Black Ransom (18 page)

She also respected the type of man who would choose this desperate road. It showed courage and an independence lacking in those who conformed to the rigid rules dictated by society. These men elected to live by their own rules, enforcing their individuality through any means necessary.

This respect and acceptance extended even to her brother, Brad, felled under gunfire. He died young but had chosen to live life on his own terms. When told of Brad's death, she was saddened; she grieved, but the emotion passed. She had the strength to recognize and accept that men such as Brad, Jess, and Ward were living on borrowed time. They likely realized it, too, and were determined to live each day with an unbridled passion.

“Never made a dishonest move in my life,” Ehron Lee told her, idly poking at the fire with a long stick. “Whatever I now become, it was their doin'.”

“Can see you was a decent sort once,” Cora observed. “Most of the men I've known . . . they was bred bad.”

Ehron Lee turned his face toward her, the glow of the shifting flames reflecting on his profile.

“Can't let it go, Cora,” he said with emphasis, as though trying to justify to himself what was to come as much as explain it to her. “Thought I might decide ag'in doin' this once I was let out . . . but it's somethin' that's plain become a part of who I am now. Like a poison in my blood. It's what I
gotta
do.”

“Ward feels the same, I know,” Cora said understandingly. “He's got his own reason—that's just the kind of fella he is. How he's always been. But he ain't got nowhere near as much reason for hate as you.” She hesitated before adding meekly, “Reckon, though . . . that somehow makes it worse.”

Ehron Lee gazed up from the fire, and when he next spoke, there was almost a strain in his voice. “I got no urge to hurt those women. But 'fore I pay back Harrison and Superintendent George Watson, I want them two to know somethin' of the pain they caused me.”

FIFTEEN

THE ROCKMOUND ESCAPE
and massacre of the supervising guards at the quarry work site kept Superintendent George Watson busy for several days, and it was not until the weekend that he decided to grab a few hours of needed rest and visit his wife at their home in Allensfield.

He walked onto the porch and discovered the message knifed to the front door of his house—and upon entering the house, he found that his wife, Janette, was missing.

Once his shock, followed by outrage, subsided, he used his intelligence to consider likely culprits and concluded that his wife's kidnapping was connected with Ward Crawford's escape from Rockmound. Later, when he learned about the Allensfield locksmith being forced at gunpoint to remove iron cuffs from the legs of an intruder on the same day as the breakout, he knew for a certainty that Crawford was involved. According to the two surviving guards, there were at least four men who participated in the work site break—one dead, a picture of whose corpse was forwarded to the territorial marshal for identification—yet the locksmith had said that only two men had burst into his shop that night. The locksmith had been frightened and his descriptions of both men had been vague. Watson was curious who the accomplice was but not as concerned for his focus was centered on Ward Crawford, as he was the key person responsible. The man he most wanted to see pay for this crime. The man he now determined he would see hanged.

He told no one in town about what had happened. He neither wanted nor believed he needed outside assistance. Since assuming his duties at Rockmound, Watson had maintained absolute control, a strict independence. He had come up with his own way of dealing with this crime.

Around noon on Sunday morning, he returned to the prison and immediately sent for Sergeant Liam O'Brien, his toughest and most trusted guard. When O'Brien arrived at the superintendent's office, Watson sat him down and confided in him, telling O'Brien about the kidnapping of his wife and the strange ransom note knifed to the door. There was no hint of panic or urgency in his voice; he spoke surprisingly calmly, though O'Brien knew Watson well enough to detect the fire burning inside him, noticed the hint of a flare in his usually icy eyes.

O'Brien recognized the signs as his ruddy complexion turned even redder from the blood that surged into his head. He was livid that such a brazen act could be committed against a man for whom he felt enormous respect and loyalty. He also felt a cold fury for the slaughter of the six men who had been his comrades.

Without the superintendent having to say so, O'Brien voiced his own suspicion that Ward Crawford was responsible for Mrs. Watson's abduction.

