Ransom (3 page)

She pulled away and gave him a playful slap on the chest. “Mind your manners, mister. We promised to be there.”

“But did we promise to be on time?” Dick countered.

Jessica ignored him. She turned and went into the bedroom to finish dressing.

 

Ervin Ederle

Erv “Big Man” Ederle raised his mug and thirstily downed the golden brew it contained. “Good. Damn good.” He slammed the empty pewter mug down on the rough-hewn bar and growled, “Another.”

The barman looked at him with unconcealed skepticism and said, “When I see your money.” Erv had imbibed there before, it seemed. And he was a very difficult man to evict.

The man flinched when Ederle's hand jerked down and back, but it was his pocket he dug into and not his holster. He came out with a small pouch, opened it, and extracted a ten-dollar gold eagle. “There, damn you. Now will you pour the damned beer? And add a shot to go with it. Hell, add a bottle, and keep the beer coming.”

“Yes, sir.” The barman was visibly shaken. Ervin Ederle had some years on him—half a century's worth if the truth be known—and his hair was graying, but he still had the demeanor of a man who was not to be trifled with, and he had enough guns and knives hanging about his person to bolster that impression.

Ederle drank until he was knee-walking drunk, tossing back rye whiskey one after another and chasing each swallow with a full beer mug, then found a corner where the sawdust was soft and welcoming and went to sleep there, his snoring rattling the rafters with each snort and flutter. In the morning he woke quite unconcerned about
his choice of resting place, stood and brushed himself off, then staggered to the bar.

“Gimme an eye-opener,” he roared, pounding his fist down and eyeing the bartender, one he had not seen the night before.

“All right. Beer or a shot?” The gent continued polishing glasses with a towel that was in bad need of washing.

“Both. An' be quick about it,” Ederle roared.

“Fifteen cents,” the barman told him.

“I got change coming from las' night. Now hurry up. My head is splitting an' I need a drink.”

“Change? The hell you say. Now pay up or take off.” The bartender reached under his counter.

Ederle mumbled some highly uncomplimentary claims about the bartender's habits and ancestry, but he reached for his pocket once again.

This time he came up empty. “I been robbed, you son of a bitch. Some bastard stole my poke. Where the hell is it?”

“If you don't have any money, then you'd best get out of here.” The bartender's hand under the bar surface emerged, this time holding a cudgel. “Right now would be a good time for you to do that, mister.”

“But damn it . . .”

“Now. I won't tell you again.” He was not intimidated by the big, bleary-eyed drunk in front of him. He waved his cudgel menacingly and cut his eyes toward the door.

Ederle, unshaven and with his hair in wild disarray, picked up his hat and jammed it onto his head. He wobbled a little, then righted himself and headed for the batwings. He stepped out into bright daylight, broke and miserable and without even the price of a beer in his pockets. The sunshine stabbed his eyes, the pain causing him to squint,
closing first one eye and then the other while he tried to navigate across the street.

The only good thing about the day was that his stomach was so sour that the mere thought of food made him want to puke. Some more. The stink on him suggested he had already puked all over himself sometime during the night. The good thing about that was that he had no desire for the meal he could not afford to buy.

But he had his guns. And he had a horse. Somewhere. He would just ride out until he came across a traveler. Someone alone if possible or at least not too many of them at once. And he would rob the unfortunate son of a bitch.

He belched, gave serious thought to puking again, and stumbled down the street toward the livery, hoping like hell he had had the foresight to pay for the horse's board in advance.

* * *

“Whoa. You dumb sumbish.” Erv reined to a halt, then turned crossways to the road and looked up and down in both directions. He could not see anyone. Which was a shame because his stomach was beginning to settle. That meant he would be hungry soon. He knew himself well enough to anticipate that. What he needed now was a traveler.

But then for a man in Erv's line of work, patience was more than a virtue, it was a necessity.

The sun was a good half hour higher when he saw a dark speck approaching from the east. Two specks. Erv smiled. As the specks grew into recognizable forms, they appeared to be a Mexican peasant wearing white pajamas
and a straw sombrero leading a donkey loaded with pale sticks. Firewood, he supposed.

