planned to keep track of his steps.

ELEVEN

EHRON LEE WAS
long gone from Rockmound by the time Buck Leighton's wire reached the superintendent. In fact, just two days after the message arrived on Watson's desk, Ehron Lee and his three companions were seated atop their mounts along a narrow rocky trail in the protection of cover between the high walls of the box canyon, waiting for the day's labor to begin at the prison work site. It was just before dawn, and within the hour, men would be marched from their cells, fed a meager breakfast, and transported inside caged wagons to the location where they would bust rocks, pick and dig through stone and gravel, and clear the way for a mountainside passage until their sunburned, blistered, and exhausted bodies would be shuffled back into the wagons and returned to the prison come dusk.

Ehron Lee suppressed a shudder, recalling the miserable memories of not long ago when he was among those men. He harbored a hope that in the confusion that was to follow, Ward Crawford would not be the only one to escape. In his five years Ehron Lee had formed a strange brotherhood with those likewise tortured souls. No matter what their crimes, in his view not one deserved to be subjected to the mistreatment and outright brutality that were part of the daily routine at Hell's Doorway.

All four of the waiting men were clad in dusters, had the brims of their Stetsons pulled low, and each wore a kerchief 'round his neck, which, when the moment came, would be drawn up to conceal the lower portion of his face.

The Winchesters, loaded to capacity with .44-caliber rimfire rounds, rested in each of the dusty scabbards, at the ready.

“Yuh sure Ward knows this is the day we're comin'?” Jess Colfax asked Ehron Lee.

“Knew it was to be this week, dependin' on you boys,” Ehron Lee answered, steadying the reins on his horse with his free hand. “If it weren't this week, he'd a-knowed we wasn't comin'.”

“Yeah, imagine he wouldn't take too kindly to that,” Brad Riley commented wryly.

“Kinda too bad we can't all stop for a drink after this is done,” Randy Boggs remarked. “Been a long time since we last saw ol' Ward.”

“Just remember, we scatter and make separate ways back to the ranch,” Jess reminded Randy and Brad, his manner dead serious. “Always the chance they might catch one of us, but no way they'll get us all.”

Brad shifted on his saddle. “Comfortin' thought,” he said.

Jess swallowed some water from his canteen, wiping away the residue from his lips with a sweep of his hand.

“Y'know somethin', Burrows?” he said to Ehron Lee. “Ain't never killed no one in cold blood, but it don't bother me a bit shootin' down these peckers. Reckon I feel a sorta kinship with them prisoners. Really troubles me to hear how they was treated.”

Ehron Lee nodded approvingly. “Was hopin' yuh'd feel that way.”

Jess's eyes scouted out Randy and Brad.

“Think we all do,” Jess said.

Ehron Lee took a quick study of each of his companions. Jess and Randy looked calm and confident. Only Brad had him concerned. Though the morning was cool, Ehron Lee noticed that Brad was continually mopping beads of perspiration, either real or imaginary, from his brow. He didn't seem quite the hard guy he pretended to be.

The four men sat in preparedness for another twenty minutes before they could hear the faint rumble of the two prison wagons as they rode over the rough and rocky terrain leading to the quarry. Ehron Lee recalled that daily ride and how the drivers would laugh and push the horses to go faster, deliberately choosing the roughest trail so that the men crowded tightly together inside the “cages” were jostled and tumbled about for almost the entire length of the trip, their stomachs heaving from the unsteady motion, coupled with the rotten breakfast they'd consumed.

Yet Ehron Lee was grateful for these memories as they quickened his blood and intensified his fury. Like Jess Colfax, he had no hesitation about killing these swine. Each one deserved a bullet for the stinking cruelty they had inflicted upon both him and the other prisoners.

Given what soon was to come, Ehron Lee was quite calm. To his way of thinking, it would be little different from charges he had made in the army.

The men could hear the barked commands of the guards, ordering the leg-ironed prisoners to get out of the wagons. Ehron Lee edged his horse out slightly toward the clearing, hidden in deep shadow between two looming boulders, from where he could safely peer out to gauge the activity and to see if he could spot Ward among the like-dressed inmates. That was difficult; it would have to be Ward who would notice them when they rode in, and react accordingly.

Ehron Lee knew that work wouldn't begin until the lead guard blew on the whistle. By that point each of the eight guards would be in his assigned position. Four of the guards would be standing watch high on vantage points known collectively as “the overlook.” The remaining four would be supervising, out among the prisoners, two on horseback, the other two on foot. Ehron Lee understood that because they would be directly with the work crew, those four would be the most difficult targets. The plan was that he and Jess would concentrate on those men on the ground while Randy and Brad would take aim on the guards standing perched on the rocky ledges.

When the moment came for the charge, there would be no turning back.

* * *

Ward Crawford had been ready for his liberation since the week began. Today it was Wednesday. As he clambered down from the prison wagon with the others, he held great anticipation. He felt in his gut that this would be the day and his senses were keenly alert. He knew he would have to act quickly and surely once his men rode in and the shooting started. There should be enough commotion to allow him at least a few moments to make a break toward one of the horses before any of the guards took notice. Those who weren't killed instantly would be too busy trying to save their own hides.

He wasn't kidding himself that there was still a heavy risk involved, but Ward had always been a gambler and favored playing the long odds.

Shuffling in leg irons alongside the other convicts toward the work areas assigned for the day, Ward was handed his tool, a shovel with which to scoop up crushed rock and gravel, by a guard ever watchful and prepared for a sudden, impulsive move by a desperate convict, who then stepped back to a safe distance with his rifle re-aimed. Once the men were all properly positioned, a signal was given to another guard.

The whistle indicating the start of the workday sounded, echoing through the quarry.