“And if that be the case,” he added, his anger intensifying his Irish brogue, “his cell mate musta been knowin' his plan.”

Watson naturally had already come to the same conclusion. He ordered that Woody Milo be brought to his office.

“That, sir, will be my utmost pleasure,” O'Brien said.

A short time later O'Brien returned to the office, accompanied by an apprehensive Woody. Woody knew why he had been summoned, had expected it ever since learning of the prison break. What he couldn't understand was why Superintendent Watson was calling for him
now
, days after the escape.

The stern, intense look on Watson's face almost paralyzed Woody, whose body jerked reflexively when O'Brien slammed the office door behind them—and the three were alone.

O'Brien instantly backhanded the black bowler from Woody's head.

“You stand respectful before the superintendent,” he ordered.

A dark, consuming silence engulfed the room. Watson's cold stare was fixated on Woody the whole time, while O'Brien began to beat his truncheon against the open palm of his hand, slowly and with purpose.

Woody looked about the room with a nervous cringing.

Finally Watson spoke. Despite his penetrating gaze, the tone of his voice was level and official.

“I want you to tell me all you can 'bout Ward Crawford,” he began.

Woody started to squirm. He was afraid to answer as his nerves were such that he knew his words would come out in a stammer. He shrugged his shoulders innocently and stayed quiet.

“You shared a cell with him,” Watson went on. “I know he told you somethin' 'bout what he was planning.”

“Answer the superintendent,” O'Brien growled at the prisoner.

Woody swallowed hard, and tried to get the words out. “M-Me and Crawford . . . we—we n-never talked much.”

Watson slowly shook his head. O'Brien began to beat the truncheon against his hand with more emphasis. The sound seemed magnified within the quiet of the office.

“And there he be goin' with his stutter talk,” O'Brien remarked.

“C-Can't tell yuh w-what I don't know,” Woody argued feebly.

“You
do
know and you
will
tell, Woodrow,” Watson said icily.

“Ward woulda . . . he w-woulda killed me . . . if I f-found out what he was p-plannin'.” He spoke with more desperation. “Why would he t-tell me? He knows I c-could never go with him. Knows you woulda g-got me to talk.”

“So he never told yuh nothin', did he?” O'Brien said very slowly. He punctuated his remark with a sharp slap of the truncheon against the hard back of a chair.

Woody started at the abrupt action. Then he swallowed again and his good eye widened in fear.

“Could do that all over your body, you whitewashed weasel,” O'Brien threatened. “Give yuh some real color, if I got a mind to.”

Woody turned to the superintendent with a pleading look etched into his scarred, twisted features. But Watson appeared not about to interfere.

O'Brien stepped closer to Woody, brandishing the truncheon in an aggressive fashion.

“Crawford and those who helped him get away killed six good men, all friends of mine,” he said, breathing the words into Woody's face. “And they done more than that, that maybe yuh know 'bout, maybe yuh don't. But either way, you best start tellin' us what you
do
know.”

Incoherent sounds started to emanate from Woody's throat. His body trembled violently, as if he were in the throes of a seizure.

“No need to get heavy-handed, O'Brien,” Watson said reasonably. “Maybe Woodrow needs some time to think this out. Some quiet time alone.”

Woody's brain was so addled that his first thought was that he was going to get a reprieve and be returned to the safety of his cell.

O'Brien smiled knowingly at Watson's suggestion. “Think I understand, sir.”

It took a moment for Woody to comprehend, and when the realization came as to what they actually had in mind for him, he shouted
“No!”
and made an attempt to rush for the door. His panic was so great that he couldn't seem to turn the knob, his fingers fumbling frantically. O'Brien stepped over easily and grabbed him by the collar, almost lifting his slight body from the floor.

“And would yuh be thinkin' there'd be anyplace for you to run?” O'Brien said pleasantly.

Watson finally rose from behind his desk. He walked over to Woody, who was struggling feebly against Sergeant O'Brien's strong grip.

