Torture Town

by William W. Johnstone

  “Gentlemen, I hate to run away with my winnings, but I’ve got to get back home,” Dr. Dunaway said. He chuckled. “My wife thinks I’m calling on patients.”

  “She’s going to know better when you show up with all your winnings,” Matthews said.

  “Ha! And just what makes you think she’s going to know about this money?” Dunaway asked, and the others around the table laughed.

  “I tell you what, just to show you what a good sport I am, suppose I buy you three boys a drink before I leave.”

  “Well, now that’s awful nice of you, Doc, seein’ as you’ll be buyin’ me a drink with my money,” Mathews said, though the tone of his voice was more teasing than angry. “Leastwise, what was my money.”

  Dr. Dunaway laughed again, then walked over the bar, left some money with the bartender, and pointed back to the table where Matt and the other two were sitting. A moment later one of the bar girls started toward the table carrying three drinks on a tray. She was smiling at them; then Matt saw one of the two men who had just arrived stick out his foot and trip the girl. She fell, and the drinks spilled on the floor.

  “Damn, girl!” the dead-eyed man said. “Can’t you walk?”

  “You . . . you . . . ,” the girl started, but the smile left the man’s face, to be replaced by a snarl.

  “I what?” he asked, tauntingly.

  “You tripped her,” Matt said, speaking the words loudly enough for all to hear.

  “What did you say?” the dead-eyed man asked.

  “You gents had better move away from the table,” Matt said under his breath. Both Crabtree and Matthews got up quickly, and hurried away. That left Matt as the only one remaining. He made no effort to stand.

  “You heard what I said, you fish-eyed, slack-jawed son of a bitch,” Matt said easily. “I said you tripped her.”

  The dead-eyed man smiled, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. The scar-faced man moved away.

  “Mister, I’m going to tell you who I am, then I’m going to give you an opportunity to apologize,” the dead-eyed man said. “My name is Vargas. Eddie Vargas. I reckon you’ve heard of me.”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Matt said. Matt had heard of him, but he knew that it would irritate Vargas if he thought Matt hadn’t.

  The smile left Vargas’s face, and Matt could tell that it bothered him.

  “Well now, that’s too bad. You see, if you knew who I was, you wouldn’t have got yourself into this fix. Now, it’s too late. I’m going to have kill you, and all because you couldn’t keep your nose out of my business.”

  “I’m sitting down,” Matt said. “Are you going to give me a chance to stand up before we open this ball?”

  Vargas laughed. “Why would I do that? Do you think this is some kind of a game we’re playin’ here? Killin’ is my business, and it don’t matter to me whether you are standin’ or sittin’.”

  Now, inexplicably, Matt smiled, and his smile surprised Vargas.

  “What? What the hell are you smilin’ about?”

  “I’m glad you feel that way, because when I put a hole in your chest, you won’t have an argument coming, will you?”

  “You’re goin’ to put a hole in my chest? Now, just how do you plan to do that?”

  “You may have noticed, that my right hand is under the table, and it’s been there since this conversation started. There’s a .44 in that hand, and I’ve just pulled the hammer back. If you make one move toward your gun, I’m going to shoot you.”

  “I think you’re lyin’,” Vargas said.

  Matt’s smile broadened. “Try me.”

  “Strawn, can you see him? Does he have a gun under the table?”

  “I don’t know,” Strawn said. “I can’t see.”

  “I don’t think he does,” Vargas said.

  “Well, like the man says, try him.”

  Vargas stood without moving and without speaking until a twitch began in his face. For a moment, Matt thought Vargas was going to make a try for his gun, but finally Vargas lifted both hands, palms facing Matt.

  “All right, all right,” he said. “You win . . . this time.”

  “Do you have any money, Vargas?” Matt asked.

  “What? What do you care whether or not I have any money?”

  “You are the one who was responsible for spilling the drinks that the young lady was bringing to my friends and me. I intend for you to buy three more drinks.”

