Black Ransom (11 page)

Ward grinned and chuckled. He lowered his head and gave it a slight shake.

“Ward Crawford's as crooked as a three-legged dog,” Woody muttered idly.

Ward guffawed. “Still not as crooked as your face, white boy.”

Woody's features tensed but he didn't otherwise respond to the insult.

“Hell, what ain't I in here for? Little bit of everything, I reckon.” Ward became strangely silent, and when he next spoke, both the expression on his face and the tone of his voice were solemn.

“Sentenced me to twenty years. Been here goin' on eight months. Killed a man durin' a bank holdup. Deputy marshal, in fact. The papers even gave me a fancy handle: Two-trigger Crawford.”

“That's 'cause Crawford had two guns drawn when he shot the man,” Woody offered briskly.

Ehron Lee had heard the name “Two-trigger Crawford” but refrained from acknowledging his familiarity with it.

Ward continued, speaking in the same subdued tone, “Woulda been hanged, only the man's widow pleaded with the judge to send me here. Said it'd be a more suitable punishment, rather than a quick death by rope. The sheriff sided with her. So . . . the judge did me this here favor. Yeah, I'm thirty-two now, will be past fifty by the time I get out. Y'know, Burrows, here's how I figger it: Steal my money and I can always get more. Steal my woman, I can always find another. But steal my time . . . you've taken away a piece of my life that I can't never get back. Twenty years they gave me. Twenty years for twenty stinkin' minutes.”

“They wasn't gonna pin a medal on yuh,” Woody remarked. “You killed a man.”

Ward walked over to the cell door and spit through the bars into the corridor.

“Some peckerwood lawman,” he said dismissively.

“And don't forget the two more years they just gave yuh for tryin' to bust out,” Woody cheerfully reminded him.

Ward scowled.

“Took time away from me, too . . . and more,” Ehron Lee said ruefully. Then he got a curious look to him.

“Twenty years . . . for killin' a deputy?” he said to Ward. “Figger if they wasn't gonna hang yuh, they'd give yuh life.”

Ward spoke with cold contempt. “Twenty years in
here
, amigo—or as Whitey just obliged, twenty-two. That
is
a lifetime. Twenty years'll suck the soul right outta yuh. Least that's how they look at it.”

He walked over to the barred windows and peered outside. “No one's servin' life in Rockmound . . . 'ceptin' Whitey. And that's only 'cause they don't wanta set no one like him free on the citizens. Yeah, he'll be here 'til one day they find him dead in his cell.”

Ward glanced up at the big full moon. Its brightness against the clear sky cast a whitish light across his face.

He pondered. “Five and twenty-two 'tween us. That's more'n a quarter century of wasted good livin'.”

Ehron Lee nodded glumly.

Ward turned from the window. He was quiet for a moment while his eyes started to squint and a mean look darkened his features.

“Judge Harrison,” Ward said, darkly pensive. “Charles Hugh Harrison.”

Ehron Lee's eyes sparked at hearing the name. “Harrison?”

Ward nodded. “Circuit judge. The one that did me this ‘favor.'”

Ehron Lee found the comment amusing in an ironic way, and a smile formed on his lips.

Ward noticed the odd look on his cell mate, and his features tensed.

“Somethin' funny?” he asked humorlessly.

Ehron Lee shook his head, his own expression thoughtful.

“No. But it looks as if Judge Harrison did us both that favor,” he said.

* * *

“You ever kill a man, Burrows?” Ward asked Ehron Lee one night after the men were marched back to their cells after supper.

Ehron Lee was taken aback by the bluntness of the question. He didn't respond.

“Guess what I'm askin' yuh, is that the reason you've joined our little party?” Ward clarified.

Ehron Lee took his time answering. “Ain't what I'm in here for,” he finally said. “But as to killin' a man . . . done my share.”

Ward half smiled. “Cold-blooded—or did yuh kill 'em lawful?”

“Both, I reckon. In the war,” Ehron Lee responded straightly.

“Yeah?” Ward chuckled. “Yeah, well, a spell in a Santa Fe jail spared me that ‘honor.'”

The cell fell into silence. Ward rose and hopped up onto his own bunk.

Out the corner of his eye, Ehron Lee caught a sudden, brisk movement. He turned his head and looked full at a large rat that had scurried into the cell.

Woody saw it, too, and hastened into a hunching position on his lower bunk. He looked petrified and started to make odd squealing sounds.

“What's the matter, Whitey?” Ward asked casually.

“Rat,” Ehron Lee answered for him.

Woody started stuttering. “I—I h-hate those th-things. G-Get it out-outta here.”

Ward chuckled. “Better kill it and hide it, else it's sure to end up in tomorrow's supper.”