Hardly had the first sledgehammer and shovel been lifted . . . when the charge began and pandemonium ensued.

Four masked riders suddenly appeared, racing forward from the mouth of the canyon, accompanied by a barrage of gunfire.

Well-placed bullets from the long-range Winchesters instantly blasted two of the guards from their high perches, both bodies tensing at the impact of lead before tumbling to the ground.

Ehron Lee and Jess Colfax rode fast into the quarry, discharging their rifles at the two mounted guards who presented the easiest targets. They, too, died fast. By this time, the remaining guards, those two still on the overlook and the two men at ground level, had recovered from the surprise attack and were firing their rifles at the marauders. The prisoners, unsure of what was happening, dropped their tools and scrambled for cover. Ward Crawford, though, was close enough to one of the guards to swing his heavy shovel at his head, connecting with powerful impact, and hearing the man's neck break. He then moved as quickly as his leg irons would allow toward Ehron Lee, who rushed on horseback toward him. Ehron Lee slid his Winchester back into the scabbard and extended his hand, using all his strength to pull Ward up onto the horse, though because of the restriction of his leg irons, Ward was forced to sit sidesaddle, his legs draped over the horse's flank. To keep himself steady as the horse bucked and jerked amid the panic and the gunfire, he wrapped his left arm tightly around Ehron Lee's waist.

Jess fired off a rifle shot that blasted a hole through the skull of the last standing work site guard, though the two remaining on the overlook had dropped flat, and from prone positions were firing repeated rounds at the outlaws.

There was so much shooting that the quarry soon was heavy with the acrid smell of gun smoke.

“No chance of gettin' 'em now,” Ward shouted to Ehron Lee. “Let's just get the hell outta here!”

Jess and Randy were already following that direction, riding fast toward the safety of the canyon walls. But before Brad could start after them, his horse was hit in the neck by a rifle bullet and he was thrown to the ground. The animal dropped heavily to its side, neighing and kicking out its last breath as Brad tried to avoid the bullets that ricocheted around him and crawled along the ground before regaining his footing. He started to run but another long-range shot rang out, tearing into his side. He struggled on for a few steps before collapsing to his knees. His whimpering turned into a desperate cry.

“Ward! Help me!” he pleaded.

Ward glanced at the boy before using his free hand to grab Ehron Lee's revolver from its holster.

“He's done for,” he said, and then he took quick aim and shot Brad between the eyes. Brad's expression registered neither shock nor disbelief; he just looked numb as he died instantly. His body stiffened and Brad dropped face-first into the stony rubble.

As Ehron Lee whipped the horse toward the protection of the canyon, Ward said, loud enough to be heard, “Hated to do that. But if them guards had got to him and he talked . . .”

Ehron Lee didn't need to hear an explanation. He understood; it was a practical, not bloodthirsty decision. Yet where once he would have risked his life to save the man—where many times he had done just that, braving enemy fire to rescue a fallen comrade during the war—now he was indifferent. If any compassion still existed within his soul, it was encased in cast iron. Survival was his objective.

All he said in response was, “Just hold on tight. You ain't sittin' too firm and we gotta ride far and fast.”

“Just hightail it, amigo, I ain't lettin' go!” Ward shouted to him.

Protected by a blanket of cover as clouds of gun smoke and gray dust rose behind them, Ehron Lee raised himself in the stirrups and wheeled his horse, then he whipped the animal into a dead run. Shots were still being fired, but by now the pair were out of range, Ehron Lee skillfully navigating the sharp turn into the canyon trail . . . and onto freedom.

* * *

They rode through the canyon, veering south and not slowing until they were deep in the hills, miles away from the prison and, at least for the time being, free of pursuit. For the last bit of travel Ehron Lee slowed the horse, surely exhausted from the run and bearing two men, to a canter. Ehron Lee further eased the horse to a slow trot as he scouted the area. He finally reined the horse to a halt in a tree-shaded area by a little stream where the animal could water and rest for a spell. He and Ward could also use a breather.

“Brought along a change of clothes in the pack roll,” Ehron Lee told his companion as they dismounted. “But can't do much 'til we get those leg irons offa you.”

Ward hastened to join the horse at the stream. He lay on his stomach by the slow-running currents, slurping up mouthfuls of the cool, clean water. After his thirst was quenched, he dunked his head whole into the stream then splashed handfuls of water over his face and rubbed some along the back of his neck to wash away the dirt from the quarry.

“We can ride into Allensfield tonight,” he finally said to Ehron Lee. “There's gotta be a locksmith there who can get off these cuffs. But in the meantime, let's make my movements a little easier.” He gestured toward Ehron Lee's Colt Army revolver.

Ehron Lee handed him the gun, only for a quick instant hesitating in the suspicion Ward might decide to swing around and use the weapon on him.

Ward gave Ehron Lee a look that suggested he knew what he'd been thinking. Then he pressed the barrel firmly against the chain link nearest to the left cuff, tensing the chain by widening his legs as far as they would separate . . . and he pulled the trigger.

The chain link blew apart as the report of the gunshot reverberated through the hills.

He repeated the procedure to the right side of his leg. Another echoing explosion as the length of chain blew off from the iron cuff and dropped into the grass. Ward picked up the section of jangling metal, regarded it for an instant with an expression of disgust, and tossed it hard into the stream.

“Now I can get outta this stinkin' prison uniform,” he then said with a half smile.

Ehron Lee wore a concerned look as his eyes darted about the site. He worried that the gunfire might have alerted their pursuers to their position.

“Don't get yourself into a tizzy 'bout anyone hearin' that shot,” Ward said to him. “I guarantee you they ain't even started lookin' for us yet. What's more, Whitey was right: 'Til they can get a posse together, they ain't got a chance in hell of findin' us no time soon.”