Ransom (17 page)

“How the hell should I know? I've never been in any sort of gunfight before now.”

“Me neither.”

“I can tell you one thing,” Taylor said. “The guy down there can't get to us without us hearing him come. We'll hear his footsteps on this gravel long before he reaches us. And you've got your shotgun for when he does. Which reminds me. Do you have any extra shells for that thing?”

“Lots of them—”

“Oh, good.”

“—on my horse.”

Taylor shrugged—and winced from the pain the gesture cost him—and said, “Okay, maybe not so good. But it is loaded, isn't it?”

“Yep. With buckshot.”

“Then all we have to do is wait for him to come close and then you shoot him.” He smiled. “Easy, eh?”

“Do you think it's that big fellow from back at Embry's store?” Hahn asked.

“Pretty much has to be,” Taylor said. “He's the one sent us up here. He's the only person who knew where we'd be.”

“He's already robbed us. What else does he want?” Hahn complained.

“The horses, I suppose. Those were stolen horses he sold to Embry. Phil as much as said so. I suppose he wants our horses and gear to sell next.”

“The son of a bitch,” Hahn growled.

“Quiet now. Quit your fidgeting,” Taylor said. “If he hears us he'll know where we are.”

“It isn't easy lying still on these old needles. They itch.” As if to demonstrate the discomfort, Hahn reached underneath himself and scratched.

“Yeah but hold still anyway. He'll come after us. He has to if he wants our stuff.” Taylor lay back and concentrated on holding the handkerchief against the scrape on his side. It was not a serious wound, but it hurt like a son of a bitch.

* * *

“Shh,” Hahn whispered.

“I hear 'im,” Taylor whispered back. “Hear that crackling sound? I think he's gotten himself into that mess of scrub oak down below us. Probably now he doesn't know how to get himself out without us hearing him.”

“Well, let's hope he can't figure that one out,” Hahn said with fervor.

“Shh.”

“Sorry,” Hahn said, this time again remembering to whisper.

* * *

Taylor rolled onto his right side. “You know what?” he whispered. “This rifle scrape doesn't hurt so bad now.”

“Is it still bleeding?” Hahn asked.

“No. I don't think so.” He peeled the bandana away
from the angry red blemish on his flesh and said, “I think it's all right now. Not all right, exactly, but it isn't seeping blood anymore. You want your handkerchief back?”

“You aren't even going to wash and iron it before you give it back?” Hahn was grinning when he posed the question.

* * *

“It will be dark soon,” Hahn said. “Is that a good thing?”

“Not really.” Taylor paused and considered the question. “I don't know.”

“I wish I could stand up. I need to take a leak.”

“Roll over on your side and let 'er rip. Just do it so it flows downhill.”

“I might have thought of that on my own, but thank you for the suggestion.”

“Always glad t' help.”

“You're just lucky you aren't lying downhill from me.”

Taylor chuckled and then became silent again.

* * *

“I hear him coming, John. Lord but I'm scared.” It was dusk. In a matter of minutes would be dark.

“So am I, Dick.”

“Do you think he's close enough? Should I shoot now?”

“Wait. Just wait a minute.” Taylor came onto his hands and knees and began crawling through the juniper fans, shaking the dusty foliage and making more noise than was necessary.

“What are . . . oh, I see.” Hahn pulled both hammers of his shotgun back into firing position, then reconsidered
and let one down again so he had only one barrel cocked. That way he could not be frightened into firing both barrels at once and rendering them unarmed. He lifted himself onto one knee and winced as long-unused muscles rebelled.

Without warning, Taylor jumped upright, holding a rock in each hand. He threw one at the dimly seen figure about ten yards down toward the mouth of the fold in the mountainside; then he immediately dropped out of sight in the juniper bushes.

Their tormentor snapped a shot at the spot where Taylor had just been. By then Hahn had come up out of his crouch. He shouldered his scattergun as if he were wing-shooting pigeons and fired toward whoever was out there. The flame spewing from the muzzle of his shotgun lighted the brush for yards around, momentarily blinding Hahn. He immediately dropped back down into a crouch.

