Ransom (8 page)

“That surprises me. I always thought—”

“Never mind all the shit you've thought that isn't so. Are both your shotguns the same size?”

Hahn nodded. “They're both twelve gauge.”

“Fine,” Taylor said. “Get a bunch of shells for that size. Couple boxes anyway. Single-ought buck would be good. You can say you're going deer hunting with some fellas from over in Cauley. One thing, though.”

“What's that?”

“I don't got much money. You'll have to foot the bill.”

Dick's chin lifted and he looked Taylor straight in the eye. “This is for Jessica. I don't care if it takes every cent I have.”

Taylor held his gaze for several moments that seemed much longer than they really were. Then he turned toward the door. “I'm gonna see can I pick up that trail. I'll meet you back here in a couple hours. Soon as I find something, whenever that is.”

 

Ervin Ederle

Damned women, Erv Ederle grumbled half aloud as his horse stumbled and slid down a rocky, brush-strewn chute.

“Please. Stop. You really must let us get off. It's too . . . we'll fall. I don't trust these animals and my limbs ache quite abominably. Please let us get down for a little while.”

Damned women, Erv repeated under his breath. They were bad enough at most times, but women who could not even cook were worse than useless.

He would show this one, though. She would learn to cook a proper meal for him or he would take a cinch strap to her butt. Better yet, he would strap the kid. That ought to make her hop.

Damn kids too. This one was all the time leaking, running snot from her nose and tears from her eyes until she was all swole up so bad he could hardly tell what she properly looked like. Useless little bitch, just like her mother.

At least they soon would be at his hidey-hole. Another couple days would have them there. The place likely was a prospect hole where some fool miner looked for mineral and came up empty. Idiot dug deep enough before he quit, though. Through solid rock too. Erv could not understand the sort of man who would go to all that bother for a few pennies of gold or silver when
there was so much of the stuff lying about practically free for the taking.

He smiled to himself at the thought of the payout he was fixing to put in his saddlebags.

How much was a bank worth? Five thousand? Ten? A man could live high on the hog for the rest of his days with that kind of money in his poke. Buy himself a little brown-skinned Mex girl. Two. Hell, a dozen if he wanted them. Live high and easy with all the cerveza and beans a man could want. Ah, that would be the life. A Yankee with money in his pockets? Why, he would be a big man in all the ways that mattered, so he would.

And all he had to do to get it was to sit back laughing and scratching and wait for the dumb broad's husband to bring it to him.

He would keep them alive, though. Just in case he had to show the husband some bona fides.

Once the rich bastard turned over the money, well, that was a different story. He wouldn't need any of them alive after that. Although then he could afford to be . . . what was the word . . . magnanimous. He might let them go then. Or not.

Whatever he decided, God knew he did not want to keep this stupid, complaining, no-account female. Not permanently.

Erv shook his head. Why any sane man, especially a rich one, would choose to hitch himself to a deadweight like this skinny, yellow-haired thing he simply did not understand. The kid was not all bad—almost but not quite all—but the woman, damn!

“I need to stop. I have to . . . I have to go. Really. I mean it. I'm going to go all over your saddle if you don't let me get down and do my business.” The voice, that whining, incessant voice, reached him from behind.

Erv ignored the bitch, hunched his shoulders as if from a physical blow, and rode deliberately on without pause.

It wasn't his saddle anyway.

Chapter 6

Taylor opened the door and went in without knocking. He did not remove his hat once he was inside.

Hahn looked up from his easy chair and scowled. “Took your own sweet time about it, didn't you?” he grumbled. He did not stand to greet his “guest.”

“I'm not quick enough for you? Fine. We can split up right here and now, mister. You gallop off in a big-assed hurry in the wrong direction whilst I take my time but get on their trail.”

Hahn's expression changed to a flash of sudden hope. “You found their tracks?” This time he did come out of his chair. He crossed the room to stand in front of Taylor, both fear and hope naked in his expression.

“More or less,” Taylor said.

