It was after sundown on July 8 when Cole rode slowly back into town, the weary grey plodding towards the livery. The hostler helped him down from the saddle and the sheriff, grimy from long trails, leaned against the stall post and massaged his aching leg.
‘How’s the wound comin’, Cole?’
‘I can tell you it’s still there,’ the sheriff growled, then smiled crookedly, softening his tone. ‘It’s not too bad, Earl. If those hardcases hadn’t massaged it with their boots I’d be running like a deer now.’
The hostler nodded soberly, took his pipe from his leathery lips, sniffed deeply through his bulbous nose. ‘They was strangers, but I think I’ve seen the one in the green shirt before. Rode in with that Quinlan feller few days earlier but stayed on for the Fourth.’
That news earned the livery man a sharp look. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I’ve covered half the damn county these past couple of days, trying to get a line on him and his pard. Reckon they’re connected to the kidnapping.’
The hostler sniffed again, moved his feet uneasily. ‘Well, I dunno who he is, Cole. Just recollected he came in with Quinlan.’
‘Yeah, all right, Earl. Take care of the horse.’
As the sheriff took down his rifle and warbag, Earl said, ‘Linus asked me to tell you, when you showed he wants to see you.’ He paused, then added, ‘Poor devil looks like death warmed over. ’Course, that Bess ain’t makin’ things any easier for him.’
Cole nodded and headed back to his room at the Star. He ordered hot water for a bath and afterwards shaved. Halfway through there was a knock on the door and Linus Charlton came hurrying in.
‘I’ve had a second note,’ he said, without preamble. He produced a crumpled piece of paper and offered it to Cole.
The sheriff saw it was the same printing as before:
Better hurry with that money
This is just to show we really
do have the kid.
Next time it could be a finger
Linus held up a tuft of greasy, tow-coloured hair. ‘All Bess said was “They might’ve let him wash his hair!”’ He shook his head jerkily, his drawn, greyish face tightening. ‘Damn woman.’
The banker looked terrible: he had dark smears under his eyes, his jowls were drooping, even his neck seemed scrawny. He still wore a bandage on his left hand and it looked to be the same grimy one from a couple of days ago.
‘Where’ve you been, Cole? Damnit, man, I need to have you close by for this thing.’
‘Rode around to see everyone I could remember being at the celebration and who didn’t come from town. Didn’t learn much. Most folk saw Donny and some playmate, Sam Bale, but no one saw them leave the area. Didn’t get as far out as the Bale place or the Bowden spread, but I’ll take a packhorse later and cover more ground.’
‘Well, I dunno how much more time they aim to give me to get the ransom. I’d be obliged if you’d stay close.’
‘Linus, you do your part with the ransom. I’ll do what I can from my side. Have you got the OK for the money yet?’
Charlton heaved a sigh. ‘Yes – and no. I mean, Carl Curtis, after a slew of wires sent in Bess’s name, finally agreed to allow access to the trust funds – but it’s gotta be done through my bank’s head office. The very thing I was trying to avoid!’
Cole frowned. ‘Makes it easier, doesn’t it?’
‘You might think so.’ There was a dull sound to Linus’s words. ‘Now, as well as all this worry, and making the arrangements, I have to write reports which amount to little more than ‘Please Explain’ – and that’s ridiculous. What can you say about a kidnapping, other than it happened?’ He rubbed hard at his head, shaking it. ‘I haven’t slept more than two hours straight since I last saw you.’
‘Looks like it, too. Linus, you’d better take or, better still, make time so you have a break. Once they want the ransom, you’ll be working like a berserk beaver and its just the time you’ll need all your wits about you. If you don’t get it right, for some reason….’
Linus nodded. ‘I know. Bess blames me – oh, you, too, equally, I think. She’s relentless in her criticism. I – I even hoped at one stage that the kid would turn up – dead. Just to have the blasted thing finished with.’
‘You wouldn’t want that to happen,’ Cole said slowly and Linus knew he meant he wouldn’t want it to happen, either.
He didn’t know about Cole’s past and the loss of his own son five years earlier, but for some time he had suspected a tragedy somewhere along Cole’s backtrail.
‘When will you have the money ready?’
‘If I can stall head office on these unnecessary “reports”, tomorrow afternoon, maybe. I – I’m going to count it myself and package it. That way there’ll be no mistakes, and it should keep those fools in Denver off my neck.’
‘You ought to have someone with you to check, Linus. That’s what will keep head office off you. And it’ll be better if anyone claims there’s been a mistake.’
‘No! I want to do this myself as far as possible, Cole. I have to square myself with Bess and if I can take credit for getting the ransom paid and bringing Donny back safely….’
Cole could see the man’s reasoning: he was probably more afraid of Bess than of his superiors in Denver but he would never admit it.
‘Cole, I need to ask you another favour.’ The sheriff waited, face unreadable. ‘Will – will you deliver the ransom? Oh, I know there’re no arrangements yet, but – well, you’re experienced in handling this kind of thing.’
‘No, I’m not, Linus. I’ve never been involved in a kidnapping pay-off. But if they’re agreeable to me handing over the ransom, I’ll do it.’