He heard thrashing below them, an animal—a human being, for instance—moving loudly and the crackling of brush.

Then there was silence.

He was still listening when the sun completely disappeared and the cloak of night spread over them.

Hahn wished Taylor had thought to come back close before it got dark. If Taylor was still alive, that is. The man with the rifle had fired at him. Taylor might be dead now for all Dick Hahn knew, and he did not dare call out and make a target of himself for the rifleman.

He huddled on the ground underneath the junipers, thoroughly miserable and feeling more alone than at any time in his life, clinging to the shotgun with its one remaining shell.

 

Ervin Ederle

Erv dropped a burlap sack of comestibles onto the floor and looked at what he had there. The woman and kid looked thoroughly miserable, unkempt, filthy, and bedraggled. He considered making them bathe—while he watched, of course, just to guard against any attempt to escape; that thought brought a grin to his face—but realized that might cause more problems than benefits.

For one thing, the air was chill at this elevation. Getting them wet could cause one of them to sicken and die, and he did not want that. Threats about one were his surest method of keeping the other in line.

The grown one, for instance. She did what he said, whatever he said, because he had convinced her that to do otherwise would cause him to transfer his attentions to the kid.

Later . . . he was still undecided about that. If the ransom was paid he just might let them go.

Or not.

It had rocked him down at Phil's store to discover that the banker was not the husband and father. That was the big cowboy. Erv had seen him around town, mostly in a saloon or talking with the loafers who hung around the mercantile. So the banker was a boyfriend. The sorry slut left her husband and was shacking up with the moneyman. She was even more of a snooty bitch than he thought. Now that he had thought about it, though,
it really did not matter who she was screwing any more than it mattered who paid the ransom. Just so long as the ransom was paid. And it was enough to set him up in Mexico.

In his idle moments—and Erv had many idle moments, which was just the way he liked it—he was fond of speculating about how much ransom he could extract from the little banker. Fond too of thinking about what he would do with it. The tequila. The women. The easy life down South.

“There's some bacon in that poke,” he announced to the females, who were cowering at the back of the dig. “Cook me up some of it. An' make me some 'pone with the cornmeal you'll find there. You do know how to make cornpone, don't you? Well, don't you?”

He waited until the woman nodded, then said, “I'm gonna bring up some more firewood. See that you have things ready by the time I get back.”

Both the woman and the kid scurried after the burlap sack. They started pulling stuff out of it, including the mesquite smoked bacon that Erv doted on. That was his favorite, perhaps even better than elk liver.

He started down the hill to find dry wood.

Later . . . well, later he would send the kid back onto her bed while he took the woman around to the side of the ledge and had some fun with her. Now, that was something to look forward to.

Erv whistled a merry tune as he worked.

Chapter 19

“Jesus Christ, John, you scared the shit out of me.” Hahn practically jumped out of his skin at Taylor's almost, but not quite, silent approach.

Taylor chuckled. “Why, Dick, I didn't know you knew words like that.” The chuckle turned into a muffled laugh. “On the other hand, I damn sure do know that Jessie knows that one and a whole lot more.”

“I wouldn't know about that,” Hahn sniffed.

“You will.” Taylor crawled beside Hahn and lay down.

“It will be daylight soon,” Hahn said. “I can almost see my hands.”

“The ones that're shaking?”

“Yeah, that would be them. Or, um, those. Whatever.” Hahn paused, then asked, “Do you think he will be coming for us once it's light?”

“If I had to guess, yes, I'd think so. I know I would.”

“He could just wait. Eventually we'll have to move. We'll have to go to water if nothing else.”

“Or he will,” Taylor suggested. “Listen for him. If you hear him moving, up and blast him.”

“I'd rather he just go away.”

“Maybe he will, Dick. Maybe he will.”

“How is your wound this morning?” Hahn asked.

“It's dry now. Crusting over. I've had plenty worse than this. It will form a scab and a few weeks later be pretty
much gone. A bullet might be scarier than a steer's horn, but they act about the same.”

