Two horsemen appear on the eastern edge of Crater, a dusty Western town as dry and barren as the sinkhole that gave it its name. The riders disappear around the back of the bank, where they find an unlocked door—and a flour sack stuffed with cash. The ransom was embezzled by the banker himself, who is ready to risk jail, to throw away his reputation, to give his life if it means getting his daughter Anita back alive. But the money won’t be enough. These kidnappers are out for blood.
The banker told no one about the kidnapping, but Deputy Marshal Bill Thatcher—who loves Anita no less than her father does—quickly notices the girl’s disappearance. As the kidnapper’s demands increase, Thatcher must prove his love with violence. In a town like Crater, love is no match for a quick-drawn gun.
Two horsemen appear on the eastern edge of Crater, a dusty Western town as dry and barren as the sinkhole that gave it its name. The riders disappear around the back of the bank, where they find an unlocked door—and a flour sack stuffed with cash. The ransom was embezzled by the banker himself, who is ready to risk jail, to throw away his reputation, to give his life if it means getting his daughter Anita back alive. But the money won’t be enough. These kidnappers are out for blood.
The banker told no one about the kidnapping, but Deputy Marshal Bill Thatcher—who loves Anita no less than her father does—quickly notices the girl’s disappearance. As the kidnapper’s demands increase, Thatcher must prove his love with violence. In a town like Crater, love is no match for a quick-drawn gun.
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Overview
Two horsemen appear on the eastern edge of Crater, a dusty Western town as dry and barren as the sinkhole that gave it its name. The riders disappear around the back of the bank, where they find an unlocked door—and a flour sack stuffed with cash. The ransom was embezzled by the banker himself, who is ready to risk jail, to throw away his reputation, to give his life if it means getting his daughter Anita back alive. But the money won’t be enough. These kidnappers are out for blood.
The banker told no one about the kidnapping, but Deputy Marshal Bill Thatcher—who loves Anita no less than her father does—quickly notices the girl’s disappearance. As the kidnapper’s demands increase, Thatcher must prove his love with violence. In a town like Crater, love is no match for a quick-drawn gun.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781480487819 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 05/27/2014 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 154 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Ransom
By Paul Lederer
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 2010 Owen G. IronsAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8781-9
CHAPTER 1
Crater was not much different from half a hundred similar towns scattered around Central Arizona. It had its share of corruption, crime and violence, of despair and baseless hopes for a thriving future. Located on Thorne Creek, a tributary of the Gila River, the town of Crater suffered through the dry spells and by midsummer Thorne Creek was reduced to a trickle – wells were in demand. Fortunately for the citizens of Crater the water table was relatively close to the surface and fairly reliable.
There was a crater after which the town was named. A sinkhole some two hundred yards across, it was some distance from the town centre, located near the flank of the jumbled broken hills where only grey brush and an occasional wind-tortured pinyon pine tree grew. Newcomers went out to look at the sinkhole, stared at it for a few minutes and never returned to look again: as landmarks went, it wasn't all that interesting.
Crater itself had four stables, a blacksmith's shop, two general stores, a saddlery, two hotels (high and low class), an elected town marshal, a bank, a stage station where the disheartened could catch the coach out of town, a yellow brick courthouse still under construction, and eleven saloons.
Crater had its malcontents and plain human refuse, but it also boasted a number of responsible, civic-minded citizens dedicated to seeing Crater grow and expand healthily.
Just now one of these citizens, the respected town banker, Amos Fillmore, was in his place of business stuffing loose cash into a muslin flour sack. Fillmore had married early and his first wife had given him a charming baby child named Anita. The marriage had been felicitous, and when Louise had passed away of consumption when the child was only three years old, Fillmore had been devastated. Not wanting Anita to grow up without a mother's counsel, nor wishing to remain alone himself for the remainder of his lifetime, Fillmore had married again. This marriage, to Florence, had not proven so felicitous. The charming young lady he had met at a church picnic had proven herself to be a grasping, shrewish nag before the wedding cake had been cut.