He was surprised at the relief that showed on the banker’s face. It seemed the man was close to collapse and now some of the tension drained away – visibly.
‘I – I’m much obliged, Cole, very much obliged.’
Then Linus wheeled and fumbled at the door, and stumbled out into the passage, leaving the door swinging.
Cole slowly closed it, frowning.
Because payment instructions for the ransom seemed imminent, Sheriff Cole did not make his planned extended ride out to the edges of the county, interviewing people who had attended the Independence Day celebrations.
As Banker Charlton had pointed out, when instructions came they would likely have to be acted upon pronto. Linus was ready to go, now that the bank’s head office had at last approved release of the money. In fact the Denver people sent extra funds down in a strongbox on a special stage run, to supplement what Linus’s safe already held. $20,000 was one hell of a lot of money.
No wonder Denver was nervous.
Cole had escorted the strongbox from the depot to the bank and then Linus locked himself in his office, preparing the ransom, taking full responsibility.
Feeling edgy, with it being more or less general knowledge that part of the ransom had arrived and was being counted in the bank, Cole stayed in town, on the balcony outside his hotel room. Using field glasses he watched the bank and its surrounds, noting everyone who entered the building.
He was bored after a while but admitted the enforced rest was helping his leg’s recovery. He barely limped at all now, though he couldn’t run yet – jog-trot for a short distance, maybe, but no more.
He swept the glasses around town and some of the country that he could see beyond the outskirts. The lenses were good quality, Army issue, but still not good enough to pick out the features of riders approaching the town, entering by way of the short adobe bridge at the southern end of Front Street.
That was how he missed recognizing the two men who drifted in, several minutes apart. One was forking a big black, the other a dirty-white gelding. They both made for the livery and he moved the glasses back to the bridge trail, then slowly around the outskirts.
He jumped when shortly afterwards a piping voice behind him called his name. ‘Sher’f Cole…?’
He spun round, regretting it as pain shot through his leg. He stared at a freckle-faced boy in ragged patched overalls, only one strap holding the garment up.
‘What d’you want, son?’
‘I’m Toddy. My father runs the stables. He sent me to find you.’
‘What’s up, Toddy?’
‘He said to tell you that the feller in the green shirt’s just arrived – only he ain’t wearin’ a green shirt today. It’s faded blue. And he was ridin’ a black geldin’.’
Cole was tense. ‘Where is he?’
‘Turned his mount in for groomin’. Pa’s doin’ it—’
‘Was he alone?’
The kid scratched his head – another towhead, Cole noticed. The town seemed full of them. ‘Might’ve been someone with him – another feller arrived a coupla minutes after him. He had a grey shirt an’ was wearin’ a tatty old vest over it. I – I think they knew each other, but din’ let on, you know?’
‘You’re pretty bright, Toddy, noticing something like that. You couldn’t be mistaken?’
‘No, sir. Not the way they looked at each other and the one in the blue shirt kind of – nodded, but hardly moved his head. Like this.’
Cole gave the boy a dime and, as the kid ran off down the length of the balcony, went into his room and picked up his rifle from where he had left it in a corner.
He locked the door behind him and hurried down the stairs into the hotel foyer.
Using the back alleys, he made his way to the law office, entered by the rear door and placed his rifle beside the battered desk; if the men he wanted to see saw him walking the streets with a rifle in hand, they might be scared off.
And he didn’t want that: he wanted to know what they were up to. Someone had to deliver those ransom notes.
It was approaching sundown and long shadows began to mottle the streets. Men who worked in town at the stores and the small sawmill, the stage depot and so on, closed up shop and many of them made their way to Mannering’s Delta saloon to sink a few beers and maybe a whiskey, if they could afford it, before heading home to supper.
Cole felt like a drink, had done for a couple of days, but hadn’t been game to give in. He was still afraid he might capitulate and throw his annual drunk – he sure had his head full of Alice and Jeff. It was normal for him at this time of year, but with the ransom payment looming, he couldn’t afford any diversions.
Still, he entered the saloon, scanned the drinkers at the bar and the tables scattered around the smoky room. The men Toddy had warned him about, Blue Shirt and Vest, as he thought of them, were sitting at a table near a side door. He let his gaze slide across them without pause.
He greeted a few townsfolk, breasted the bar and ordered a beer, using the large mirror to watch the two men who claimed his interest. They, in turn, were surreptitiously watching him, but he merely leaned an elbow on the counter and rolled a cigarette, chatting with one of the sweating barkeeps. He lit up and shook out the vesta, eyes still a little dazzled by the brief flare of the match.
A glance in the mirror showed him the two men had gone. Smart! They’d waited until the match briefly blinded him and then left, quickly and silently. It had to be by the side door….
Cole crossed swiftly to a table where four townsmen were laughing over a joke one of them had just told. It was only a few feet from the side door.
‘Two rannies just go out?’ he asked and the laughter died slowly.
A big man in sweat-stained shirt, his chair facing the door nodded. ‘Coupla strangers, Sheriff.’
‘Blue shirt? Other with a vest over grey?’
