Ransom (21 page)

Silence succeeded this ultimatum, and Rannie lay like a log and thought it over.

Then he wasn't dead after all, unless he was just hearing things about somebody else. His mind seemed very hazy. Perhaps he was only dreaming, Perhaps he wasn't really here at all. He might be at home in his bed, having a nightmare. Or even at school, and everything that had happened since that telegram about Charmian's dying was only just a dream. He tried wiggling his toes and found they worked. He surely wasn't dead if he could move his toes. In a nightmare, one couldn't move anything.

Just then beneath him there came a tremendous thump, like bumping over a rough road.

“Say, what're ya trying ta do? Wreck us?” said the hard voice in command. “What's the idea runnin' over a log like that?”

The other voice murmured something about not being able to run a car around every twig in unknown darkness.

Then the harder, older voice spoke with a quiet terrible edge. “Try it again and I'll shoot you on the spot!” it said, and Rannie heard a click, as of a ready weapon.

“I was only havin' a little joke,” pleaded the other.

“This ain't a jokin' matter, see? This here is serious business. You ain't the only one who can run a car. An' I can carry that kid ta the cabin and think nothin' of it. Not sa many ta divvy up with, either, when the ransom comes in. Dead men can't tell no tales.”

There was silence again, awful silence, and the car rode more steadily, just grazing branches sometimes, for Rannie could hear their sweep against the sides of the car, but he did not stir. He lay there and listened, and thought over what he had just heard. And then, while he was trying to piece it all together with his muddled brain and make out just what it all meant, the older man spoke again. And this time the things he said were beyond all that Rannie's wildest schoolboy images, gleaned from highly wrought detective stories, had ever conceived. It was bloodcurdling, cruel, inhuman. The boy shuddered and turned sick with the horror of it all and suddenly knew clearly what he was up against. It was like a dash of cold water in his face that brought him entirely to his senses. He knew that he was in the power of men who would stop at nothing. He was utterly helpless. He had been kidnapped for a price, and these men would hold out for a large ransom or kill him as easily as they would kill a rat.

Rannie was glad that it was dark. He did not have to control his face or worry that there might be sudden tears in his eyes. He had time to think it out and see what he was up against. Lying there like an inert thing, with his senses all alive again and all his bright hopes of life in the power of these two ruthless men in the front seat, he had time to look his situation in the face.

It is true that he wasted the first few minutes in helpless wrath and fury against his fate, in wishing for weapons that he might return upon the heads of his kidnappers some of the evil they seemed so ready to deal out to everybody.

Then his healthy young mind began to see the futility of such thoughts and came back to calm, cool reason. He began to wonder why his hands seemed so numb and useless, and testing them, he found that they were not only shackled but bound firmly to his sides, and the attempt to lift one foot made it evident that his ankles were shackled together also.

Quickly he relaxed, fearful lest the shackles would make a noise and attract the attention of his captors. He must think this thing through and plan out a line of action before they reached whatever destination was meant by the “cabin” they had spoken of.

Should he remain asleep indefinitely? Well, that would have to end sometime or other, of course, or he would die. There would likely be an attempt to bring him to his senses if he simulated unconsciousness too long. No, he had to have a line of action ready. It was his only weapon.

So Rannie lay and thought.

And between thoughts and plans there came waves of mortification over him. He could feel the hotness even in his cold cheeks, and rushing up the back of his neck where the draught was creeping down so intimately. And the mortification was that he, the cheerleader of the basketball team, should be lying here helpless, unable even to think of anything he could do to frustrate this outrage.

Gradually his anger died down and he was able to face his immediate situation. The word “ransom” came home keenly. It meant that his father would have to pay a large sum of money if he ever was to be free. Indeed, from the words of the cruel-tongued man, he judged that he was by no means sure of freedom even then. If there was any danger at all of exposure for the captors, they were planning to kill him in cold blood and stow him away where never through the ages would his body even be found. They talked about that, too, in low tones, arranging the details in case of sudden raid.

Well, there he was, facing a situation like that, and nothing between him and torturing death but money, great sums of money! And his father was about to fail in business!

Clearly it came across his memory now all that his father had said to him about his financial condition while Chris was talking to Maggie. Strange that he should have gotten to know that just before this happened! If he hadn't known how Dad was situated, it would have seemed a trifling matter! Dad would fix it up, hand over the money any way they said, and he would be out and away, a hero with a great experience to look back upon.

But as it was, how could he let his father pay money for his ransom? He hadn't the money to pay. And the appalling sum these thugs were going to demand was out of the question for any but a multimillionaire, such as he had always supposed his father to be.

After thrashing the matter over and over with his poor aching head, Rannie came to just one decided decision. Somehow he must manage that Dad wouldn't have to pay a cent. He must concoct some kind of scheme that would prevent any demand upon his father. Perhaps they would insist upon his writing a letter asking his father for the money, and how could he write it knowing what straits his father was in? No, he certainly wouldn't. Let them kill him or torture him with red hot pokers if they wanted to, the way they did in the Dead-eye Dick stories. What difference did it make if he was dead? He was no good, anyway. Expelled from school. What was there left for him in life? Nothing except to die manfully.

There were intervals when his mind lapsed into a haze again and couldn't quite piece things together anymore, intervals in which he slept, he wasn't quite sure. It was humiliating to sleep, with such momentous things to settle, but his captors must have given him some knockout drops or dope, he felt so dizzy and sick at times, and the pain in his head kept coming back again.

But after what seemed like hours and hours of bumping over an uneven road, the car at last came to a halt, and Rannie had made up a general line of action to which he meant to stick like grim death in spite of all obstacles.

One thing he had decided as a basic principle. He would not let these thugs see that he was afraid of them. That was to be his main reliance.

