Black Ransom (14 page)

Ehron Lee nodded his head sympathetically, but he had no words with which to respond, other than, “There's a lot of sadness in this world.”

Now it was Cora's turn to eye him inquisitively.

“You've seen some, I imagine,” she said.

Ehron Lee's features tightened almost involuntarily. He realized too late that he shouldn't have said what he did. He didn't want to pursue the topic.

“Some,” was all he said. His tone wasn't exactly rude or brusque but possessed enough abrupt inflection to hopefully discourage Cora from questioning further.

Cora understood. She could see by Ehron Lee's expression that whatever had happened in his past pained him and was not anything he wanted to discuss.

They stood quietly for a few moments, listening to indistinct, far-off sounds that seemed to emanate from somewhere deep in Brimstone Canyon.

“Hear that at night sometimes and wonder if it might be them Indians,” Cora said, considering.

Ehron Lee was likewise curious, but that was a consideration he wasn't about to acknowledge.

“Wouldn't be concernin' myself,” Ehron Lee said with a reassuring smile. “Like that fella Randy said, probably just a legend.”

Cora nodded, not altogether convinced. But as with the eventual fate of her brother, the inevitable end of the trail for Ward and the others, and even the uncertainty of her own future, the prospect of the Chiricahua living on the other side of the canyon was something she simply had come to accept.

“Maybe we should head back inside,” Ehron Lee then suggested.

Cora nodded again, and the two walked in silence back to the cabin.

* * *

Two days later the men were ready. They were equipped with four long-range Winchester '66 repeater rifles and, for extra measure, holstered Colt Army revolvers. Each of the outlaws had his own horse. Ehron Lee, however, had arrived at the cabin on foot after hiking many miles to the location from the nearest stage depot outside Colbert City, following the specific directions Ward had mapped out for him since it was remote property and difficult to find. He was given Cora's horse to ride, which seemed to be a sturdy, strong, and reliable animal. Cora did not object even though this would leave her pretty much bound to the house and property until her men returned.

The men prepared to ride out at dawn. Cora joined them at the corral to see them off. It looked to be a gray, overcast day, and the gloom was reflected in Cora's mood that morning. She awoke with a bad feeling. She felt with certainty that not all of the men would be riding back to the ranch.

The men, though, were eager to hit the trail. They were a bunch that craved excitement, and they had been inactive for too long. Danger was part of their trade, and each had come to regard this latest adventure not merely as a payback to Ward Crawford, but as a new challenge.

Despite her expression of resignation to Ehron Lee regarding what she perceived as the ultimate fate of her brother, Cora stayed by Brad as he saddled and readied his horse that morning. Ehron Lee and the others noticed her display of concern, and Jess began to tease Brad. Cora was offended by his remarks, but Brad just looked angry and was brusque with his sister, acting tough for the benefit of his compadres and dismissing her attention.

Cora waved them off, and Jess, Randy, and Brad whooped their horses into a gallop, riding off fast and furious. Ehron Lee stayed behind only for a moment, sharing a silent expression with Cora before tipping the brim of his Stetson in a gentlemanly fashion and following after the others.

Cora stayed put until they were gone from her sight and the dust raised up from their horses had long settled.

Then she walked back into the cabin, sat herself on the rocker, and did something she could never remember doing before.

She wept.

TEN

DURING THE FIVE
years that Ehron Lee Burrows had been locked away at Rockmound, Buck Leighton had been appointed to the post of United States marshal after his efforts had successfully led to the capture of a murderous gang of outlaws who had waylaid a stagecoach just outside Justice, killed the driver along with two of the passengers, and seriously wounded the shotgun rider. Buck and a small posse had soon tracked down the criminals; they cornered them in the valley and arrested the bunch without a shot being fired. His deputy, Bert Stradd, likewise involved in the apprehension of the outlaw band, was rewarded by assuming the duties of sheriff of Justice.

Truth be told, Stradd was offended at what he regarded as a token promotion. From his standpoint, he looked upon it as a
demotion
compared to what Buck had been handed. He might have worked under Buck Leighton as his deputy, but in his mind he considered himself a far better lawman than the sheriff.

Inevitably Bert grew resentful, and his bitterness led to frequent visits to the saloon, where he could boast about his accomplishments to patrons, who quickly became bored with his repeated and ever more expansive versions of exploits that lost all basis in truth. Soon fiction overtook fact, and Bert Stradd was no longer regarded seriously by the citizenry. With his pride wounded, Stradd resigned as town sheriff, and both he and his tall tales drifted away into a well-deserved obscurity.

* * *

As time passed, Buck Leighton had finally surrendered his efforts to find evidence that would free Ehron Lee, and as his new responsibilities consumed him, he soon forgot about the man he'd believed had been falsely convicted.

