Torture Town

by William W. Johnstone

  “Where is Michelle now? Is she here? Could I talk to her?”

  A look that Matt could only describe as sadness came across Julie’s face.

  “Michelle is the girl I was talking about. The one who was killed.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “The story was written up in the newspaper,” Julie said. “Just a minute and I’ll get it for you.”

  Julie walked around behind the bar, leaned down to get a newspaper from underneath, then she brought it back to the table.

  “Maybe you should read this,” she said, handing the paper to Matt. She pointed to one of the stories on the front page.

  WOMAN FOUND STRANGLED

  Michelle Loomis Killed in Her Room

  At the Bent Creek Saloon

  Michelle Loomis, a popular and attractive young woman who plied her avocation as bar hostess at the Bent Creek Saloon, was found dead in her room Sunday morning. She had been strangled and her body brutally abused and mutilated, the details so shameless that decorum and regard for the sensitivities of our readers preclude their description here.

  Miss Loomis was last seen at midnight on Saturday, the 13th instant, as she bade good-bye to her friends and coworkers before ascending the stairs to her room. She was found on Sunday morning by Miss Julie Collier, who had gone to Miss Loomis’s room to check on why she had not made an appearance.

  Sheriff Billings has no suspects, though he believes robbery may have been the motive since the five twenty-dollar gold pieces Miss Loomis was known to have in her possession are missing.

  “It says here that there are no suspects,” Matt said as he finished the article. “Has the sheriff come up with anyone since the article was written?”

  Julie shook her head no. “And I don’t think he is even looking.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Women like us, like Michelle and me, aren’t a part of what you might call decent society. If something happens to one of us, it really doesn’t matter much to the ‘real’ people.”

  “That’s not true,” Matt replied. “I care about her, and I never even met her.”

  “Why would you care?” Julie asked, the expression on her face one of challenge and disbelief.

  “Because of a woman named Tamara.”

  Julie’s features softened. “You were in love with a . . . uh . . . a woman like one of us?”

  “Yes,” Matt said. “And like Michelle, she was killed.”

  Julie shook her head. “I doubt that she was killed like Michelle was. She was . . . as the paper said, mutilated.”

  “The paper said you were the one who found her.”

  “Yes.”

  “How was she mutilated?”

  Julie looked to one side and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, then shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Matt took her hand and held it. “Julie, I know it is difficult for you. But believe me, I have my own reasons for asking. I tell you what, let me ask a few questions. All you have to do is nod yes, or shake your head, no. Can you do that?”

  Julie nodded.

  “Were her breasts cut off?”

  “Yes!” Julie said, the word exploding from her mouth in an emotional outburst that was so intense that she forgot all about nodding a response.

  “I know who killed her.”

  “What do you mean you know who killed her?” Sheriff Billings asked.

  Matt had gone to the sheriff’s office to make the declaration, which was being received with skepticism.

  “I have been in pursuit of a man by the name of Rufus Draco. He murdered an entire family, father, mother, and their fourteen-year-old daughter, up in Colorado,” Matt said. “And like with Michelle Loomis, the killer had cut off the breasts of the mother and daughter.”

  Sheriff Billings squinted at Matt. “How did you know Michelle Loomis had both her titties cut off? There wasn’t nothin’ in the paper about it.”

  “I spoke with Julie Collier. She was most helpful.”

  “Yeah, all right, well, she would know seein’ as she was the one who discovered the body. What did you say the name of the man you think done it is?”

  “His name is Draco. Rufus Draco. And I know he was here, because Julie saw him.”

  “Wait a minute. You mean Julie knows this man?”

  “No, but apparently there was a man who tried to get rough with Michelle before he was chased out by some of the other customers. They and Julie described, perfectly, the man I’m looking for.”

  “Rufus Draco, you say.” Sheriff Billings shook his head. “Well, I’ll tell you the truth, that ain’t a name that rings a bell with me. As far as I know, I ain’t seen no dodgers on him. This family he killed, they was up in Colorado, was they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what are you doin’ down here in New Mexico? If you are Colorado lawman, you ain’t got no authority down here.”

  “I’m not a lawman.”

  “A bounty hunter?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Well, even if you find this Rufus Draco feller, and you capture him, or kill him, there ain’t likely to be any reward for him down here. You’d have to take him back to Colorado to collect anything.”

  “My reward will be in finding him,” Matt said.

  “Oh?”

  “Jim, Martha, and Claire Lewis, the people he murdered up in Colorado, were friends of mine.”

  “I see. So what you’re tellin’ me is, you’re sort of on the vendetta trail.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is your name, mister?”

  “The name is Jensen. Matt Jensen.”

  Now the expression on the sheriff’s face turned to one of surprise. “Matt Jensen?”

  “Yes.”

  Sheriff Billings smiled, then shook Matt’s hand. “Mr. Jensen, I’ve heard about you, and I want you to know that it’s a pleasure meetin’ you. And from what I’ve heard about you, I wouldn’t want to be in Rufus Draco’s boots right now. Say, what does this Draco feller look like?”

  Matt described him, leaving out one of the elements as usual.