  “The hell you say. I ain’t buyin’ drinks for nobody.”

  “Then I’ll kill you, and take what money you do have.”

  “That’s the same as robbery.”

  “No, it isn’t. It is recompense for value lost. Bartender, how much did those drinks cost?” Matt asked.

  “Fifteen cents,” the bartender replied.

  “It’s going to cost you half a dollar,” Matt said. “Fifteen cents for the drinks, a ten-cent tip for the barkeep, and a quarter tip for the young lady.”

  “The hell it is.”

  “Then you are going to have to ask yourself, Vargas,” Matt said. “Is your life worth half a dollar?”

  With an angry yell of rage, Vargas slapped half a dollar onto the bar. “Here!” he shouted. “Here’s the damn money! Come on, Strawn, let’s get out of here.”

  “Huh-uh,” the scar-faced man replied. “I’m not the one who tripped the girl.”

  “You’re not comin’ with me?”

  “I don’t think so,” Strawn said. “You got yourself into this mess.”

  With a snarl of disgust, Vargas turned and stomped out of the saloon. Matt stood up. It was obvious then, that he had not been holding a pistol in his hand.

  “I’ll be damn! You was runnin’ a bluff !” Crabtree said.

  Matthews and Crabtree started back to the table, as did the young woman with the drinks.

  “No!” Matt said. He didn’t shout the word, but he did say it resolutely. He held his hands out toward the two men from one side, and the girl from the other, to keep them from advancing any farther. “You’d best stay where you are.”

  Suddenly Vargas burst through the batwing doors, his pistol in his hand.

  “You son of a bitch!” he shouted, pulling the trigger. Matt had stepped to one side a split second before Vargas fired, or the bullet would have hit him between the eyes. Instead, it punched through the stove piping, sending up a black cloud of soot and dust.

  Matt pulled his pistol then, his draw so fast that he was able to fire before Vargas could correct his mistake. Those in the saloon saw a little spray of blood come from the wound in the middle of Vargas’s chest. Shocked by the sudden and unexpected turn of events, Vargas dropped his pistol, and slapped his hand over the bleeding hole.

  “How did you . . . ?” he said, but that was as far as he got before he fell, face first on the floor.

  Matt sensed that the scar-faced man might be going for his gun, and he swung his pistol around bringing it to bear.

  “No, no!” Strawn said, holding out his hands. “This here ain’t my fight, and it ain’t been from the beginnin’.”

  Matt looked at him for a long moment, then, with a nod of acceptance, put his pistol back in his holster.

  “What’s your name?” Strawn asked.

  “Jensen. Matt Jensen.”

  “I’ll be damn,” he said. “You shoulda told ol’ Vargas who you was. I don’t think he woulda ever tried you iffen he had know’d who you was.”

  “I think he would have.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right. All right, I guess I’ll just be on my way now.”

  “I’d rather you not leave just yet.”

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  “I don’t want to take a chance on you being out in the street, waiting for me. I’d feel a lot better if you would just stick around until after I leave.” Matt smiled. “I’ll even buy you a drink.”

  Now the scar-faced man smiled as well.

  “Mister, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
/>   Matt went over and put a quarter on the bar. “Give the gentleman whatever he wants,” he said.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Jensen,” the bartender replied.

  Lorenzo, New Mexico

  Rufus Draco stood at the end of the bar in the Bent Creek Saloon, nursing his whiskey. He had to nurse them because the small amount of money he had taken from the Lewis ranch was nearly gone.

  “Hey, pretty girl, are you goin’ to the dance Saturday?” someone asked, and looking toward the speaker, Draco saw that he was talking to one of the young women who was working the room, hustling drinks.

  “You know better than that, Al,” the girl answered. “Girls like me aren’t welcome at the town dances.”

  “You could go on my arm,” the cowboy named Al replied. “Nobody would dare say anything to you if you were with me.”