Acting on this principle, he decided that to remain unconscious as long as possible would be a good plan. He would be apt to overhear more of their plans and might get a line on something that would help.

So when he was finally lifted out of the car by the united efforts of the two men, he made himself a dead weight and let his head roll as if it had no volition of its own. Of course he couldn't have moved very far if he had tried, but he felt it better to keep out of the picture as long as he could, seeing there was nothing to be gained by appearing conscious.

He lay inert on the ground; it seemed rough and stony ground where he lay, and he was sure his head was on a piece of flat rock. But he could smell pine needles, and when they laid him down, the men's feet had slipped.

And now by the sound, the men were unloading boxes. They spoke little, except warnings about hiding the stuff among the thick laurel bushes. He could hear the car driving away down the mountain in the opposite direction from which they had approached, and the remaining man sat down nearby and smoked. A little later, Rannie could hear him puffing and panting, working with something about his feet. Sometimes he got up and shook his feet and stamped a little, and Rannie finally decided he must be tying bags on his shoes to hide his tracks.

The boy decided it must be morning, for something warm and comforting like sunshine was on his face, and one spot on his shoulder, and his hand. He wanted to shiver with the pleasure of the warmth, but he held himself rigid, trying to breathe but very little, and after what seemed a long, long time the other man came back on foot, plodding along heavily, as if his feet were padded.

“Tie them things on tighter, Bud,” said the older man, whom Rannie now perceived was the boss. “If they come off on the way, it'll be just too bad.”

“Kid moved yet?” asked Bud.

“Still dead to the world,” said the boss.

“How fur is this?” asked Bud, clumping near to Rannie's feet. “I'm about wore out now, drivin' all night an' half yeste'day.”

“I thought you were a
man
!” sneered the boss in a meaningful tone. “Ef you say a word, I'll put a bullet through ya yet an' take the ransom myself.”

“Cut that out!” said Bud angrily. “I'se only kiddin', an' you know it.”

Only grim silence was the answer.

A moment later Rannie felt himself lifted and carried forward, much as if he had been a dead body, one man at his head, the other his feet.

For an hour or more they went forward thus. Rannie could not be sure how long, for his body grew sore and weary, and the strain seemed desperately unending. From time to time they would put him down, and each time he hoped it was the end of the journey, for it was beginning to seem impossible to endure. And then, suddenly, with a lurch, the men stumbled inside a shelter. He knew, because even through the bandage that swathed his eyes, he saw the light grow dimmer.

They dropped him on the floor and he heard a door shut, a heavy wooden door that did not fit its frame and had to be jammed into place. He heard a great bolt drawn, and then to his utter relief the horrible gag was removed from his mouth, and his jaws, which were aching desperately, could slowly relax.

He heard the breathing of the boss as he stooped over him to listen, felt a great hand pawing around over his heart.

“He's okay!” said the hard voice as the boss straightened up. “Let's put him in the other room and take off his bandage. He'll come to all right. Lift up yer end there, ready now!”

Again Rannie was lifted and moved; this time, much to his surprise, he found himself on a hard army cot.

“Now, take off that binder!” commanded the boss, “and then we can leave him for a bit. We gotta go get some grub. He'll come to in plenty o' time.”

Bud somewhat roughly removed the bandage from Rannie's eyes, and dropped his head back ungently upon the pillowless cot, but Rannie kept his eyes closed and his face motionless, and only gave a small, short breath, like a sigh.

The men stood near him for a moment then slowly clumped out, fastening the door shut behind them. It sounded as if there must be a bolt on the wrong side of the door.

Rannie lay still and knew he was a prisoner.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes and looked about him. It was a small log room in which he was incarcerated, with only one small high window far above his head, through which a thickly shadowed daylight crept dimly and leaves of trees made faint flickers on the opposite wall. The window was high over his head and back of him, and the cot was against the log wall.

A movement outside the door sent his eyelids shut again, till he heard the men talking in low tones. Bud was being sent back for the luggage, which had been cached in the bushes. He was protesting, but the boss was inexorable, and always the ransom money was held over him like a threat.

Bud's footsteps had hardly died away when Rannie heard the gurgle of a bottle, the clink of a glass, the gulping of a drink, and his soul began to thirst for water. Oh, if he might have just a taste of cool water on his tongue. His swollen, dry tongue! How he longed to cry out. How his soul loathed the taste of the old rag that had been so long in his mouth!

But the silence settled down about him, with a soft, faint sound of branches scraping against the roof, a blessed reminder that there was still an out-of-doors not far away. Rannie must have fallen asleep for a little while, for afterward he had no memory of any happening till he heard Bud's footsteps once more, and the boss's hard voice berating him for being so long.

Then there were sounds in the outer room: footsteps, the clatter of something tin, a cup and plate put down on a table, the delicious, maddening odor of bacon cooking, the smell of coffee coming through the thin partition.

Rannie presently discovered that there were cracks in the rude partition where he could see through, and he watched the two figures moving about, making streaks of darkness over the brighter cracks between the logs. Then he began to know he was desperately hungry, hungrier than he ever was before, not even excepting the time of the training table of football season. He began to wonder when he had last eaten and if his captors were going to starve him to death.

He could hear them mouthing their food now in the next room, not stopping to talk till their hunger was satisfied. Then as they gradually were filled, he could hear a word now and then.

“As soon as it's absolutely dark you eat again and then get a hustle down ta that car,” the boss announced. “You gotta get that first note down acrost the state an' a good two hundred miles away ta mail by tamorra mornin'. It had oughtta be mailed afore daylight at some little country town around the other side of the mountain an' get back here around tamorra night ur at least afore daybreak, see? After that we'll havta depend on Spike fer signals afore we'll dast make the second strike.”