“What is more or less supposed to mean, man? Did you find their tracks or not?”

“You don't know much about tracking, I take it. So let me explain somethin', city boy. I know cows. I know how to track down cows that have strayed. The thing is, you don't try an' find a long string o' footprints going from here to there and follow along behind them one by one. What you do is learn what cows is all about. You see just enough to figure out what direction they're moving, then you look on ahead from there. Is it the heat o' the day? If 'tis, then you look for good shade where they can lie down out of the sun and rest. First thing in the morning?
Look for water. Middle morning or late afternoon? Look for foliage for them to graze.

“Now, maybe I don't know all that much about trailing men . . . for a fact I don't,” Taylor admitted, “but I figure it's bound to be sorta the same thing. Find what direction they're headed, then look out ahead to see what they might be aiming toward.”

“Damn you, are you going to answer my question or not?” Hahn snapped. “Did you find tracks or didn't you?”

“I found . . . something. Likely them but there's no guarantees. For sure I found where some horses have passed.”

“How many?”

“Damn it, man, give me a minute to finish what I'm saying. I don't know how many horses because they're riding single file. Without I get to know the tracks of individual horses, and without I know for certain sure that it's them, I really can't say how many nor exactly where they're headed. But this trail I did spot, it's headed into the high country, away from any graze cows ought to be using at this time o' year. That makes it all the more likely it's the bunch we want.”

“And Jessica? Loozy? Can you tell if they're all right?”

Taylor gave the man a look of disgust. “Maybe you're so damned good that you can tell who's riding a horse just from looking at the tracks. Me, I can't do that.”

“I read someplace,” Hahn said, “that you can tell if the rider is a woman or a child by seeing how deep the hoofprint marks the ground.”

Taylor snorted. “That's a bunch o' crap. How heavy is the horse?”

“What horse?”

“The horse that left this track you're telling me about. How much does this horse weigh?”

“Why . . . how could I know a thing like that?”

“Exactly. You couldn't. Neither could I.”

“Oh.” Hahn frowned as the meaning of Taylor's comments began to sink it.

“What I'm telling you is, maybe . . . mind now that I said maybe . . . maybe we got a direction to go in. Did you get us outfitted? Horses? Pack animal? Supplies for a long chase?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Shells for those shotguns and saddle scabbards to carry 'em in?”

“Everything I thought we could need. I . . . brought what cash I could too. In case we can talk the kidnappers into taking what we can give them without ruining the town.”

“All right. Change your clothes for some hunting togs an' let's go. Them downtown duds,” he laughed, “they ain't gonna do well out in the hills.”

“Now?” Hahn looked surprised. “Is that what you mean?”

“Hell, we could lie up an' wait a week or so if you'd rather,” Taylor said sarcastically.

Hahn sighed. Then he stood and took a deep breath. “All right, Taylor. Let's get after those sons of bitches.”

* * *

“How's come two packhorses, Hahn? Are you wanting to travel in comfort?”

“I got two in case Jess and Loozy need to ride them back home,” Hahn explained.

“Oh, I . . . damn it, I'm a little bit embarrassed,” Taylor admitted. “I shoulda thought of that my own self.”

Taylor picked up and examined each foot of each horse, including the pack animals. Shoes and hooves alike appeared to be sound and healthy, and he knew for a fact that at least one of the packhorses went well under saddle because he had used the beast himself on more than one occasion when a job called for working from horseback.

Since Hahn did not seem to know to do the chore, Taylor examined Hahn's saddle mount as well, then said, “They're all sound an' ready. Reckon we can head out.”

“Good enough.” Hahn carefully—rather nervously, Taylor thought—checked the cinches on his rented horse and saddle, then stepped gingerly into the stirrup. The horse stood steady as a rock. With an expression of great relief, Hahn settled deeper into the saddle and flopped his heels against the brown animal's sides.

John Taylor struggled to suppress a smile.

As soon as it felt Hahn's heels, the horse exploded into a high, twisting leap.