Witnessing Woody's utter terror at the rodent, Ehron Lee started to move off the bunk to deal with it. The rat tensed, seemed unsure of which way to go, and finally scurried from the cell as fast as it had come, returning to its burrow elsewhere in the block.

“Must be as hungry as we are,” Ward said.

“C-Could never be h-hungry enough to—to eat one of th-those th-things,” Woody stammered.

“Dunno, Whitey,” Ward said. “You'd be surprised at what a man'll do if he has to.”

“N-Never be that h-hungry,” Woody repeated.

Ward said to Ehron Lee, “Ever eat rat, Burrows? When you was in the war? Heard that was considered quite the delicacy at Vicksburg.”

“Wasn't at Vicksburg,” was all Ehron Lee said.

It took a while for Woody to calm himself. “L-Let's just stop talkin' about rats, huh?”

After a few moments Ehron Lee asked mutedly, “Anybody ever break outta here?”

Ward smirked. “I'm the wrong fella to ask.”

Woody piped up, the stutter gone from his voice. “It's been done.”

Ehron Lee's eyes rose and shifted toward him. His expression urged Woody to continue.

“Only one time that I know of,” Woody said, licking the dryness from his lips. “Coupla guys made it. And it weren't done from inside. No way in hell you can get through them walls.”

“So how'd they do it?” Ehron Lee asked.

Ward rolled onto his side, facing away from the granite wall. His own interest was piqued. He'd heard the story but never knew the details.

Woody tentatively stood up between the two bunks so that both men could see him, but kept watchful for the rat's return.

“On work detail,” he said. “Got lucky and overpowered a coupla the guards then made a run for it. Don't know how they managed it, but got clean away. S'pose there's lotsa places to hide yourself out there, if'n you can get through the canyon into the hills. Prison can't afford to send out that many men after yuh, so that's another thing they had on their side. Musta been damn tough, though, runnin' off and doin' all that tricky climbin' with those irons locked 'round their legs. But by God, they did it.”

Ward snorted. “What's damn tough is believin' that story.”

“Oh, it's true all right, I know it,” Woody said. “And 'course Navajos are also supposed to be on the prowl somewhere out in them hills. But they got by 'em, too. They was damn lucky. I'll tell yuh, 'tween the two, I'd rather meet back up with the guards. Probably'd kill yuh dead, but least I'd be keepin' my scalp.”

Woody removed his omnipresent black bowler and ran a hand smoothly through his full head of white hair.

Ward was wryly amused at the ignorance of his cell mate.

“Typical Easterner, don't know nothin' 'bout the West, 'ceptin' what yuh read in dime novels,” he said disparagingly. “Sure, mighty fine Apache or Kiowa trophy your scalp would make. But with the Navajo, hell, they think that kind of barberin' is barbaric. Fact, if'n yuh wanta know the truth, probably more Navajos have been scalped by white men than the other way 'round.”

Woody looked offended at Ward's belittlement of him, and he brooded for a bit.

“So what happened to these fellas?” Ehron Lee asked impatiently.

After he was done sulking, Woody carried on with what he was saying. “From what I hear, the law caught up with 'em later. Had nothin' to do with their escape. They was both shot stirrin' up trouble in some cathouse. Guess they got too carried away celebratin' their freedom.”

Ward shifted onto his back and clasped his hands behind his head. “Yeah, ain't that always the way,” he said with a slight chuckle.

“Reckon so,” Ehron Lee added.

EIGHT

IN THE WEEKS
that followed, the transformation that first had begun to occur in Ehron Lee Burrows on his ride to the prison intensified as he descended deeper into the turmoil that surrounded him and the tension that came from within.

He still did the work assigned him, laboring long hours in the quarry, followed the orders barked at him by the guards, did not disobey or challenge the rules dictated by authority. As he discovered, there was no percentage in being rebellious. He'd tried it once and it nearly killed him.

Perhaps no one would even notice the change in Ehron Lee because it was not externalized; not made manifest through defiant attitude or belligerent behavior. Ominous in its subtlety, it was purposely kept dormant. But it existed deep within his soul, and each day it was acknowledged and nurtured by Ehron Lee.

Where once he had a conscience, now he didn't give a damn.

The thought of escaping from this hellhole was never far from his mind. While on backbreaking work detail, he would entertain himself by trying to figure out ways to make a clean break. It didn't take him long to discover, however, that any such attempt would be plain suicide. The odds seemed too great. The two prisoners who had successfully pulled it off had just been lucky, as simple as that.

Still, late into the evening in the privacy of their cell, Ehron Lee and Ward would occasionally speak in whispered conversation and amuse themselves by trying to come up with ways to escape. Woody would sit cross-legged on his bunk and listen but not contribute. Invariably every scheme discussed would hit a dead end with at least one potential flaw that would surely earn them an eager guard's bullet.

