Black Ransom (21 page)

TWENTY

RANDY BOGGS DROPPED
both himself and his belongings off at a dingy Brackett hotel room and tried to remain as inconspicuous a figure as possible while he moseyed alongside the town folk. He enjoyed being out and about, savoring it as a refreshing change from long periods of isolation hidden away in a mountainside cabin. He especially could take comfort in the fact that his identity was unknown. While he was responsible for a series of bank holdups throughout the territory, he was simply part of a masked gang of outlaws who, outside of that one setback with Ward Crawford some years back, had kept themselves and their exploits in the clear.

Confident in his anonymity, as the days passed, Randy gradually began to grow more relaxed being seen regularly in town . . . at the same time, he also felt the itch of restlessness. The outlaw nature was ingrained in his character, and coupled with perhaps boredom and frequent visits to the saloons in town, this initiated a subtle frustration that started to give way to a more feverish vent.

Randy had enjoyed playing cards as a pastime with his outlaw companions, but he had no real skill at high table stakes. During another dull afternoon, he'd wandered into the saloon and set himself up for a game of five-card stud with sharps who came across as hillbillies. However, at the last moment, one of the bunch would suddenly be dealt a high card, wiping Randy clean every time.

As the afternoon wore on and his dollars disappeared like ghost wisps in the desert, Randy's suspicions heightened, and soon he was convinced he was being cheated by his yokel tablemates. He'd been betting large in the hope of recouping his losses. He could ill afford to lose his stake, and as he watched another pile of his money slide across the table into the hands of one of the players, his desperation overtook him. He pushed back his chair and stood up suddenly, assuming an aggressive stance.

The three men seated around the table regarded him with amused expressions. They had dealt with such types before—in fact, card hustling was their family profession. And in an instant not one came across as the yokel he had pretended to be during the playing of their game.

One said, “Looks like what we got here is a poor loser.”

Another remarked snidely, “More likely a poor gambler.”

Randy fixed the table with a steely-eyed stare. “Ain't no way I can come up empty every hand,” he said thickly.

“You callin' us cheats?” another of the players said in a challenging tone.

The customers in the saloon fell silent as their attention turned toward the far corner table and the tense situation that was developing among the cardplayers.

The second man added, “'Cause if'n you are, you'd best be prepared to back up them words. Mama wouldn't 'preciate you sayin' her boys was dishonest.”

Randy's blood quickened and he felt the temptation to draw his gun. He'd drunk enough shots of whiskey—courtesy of the “generosity” of his fellow players—which, coupled with his sudden certainty over his losses, had fueled him into a volatile mood. By nature he was not an impulsive man, but he also was not the sort to be taken advantage of, and as he surveyed each of the smirking faces seated around the table, he knew that he had been played for a sucker.

Although his hand remained far removed from his holster, he didn't back down. It appeared to the spectators that the situation was at a stalemate. The choice was Randy's. Either he would have to make a move or let things lie and walk peaceably from the saloon.

The seconds that passed were punctuated by the measured and methodic ticking of the grandfather clock. For many long moments it was the only sound heard in the saloon. The barkeep kept a steady watch on the table, his hands held under the counter gripping a shotgun, which he had no hesitation about using if trouble should erupt in his establishment.

Finally Randy relented. What decided it for him was the knowledge that no matter what the outcome, he'd lose either way. Either shot dead where he stood or facing arrest for murder, which would bring with it other problems that he had hoped to avoid since riding away from his gang.

He couldn't know that his sensible decision to lower his defenses would encourage one of the cardplayers to suddenly draw on him.

Randy had half turned from the table when he heard one of the saloon girls scream. He spun back around, just in time to see the barrel of a pistol aimed straight at him. The gun fired and Randy's swift, spontaneous action caused him both to dodge the bullet and to slide out his own revolver and level it. A second shot was fired. This time the bullet hit, searing into his side. But just as reflexively, Randy pulled the trigger of his Colt and watched the man jerk backward as the single bullet tore a hole into his chest. As the man dropped stone dead to the floor, the barkeep withdrew his eight-gauge and commanded Randy and the others not to make a move. He then ordered one of his waiters to rush out and fetch the sheriff.

Numb to the pain and the blood spurting from his own injury, Randy sobered sufficiently to know that the bullet lodged in his side was soon to be the least of his worries.

* * *

Only a day or two earlier, Buck Leighton was at Rockmound Prison visiting with Superintendent George Watson. Buck had proven himself capable in dealing with murderous desperados, hence his special appointment to United States marshal. Now he had been assigned to round up those men responsible for the bloody prison shoot-out that had led to the escape of Ward Crawford. Buck decided he would need some assistance in that department and had come to Rockmound bearing the identification of the accomplice who had been killed at the quarry, who was the one link to the others who were involved. Perhaps Watson could offer more.

“Name's Brad Riley,” Buck said, laying the photograph of the dead youngster across the superintendent's desk. “No arrest record but the kid was known to run around with a bad crowd.”

Strangely, Watson avoided looking at the photograph. He covered it with the flat of his hand and slid it aside.

“No arrest record. How would I know who he is?” Watson said tautly.

Buck was puzzled by this coldly dismissive attitude. That is, until he studied the look of exhaustion that masked the superintendent's features; the man's face was drawn and pale, suggesting that he hadn't slept for many a night. Watson's intimidating manner was nowhere in evidence. Instead he looked like a man mired in defeat. Buck distinctly recognized that something perhaps more troubling than the prison escape was affecting George Watson's mood.