The brown came pounding back to earth. Hahn remained hanging in midair. The horse darted sideways out from beneath him and Richard Hahn crashed to the ground in a heap. By then Taylor already had captured the loose reins of the brown and was standing nearby.

He laughed. He tried not to. He really did. But he could not help himself.

Hahn bounced up, immediately angry. Then he too found some humor in his discomfort. Grumbling, he reached out to regain the reins of the brown.

Taylor shook his head. “Nah, I'll ride this one,” he said. “I've used the miserable son of a bitch in the past.
He's only spooky first time you crawl up on him in the morning. After that he makes a pretty good cow pony. This one here, though,” Taylor said, pointing to his own chosen mount, “he's steady. I think maybe we'd best swap those saddles. I'll take the brown. You can have this paint. But I'm gonna ride my own saddle. You can manage with that rented thing.”

Hahn gave Taylor a long, thoughtful look; then he nodded his head. “Thanks. I . . . I appreciate it.” He turned away and began loosening the cinches of the livery saddle.

Taylor did not mention that he had known full well what the brown would do when Hahn tried to ride it. He told himself that he wanted to take the measure of the little man, and that was partially true. It was also true that John Taylor wanted to see Richard Hahn's scrawny ass hit the dirt when the brown horse threw him.

* * *

“Here,” Taylor said, stopping his horse and pointing at the ground. “See it?”

“That little scrape, you mean?”

“That's right. That's the track I found.”

“It doesn't look much like a footprint,” Hahn said skeptically.

“If the kidnappers was nice enough t' walk through soft mud, I'm sure they woulda left proper hoofprints. On ground this hard a scrape is 'bout the best we can hope for. Now, that's one there. Then over here”—he leaned out of the saddle and pointed again—“over here is another. From this'un to that gives us the direction they was going. You see what I mean?”

Hahn nodded. “Yes, of course.” He aimed a finger at
the nearer scrape, moved his arm so the finger pointed at the far scrape and then let his hand rise toward the horizon. “There is a . . . what would you call it, a swale? There looks to be a swale over there.”

“Which is where I figure they went. Up that draw toward the mountains. I been up there. The draw turns into a shallow canyon, then peters out where a couple ridges come together.”

“And that is where you expect to find them?”

“It'd be nice, but I don't ‘expect' nothing. I just know I'm gonna follow wherever those sons o' bitches lead, wherever that is, however long it takes.” Taylor leaned back against his cantle and scowled.

Hahn said nothing, but his expression was as grim as Taylor's as he nudged the paint horse forward again.

* * *

Richard Hahn broke a three-inch piece off the end of a juniper twig and tossed it into the fire. He watched it flare and quickly burn up, then broke off another small piece and threw it in after the first. “We didn't do very well today, did we?” he asked.

Taylor shrugged. “We got out the town. We got this far. That's something.”

“But Jessica . . .”

“Is no worse off tonight than what she was this morning,” Taylor said.

“What if they . . .” Hahn swallowed hard. He seemed to be having trouble getting the words out. “What if they ravage her?”

“I know you'd care, Hahn, but would that make her soiled goods to you? Would you feel different about her?” Taylor reached for a stick, wrapped some soft dough
around it, and began roasting the pan bread over the coals.

“I resent that implication,” Hahn snapped.

“Huh. Resent all you damn please. I still ask the question.”

“I took her in after she was with you, didn't I?”

“Ain't the same thing. I was married to her. Still am, for that matter. This is different. We don't know how many kidnappers there are. They might could all pass her around among them. Loozy too, for that matter. Wouldn't make no difference to me. I love them. Both of them. I'd be happy to get them back after a hundred men was with them. But a prissy little fart like you”—he shrugged again—“I ain't so sure about you.”

Hahn opened his mouth but Taylor quickly said, “Don't be so quick to answer. Think about it a day or two before you say anything. Both of us's futures could depend on it.”

“You'd like me to reject her for something that is not her fault, wouldn't you?” Hahn accused.