One night after yet another idea had been rejected owing to the risk involved, Woody stretched out on his bunk and said irritably, “All this talk don't do me no good no how. I told you fellas before, any break's gotta be made from outside. Only way it can be done. And that means it's gotta happen during work detail.”

Ward sucked a tooth and said, “We already figgered that.”

Woody elucidated his point. “Which means it's gotta be done during daylight hours. Hell, I spend any time outside in the sun and I'll roast like a side of pork.”

“Yeah, reckon not much chance for you,” Ward said. He eyed Woody speculatively, then added, “At the same time, out of all of us, you got the least to lose.”

Ehron Lee turned over onto his side and stared at the shadowy form of Ward propped up on an elbow on the upper bunk.

“What're yuh gettin' at?” he asked.

Ward replied, “It's a long haul we're lookin' at, 'specially for me, but someday, Burrows, you and me got a chance to get outta here. Whitey, on the other hand, ain't got no chance.” He spoke directly to Woody. “Sorry, kid, but you know as well as me the only way you're gonna leave here is when they cart yuh out in a box.”

Woody was quiet, brooding at the truth of Ward's comment.

Ehron Lee exhaled. “Still don't see your point.”

Ward contemplated briefly, and then he thought better of what he was going to say.

“Forget it,” he said. “Just thinkin'.” Then he rolled over on his bunk to face the wall.

After a moment Ward's deep voice once more rose from the darkness. It had a peculiar tone and sounded as if he was talking to no one in particular.

“Haven't figgered out how, but if it could get done once, there's gotta be a way it can be done ag'in.”

* * *

Another month passed. A month that seemed like a year, with the days endlessly blurring into one another. The visiting day assigned for that month came and went, and for Ehron Lee there was no word from Melinda. No letter was delivered, nor a message from the superintendent's office, which would have been brought to him by a guard,
maybe
, if Melinda had requested and been permitted a visit.

Finally, after six months of stubbornly observing obedient behavior, Ehron Lee requested and received permission to send a letter to his wife. He understood that the letter would first be scrutinized by the superintendent before it would be delivered so Ehron Lee kept his message free of embellishments. He merely asked how Melinda was doing and asked about the baby, surely to have been born by now. He hoped that the special closeness they had shared would enable her to decipher his true intent between the lines.

Two months passed without a reply. Ehron Lee was discouraged but not necessarily surprised. What he did question was whether Superintendent Watson had indeed sent out the letter . . . or if Abigail had intercepted it. Both were likely possibilities. He felt in his heart, or at least he attempted to convince himself, that if Melinda had received his letter, she would have responded. Whatever else, she at least owed him news about his child.

He knew it would be useless to try and find out if the superintendent had prevented the delivery of the letter. If he dared to question, he would likely be regarded as insubordinate and made to suffer a punishment, the severity of which depended on the whim of George Watson. He was wise to the routine of the prison by now.

Because he was powerless in his situation, Ehron Lee had no recourse but to enforce the most difficult decision he'd ever had to make and push all thoughts of Melinda from his brain. She could not exist to him anymore. Where once he relied on her image and his memories of her to keep him sane and motivated to survive this hell, now these remembrances inflicted a pain so deep, so intense, he feared it would drive him mad. He was already a little mad, which he recognized.

He knew without question that he was a changed man when after he made up his mind to forget about Melinda and the baby he would never know, he tried to allow himself the luxury of a final emotional farewell, to once and for all free himself of his feelings. But the tears wouldn't come. He no longer possessed the ability to express such feelings—not even to himself. Not even in a rare moment of solitude.

Malice had replaced tenderness in his thoughts. Nurturing that emotion of hate was about the only thing still left to Ehron Lee Burrows's control.

* * *

Early one evening after returning from another hard day's labor at the quarry, muscles pained and aching but more accustomed to pick and shovel work, Ehron Lee was halted in his walk to the supper hall and told to report directly to Superintendent Watson. He was puzzled and not a little concerned. All sorts of thoughts rushed through his brain as he and an accompanying guard walked through the compound toward the office. It was known among the prisoners that unless it was an extraordinary circumstance, Watson sent for a man only when he was to be reprimanded or punished for breaking a rule or some other misconduct. In that regard, at least, Ehron Lee believed his conscience was clean. He'd done nothing to upset the routine.

He even considered that it might be hopeful news. Perhaps the two men responsible for the crime of which he had been accused had been captured, and confessed. But the idea of becoming a free man so overwhelmed him that he could not entertain that possibility for long. The more likely disappointment would be too great to bear.

