Read Online Black Ransom by Stone Wallace - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stone Wallace
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touch her hand, but they connected only for an instant . . .
And then Abigail was behind Melinda, taking her by her slender shoulders and pulling her away from the wagon, her eyes shooting daggers at Ehron Lee, at the same time confirming her promise. She didnât say anything.
She didnât have to.
The look of triumph was etched into her expression.
THREE
THE RIDE TO Rockmound Prison would take four days, weather and trail conditions permitting, the prisoner wagon traveling north across the coarse flatlands and requiring navigation through the rock-strewn trails of a narrow canyon passage that was bordered by large walls of sandstone. The trail also bordered Navajo country, and though the threat of an uprising had successfully been thwarted with many of the tribe rounded up and sent on the Long Walk to Fort Sumner, there was always the chance they might run into renegades still at large and known to occasionally scout these parts, thus the other reason for the shotgun guardâs presence. There were occasional rest stops, where the driver and his riding companion would take a break to water the horses and to stretch their legs, but this was a privilege not extended to Ehron Lee. That was given only when Ehron Lee
urgently
expressed the need to relieve himself, which wasnât often because he was given only minimal water and was mostly dehydrated. The midday sun was especially oppressive and Ehron Leeâs thirst was constant.
The driver and shotgun guard were resentful. Although no special privilege was ever given to any prisoner they transported, they took out their specific displeasure of this trip on Ehron Lee. Per their contracts, both were paid âby the headâ and on a typical run from other parts of the territory, they carted no less than six prisoners to Rockmound. Cullen County posed another problem. Outside of Ehron Leeâs conviction, as of late there had been no crimes in the county serious enough to warrant âhard laborâ incarceration at Rockmound. The judgeâs order stated that Ehron Leeâs sentence could not officially begin until he was delivered to the prison, and it would not do for Ehron Lee to sit out time in the town jail while waiting, perhaps for months, for a sufficient roundup of county felons.
Thus the long and potentially dangerous ride they were undertaking guaranteed the two men only minimal pay. This sat well with neither, and their sadistic comments and actions directed toward their âpassengerâ were their way of showing it.
Biscuits were the only food provided to Ehron Lee, tossed at him through the bars when the wagon was stopped, like he was a dog expected to fetch. The biscuits were dry and hard and tasteless, but he ate them if only to keep up his strength. It seemed to him that the journey was a way of preparing him for what he was soon to endure at the prison.
A form of medieval conditioning.
And in that it succeeded. His resentment grew until long before he reached the gates of Rockmound, Ehron Lee Burrows had already become a changed man. Years of bloody combat in the Civil War had not affected him as severely or as rapidly as these last weeks, where he had become the victim of injustice in Justice.
They had condemned an innocent man to a corner of purgatory, their unfair judgment not only taking away his freedom, but threatening to take from him the only person he had ever truly loved . . . along with a child he conceivably might not ever see. Their judgment had left his bride at the mercy of a vindictive sister.
Indeed, he could physically feel the hatred well up inside him, like an advancing and virulent disease. But rather than fighting it, Ehron Lee determined he could benefit from that hate. It might just be the tool heâd need to survive the next five years at Hellâs Doorway.
*Â *Â *
A man named George Watson was superintendent of the prison. A bald, darkly tanned, beetle-browed
And then Abigail was behind Melinda, taking her by her slender shoulders and pulling her away from the wagon, her eyes shooting daggers at Ehron Lee, at the same time confirming her promise. She didnât say anything.
She didnât have to.
The look of triumph was etched into her expression.
THREE
THE RIDE TO Rockmound Prison would take four days, weather and trail conditions permitting, the prisoner wagon traveling north across the coarse flatlands and requiring navigation through the rock-strewn trails of a narrow canyon passage that was bordered by large walls of sandstone. The trail also bordered Navajo country, and though the threat of an uprising had successfully been thwarted with many of the tribe rounded up and sent on the Long Walk to Fort Sumner, there was always the chance they might run into renegades still at large and known to occasionally scout these parts, thus the other reason for the shotgun guardâs presence. There were occasional rest stops, where the driver and his riding companion would take a break to water the horses and to stretch their legs, but this was a privilege not extended to Ehron Lee. That was given only when Ehron Lee
urgently
expressed the need to relieve himself, which wasnât often because he was given only minimal water and was mostly dehydrated. The midday sun was especially oppressive and Ehron Leeâs thirst was constant.
The driver and shotgun guard were resentful. Although no special privilege was ever given to any prisoner they transported, they took out their specific displeasure of this trip on Ehron Lee. Per their contracts, both were paid âby the headâ and on a typical run from other parts of the territory, they carted no less than six prisoners to Rockmound. Cullen County posed another problem. Outside of Ehron Leeâs conviction, as of late there had been no crimes in the county serious enough to warrant âhard laborâ incarceration at Rockmound. The judgeâs order stated that Ehron Leeâs sentence could not officially begin until he was delivered to the prison, and it would not do for Ehron Lee to sit out time in the town jail while waiting, perhaps for months, for a sufficient roundup of county felons.
Thus the long and potentially dangerous ride they were undertaking guaranteed the two men only minimal pay. This sat well with neither, and their sadistic comments and actions directed toward their âpassengerâ were their way of showing it.
Biscuits were the only food provided to Ehron Lee, tossed at him through the bars when the wagon was stopped, like he was a dog expected to fetch. The biscuits were dry and hard and tasteless, but he ate them if only to keep up his strength. It seemed to him that the journey was a way of preparing him for what he was soon to endure at the prison.
A form of medieval conditioning.
And in that it succeeded. His resentment grew until long before he reached the gates of Rockmound, Ehron Lee Burrows had already become a changed man. Years of bloody combat in the Civil War had not affected him as severely or as rapidly as these last weeks, where he had become the victim of injustice in Justice.
They had condemned an innocent man to a corner of purgatory, their unfair judgment not only taking away his freedom, but threatening to take from him the only person he had ever truly loved . . . along with a child he conceivably might not ever see. Their judgment had left his bride at the mercy of a vindictive sister.
Indeed, he could physically feel the hatred well up inside him, like an advancing and virulent disease. But rather than fighting it, Ehron Lee determined he could benefit from that hate. It might just be the tool heâd need to survive the next five years at Hellâs Doorway.
*Â *Â *
A man named George Watson was superintendent of the prison. A bald, darkly tanned, beetle-browed
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