“I—I'm t-tellin' yuh the t-truth . . . I swear . . . I don't know nothin'!” Woody shrieked.

“We'll see,” was all Watson said, before gesturing with a twist of his head for O'Brien to escort Woody outside to the back grounds of the prison compound.

The door to the office closed, and as Superintendent George Watson returned to his desk, he could hear Woody's agonized screams as he was dragged through the corridor and soon thrust outside into the blazing afternoon sun for his long walk to the pit.

SIXTEEN

THE DAY STARTED
out sunny if a shade cool, but as morning neared into the noon hour, the sky became overcast and a light drizzle started to fall. The gathering clouds became even more foreboding, and Ehron Lee suggested to Cora that they'd do well to find themselves some cover as a heavy rain seemed imminent.

They pulled off the trail into a grove of cottonwoods, where the dense leafy overhang would provide some shield against the uncertain weather. Once they were settled, they threw on the ponchos they had brought along and seated themselves under one of the large trees. The air had gotten cold as the wind had picked up and had a sharp bite. Their ponchos provided some comfort against the chill, but since the fabrics weren't waterproof, the ponchos offered little protection from the rain that seeped steadily through the foliage. To compensate, both adjusted the wide brims of their Stetsons to repel the relentless pellets of water.

Attempting to keep warm, Ehron Lee and Cora found themselves huddled together. Nothing more was meant by this maneuver other than necessity, a response to the dampness and the cold. Still, they felt a little awkward with their bodies pressed so close to each other, though neither offered a comment to attempt to justify the arrangement.

It was Ehron Lee who finally spoke, and he merely offered an observation.

“This'll slow us gettin' into Bolton.”

Cora nodded and shivered a little. She pushed her body even tighter against Ehron Lee, casting him a quick upward glance to see if he might object. His only reaction was a slight, understanding smile. Then, as if by reflex, he reached out his arm and wrapped it around her shoulder, drawing her yet closer. Cora did not discourage his considerate gesture.

At least that was how she believed he had intended it.

Cora, however, was feeling something a mite different. For reasons she could not quite comprehend, she was forming a strange attraction to Ehron Lee. This had come upon her so suddenly, and unexpectedly, that she found herself questioning. Was it because of the time alone she was spending with him—or that he had trusted her enough to confide in her his tragic past . . . or was she simply misinterpreting the sympathy she had for all that he had gone through? She had no ready answer and, in fact, was trying to suppress the sudden guilt that washed over her . . . a guilt over how it had shifted her affections. Ward Crawford had always been the man she harbored feelings toward. During all the years of his imprisonment, Cora had eagerly hoped he would someday return to her. She had maintained an unwavering devotion, even discouraging the advances of Jess Colfax, who more than once had attempted to fill the void left by Ward, and she never lost the expectation that Ward might choose her, if not as his bride, then as his life companion. Yet now that he was free, she saw and felt things differently.

While she recognized that Ehron Lee was not cut from the same cloth as Ward Crawford, both men shared similarities she found appealing: primarily a rugged independence, though Ehron Lee, despite possessing a heart hardened by vengeance, had not revealed the callous or brutal nature that was an inherent characteristic of Ward. Although she hardly knew him—he was still little more than a stranger—Cora's impression of Ehron Lee was that he was a good man who had gone astray because of cruel circumstances. She had as much admitted this to him, though it had brought forth no acknowledgment. But where Ward Crawford's attentions went no further than having her along only for a good time, or calling on her when she could serve some useful purpose, always with his charm at the ready, she recognized Ehron Lee as a man capable of compassion. She saw him as someone who might truly care for her and whom she could care for in return.

Cora contemplated all this as they sat together quietly under the rainfall. Maybe she was having these feelings only because Ehron Lee had his arm around her and was holding her close, and for the first time in a long while she felt safe and protected being with someone. She had never experienced much affection in her life and perhaps she simply did not know how to correctly interpret or respond to it.