  “Ha!” one of the other patrons said. “What about that, Michelle? Al is going to be your . . . what is it in them fairy tales now, one of them fellers that’s all dressed up in a metal suit?”

  Michelle laughed. “You mean Al is going to be my knight in shining armor?”

  “Yeah!” Al said. He stood up. “That’s me, Michelle. I’ll be your knight in shining armor.” Al held his arms up and flexed his muscles to the laughter of Michelle and everyone else in the saloon.

  “Hey,” Draco said a moment later as Michelle walked past him.

  “Yes, sir, do you want another drink?” Michelle asked.

  “I ain’t interested in another drink,” Draco said. “You know what I’m interested in.”

  The smile left Michelle’s face.

  “You might find what you are looking for down the street,” Michelle said. “The only thing the girls do here is serve drinks. That’s all that we do,” she added pointedly.

  “Don’t give me that. You’re a whore—otherwise you wouldn’t be dressed like that.”

  Michelle started to walk away from Draco, but he reached out and grabbed her, squeezing her arm so hard that it hurt.

  “Ooww! Quit, you are hurting me!”

  Al and three other cowboys, hearing Michelle call out, stood up.

  “Michelle, darlin’, are you all right?” Al asked.

  Draco let go of her arm, then, returning the glare of the others in the saloon, started toward the door.

  “Mister, don’t bother to come back!” Al called out, angrily.

  After Michelle got off at midnight, she went upstairs to her room, where, for a few minutes, she examined herself in the mirror. She was wearing the same thing she had worn all day, a dress that displayed so much cleavage, and so much of her legs, that she couldn’t possibly wear it outside the Bent Creek Saloon. She put her fingers on a locket she was wearing around her neck; then, opening it, she looked at the picture of her three-year-old daughter.

  Wanda was back in Memphis, with Michelle’s parents. Michelle’s parents thought that she was working as a seamstress, and because she sent them money on a regular basis, they had told her how proud they were of her.

  They had no idea that she was working as a bar girl, and though she wasn’t a prostitute, she was only one step above it, having from time to time actually entertained a man. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of depression when she realized that the life she had expected, the life of wife and mother, was never to be.

  She was a mother, but she wasn’t, nor had she ever been, a wife. It was the disgrace of being an unwed mother that had caused her to leave Memphis. With a sigh, she removed the dress with the daringly low-cut neckline and put it on her bed. This was who she was now.

  Rufus Draco had gone to a saloon across the street from the Bent Creek Saloon. There, he bought a couple of whiskeys, then sat by the window and stared across the street at the Bent Creek. He watched as the last customer left, and the lights went dark.

  “Mister?”

  It wasn’t until then that he realized the bartender had come over to his table to speak to him.

  “We’re closin’ up now, mister. You’re goin’ to have to leave,” the bartender said.

  Draco nodded, then left the saloon. He walked down to the corner before he crossed the street, then walked in between two buildings until he reached the alley. Once he reached the alley he followed it back down to back of the Bent Creek Saloon.

  As he had been sure he would, he found an open window and he climbed through it to gain entry to the saloon. Once inside, he moved cautiously and quietly through the dark, navigating by the dim patches of street-lamp light that fell in through the windows. He walked up the stairs, taking them very slowly to avoid any creaking. There were four doors off the upstairs hallway, but only one of them showed any light from inside. Draco stepped up to that door, then bent down and looked through the keyhole. He saw her take off her dress. Trying the door, he was surprised to find that it wasn’t locked. He pushed it open, quietly, closed it behind him just as quietly, then stepped up behind her before she even knew he was there.

  Sensing someone was behind her, Michelle turned.

  “Who are you? What are you doing in—?”

  That was as far as Michelle got. She suddenly felt strong hands around her neck. She tried to scream, but the crushed larynx prevented that. It also stopped her from breathing.

  Half an hour later, Draco mounted his horse and rode out of town, into the dark. It had been good. It had been so good. It had also been profitable. He had taken one hundred dollars in gold coins from Michelle’s room.