There was nothing he could do about that but suffer; he could do something for Anita, however. Now a young woman approaching twenty years of age, she had few promising suitors in the derelict town of Crater. But there was a far more serious problem to consider just now, and it would take money to resolve it – a great deal of money.
Tad Becket had forgotten his hat on leaving the bank, and once outside had spun almost immediately to retrieve it. The young teller had been working there for only six months, but Mr Fillmore had told him often that he showed promise. Twenty-five, narrow, his light hair already thinning, Becket wore spectacles that he did not absolutely need and was diffident in the extreme, especially when dealing with female customers. He was proud of his appearance and conscious of his position, which led him to retrace his steps to the bank. It was not seemly for a banker to walk around town bareheaded.
The door to the inner office was slightly ajar, and Becket set out towards it. The movements within halted him in his tracks, though. He saw … thought he saw … could not have seen Mr Fillmore shoving stacks of currency into an old flour sack. Tad was sure that there was a reasonable explanation for Fillmore's action. There must be, but it was to say the least, highly unusual. Tad should simply poke his head in and enquire, but he could not bring himself to do so. He slipped back outside into the glare of the brilliant sunshine.
The day was hot even for July as Tad Becket walked slowly along the plankwalk toward the Sierra Restaurant. He carried his nagging doubt with him. What had he seen? Amos Fillmore absconding with bank funds! Ridiculous. But what if it were so and Tad failed to report it? If he made an accusation that proved false, he would certainly lose his job. If what he suspected was true and he did not report Fillmore, he might be subject to some sort of criminal charge himself. He needed to talk to someone about it, and quickly, before Fillmore could make his escape, if that was what he had in mind.
Fortunately he saw Bill Thatcher entering the Sierra as he approached the diner. He could talk to Bill. The young deputy marshal was about Tad Becket's own age. Bill had tried to teach Tad how to fish, how to shoot, although Tad had no natural talent for either. He would ask Bill what he should do.
'Why shouldn't he be bagging up some money?' Bill Thatcher asked as they sat facing each other across a square table in the Sierra.
'I don't know. I've just never seen him do it,' Tad answered nervously, moving his elbows as the waitress served them both coffee.
'Could be a big cattle sale in the works,' Bill Thatcher suggested, 'or some mine operator taking out a large loan he doesn't want publicized. A lot of people wouldn't want it known that they had that kind of cash on hand.'
'I grant you that,' Tad said in a quiet voice, his eyes darting from place to place before settling again on the rugged-looking young deputy. 'But nothing like this has ever happened before.'
'Does Fillmore tell you everything about the bank's affairs?'
'No, of course not, Bill … but.…'
'But it bothers you. All right, Tad. I won't tell Marshal Pepper about this yet.'
'No, please don't!' Tad was somehow terrified of the bulky town marshal with his glittering black eyes and meaty torso. Bill smiled gently.
'I'll just hang around the back of the bank awhile and see what's up, though I think you've just gotten a touch of imagination.'
'I suppose you're right,' Tad Becket said as the waitress returned to take their orders. 'I hope you're right.'
They ate in silence for a while – ham, potatoes and corn on the cob was the lunch special. When he had nearly finished, Tad changed the subject by asking, 'How are things going with Anita?' For the young deputy was crazy in love with Anita Fillmore, as everyone except Anita seemed to have noticed.
'I don't know,' Bill shrugged. 'I've been watching and waiting for her to come into town, shopping or something. Screwing up the courage to talk to her a little more plainly, but I haven't seen her for a couple of days.'
'It's the heat. Ladies don't like to come out in weather like this.'
'I suppose you're right.'
'Have you considered riding out to her house some evening?' Tad asked. Bill shook his head.
'I feel about Amos Fillmore something like you feel about Marshal Pepper. I'd as soon not encounter the man. Especially if he had an inkling of my intentions.'
'Why, Bill? Is there something he doesn't like about you?'
'Besides the fact that I'm a young man stuck in a dangerous, low paying job.'
'Oh.'
