Ransom (16 page)

When she had what she thought should be enough for a breakfast fire, she gathered up the fruits of her labors and climbed back up to the adit.

“Why haven't you gotten the fire going, Loozy? There's enough wood to get it started.”

“What am I supposed to start it with, Mama? It went out during the night.”

“Coals, sweetie. There should be some coals in the ashes.”

“I thought about that but there aren't any. They're all dead.”

“Damn,” Jessica mumbled. She set her armload of dry wood down beside the cold stone wall of their prison and prised a sliver off a piece of wood, then used it to stir around in the ashes looking for coals. She found nothing. “Do you see any matches, sweetie?”

“No. I did find a piece of something I think is flint.”

“What about steel?”

“There's plenty of steel in here,” Loozy said. “We could use . . . I don't know . . . the blade of that saw maybe. But we don't have any tinder. You need tinder to start a fire with flint and steel, don't you? I've seen Daddy start fires and he always used some sort of tinder.”

Jess slumped down onto the sharp rock shards that littered the floor. She put her face in her hands and willed herself not to cry. It would all be fine. Just as soon as Dick paid the ransom, it would be fine. She told herself that over and over again until she almost believed it.

“Come along, sweetie. If we can't cook we can at least wash. We have water, after all. And I think . . . I think there is a little rice in that bag. We can't eat it raw, but if we soak it maybe we could eat it. In the meantime we can chew a little of this jerky.” She tried her best to fashion a smile.

Jessica held Loozy tight, rocking back and forth very slightly. “We're going to be all right, sweetheart.” Perhaps if she said that often enough, she thought, she would begin to believe it.

Chapter 17

Taylor drew rein at the head of a narrow valley. Hahn nudged his pinto up beside Taylor and asked, “Where do we go now?”

John Taylor shook his head. “Damned if I can see a way up from here.” He snorted in disgust and dismounted, Dick Hahn quickly following.

Ahead of them the incline to the next rise was too steep for a horse, although a man on foot would have little trouble scaling the rocks and scattered brush.

“This is the way that thief told you to go? Are you sure?”

“For the tenth time,” Taylor said, exasperated and becoming angry, “yes, I'm sure this is the way the guy said.”

“You don't have to snap my head off about it,” Hahn returned. “I'm not the one who said it.”

Taylor kicked the gravel underfoot and said, “Hold these horses, will you? I want t' see can I find tracks of any sort. See if maybe horses have been through here. Though I doubt it. I don't see how they could.” He handed the reins of the brown to Dick Hahn and tied the end of the packhorse's lead rope to his saddle horn.

Hahn let the four animals, the two saddle mounts and both packhorses, drop their heads and pick at the meager foliage the valley offered. After a few minutes he walked them back down toward the open foot of the canyon that
had led them here, to where there was a heavier growth of grass stems. The patient animals began to graze while Hahn fidgeted.

After fifteen or twenty minutes Taylor returned. He did not look happy. “I climbed halfway up there. Found some tracks to be sure, but they wasn't horses. Mule deer and some mountain sheep but no horses. A couple places I had trouble making it up on foot. There's no damn way a horse could climb it.”

“Why would that man lie to us?” Hahn grumbled. “The son of a bitch is a thief. Now we know he's a liar too.”

“I dunno,” Taylor said. “Maybe he wanted to lull us away from our worries so's we'd sleep easier an' let him rob us. Could be as simple as that. Or maybe we'll never know what reason he had. If he had any reason at all. Some folks just plain enjoy being ornery. He could be one of that sort.” He bent down, plucked a grass stem, and began chewing on the end of it. The hint of juice in the stem tasted faintly sweet.

“I can tell you this,” Hahn said with conviction. “If we ever see the bastard again I'm going to walk right up to him and punch him in the face. I might not be able to whip him, but I'll get at least one good lick in.”

Taylor peered down at the little man and mused, “By Godfrey, Hahn, I believe you mean that. You might not have much in the way of brawn, but you didn't get left out when guts was passed around.”

“Why, thank you, John. Thank you very much for saying that.”