  Chapter Four

  Still following Rufus south, Matt rode into Lorenzo, New Mexico, three days after Draco had departed the town. He tied Spirit to the hitching rail in front of the Bent Creek Saloon, then stepped up onto the porch. He was surprised to see a black bow tied to the batwing doors as he pushed through.

  To be in such a small town, the Bent Creek Saloon was a fairly nice-looking establishment. It sported a real mahogany bar. A mirror behind the bar was bracketed by a shelf that was filled with scores of bottles of various kinds of liquor and spirits. A sign on the wall read: GENTLEMEN, KINDLY USE THE SPITTOONS.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, sliding down the bar with a towel tossed across his shoulder. The fact that the towel was relatively clean spoke volumes about the class of the establishment.

  “Beer,” Matt replied. “Maybe something to eat?”

  “We baked a ham today, and bread,” the bartender replied. “You can have a ham sandwich.”

  “I’ll take it,” Matt said. “And one of these.” Scooping a peeled and pickled boiled egg from the large jar that sat on the end of the bar, Matt took it, and his beer, over to a nearby table. It didn’t take long for one of the bar girls to approach him.

  “Hello,” she said. “My name is Julie.”

  Julie was tall and raw-boned, and full-breasted. She had wide-set, blue-gray eyes, high cheekbones, and a mouth that was almost too full. She was wearing a black armband. Looking back toward the bartender, Matt noticed that he was wearing one as well. He either hadn’t noticed it, or hadn’t paid attention to it when he ordered his food and drink, but now he thought again of the black bow on the batwing doors.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before,” Julie said.

  “I just got into town,” Matt answered. He kicked a chair out by way of invitation, then nodded at the bartender. The bartender brought him a second beer, as well as a drink for the girl, even though the girl hadn’t ordered.

  “He must know your brand,” Matt said.

  “One glass of tea is pretty much like any other glass of tea,” Julie said with unusual candidness. She picked it up and held it toward Matt in a toast.

  “I can’t argue with that.” He touched his beer to her glass.

  “Did somebody die?” Matt asked.

  Julie was silent for a moment.

  “The reason I ask is I see that you and the bartender are both wearing black armbands. And there is a black bow on the door.”

  “Yes, somebody died. Well, she didn’t exac
tly die. She was killed.”

  “Was it someone who worked here?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She was a mother. She has a three-year-old daughter—that is, she had a three-year-old daughter back in Memphis.”

  “Do they have the person who did it in custody?”

  “Nobody even knows who did it,” Julie said. “Let’s talk about something else, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, I don’t mind at all. I’m sorry I brought the subject up.”

  “It isn’t your fault. We’ve got black bunting all over the place. It’s bound to make someone curious if they just come in here for the first time. So, what brings you to Lorenzo?” Julie asked.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Julie replied. “Everyone I know is looking for someone or something. Who are you looking for?”

  “I’m looking for a man named Rufus Draco.”

  “Rufus Draco?” Julie shook her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him. Does he live here?”

  “No, he doesn’t live here, but he may have been here. He may have been passing through.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He’s a big man, not much of a neck, bald headed with a bushy red beard.”

  “Did he have an ugly nose?” Julie asked.

  “Yes!” Matt replied, excitedly. He often left that part out, knowing that if someone else supplied the information about the nose it would validate any claim to have seen him. “Is he here?”

  “I don’t know if he is still in town, but he was here,” Julie said.

  “Thank you, Julie.”

  Julie frowned. “I don’t want to say anything bad about your friend, but he isn’t a very nice man.”

  “You are quite right, he isn’t a very nice man. And he is also not my friend,” Matt said. “But I’m curious, why do you say that? What did he do or say to you?”

  “He didn’t say or do anything to me. It was the way he treated Michelle. He wanted Michelle to go to bed with him, and evidently he didn’t believe her when she said that she . . . we,” she added pointedly, “aren’t whores. We are bar girls, and there is a difference.”