'Yes, "oh". Fillmore is waiting for some respectable, secure man with a good deal of money tucked away in his bank to come asking for his daughter's hand. And if anyone knows how much money I don't have, it's Amos Fillmore.'
As he fished two silver dollars from his pocket to pay for their meals, Tad Becket said, 'About my situation – you haven't forgotten, have you, Bill?'
'No. I'll keep an eye on the bank for the rest of the day unless something more urgent comes up. You just relax, go back over there and count your nickels.'
Amos Fillmore suffered through a long, hot afternoon. He found the heat more oppressive than usual. His lips were parched; his head throbbed. He went about his duties woodenly. Twice he filed loan documents he had forgotten to sign, once he found himself at a loss trying to recall the name of an elderly woman he had known for twelve years as she made her small monthly deposit. Fillmore watched the round clock on his office wall as it ever-so-slowly ticked off the lethargic minutes.
He was in it deep now. He only wanted to flee the bank, to have done with it all. He wondered if the glances Tad Becket cast his way didn't carry the look of censure, of suspicion. Those concerns he dismissed as the shadows of a criminal's guilty mind. He could not dismiss his own censure, but what else could he do!
At five o'clock with the summer sun still riding high and bright in the sky, Amos Fillmore recovered his derby hat from the rack, straightened his tie and smoothed back his hair. He strode to the outer office where young Tad Becket stood waiting by the front door. Fillmore thought the young, slight clerk's eyes still held an overly-curious gleam, but that was only nerves – had to be.
'Good evening then, Becket,' Fillmore said as he turned to lock the door to the bank behind them.
'Good evening, sir,' Tad Becket responded woodenly. He saw that Fillmore carried no sack, that there was no tell-tale bulge under his coat. So, then, perhaps Bill Thatcher had been right. Tad was imagining things. What reason, after all, could Amos Fillmore have for embezzling bank money? He was a well-respected man with a fine home, family and friends. The sort they called a pillar of the community. It made no sense that he would risk all for a sackful of money. Possibly Tad had done the man an injustice. Perhaps he had even observed Fillmore in a moment of weakness which his common sense overrode upon reflection. It made no difference. Tad had seen no crime committed; he had no further obligations in the matter.
Bill Thatcher yawned and glanced at his steel pocket watch again. He had been resting in the shade of the cottonwood grove that flourished near the back of the bank, along the course of Thorne Creek which was now only a sandy wash with scattered, scum-filled ponds here and there. Five o'clock and there had been no activity near the bank. By now Amos Fillmore would have left the bank, and after recovering his horses and surrey from the Crater Stable, would be driving home.
The young deputy marshal rose, stretched the kinks out of his muscles and started toward his piebald horse tethered nearby. He had decided to follow Fillmore, just in case something not apparent was up. Marshal Herb Pepper had not sent anyone looking for him. Thatcher knew that it would take a raid by an army of outlaws for Pepper to move more than from his office to the One Tree Saloon and back on a day like this when heat hung oppressively over the sun-beaten town.
Glancing toward the western road out of Crater, Bill saw the banker's rig moving away from the town, his high-stepping matched bays drawing the vehicle towards the enclave where Crater's better citizens had built their houses among a vast grove of scattered oak trees. Bill swung into his saddle, knowing that there was little chance of his detective work having any positive result. That did not matter.
It gave him an excuse to ride towards the Fillmore house. Who knew, he might surprise Anita Fillmore who often went riding at this hour. The image of Anita, her fair hair loose, her smile wide and bright as she trotted her prize black across the open land came into Bill's thoughts and he urged his piebald on away from Crater.
If he had held his position for another ten minutes, denied himself the pleasurable vision of Anita Fillmore, Bill might have been able to end matters right then and there, for no sooner was he out of sight than two horsemen appeared from the eastern end of town. One of them held the horses while the other slipped up to the back door of the bank.
As promised, that door was unlocked. The man reached inside, snatched up the flour sack resting there, closed the door again so that its latch caught and returned to his horse, grinning as he held the moneybag aloft.