  “Does this feller have a head that sort of sits right down on his shoulders so’s that you don’t hardly see no neck at all?”

  “Yes.”

  Sheriff Billings nodded. “Yes, sir, I seen that feller around. I seen him a couple of times.”

  “Have you seen him since Michelle was killed?”

  Sheriff Billings looked surprised by the question.

  “No! No, I haven’t. I’ll be damn! If he done it, he would be wantin’ to get out of town right away, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir, I expect he would,” Matt said.

  “You know what I’m goin’ to do? I’m goin’ to put some paper out on that son of a bitch right now. And more ’n likely, I’ll be able to get the governor to put up some money. That means if you get him down here, you’ll get a reward.”

  “As I said, Sheriff, just finding Rufus Draco and making certain that he is brought to justice is all the reward that I need.”

  Matt left town, continuing his ride south. He had no real trail to follow, other than one of instinct, and now the absolute certainty that Rufus Draco had been in Lorenzo.

  He had been riding for two hours, and behind him, like a line drawn across the desert floor, the darker color of hoof-churned earth stood out against the lighter, sunbaked ground. Before him, the desert stretched out in motionless waves, one right after another. As each wave was crested, another was exposed, and beyond that another still.

  The ride was a symphony of sound: the jangle of the horse’s bit and harness, the squeaking leather as he shifted his weight on the saddle, and the dull thud of hoofbeats.

  He had filled the canteen before leaving Lorenzo, and was heading for Espanola. The distance between the two points was twenty miles, all of it through rugged New Mexico desert.

  The canteen was down by a third, and he had been told that there were no dependable water
holes between Lorenzo and Espanola. Already, his tongue was swollen with thirst, but he was controlling his water consumption.

  Squinting at the sun, he guessed that an hour had passed, and calculated that he had about two hours to go. His canteen should last him until he got there, if he continued to maintain water discipline. He stopped his horse, mopped his brow, then reached for the canteen. He had just pulled the cork when a bullet passed so close to his ear that he heard the pop, and felt the shock. That was followed by the sound of a rifle shot.

  Matt urged Spirit into an immediate gallop, heading for the nearest elevation. On the other side of the rise, he pulled his rifle, dismounted, then, on his stomach, slithered up to the crest to look back in the direction from which the shot had come.

  He saw nobody.

  “Damn it! I missed!” Draco said aloud. He debated the idea of trying to get off a second shot but thought better of it. Jensen was now aware that he was here. Draco’s best move would be to get away while he still had the opportunity to do so.

  Mounting his horse, he galloped away, still heading south.

  Chapter Five

  Geseta, New Mexico

  Although Matt never saw who fired at him, he was absolutely certain that it was Rufus Draco. He was able to trail the shooter’s horse to Geseta, but once he reached town he lost the trail because the hoofprints were mixed up with all the others on the main street of the town, which was Juarez Street.

  Matt stopped in front of the Red Rose Saloon.

  The piano player in the Red Rose Saloon was bad. The only thing that was worse was the piano he was playing. Though in a way, Matt thought, the fact that the piano was so badly out of tune might be a blessing in disguise. That made it difficult to be able to differentiate from a discordant note badly played, and the harsh dissonance of the soundboard.

  Matt stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer.

  “Ain’t seen you around,” the bartender said as he held a mug under the beer spigot.

  “I haven’t been around.”

  “Well, welcome to the Red Rose.” The bartender set the beer in front of Matt. “My name is Earl.”

  “Good to meet you, Earl. My name is Matt.” Matt put a nickel on the bar. “Lot of roses grown in this town?”

  “Roses? No, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  Matt started to reference his question to the name of the saloon, but with smile and a shrug of his shoulders, he just said, “No reason.”

  In the mirror behind the bar, Matt saw someone come into the saloon. The man moved quickly away from the door, then backed up against the wall, standing there for a long moment while he surveyed the room. The man’s face was white as chalk, and his eyes were pink.

  Matt had never met Emmett Shardeen, but he had heard a description of the man, and from the way this man looked and acted, he would bet that this was the gunfighter. Even as he was thinking about it, Earl bore out his musings.

  “Donnie,” Earl said to a young man who was sweeping the floor. “Mr. Shardeen is here. Go into the back room and get his special bottle.”

  “All right,” Donnie said. He bent down to pick up the little pile of trash he had swept up.

  “Leave the trash, go get the bottle,” Earl said.

  Shardeen walked over and sat at an empty table. By the time he sat down, Donnie had returned with the special bottle and handed it to Earl. Earl poured a glass, then took it and the bottle to Shardeen.

  “Here you go, Mr. Shardeen,” he said obsequiously.

  Shardeen said nothing. He just nodded and took the glass as Earl set the bottle on the table in front of him.

  “Now, Mr. Shardeen, you know that if there is anything you need, anything at all, why, you just ask me,” Earl said, wiping his hands on his apron.

  Again, Shardeen just nodded.

  Earl returned to the bar, then, seeing that Matt’s beer was nearly empty, slid down the bar to talk to him.

  “Do you know who that is?”

  “I heard you say his name was Shardeen.”

  “I reckon you have heard of him, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “They say he’s kilt more ’n fourteen men,” Earl said, not to be denied the opportunity to continue imparting the information.