It was a pity the Mex was not carrying something useful, but what was a man to do?

Erv rubbed his chin and hooked a knee around his saddle horn. He did not mind waiting now that he had the fellow in sight.

* * *

Ederle sat cross-legged in the shade of a cottonwood while his horse cropped grass nearby. He had his hat upended in his lap. The sweat-rimed hat held the take given up by that Mex peon who had had the misfortune to be on the same road at the same time as Ervin “Big Man” Ederle.

Big Man my ass, Ederle told himself when he was done counting the nickels and pennies he had taken from the Mexican. Old Man was more like it now. Dumb Man. Robbing for nickels and dimes. There had been a day when a dozen men felt privileged to ride with the Big Man. They took down big money. Banks, stagecoaches, once even a train. They had all fallen to the Ederle Gang.

Then Erv's luck began to turn bad. Too much shooting for too little return. Gang members died or were crippled. Replacements were slow to come. The size of the gang dwindled until the final small core of three men pulled out and went their own way with Johnny Baggs taking the leadership that rightfully belonged to Erv.

Thousands of dollars had passed through the hands of the Ederle Gang back in the old days.

Now he had . . . three dollars and fourteen cents.

He stood, his knees aching and his hands hurting the way they had begun to do of late.

He was getting old, damn it. That was the truth of the matter. He was getting old and tired and he wanted to find someplace where he could settle down and stay. Someplace warm. Someplace where there would not be posters out on him or posses to worry about.

Mexico was the most likely spot or down toward the border in Arizona Territory. It was kind of nice down there. Or had been the last he was there, which was quite a while back now. Before the war back East? He thought so.

He could find a little shack not too awful far from a store. Take in a little brown-skinned woman to do for him. Erv was partial to the dusky ladies. She could cook his meals and wash his clothes and, well, whatever else. He might be old but he was not that old yet.

That was what he needed. It would take money to do it, though. A helluva lot more than three dollars and fourteen cents.

What he needed, Erv Ederle thought, was one big— really big—score for his last take.

What he needed, he realized, was a plan.

Two days of close observation later, he had one. A really good one, he thought. And with a bit of luck he would not even need a gang to pull it off.

Chapter 2

John Taylor reined to a stop in front of the shack he still kept in the hope that he would bring Jessie and Loozy back into it where they belonged. He sat on the Slash 3 7 horse for a moment before dismounting. Turning to the youngster beside him, he said, “Care to come in for a snort? I have a piece of a bottle laid by for emergencies like this.”

The boy, who went by the moniker Dink, shook his head. “Thanks but I got t' get these horses back to the ranch.” He smiled and added, “Before Coosie bars the door an' quits serving up grub.”

“All right. Suit yerself.” Taylor swung his huge frame off the animal and quickly stripped the horse of his saddle and bridle. He clipped a lead rope to the halter and handed the end to Dink. “Listen here for a minute.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I was watching you today. You're good with them cow critters. You'll be drawing top-hand pay here direc'ly. Count on it.” He dropped his saddle onto the stoop in front of the door and rubbed his left shoulder where a cow had hit him a glancing blow with an unexpected kick earlier in the day.

“D'you mean that, Mr. Taylor?” The boy looked pleased.

“It's John, boy. Nobody named me Mister. An' yes. I do mean it. You got the makings of a right fine hand.” He smiled and extended his hand to shake.

“Thank you, Mi . . . I mean, John. Thanks a lot.” He grinned and tightened up on his reins to back his horse away a few paces, Taylor's borrowed mount following.

“Get on back now before you miss out on your supper.”

Dink touched the brim of his floppy old hat in farewell and reined his horse back toward the Slash 3 7, dragging along with him the animal Taylor had ridden into town.

Taylor shouldered his tack and carried it inside. Jessie always insisted that he keep his saddle on the porch, but John worried that would allow mice to get after the leather. Now that she was gone he kept it inside where it belonged.