To her embarrassment, a sigh inadvertently escaped her lips (which thankfully Ehron Lee either didn't notice or simply didn't acknowledge) with the realization that soon the rain would lift and with it would probably go her fantasies. Unfounded or just plain crazy, they had provided her with a pleasant if brief interlude—and a reminder that maybe she was more of a woman than she often gave herself credit for.

But her thoughts shifted as she considered the brutal reality that lay ahead, and for the first time since she had taken up with the outlaw band, Cora could truthfully admit she was afraid. She was apprehensive not only of the circumstances of what was to come, but of how the act that Ehron Lee was planning would forever brand him as a criminal.

Ward was born under the shadow of the gallows. Ehron Lee still had a choice. It might not be too late for him to cast aside his scheme and ride on far past Bolton. He could still turn back, and it saddened Cora to see that by choice and with a soul so corrupted by hate he would likely bypass that road to redemption.

Although the rain hit hard, pelting the ground around them with a drumming rhythm, the downpour didn't last long. Soon the rain once again turned to drizzle and the clouds began to break up, allowing the warmth of sunshine to stream through.

Ehron Lee and Cora shook the water from their hats and quickly removed their wet ponchos, draping them over their horses' withers to sun-dry them as they rode on.

Ehron Lee wiped dry then mounted his leather saddle. He smiled at Cora and further cemented her dread when he said, “Might make good time yet.”

Cora forced a smile in return, and she nodded. Once more he made it plain that he was committed to fulfilling his purpose.

* * *

The hour was late when they rode the trail into Bolton.

As it was when Ehron Lee and Ward Crawford rode into Allensfield, the streets of the town were empty, only for an entirely different reason. Most of its citizens had congregated at the many gaudy, false-fronted saloons that occupied the main street of Bolton. The noise and musical entertainment spilled out into the deserted night.

Both Ehron Lee and Cora were bone-tired from their long ride and decided to find a hotel. There was a decent-looking establishment along the main route called The Royal, and Cora went inside to register while Ehron Lee walked the horses a little farther to the livery stable. Although it was dark and his features were sufficiently shadowed, Ehron Lee lowered the brim of his Stetson and kept the talk short as he handed the stable owner the reins of both ponies and paid him the $5-per-week boarding fee. He wanted to stay as anonymous as possible. As a stranger in a community like Bolton, he knew he would be a likely candidate for suspicion once news of the girl's disappearance became known. Until he was needed, he'd let Cora do the scouting while he stayed inside the hotel.

He held the second note in his pocket. The ransom note to be delivered to Judge Harrison.

When Ehron Lee got back to the hotel, Cora was waiting for him, seated on the settee in the dimly lit lobby. He'd expected her to get two rooms but instead found that she had registered them as man and wife. He tried not to show any surprise, especially when he caught the curious look the bespectacled desk clerk was giving the two strangers. As he thought about it, he realized Cora had probably done a smart thing. What could look more innocent than a married couple? And wisely she had signed them in as Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Dodds.

As they started up the staircase to their room, the desk clerk called after them.

“Travelers?” he inquired.

Ehron halted and turned to the man. He started to speak but nodded instead.

“Newlyweds,” Cora offered cheerfully, looping her arm around Ehron Lee's and squeezing it affectionately.

As if in an echo, the word reverberated back to Ehron Lee:

Newlyweds
 . . .

The word was spoken innocently, Cora surely had meant nothing more by it than a convenient explanation, but its impact struck Ehron Lee like a thunderbolt. In an instant it evoked a spasm of memories that he'd believed he had long kept dormant. He could not permit those thoughts to resurface, and only for an instant did he acknowledge the painful reminder before he forced himself to suppress the emotion it threatened to reignite.

Fortunately, neither Cora nor the desk clerk noticed his momentary discomfort.

The desk clerk scratched his chin and furrowed his brow. “Seems sorta strange you two didn't bring along any luggage.”

Ehron Lee made up his answer quickly. “That'll be comin'. Tonight we don't wanta be thinkin' 'bout any unpackin'.” He winked. “Reckon yuh might know what I mean.”