One day while Buck was in the town of Brackett on business, he happened to stop into Chamberlain's Emporium to purchase a few items and noticed a girl browsing the merchandise whom he vaguely recognized but could not quite place. The curious way the girl looked back at him also suggested a distant memory on her part. Finally Buck walked directly over to her and it suddenly dawned on him who she was.

“Mrs. Burrows?” he said. “Melinda Burrows?”

Melinda studied him only for an instant before her lips parted in a slight smile.

“Sheriff Leighton?” she responded.

Buck removed his Stetson and extended his hand in greeting.

“If I ain't mistaken, thought the two of us decided to forgo the formalities,” he said.

Melinda accepted his handshake warmly. “Well, yes . . . but that was a long time ago.”

Buck furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “'Bout five years.”

Melinda's expression became downcast, and she gave a hasty nod.

Buck didn't want to renew their acquaintanceship on a bleak memory, especially as he recognized that their meeting could not help but to be an unpleasant reminder. Instead his face lifted in a grin.

“You're lookin' fine—Melinda,” he said.

And she did look well. Although she had matured during the time since Buck had last seen her, her face still retained a fresh youthfulness that belied some undoubtedly difficult years. Only a slight premature creasing around the eyes reflected the sorrow she had carried with her through this time.

She moistened her lips. “As are you, Sheriff.”

“Buck, remember?” he corrected. “But actually I—I ain't a town sheriff anymore. Got myself promoted.” He said this matter-of-factly, without boasting.

“Yes. Come to think of it, I did read about that in the newspaper,” she acknowledged. “Federal marshal. Quite an honor. But from what the paper said, you earned it.”

“My one moment of glory,” Buck said jokingly. His tone got a little more serious. “Truth is, just got lucky.”

“Well . . . I'm sure you're doin' a fine job.”

“Thank yuh, ma'am,” Buck said appreciatively. “Actually, though, been pretty quiet duty so far.”

A heavyset, wide-bottomed female customer excused herself as she attempted to squeeze between them in the narrow aisle, maneuvering her girth between shelves cluttered with dry goods and knickknacks. Buck stepped out into the intersecting corridor to make room for her and tipped his hat in acknowledgment of her appreciative smile.

Melinda stepped out after him. She failed to respond to Buck's subtly amused expression as he watched the woman waddle down another aisle.

“And—how have you been keepin'?” Buck asked the girl, keeping his tone casual as he was aware that it could be a delicate question.

Melinda's eyes flickered before she replied, “I've—been well.”

It became clear to Buck that he and especially Melinda were trying hard not to step into conversational territory that both understood would be difficult
not
to discuss. But the emporium was not the place to talk. Buck decided to invite her for a cup of coffee. Her acceptance or refusal of his offer would tell Buck whether she was open to conversing.

“I think that would be nice,” she answered.

* * *

“One of the last times we spoke was in a coffee shop,” Buck said to Melinda as he pulled out her chair at a corner table in the little Brackett restaurant.

“I remember,” she said.

Buck rested his Stetson on the wall peg behind their table and sat across from her.

“Reckon we got us some catchin' up to do.”

Melinda nodded agreeably, if a trifle tentatively.

“S'pose I should start by askin' 'bout your baby,” Buck said.

“Not a baby anymore.” Melinda smiled, though her tone seemed to be guarded. “Almost five.”

“Boy?”

Melinda nodded. “Named him Charlie. Was a name—we'd both decided on.”

“Right fine name. Kinda thought it might be a son,” Buck said pleasantly. “Assume he keeps yuh busy?”

“He can be a handful at times. But he's a good boy.”

Buck cleared his throat. “And your sister?”

Melinda's face took on a pained look.

“Abigail—she took sick about three years ago,” she said dolefully.

Melinda didn't elaborate, and it wasn't necessary. Buck understood.

“I'm sorry to hear it,” he said compassionately. He waited a moment before he went on. “If you don't mind my askin', how're you and the little fella gettin' along?”

Melinda's voice held a forced optimism. “We're doing all right. Abigail left us some money, and we have the house.”

There followed an awkward silence, which thankfully was broken by the arrival of their waiter. Buck decided he wanted an early dinner and asked for a steak with a side order of fried potatoes and greens. He insisted that Melinda join him in a meal but all she chose was tea with honey and a hot buttered biscuit.

After the waiter left their table, the silence between Buck and Melinda resumed. They sat quietly, occasionally glancing at each other with strained smiles, until the waiter returned with Melinda's order. He placed the plate with the biscuit before her and poured the tea into her cup from a silver pot. He told Buck he'd be back shortly with his dinner, then returned to the kitchen.

Finally Buck sighed. He looked directly across the table at Melinda and said gently yet firmly, “Whyn't we both just speak what we know's on our mind?”

Melinda delicately spooned the honey into her tea, keeping her lashes lowered.