“Yes, but a bullet can kill you,” Hahn said.

“So can a cow's horn.”

Both men lay silent then on their bed of prickly juniper needles while the sun inched over the horizon and slid higher into the sky.

* * *

Taylor removed his hat and used the palm of his hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He whispered, “I wish I'd had forethought enough t' take this damn coat off before daybreak. Now I'm roasting.”

“Before dawn it was too cold to take your coat off.”

“I didn't say it was logical, but I am sayin' I got a right to complain.”

“Why are we whispering?” Hahn asked. “He already knows we're here.”

“Come to think of it, you're right,” Taylor said in a normal speaking voice. He raised his voice into a shout and added, “Hey, you out there. You go to hell.”

“Do you feel better now?”

Taylor grinned. “Yeah. I think I do. Try it.”

“To hell with you, mister,” Hahn shouted.

“And twice on Sunday,” Taylor added just as loudly.

Hahn looked at him and raised his eyebrows. Taylor lifted his shoulders and held his palms upraised and empty.

“I got to take a leak again,” Hahn moaned a little while later.

“Well, I know you don't got to go real bad this time because neither one of us has had a drop to drink in damn near forever.”

“It feels bad.”

“Then let me move outta the way. I don't want t' be downhill from the flood.”

* * *

“Damn it, John, I can't stand much more of this. I just can't.”

Taylor rolled onto his side and squinted up at the sun burning down on them, soaking them in sweat and aggravating their growing thirst. “I keep thinking of the water hanging on the sides of those horses up-canyon. I kinda wish one o' them would stray back down here, even if it meant the SOB down below shot it. Then I could crawl back to it and fetch us the water bag.”

“With our luck,” Hahn said, “the horse would drop with the water underneath it. Or you could get shot too.”

“You're right. I should send you to retrieve the water.”

* * *

Hahn rolled onto his side and looked up at the sun, which by now was at its zenith and would soon be starting down again. “John,” he said, “you aren't as bad a man as I expected you would be. I'm sorry for all the things I've said about you.”

“Hell, Dick, I bet they aren't a candle to what-all I've said about you.”

“Yes, well, you have your reasons,” Hahn conceded. He paused, then swallowed hard before he said, “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that. That I, um, misjudged you.”

Hahn slapped Taylor on the shoulder, then stood, the shotgun cradled across his chest.

“Damn it, Dick, get down. Quick.”

Hahn ignored him. He cocked the hammer over his last remaining shell and shouldered the gun; then with his eyes toward the place where they last saw the man who attacked them, the frail Hahn began walking slowly and deliberately down the canyon.

* * *

“John,” Hahn called in a loud voice. “Come on down here. You should see this for yourself.”

“It's safe?” Taylor asked before he rose from the junipers.

“Oh yeah, it's safe,” Hahn returned.

Taylor scrambled out of the junipers and down the coarse rock and gravel bed of the narrow gulch where they had been trapped. “What is . . . oh.” He stopped short, having to ask no more about what Dick Hahn had discovered.

The rider who called himself Randy Smith lay on his back, eyes and mouth wide open. His flesh had a waxy, yellowish cast to it. Beard stubble stood out in dark contrast to the pallor of his skin. A pool of congealed blood lay on the ground beneath him.

“It wasn't that big fella after all,” Taylor said softly.

“No, it wasn't.” Hahn sighed. “This fellow must have caught some pellets when I fired at him yesterday evening. I . . . feel rather strange about this. Knowing . . . you know. I shot a man. Actually shot someone.”

“Jesus!” Taylor said. “You mean we been hiding out from a dead man all this time?”

“I suppose so. But we didn't know. It would have been foolish to take chances.”

Taylor looked at him for a moment before saying, “Like
the chance you took when you came down here? You didn't know the son of a bitch was dead. It was a brave thing you done, coming after him like that.”

Hahn shrugged. “He must have thought we had money on us. He wanted to rob us. Perhaps even kill us. I've never shot at a person before, but I'm not sorry about this. What are you doing, John?”