It seemed a long walk, like what a condemned man would experience being led to the gallows. Prisoners marching in to supper watched curiously. Ehron Lee was ushered inside Superintendent Watson's office, where, per prison protocol, he stood absolutely still, completely quiet. Watson would do the talking, and if he wanted the prisoner to speak, he would invite it.

For the moment, Watson's bald, bullet head was bowed as he was responding to some correspondence on his desk. While Ehron Lee waited to be addressed, he stole another glance at the photograph of Watson's wife, wondering how a man like him had ever earned the affections of such an attractive lady.

Had he allowed himself to think of Melinda, he would have found it difficult not to surrender to bitterness and envy.

With his head still lowered, Watson finally spoke. “Burrows, I received a letter today,” he said, his tone blunt and professional.

Ehron Lee waited for him to continue.

Watson slowly lifted his eyes toward him. They were empty and gave no hint of the news to come.

“It came from your sister-in-law, a Mrs. Maguire,” he continued. “Sorry to have to tell you it's bad news. Concerns your wife.”

Ehron Lee struggled to keep his body from tensing. He made his face display no emotion at what he was about to hear.

Watson leaned back in his swivel chair and folded his arms across his chest. His eyes locked directly on Ehron Lee.

“Burrows, your wife died,” he said.

There was no trace of compassion in the superintendent's voice, nor did any look of sympathy appear on his features. He was merely delivering the information, as was his responsibility, speaking matter-of-factly.

Ehron Lee didn't react, other than a slight tightening of his lips. He would not allow himself to outwardly express the rush of pain that consumed him. Although he could feel his insides collapsing, he maintained a rigid demeanor. He could almost sense Watson searching him for a sign of what he could interpret as weakness. A vulnerability that would heighten Watson's own sense of power.

Ehron Lee would not give him the satisfaction.

“How?” he merely asked.

“According to what your sister-in-law says, apparently she got a fever.”

“Did she say anything about the baby?” he asked stiffly.

Watson shook his head and frowned. “There was no mention of any child, Burrows.”

Ehron Lee remained impassive, and stood silent, appearing callous and indifferent at receiving such unfortunate news, while in truth, for each agonizing moment, he was forced to call upon all his inner strength to repress his despair.

Watson then edged the upper portion of his body across his big desk to pass Ehron Lee the letter, but Ehron Lee didn't budge. He held his ground and maintained his icy composure.

Melinda was dead. The news was a shock. The sudden, unexpectedness of learning it had hit him with devastating impact. But Ehron Lee slowly recovered. He had already accepted that she was dead, to him at least. The letter confirming it was merely a formality that he didn't need to read—or hold on to.

Watson studied him for several seconds. Then with a quizzical, somewhat disappointed look at Ehron Lee's attitude, his resolute refusal to express even a hint of emotion, he coldly dismissed his prisoner.

Wordlessly, Ehron Lee turned and walked from the office. As he crossed the compound back to the cell block, his gait became stronger, each step he took more determined.

* * *

Ehron Lee was back on regular work detail, putting in long hours of hard and monotonous labor. Occasionally he'd see Superintendent Watson sitting atop his sterling steed on a ridge overlooking the quarry, silently observing the prisoners, like an emperor lording over his conquests.

Each time the sweat-bathed Ehron Lee spotted Watson, clean and impeccable in his uniform, he couldn't keep from glowering at the man. If Watson noticed his harsh stares, he never reacted. He was confident in his position of authority. He was surrounded by armed guards who would die to protect him.

If Ehron Lee was ever given his chance, he'd gladly kill as many of that scum as it took to get to Superintendent George Watson. He'd never before thought of himself as a murderer, but if it came to that, he did have an advantage. Because of the war, he'd been trained to kill, and though it was something he at one time had been reluctant to acknowledge, and was not an accomplishment of which he was proud, he had been skilled at it. He'd killed countless men in battle, many in face-to-face confrontations, yet he had emerged from the war without so much as a flesh wound.

He hadn't hated those soldiers he had been forced to kill. They, like him, were simply following orders, doing everything in their power to stay alive under terrible conditions.

But Ehron Lee hated George Watson. He hated him with the same venom he felt for the one other person responsible for casting him into this quagmire of filth and despair.

Two men who were living safe in their comforts, never realizing that while they were enjoying their freedom, embracing their families, Ehron Lee had committed himself to survival; driving his body and what remained of his soul onward day after day with only one purpose in mind.

He hadn't been rotting, but
plotting
.

Neither man could imagine the plan of retribution formulating inside the brain of Ehron Lee.

He had lost a wife. He would never know his child.

Superintendent Watson had a wife.

Judge Harrison had a child.