'No word?' Amos Fillmore asked Florence, his wife as soon as he had entered his house and closed the door with the oval-shaped leaded glass insert. Florence who had been sitting in one of the dark-violet, overstuffed chairs, embroidery-work on her lap, answered without looking up. 'Hasn't been time enough.'
'No, I know it,' Fillmore said, removing his hat, wiping back his thinning grey hair. 'I'm not thinking clearly, that's all. Since they took her.…'
'You can't do anything but wait!' Florence snapped. 'Have yourself a glass of whiskey.'
Amos Fillmore's second wife was nothing like Louise, Anita's mother. Louise would be frantic now, rushing to him to seek mutual comfort in the loss of their beautiful kidnapped daughter. At the sideboard where he did pour a tall whiskey for himself, Fillmore reflected that perhaps it was better that the aloof, unemotional Florence was at his side during this crisis. He could always count on her solidly logical response to problems.
Fillmore sagged into a chair matching his wife's. Loosening his collar and tie he took a deep drink of the whiskey and muttered, 'It's been two entire days now. I can't sleep, can't eat. It's in my mind constantly, not knowing what might be happening to Anita.'
'You can't do anything about that,' Florence said, raising her steely gaze to meet the lost look in his watery blue eyes. 'All we can do is wait. You've done all you can.'
Yes, Amos Fillmore thought, taking another deep drink of whiskey. He had done all he could: embezzle money from the bank where he had worked for twelve long years, building the community's trust. Now he was a common thief, a criminal. If caught there would be no forgiveness no matter the circumstances that had forced him into this rash act.…
'You haven't let anyone know, have you, Florence? Not even a hint.'
'No one's been around,' she answered, returning to her embroidery. 'And why would I want to say anything and destroy my reputation and social standing?'
Florence spoke these words as if he were a fool for asking. He was a fool, Fillmore decided, for doing what the demand note had instructed. The note which had been pinned to the saddle of Anita's black horse when it returned home riderless. What other choice was there? He loved his daughter, and if it cost him twenty years in prison to save her, well it was a fair price.
If those men let her go. If they had not already.…
Amos Fillmore drank again and sat immobile, inconsolable, brooding in the settling shadows of his drawing-room.
Bill Thatcher drew his piebald pony up in the heated shade of a wide-spreading oak tree. He removed his hat and cuffed the perspiration from his forehead. He could just see the Fillmore house, the adjacent corral and barn. No one had stirred from the house. In the corral Bill could see Anita's tall black horse. So she was not out riding on this afternoon. Perhaps it was still too warm. She would prefer the cool of evening. He decided to wait a while longer, hope prodding the decision. Hope that she would emerge from the house and stride prettily to the corral to saddle her horse. Then Bill thought, he would quite accidentally encounter her on the trail. It was time that he spoke some of the things that were on his mind, nagging him day and night.
The shadows began to spread out from the oaks, the sun heeled over toward the western range. The day became noticeably cooler, and a few nightbirds had begun to appear, but Anita still did not come out of the house. The black horse began to roam the corral restlessly as if expecting an exercise run. The house remained closed and dark. Bill glanced again at his watch. He could not waste much more time here. Marshal Pepper would be waiting for Bill to relieve him at the jail so that he could stamp over to the Sierra Restaurant and have his dinner before going home to his room in the hotel.
Weary with disappointment, Bill Thatcher swung into his saddle once more. He sat on the piebald for a few long minutes, watching the house, but no one emerged into the dusk-lighted cool of evening. It was only then that Bill did start to wonder whether something was not amiss. Perhaps Tad Becket had been right. Or maybe it was only because Bill was so disappointed at not seeing Anita Fillmore, but he began to think worriedly that something might be wrong with the Fillmores.
Very wrong.
Wearing a deep frown, he started the piebald back towards Crater as the sky flared up briefly with deep crimson and burnt orange before the sun sank heavily beyond the far horizon.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Ransom by Paul Lederer. Copyright © 2010 Owen G. Irons. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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