“It's just the simple truth.” Taylor reached for the reins of his brown. “Come on, damn it. We need to retrace where we been and see can we pick up the trail again.”

* * *

“Hold up a minute.” Taylor stopped his horse and stepped down from the saddle.

“Is something wrong?” Hahn asked.

“Two things,” Taylor said. “First, I gotta take a leak.” He grinned. “Put some water into this dry valley. Second, I'm getting hungry. Might as well take advantage of the shade while we got some.” He pointed to a stand of runty cedars.

Hahn nodded and climbed stiffly down from his mount. “I don't know how you stand all the riding you do. It has my knees so wobbly I'm half afraid I'll fall down.”

“You get used to it,” Taylor said with a shrug. “Whyn't you start a fire and put some water on for coffee while I mix up the makings for some stick bread?”

“So it will be stick bread and jerky for lunch?” Hahn sighed. “Be still, my pounding heart.”

“If you got something better in mind, I'm open to suggestion.”

“In mind? Oh my, yes. A nice fillet of beef would be nice and a red wine sauce to go with it. New potatoes with parsley and butter. Fresh-picked lima beans. And an egg custard for dessert, I think. How would that be?”

Taylor smiled. “If you can cook it out here in the middle o' nowhere, I will damn sure eat it.”

“Later perhaps. Right now I suppose we must settle for your stick bread and jerky.”

“It has been said around many a campfire that I make the finest stick bread this side of San Francisco and never you mind that I'm the one that has said it. Now if you will excuse me . . .” He turned away and began unbuttoning his trousers.

* * *

“Y'know,” Taylor mused as he dumped the last of the coffee into his cup, “I have t' give you credit for one thing.” He stopped there and paid attention to the steaming coffee under his nose.

Unable to resist knowing what he was receiving credit for, Hahn rose to the bait. “What thing would that be, John?”

Taylor smiled. “You make the absolutely worst cup o' miserable damn coffee I ever drunk.” Then he laughed. “But it's better than no coffee, ain't it?” He hesitated a moment and added, “I think.”

“Bastard,” Hahn said.

“Asshole,” Taylor returned.

But neither of their voices held any venom.

Taylor yawned and stretched. “If we was up here for any normal reason I'd be wanting a little siesta about now.”

“Siesta? What does that mean?”

“Rest. A little nap. Crawl onto that bed o' dry pine needles over there and stretch out for a while. But as it is . . .” He tossed the dregs of his coffee onto the coals of what had been their noonday fire, stretched again, and stood. “Time we bestir ourselves, Dick. We got serious stuff t' do and we've lost the better part of a day now thanks to that son of a bitch Ederle. Time we get back on the track of those kidnappers.”

“I'll get the horses,” Hahn offered.

* * *

Taylor reined wide around a sprawling fan of low-growing juniper. He had come to hate juniper. Damn things were
just tall enough to hide a calf, or a cow if it was lying down, and they were a nuisance to get through. At the moment he was not thinking about how to chouse strays out of the brush, though. He was thinking about Jessica. And Loozy. And the happy life they once had.

Happy, anyway, for him. Jess must have been miserable and he had not seen it. Honestly had not. He wondered if she was happy with Dick Hahn.

He turned in his saddle and looked back at the dapper little man. It was not a question he could ask, of course. Certainly not of Hahn—who might well be as oblivious about that as John had been—and not of Jess either. But he wondered.

The truth was, he hoped she was happy. God, he loved her. Not as a possession but as a friend. And he missed her.

Missed Loozy too. Missed the sound of her incessant questions. Her childish laughter at the smallest of things. Her innocence. Loozy had seemed happy at home—his home; their real home—even if Jessica had not been.

He missed them both.

Hahn saw Taylor looking back at him and asked, “What is it, John?”

Taylor did not have time to answer. He felt a sudden burning on his side and a moment later heard the dull, echoing report of a rifle shot.

“Down,” he shouted. “Get down. That bastard is shooting at us.” He bailed out of his saddle, hit the ground hard, and bounced to his feet waving his arms to chase his horse and pack animal back up the canyon where they would be safe.