“I don't really know what to say,” she said. “I suppose I've had to put that aside.” There was a lengthy pause before she went on, “He never wrote. Never answered any of my letters. I'd hoped he would understand that I wouldn't be able to visit until after the baby was born, but maybe he didn't see it that way . . . maybe . . .” Her voice receded.

Lines of concern embedded themselves in Buck's features.

“Did yuh ever consider that maybe he never got those letters?” he ventured cautiously.

Melinda raised her eyes to him.

“Why wouldn't he?” she said, mildly agitated at the insinuation. “And even if that was so, why didn't
he
ever write?”

“Maybe he did,” Buck said softly.

Melinda prepared to take a sip of her tea. But she halted, and gingerly lowered the cup back onto the saucer. The light blue of her eyes seemed to deepen and her gaze was penetrating.

“What are you sayin'?” she asked warily.

Buck chose his words carefully. “I didn't know your husband well. But I did know how he felt 'bout you. Leavin' you was even harder than his havin' to do time for somethin' it ain't likely he did. I think I can say that if there was any way for him to do so, he woulda gotten letters off to you.”

Melinda blinked twice. “Are you suggesting that . . . the
prison
wouldn't let him write me?”

Buck shifted in his chair, leaning forward. “Possible. Also possible that he did write and the letters never made it to you. Maybe . . . someone got to 'em first.”

“Someone got to them?” Melinda echoed, scarcely believing she was hearing correctly. “But who? And why would someone . . .”

Buck had a definite suspicion “who,” but if he voiced what he was thinking—that it was sister Abigail who somehow had prevented those letters from being delivered to Melinda—and possibly had never posted those written by Melinda—he was sure to offend the girl.

“Ain't sayin' that's what happened, just offerin' a maybe,” Buck told her.

Melinda looked thoughtful—and troubled.

“And maybe . . . you're thinkin' Abigail,” she then said.

Buck said nothing. But to Melinda it was a telling silence.

“I—I gave her those letters to post,” Melinda uttered numbly. “She always insisted on doing that for me, because of me havin' to spend so much time with the baby. I appreciated her always offering to make that trip into town . . . but I never thought . . .” She focused her stare directly on Buck. “That's what you're thinkin', too, ain't it?”

“All I can say is that there ain't no rule ag'in prisoners receivin' or sendin' out mail,” Buck said. “Lessun if they're bein' punished.”

“Ehron Lee wouldn't cause no trouble,” Melinda said with certainty.

Buck took note how this was the first time in their talk that she had referred to her husband by name.

“No, don't seem the type,” he agreed.

“Then if'n what you're sayin' is so, I been wrong 'bout him . . .” Almost against her will Melinda's mouth formed the words she found difficult to say: “And I been wrong 'bout Abigail, too.”

“'Tween us, can't see it no other way,” Buck said. “'Specially with how she felt 'bout him.”

Melinda's eyes began to glimmer with a faint misting of tears.

“I—I can't imagine what he's been thinking all these years,” she lamented. “I remember you tellin' me that he'd be needing me . . . and I wasn't there for him.”

“You can't go blamin' yourself, Melinda,” Buck assured her.

Melinda spoke with self-reproach. “How can't I? You're right, I knew how Abigail felt about Ehron Lee. I know how she blamed him for what happened to Winston . . . how she said such awful things . . . and with no letters comin' from him, I—I started to believe what she was saying all that time was true.”

Buck tried to ease her guilt, and her grief.

“Abigail had her own hurt,” he said.

“I know,” Melinda said deliberately. “But she had no call to use her hurt to take away my happiness.”

“No. No, she didn't,” Buck acknowledged solemnly.

Melinda's voice was becoming emotional. “Ehron Lee was the finest man who ever lived, and she never would look at him that way. She resented him right from the start. But she was my sister and I wouldn't allow myself to think badly of her.”

Buck thought it might be best if they leave. He no longer had much of an appetite, and Melinda looked both upset and restless. He could have told her more; perhaps he should have. He knew the date of Ehron Lee's release from Rockmound was nearing. Actually, he was a little surprised that Melinda herself had not mentioned it.

Perhaps she forgot—or chose to forget. Regardless of what she now knew, maybe she had made the decision simply to move on with her life and put each memory of a painful past behind her. A decision she would keep.

If that was the case, and Buck suspected that it might be, he could understand. He wouldn't remind her and possibly compound her hurt.

The waiter brought over his meal just as they prepared to leave. Buck shook his head and pulled out some money to pay the perplexed server, leaving him some extra silver for his trouble.

By the time they stepped outside, Melinda had regained her composure and now looked a little guilty and apologetic.

“We should have stayed,” she said. “You didn't have your supper.”

“That's all right,” Buck assured her. “Can eat later.”

Buck walked with her along the boardwalk to where her buggy was parked. He helped her in and then she turned to him.