He stared at the long cold stove and considered what he might cook. If he still had anything in the place that was fit to eat. He had been gone eight days working for Tweed out at the Slash 3 7 and had no idea what he had in the place to eat at this point.

Which was all the excuse he needed.

Taylor pumped some cold water into the copper sink and made quick work of washing away the dust he had collected on the ride in with Dink. He changed to a reasonably clean shirt, battered the road dust off his britches, and headed for Frenchie's Place.

“H'lo, John,” Finnegan greeted him. “Beer?”

“Damn right. I'm parched.” He hooked a boot onto the brass rail that ran along the floor in front of the bar and planted his elbows on the countertop.

“Where've you been, John?” Finnegan asked as he reached for a mug and shoved it under a spigot.

“Working.” He grinned. “So's I can pay your outrageous prices.”

“Good. Be all right with me if you just hand over
whatever you got paid.” Finnegan winked. “Or I can take it a bit at a time. You want some chili with that beer?”

“That's the best offer I've had in a while.”

Finnegan stuck his head through the door into the back of the place and yelled, “That big ape is here and he's wanting some of your best chili.”

John heard some laughter from the kitchen. Finnegan came back and drew the beer, blew most of the head off, and filled the heavy glass mug the rest of the way to the brim. “Drewry's been looking for you,” he said as he slid the mug in front of Taylor.

“Drewry. What the hell does he want with me?” Leonard Drewry worked for the court over in the county seat. The man rarely put in an appearance in Thom's Valley, and whenever he did it was usually for some unpleasant reason.

Finnegan shrugged and said, “I haven't heard, John. Is there, uh, is there any reason why you might want to stay out of sight?”

“Nothing that I can think of, Joe.” He pondered the question for a moment, then shook his head. “Nope. Nothing.”

“Then just stick around. Drewry's sure to find you.”

“I got no reason to hide from him. No reason to go running to find him neither.” He belched and said, “Damn but that beer tastes fine. Draw me another, will you?” He laid a silver dollar on the bar to assure Finnegan that he had the wherewithal to pay for his evening, then reached for the bowl of roasted peanuts a few feet down the bar.

* * *

“Pull!” The boy in the pit gave the clay ball a heave. The target curved into sight at an upward angle and flew
high. Dick Hahn's handsomely crafted English double lined up on the flight of the ball, swept slightly ahead to compensate for the time it would take for the load of light shot to reach the target, and with a touch of Hahn's finger spat shot, flame, and smoke into the clear air.

Ten or so yards to the fore, the clay ball burst into a puff of dust as Hahn's pellets struck it dead center.

“Nice, Dick. Very nice.”

“Thanks, Willis.” Hahn swiveled the release lever to break the action. He plucked the spent shell casing from the breech and tossed it into the bucket beside his shooting station. At the end of the day, some club employee would gather the empties and take them into the equipment shed to reload. Dick assumed that was where they also molded the clay targets ready for the next weekend of shooting, but he had never been interested enough to ask. He was above that sort of thing now. Above that sort of person.

His companion stepped up to the board that marked the shooting position, shouldered his engraved and gold-inlaid German over-and-under, and cried, “Pull.” Another clay flew high. Willis's gun spat, but the clay sailed on unharmed. Willis Hammerschmidt fired again with no better result.

“Next time, Willis. I thought you were on the bird this time.”

“Right. Next time. Say, thinking about birds, did you hear there will be a live pigeon shoot over in Cauley next month?”

“No, sir, I hadn't.”

Willis scratched himself and reloaded his gun, then said, “Chic Fullbright rounded up practically his entire barn full of passengers the last time the migration came back north. He's been feeding them cracked corn all this time.” Willis laughed. “And catching hell from his wife
the whole time too. Anyway, he is donating them all. Ten dollars a gun. All the proceeds go to Mrs. Dollman's orphanage. They get the dead birds too to bake for the kiddies.”

Hahn nodded. “Sounds fine, Willis.”

“Can we count on you, Dick? You're Thom's Valley's best wing shot and you know we want to make a good showing against those boys over in Cauley.”