The desk clerk looked only momentarily perplexed before he caught on, chuckled, and waved them on. Ehron Lee and Cora exchanged a quick glance and finished the climb up the stairs to their room. Once inside, Ehron Lee locked the door while Cora went to light the bedside table lamp. Ehron Lee then flopped himself on the bed, letting out a prolonged breath.

“Think you convinced him,” Cora said.

“Maybe. But don't know how much we look like . . .” He halted, unable to say the word. “Well, what you said we was. 'Specially comin' in the way we did.”

Ehron Lee had a point. His appearance suggested he'd just come off a cattle drive while Cora, wearing dirty jeans and a heavy flannel shirt, was dressed more like a ranch hand than a new bride.

“Well, we couldn't think out everything,” Cora said, shrugging. Her eyes wandered around the room, which was small and plain and furnished only with a bed, bureau, and chair. “Just hope we won't have to be here too long.”

“I hafta agree. Spent enough time locked in a small room,” Ehron Lee stated heavily.

He started to pull himself from the bed. “Anyhow, you take the mattress. Don't mind takin' my shut-eye on the floor.”

Cora spoke up, perhaps too quickly. “That ain't necessary.”

Ehron Lee looked at her and gave his head a deliberate shake. “No way lettin' a lady sleep on the floor.”

“Well . . . that ain't what I meant,” Cora said coyly.

Ehron Lee hesitated, unsure—then he caught her drift. He looked at her blankly.

“Don't think that's rightly proper.”

Cora's face flushed and her expression gave way to embarrassment, her eyes avoiding Ehron Lee's.

Ehron Lee tried to ease his own discomfort as well as what Cora now seemed to be feeling.

“Cora,” he said, “you're a right fine gal. But if you're suggestin' what I think yuh might be . . . well, I—I just ain't ready to be thinkin' 'bout no other woman. Don't know if I ever could, to be honest. 'Sides, you and Ward . . .”

“Ward and me have been the same all the years I known him,” Cora replied in a soft voice, barely registering above a whisper. “Oh, I hoped at one time there might be somethin' more . . . but I know I was only foolin' myself and that there can't never be.”

Ehron Lee said nothing, just rocked his head in acknowledgment.

“Reckon I was wrong—and just plain stupid,” Cora said with sharp self-reproach.

“Don't be gettin' angry with yourself, Cora,” Ehron Lee said to her. He frowned. “Only hope
I
didn't do or say somethin' to get yuh to thinkin' . . .” He knew he hadn't—certainly not intentionally—though it went beyond him to fathom what went on in the mind of a girl like Cora.

Cora gave a vague smile. “No. Just me . . . bein' silly.”

“Well,” Ehron Lee said dismissively, “then let's just put all that aside and you get yourself into bed. We got us some work ahead of us.”

Cora nodded sheepishly.

* * *

Over the next couple of days, Cora made her rounds throughout Bolton. First, though, she purchased a new dress—nothing fancy—so that her cowgirl wear would not make her conspicuous in a town where it was evident the female population dressed like proper ladies.

It didn't take long for Cora to gather information. She discovered that Judge Harrison was a man greatly admired by the community. While he rarely participated in the affairs of Bolton with his duties frequently taking him many miles from home, his reputation was well known, and he was respected by the citizens. There was even talk of encouraging him to run for town mayor once he retired from his judicial duties.

Cora also learned through her casual observation that Harrison's daughter, Evaline, was likewise admired by the townspeople, specifically for her musical gifts. People spoke affectionately of her and many predicted that she had a promising future as a concert pianist. This troubled Cora as she knew that kidnapping a judge's daughter was bad enough, but when the girl was as fondly regarded as Evaline Harrison, that would surely bring upon them even more trouble.

Cora returned to the hotel at the end of each day to report her progress, inwardly hoping that the more she revealed, the more it might discourage Ehron Lee from going forward with his plan. But she quickly discovered that he remained stubbornly determined, and nothing short of jail or a bullet was going to change his mind.