Hahn dismounted too and had the presence of mind to grab his shotgun before Taylor ran back and spooked
those horses to chase after the ones Taylor had already sent running.

Both men dropped behind the spread of dark juniper as another rifle shot rang out.

 

Louise Taylor

Loozy sat on a boulder not far from the entrance to their . . . what was it called? Not a cave. She knew that. An . . . edit? No, adit. That was what the man said it was. They had been left in an adit with a few old burlap sacks for their bed and very little to eat. It was awful. But out here on the ledge with practically the whole world spread out below it was . . . beautiful. It really was.

Out here she could forget about everything except the beauty of these mountains and the immensity of the sky.

Loozy sat with her head tilted back and looked up at the bright blue and the few scudding white clouds like puffs of cotton sailing across the sky.

She saw an eagle soaring above the earth. Seeking prey, no doubt, but thrilling to watch, itself as beautiful as its surroundings. The eagle's wings rocked back and forth. Reacting to the wind? Possibly, she thought, feeling a light breeze against her cheek and the side of her neck. The eagle would be feeling those same breezes. She wondered if the great bird could appreciate the beauty of its surroundings.

Loozy sighed. Probably not, she conceded. Probably it felt only an impulse to hunt and to eat.

But was it possible that the eagle took joy in its ability to fly, to soar so far above the earth?

“Are you all right, baby?” She had not heard her mother come up beside her.

“Yes, Mama. I'm just . . . you know . . . sitting here.”

“Come along now, please. We need to go down and collect some more wood. We've burned just about everything we brought up before.”

“In a minute.”

“No, ma'am, right now. I won't have you—”

“Mama.”

“What is it now?”

“I wasn't saying no to you, Mama. It's that man. I see him, Mama. Down there.” She pointed down the mountainside, past where they had gone to collect wood. “I see his horse. Look.”

Jessica Taylor looked where Louise was pointing. She began to tremble. Loozy could see it and she could see the way her mama's breathing began to come hard. She slipped her hand into her mother's and squeezed, but the gesture did not seem to give comfort.

“It will be all right, Mama. It will be all right.”

Jessica did not react to the words, but she did suddenly and quite fiercely hug Louise, then spin her around and propel her toward the opening to the old mine.

“Go inside, baby. Don't say anything or come out until I call you, you hear me? Not a word. Go now.” She gave Loozy a little push to speed her on her way inside.

Loozy ran, frightened all over again now that the man was back.

Chapter 18

“Jesus God, John, you've been shot.”

Taylor managed a grin. “I already knew that, Dick.”

The two were lying underneath the spread of a low-growing juniper.

“You aren't bleeding much,” Hahn said. He pushed Taylor's coat back and tugged his shirt out of his trousers, exposing a three-inch-long mark across his left side. “You haven't been, shot through, just sort of scraped.”

“You say I'm not bleeding bad?” Taylor asked, unable or more likely unwilling to look for himself.

“It's seeping rather than running. Maybe it will help if I put something over it. To act as a bandage, you see.” He let go of Taylor's shirt and allowed it to fall over the wound without regard to the bleeding.

“Do you have anything you could use for that?” It was one thing to get a little blood on his shirt. That happened frequently when he was working, especially when he was doing ranch work. But it was quite another to get blood on his coat. He did not like that.

“Not really. A kerchief, but I've blown my nose on it a couple of times.” Hahn dug into his pocket and came out with a red and white paisley print square of cloth.

“Couple of times, hell. This thing has enough boogers on it to make a soup,” Taylor said.

“You don't want it?”

“Hell, I guess it's better than nothing. Go ahead and use it.”

Hahn held it up to the light and picked a few small, dark lumps off the cloth.

Taylor admired the cloth and chuckled, “Ah, at least my wound will be fashionably dressed.”

Hahn pressed his handkerchief against the wound. “I don't have anything to bind it there.”

“That's all right. I'll hold it in place. We won't be moving anywhere for a while.”

“If you don't mind me asking,” Hahn said, “what do we do now?”