  “Fourteen, huh?” Matt replied.

  “Yes, sir, at least that many. And truth to tell, they don’t nobody really know just how many he’s kilt. He might ’a kilt a lot more ’n that.”

  “You don’t say,” Matt said. “That’s quite a reputation to be carrying around.”

  “Yes, sir, I reckon it is,” Earl said.

  For the next few minutes, Matt just stared at Shardeen’s reflection in the mirror. Not only had he heard of Shardeen, he had also heard that Shardeen and Rufus Draco often rode together. He wondered if Draco had met Shardeen here.

  After a moment or two, Shardeen seemed to sense that he was being stared at, and he glanced up. That’s when Matt’s and Shardeen’s eyes caught and locked in the mirror.

  Shardeen stared back at the man in the mirror and was surprised to see that whoever it was returned his stare with an unblinking gaze of his own. He wasn’t used to that. There were very few men who could meet his gaze without turning away, whether in revulsion from his looks, or from fear of his reputation.

  Shardeen glared at the image in the mirror, giving him his “killing” expression. That glare had made men soil their pants, but it looked to him as if the man at the bar actually found the moment amusing.

  “Hey, you! I’m talking to you, the son of a bitch at the bar,” Shardeen shouted. His challenging words brought all conversation in the saloon to a stop and everyone looked first at Shardeen, and then at Matt.

  Matt did not look around.

  “You, at the bar,” Shardeen said. “Quit looking at me in that mirror.”

  This time Matt did turn, still with a bemused expression on his face.

  “Do you know who I am?” Shardeen asked.

  “I heard the bartender say your name was Shardeen,” Matt replied.

  “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “I’ve heard of you,” Matt said easily.

  “If you’ve heard of me, then you know I’m not a man to be riled.”

  Matt smiled, and lifted his beer. “I’ll try to remember not to rile you,” he said.

  This wasn’t going the way it should, and Shardeen found the situation somewhat disquieting. Clearly, this man knew who he was . . . and clearly, he wasn’t frightened. Shardeen wasn’t used to that kind of reaction from people.

  “Maybe you can help me,” Matt said.

  “Help you with what?”

  “I understand that you know Rufus Draco. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah, I know him. What about him?”

  “I’m looking for him. I was hoping you might be able to tell me where he is.”

  “What do you want with Rufus Draco?” Shardeen asked.

  Matt took a swallow of his beer before he responded.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Matt said, easily.

  Shardeen laughed. “You want to kill Rufus Draco?”

  “Oh, did you misunderstand what I said?” Matt questioned. “I didn’t say I wanted to kill him, I said I am going to kill him.”

  “I see. Trying to make a reputation are you?” Shardeen asked derisively. “Because if that’s all you want, you could try killin’ me. That would give you a reputation.” He smiled disparagingly.

  “Thank you for the offer,” Matt said. “But I don’t kill unless I have a reason for it, and so far, you haven’t given me a reason to kill you. And the truth is, I’ve already got a reputation of sorts, and sometimes reputations just get in your way.”

  Shardeen snorted what might have been a laugh. “You have a reputation, do you? Who are you?”

  “The name is Jensen. Matt Jensen.”

  The challenging, mocking expression on Shardeen’s face fell away.

  “Any . .
.” Shardeen started. Then he cleared his throat and started again. “Anyone could say they are Matt Jensen.”

  “Now that you mention it, I suppose they could,” Matt said. “But, since it appears that you and I aren’t going to dance, let’s get back to my original question. Do you have any idea where I might find Rufus Draco?”

  “You’re the one who has been after him, aren’t you?”

  “He told you that, did he?”

  “No, that’s just what I heard. I haven’t seen him.”

  “I don’t believe you, Shardeen. I believe you have seen him, and I think you have seen him recently.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” Shardeen asked.

  “Well, if you put it that way, I reckon I am,” Matt said. “So, just to make certain that you, and everyone else within the sound of my voice understands, I will make it clear. You are a liar, Shardeen.”

  Tendons stood out on Shardeen’s neck, pulsing visibly, and beads of sweat broke out on his upper lip and forehead, easily seen because of his lack of color.

  “I ain’t seen him, and I ain’t a liar,” Shardeen said after a long pause. “I, uh, wish I could continue this little conversation, but I have to go.”

  Shardeen left the saloon then, and looking through the window, Matt watched as the albino gunman mounted his horse and rode away.

  “Well, I’ll be damn,” Earl said, shaking his head. “I never thought I would see anything like that. Shardeen actually ran from you.”

  “I wouldn’t say that he ran from me.”

  “Then, what would you call it?”

  “If we had pushed it any further, one of us would be dead now,” Matt said. “And it could have been me, as easily as it could have been him. I’ll be honest with you, Earl, I’m just as glad he left when he did.”

  Leaving Geseta, Matt continued to ride south, now following the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad tracks, as well as the Rio Grande River. The river flowed out across the scrub-covered prairie before him, shining gold in the bright afternoon sun, sometimes white where it broke over rocks, other times shimmering a deep blue-green in the swirling eddies and trapped pools.