When Buck Leighton first arrived at the office, Watson didn't rise from his chair to greet him. Nor did Watson invite Buck to have a seat, and neither did Buck presume to sit at the empty chair across from the desk as he felt it was perhaps improper given his official capacity.

For the longest time Watson remained seated behind his desk, though with a gradual shift in expression that possibly suggested he was contemplating revealing something more to the marshal.

Buck stood silent, fiddling with the brim of his hat, and patiently waited for the superintendent to decide whether he indeed had something to share with him. Watson glanced up at Buck. Drumming the thumb of his left hand atop his desk, he finally slid open the top side drawer. Then he pulled out a piece of paper, which, again, he momentarily debated sharing with the lawman.

He breathed out a heavy sigh and waved the paper in his hand.

“Showing you this might cost my wife her life,” he said soberly.

Buck walked 'round to the side of the desk, and Watson, after a tentative maneuver, finally pressed the paper into his hand firmly, as if wanting that physical connection while doing so. Buck unfolded the paper and read what was written:

A life for a life

He lifted his eyes toward the superintendent but said nothing.

Watson spoke, and despite his effort to maintain self-control, his voice was rattled. “It's a ransom demand. And I know it's from Crawford. She was taken right around the time he escaped from here. He was seen in Allensfield the same day. And like every other piece of scum in this prison, he hates me enough to . . . to do this.” He fixed his tired stare on Buck and said heavily, “For all I know, Janette's already dead.”

Buck would like to have spoken encouragingly, offer something to offset Watson's concern. But it was in his character and part of his professional duty to present his words truthfully. And in this case the best he could do was to remain objective in his opinion.

“Hard to know how a man like Crawford thinks,” he said solemnly.

“If she's not dead, I know I can expect another note.”

Buck gave a slow nod. “Likely.”

“When he came into Allensfield that night, he was with someone.” Watson exhaled with a furrowing of his brow. “Couldn't get much of a description, but chances are whatever he's got in mind, he's not alone in this.”

“There must be somethin' to go on. What 'bout Crawford's cell mates?” Buck asked. “Men spendin' all that time together, somethin' mighta been said.”

Watson blinked. He wasn't about to mention Woody Milo or his fate.

He hesitated just briefly before he said, “You know one of 'em, Marshal. You wired me 'bout him: Ehron Lee Burrows.”

Buck's face responded expressively. At the same time his posture straightened in a reflex.

“Burrows?” he said. “Him and Crawford shared a cell?”

“For the five years that Burrows was here,” Watson told him. “But he was released just a few weeks before—”

Buck cut in gravely. “Released . . . believing that his wife was dead.”

Watson looked perplexed.

Buck's own expression was dire. “I ain't sayin' nothin' for certain, got nothin' definite to go on . . . 'ceptin' a hunch.”

“A hunch . . . that . . . Burrows is involved?” Watson surmised.

“The pieces fit,” Buck said with a tilt of his head. “And after all he's been through, can see him holdin' a hateful grudge.”

“Blames me because I kept him locked up,” Watson said in a voice that was low but betrayed no sense of personal guilt or wrongdoing. “Holds me responsible for his wife never comin' out to visit.”

“Can breed a powerful lot of resentment in a man,” Buck said. Then he added, “Ehron Lee wasn't no criminal. Not when they brung him in here. But locking up a man with that kind of bitterness with a hard case like Ward Crawford seems a surefire bet for trouble.”

Watson said thoughtfully, “He was a hard one to figure. Caused some problems in the beginning, as I recall, but seemed to straighten out. He was always hopin' to get some word from his wife. Yet when I told him 'bout the message I received, sayin' that she'd died, he didn't react anywhere near the way I thought he would. It was like . . . he didn't seem to care.”

“I'm sure he cared, Superintendent,” Buck offered. “Cared more than he let on.”

“Marshal, this isn't the way I planned it,” Watson said strongly. “But dammit, now I see I gotta play by whatever hand they deal. I think you can agree I don't have much choice.”

“Seems that way,” Buck said. “But since it's gonna be a risk no matter how you go about it, it'd be smart to give yourself an edge on the odds.”

It took a few moments for Watson to interpret what Buck was saying. Then it became clear to him and he was doubtful, and he scrubbed the palm of his hand along his jaw and down his neck in an unconscious response to his uncertainty.

“When you next hear from 'em, I figger they'll set up a place to meet with you,” Buck said. “Somewheres safe—for them. They're also gonna know you ain't 'bout to do nothin' to jeopardize your wife's safety. All I gotta know is where that meetin' place is. I'll be watchin'—alone, outta sight, and I guarantee I won't do nothin' to put your missus in danger.”

Watson considered for a while longer. Then he set his eyes firmly on Buck and said without restraint, “It's my wife's life we're talkin' 'bout.” He calmed himself, embarrassed by his outburst, and exhaled a resigned breath. “Don't like what you're suggestin'. But what choice do I have.”

Buck shrugged and spoke his words with brutal intention. “You can always go along with whatever they want.”

Watson responded with a hard, bitter look.

* * *

Buck Leighton had managed to obtain George Watson's assurance that he would be notified as soon as or if a second note was delivered. He said to wire him in Brackett, which was where Buck had decided to move forward with his hunch. He rode back to the town with the intention of once more paying a visit to Melinda Burrows. Maybe he was playing a long shot, but if Ehron Lee was involved in the abduction of Watson's wife, Buck reasoned that it had to do with Ehron Lee's misinformed belief—his ignorance of the fact that he'd been betrayed by his sister-in-law, and instead his assumption that it had been deliberate cruelty thrust upon him by the prison superintendent—that Watson had withheld his wife's correspondence from him.