Ransom by Frank Roderus Page A

year of age anyhow.”
    â€œAre you going to stop? I have to get down and walk. Just for a few minutes.”
    â€œYou are one useless S.O . . . Never mind. Get down.”
    Hahn pulled the paint horse to a halt, stood in his left stirrup, and dragged his foot across the rump of the horse. He lowered himself gingerly to the ground, but when he tried to stand his left leg buckled and he sprawled hard onto the ground.
    He lost his grip on the rein—or simply forgot to hang on—and the usually steady paint spooked. It snorted and bucked and took off running with the packhorse following owing to Hahn having tied its lead rope to his saddle horn.
    Taylor swore, loud and forcefully, and dropped the lead rope of the pack animal that was trailing him. He put the spurs to his brown and sprinted after the fleeing paint. It took him a good ten minutes to run down the paint horse,gather it up, and lead it back to Richard Hahn. By then one of Hahn’s reins was broken after being stepped on by the loose animal.
    Taylor refused to speak to Hahn, or even to look in his direction, while he stepped down to the ground and rummaged in his saddlebags. He produced an awl and a coil of rawhide, then hunkered down with his back to Hahn and began repairing the broken rein.
    The two did not speak again the remainder of the morning.
    * * *
    â€œI can’t find any tracks,” Taylor admitted.
    â€œWe’re lost?”
    â€œNo, of course not. We ain’t lost. But their trail is.” Taylor sat dispiritedly on the brown horse, hands folded across his saddle horn.
    â€œWhat do we do now?”
    â€œWe look, of course.” Taylor hesitated, then said, “I know a, well, a sort of trading post. It’s over that way.” He nodded his head in a generally southward direction.
    â€œWhat is a ‘sort of’ trading post?” Hahn asked.
    â€œIt’s a hog ranch.”
    â€œFine,” Hahn retorted. “So what the hell would a pig farm be doing out this far from anything?”
    Taylor gave Hahn a look of disgust and shook his head a little. “You don’t know much of anything, do you?”
    â€œI know quite a lot about the things I deal with,” Hahn returned, “things about finances and investments that you could not possibly understand. I do not know about cow shit and whatever else it is that you deal in.”
    Taylor’s chin came up and his glare hardened; then he thought about what Hahn said and he let his hacklesdown. Patiently, as if trying to explain to a half-wit, he said, “A hog ranch is kind of like a trading post that deals mostly in women and whiskey. There’s still Indians that wander this country. They don’t cause much trouble, so don’t get y’self all excited about that. They come to this here hog ranch t’ buy whiskey. Which o’ course is against the law. Fed’ral law. I dunno if it’s against territorial law too, not that it makes no difference.
    â€œAnyway, the place also sells women. Injun women mostly after their husbands trade them for the whiskey. Cowhands, sheepherders, trappers, and the like come here to get laid. The women stay a spell until they figure their debt has been paid off; then one morning they just aren’t there no more. Doesn’t make much difference because soon enough there will be some other Injun wanting to trade for whiskey. If he has pelts, that’s fine. If he don’t, then one of his wives will do.”
    â€œYou seem to know an awful lot about it,” Hahn said, his tone of voice as much accusation as comment.
    Taylor grinned. “I do. Time was, I was a pretty good customer my own self.”
    â€œJessica thought you were cheating on her, but she never caught you at it in any of the bawdy houses down in Thom’s Valley. Now I know where you got your whores.”
    Taylor backed the brown until he was side by side with Richard Hahn. He gave the man a long look,