The man was still nodding when Cole crossed to the door in two fast strides, then changed his mind and hurried down the smoke-filled room to the front batwings. He shouldered past a couple of men on their way in, ignoring the curses, moved quickly to the corner of the building.
There was no sign of his quarry in the now darkened alley. Darting his gaze about, he searched for places they might have gone. There were two lanes, one curving back to Front Street about a block along from the saloon. The other led to a secondary street, down past the general store, skirted the yard behind the saddler’s and then swung towards the block where the bank stood.
And the side with the special door leading to Charlton’s office faced onto it.
Cole drew his Colt, automatically checking the loads by turning the cylinder slowly and feeling the noses of the bullets in the chambers with his fingertip. While doing this, he watched for the men.
There was movement between him and the bank door, just a formless shadow, but it was too big to be that of a pariah dog or an alley cat. He padded forward, walking on the balls of his feet. It was a strain on his left leg but he gritted his teeth against the cramping pain. Only a few more steps and he would have the drop on them.
It was just a faint sound, very brief, as something whispered through the air. His reactions, he thought later, were as good as they had ever been, despite any residual hangover from that poisonous moonshine.
He propped and the descending gun clipped the brim of his hat. He lurched sideways as the man who had tried to drop him cold stumbled forward with the motion of the swinging weapon. Cole smashed his Colt into the side of the attacker’s head, knocking off his hat. The man grunted and fell to the ground where his hat was already rolling in the dust.
His companion, near the bank door, heard the sounds and rounded fast, his gun firing, the flash briefly outlining him, clearly enough to show the faded blue colour of his shirt.
Cole triggered and his bullet knocked the man spinning. He crashed into the bank door, clawed at the wood and sat down, one leg bent under him. His head rested against the woodwork, his body jamming one arm. The other was clawing at his chest.
He froze when Cole’s gun muzzle pressed into his grimy neck.
Just then a startled, eye-popping Linus Charlton wrenched open the door, gun in one hand, some banknotes in the other. ‘What the devil…?’
‘Open the door wider, Linus. We’ve got two of ’em to drag in. With a little luck, it’ll be an interesting conversation.’
‘No!’ The small-calibre handgun lifted and covered the surprised lawman. ‘Sorry, Cole. No one comes into my office while I’m counting the ransom – and that includes you. If you want to question these two, take ’em down to your jail.’
The door slammed and the key turned in the lock.
The gunfire had attracted some curious folk, mostly drinkers from the saloon, and Cole organized four of them to bring the strangers down to the law office.
The wounded man was gasping that he needed a sawbones, he was dying.
‘Then what you need is an undertaker,’ Cole said flatly. ‘You’ll get medical attention in the cells. Fry, will you go get Doc Partridge and send him along?’
The townsman nodded and broke away from the small group following Cole. The man the sheriff gunwhipped was starting to groan and move a little but was still mighty groggy.
Until they reached the landing at the front door of the law office and Cole fumbled out his keys.
Then the man in the frayed vest suddenly came to life, kicking one of the men half-carrying him, smashing his forehead into the face of the second man, who lurched back, yelling, blood spraying. There was a tangle and Cole was knocked against the door, pinned briefly by the stumbling men.
Others were shouting but all dived for cover as the man in the grey shirt pulled his gun and started shooting. A townsman dropped without a sound and another gave a cry of pain. The rest either hit the dirt or ran for whatever cover they could find.
The fugitive loosed two shots at Cole, making him duck. While the sheriff did that, trying to shoot past some of the weaving townsmen, the vest man leapt into the saddle of a horse at a nearby hitchrack and spurred away.
Cole jumped over prostrate townsmen, raised his Colt but swore as he was forced to hold his fire. The runaway was weaving in between the evening traffic and didn’t offer a clear shot.
‘Lock that hombre in the cell when the doc’s finished with him,’ he ordered as he started to run for a tethered horse. Pain immediately knifed through his leg and he staggered. But he was able to slap the reins loose and ram his left foot into the stirrup. His leg collapsed again and the horse whinnied and shied, throwing him.
Dimly, he heard the drumming of the other horse’s hoofs as it sped over the bridge.
Cursing, a couple of townsmen helped get him into the saddle, ignoring yells from the horse’s owner. He spurred after the fugitive, noting with satisfaction that there was a rifle in the saddle scabbard.
It was about as dark as it was going to get now and he had to rely on his ears to follow the escaping gunman. They were into the trees here, weaving between the trunks. Branches scraped his shoudlers as he lay low in the saddle. He reined down, the horse blowing, his heart slamming against his ribs. He couldn’t hear the other mount!
Rifle in hand now, he eased the horse forward slowly, using his heels and knees to guide it; luckily it was a cow pony, used to such commands. Then flame stabbed out of the darkness to his right: that son of a bitch had set up an ambush!
The lead was close and he slid from the saddle, dancing on his good leg. He slapped the horse’s rump, sending it racing on. The gun followed its sound, firing again.
Cole threw up the rifle, triggered at the flash, slightly up and to the left. He heard a grunt and a thrashing, and though he waited, there was no more shooting.