Torture Town

by William W. Johnstone

  There were no more than half a dozen customers in the Black Bull Saloon. The Black Bull catered to BR, and none of the BR people took part in the funeral, but, almost by mutual agreement, today was a day of truce.

  One person who was in the Black Bull was Rex Ross, and he stood at the bar, staring into a shot glass of unconsumed whiskey.

  “Are you all right, Rex?” the bartender asked.

  “What? What did you say, Hodge?”

  “I asked if you were all right,” Hodge repeated.

  Rex tossed down his drink. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m all right.”

  “Want another?” Hodge asked.

  Without answering, Rex pushed his empty glass across the bar. “Who the hell would do such a thing, Hodge?” Rex asked.

  “Well, half the town thinks that one or more of your boys did it,” Hodge answered as he poured another drink.

  “I know,” Rex said, as he tossed down a second drink.

  A loud burst of laughter erupted from the back of the room, and looking around in irritation, Rex saw three men sitting at a table. He had never seen any of the three before, and he did a sharp double take at the appearance of one of them. The man’s face was white as chalk, and his eyes were pink.

  “Quiet!” Rex shouted at the top of voice. The shout got the attention of everyone in the saloon, especially the three men toward whom his shout was directed.

  “You shouting at us, mister?” the albino asked.

  “Yes, I’m shouting at you. There is a funeral going on. Can’t you men show a little respect? Have you no decency?”

  “I notice you ain’t at the funeral.”

  “I would be there,” Rex said. He held his glass out for Hodge to refill. “I would be there if I could,” he added, speaking quietly now. “But, under the circumstances, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be welcome.”

  “You wouldn’t be welcome, ’cause you’re one of the ones that done it,” the albino challenged.

  “How dare you say that?” Rex responded sharply. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “You’re with the BR, ain’t you?” the albino said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then what do you care? As I understand it, the man who was killed worked for the Tumbling P. If you wasn’t the one who done it, more ’n likely you know who it was. Ever’one knows that it was some BR cowboy that killed him, and he done it as payback for the BR rider that was killed.”

  “In the first place, it wasn’t a man who was killed. It was a boy,” Rex said. “A fourteen-year-old boy. And if I find out that any of my men did it, I will personally arrest them, and take them to jail.”

  “Any of your men? What do you mean, any of your men?”

  “Don’t you know him, Shardeen? That’s Rex Ross,” one of the other men said. “He’s the son of the man that owns BR.”

  “Is he now?” Shardeen said.

  Rex left the saloon, mounted his horse, and rode out of town, taking the long way around so that he didn’t pass by the funeral. It wasn’t that he was frightened of passing close to any of the Tumbling P riders. It was that he was ashamed.

  Los Luna, New Mexico

  Now, late in the afternoon of the forty-fifth day since Matt had made the personal commitment to bringing to justice the three men who had killed Jim, Martha, and Claire Lewis, he approached the town of Los Luna. Los Luna, which was on the junction of the Denver and Rio Grande, and the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe railroads, was the biggest town he had been in for quite a while.

  He surveyed the town as he rode in, and though it was considerably larger than all the towns he had visited over the last two months, in construction it was no different from the others, made of houses of rip-sawed lumber, false-fronted businesses, and a few sod buildings.

  It had rained earlier in the day, and now the street was a quagmire. The mud, worked into the consistency of quicksand by the horses’ hooves, had mixed with the droppings to become one long, stinking, sucking pool of ooze. When the rain stopped the sun, yellow and hot in its late afternoon transit, it had begun the process of evaporation. The result was a foul miasma, rising from the offal of the street.

  Matt rode up to the first saloon he saw, dismounted, and tied Spirit to the hitching rail. He entered the saloon the way he always did, surveying the place with such calmness that the average person would think it no more than a glance of idle curiosity. In reality it was a very thorough appraisal of the room as he checked out who was armed, what type of weapons they were carrying, and whether or not those who were armed were wearing their guns in such a way as to indicate that they knew how to use them.

  He also checked to see if there was anyone he knew, or, more specifically, if there was anyone who reacted as if they might know him. It wasn’t easy to pick out people who knew him, because his reputation was such that there were many more people who knew him than he knew. And, because he lived one of most violent lives of anyone in the West, there was nearly always someone gunning for him for one reason or another.

  None of the drinkers seemed to pose a problem. From all he could tell, there were only cowboys and drifters here, and less than half of them were even wearing guns. A couple of the cowboys were wearing their guns low and kicked out, gunfighter style, but Matt could tell at a glance that it was all for show. He was certain they had never used them for anything but target practice, and probably were not very successful at that.

  The bartender stood and moved down toward Matt.

  “What’ll it be, sir?”

  “Whiskey,” Matt said. The bartender started to turn away.

  “With a beer chaser,” he added.

  Nodding, the bartender poured the whisky, then filled a beer mug from the barrel.

  Matt listened in on the conversation for a bit, but heard nothing helpful. He finished his beer, then set the empty mug on the bar.

  “Would you like another?”

  “No, thanks. I believe I’ll just get a room, a bath, and supper. Any suggestions?”

  “The Mixon Hotel has a bathing room on every floor, with hot running water. And they have a hotel dining room.”

  “Thanks,” Matt said.

  The Mixon Hotel was one of only three buildings in town made of brick, the other two being the Bank of Los Luna and the railroad depot. It also had its own stable, which made it convenient for boarding Spirit. When he stepped up to the desk, the clerk was reading a newspaper, and the clerk began chuckling.

  “What’s so funny?” Matt asked.

  “It’s somethin’ I’m readin’ in the paper,” the clerk said. “Mr. Vaughan, the editor, always puts in something he calls ‘Quaints,’ which are humorous stories. He has a real good one in this week. Listen to this.” The desk clerk cleared his throat, and began to read. “A gentleman, with a woman at his side, approached the teller at the bank. ‘If I give you forty, can I have two twenties?’ the gentleman asked. ‘But of course,’ the bank teller replied. The gentleman produced the woman at his side. ‘Here she is, she is forty years old. I would like two twenty-year-old women.’”

  The teller laughed heartily. “Now, isn’t that quite the funniest thing you have ever heard?”

  “It is funny,” Matt said, laughing courteously though he didn’t find the joke that humorous.

  “You shall be wanting a room?”

  “Yes. And how is your stable? I would like to board my horse.”

  “Mr. Fitzhugh tends to our stable, sir, and he takes great pride in his task. Clean stalls with fresh hay and water, cooled by a pleasant cross breeze. By all accounts, our stable is much better than the city livery. I assure you, sir, that your horse will be very comfortable.”

  “Forget the horse,” Matt said, “you make it sound comfortable enough that I’ll just stay there.”

  “Oh, sir, but you can’t do . . . ,” the clerk started. Then he laughed. “I see, sir, you were teasing.”

  “Yes. I’ll take the room.”

  “Very well, the rate is one dollar for the
room, and fifteen cents for your horse. If you would just sign the registration book, please?” the clerk said, turning the book toward him.

  Matt signed the book, then took out a dollar. The desk clerk took the dollar and handed Matt a key.

  “You shall have room thirty-one. It is on the third floor, overlooking the street, mister . . .” The clerk looked at the signature, then with a start, looked a second time. “Jensen? You are Matt Jensen?”

  “Yes,” Matt said.

  “Well, my goodness, Mr. Jensen, may I shake your hand? And welcome to the Mixon Hotel! My name is Bruce Tyson. If there is anything I can do for you while you are here, and I mean anything, why, you just let me know.

  “My, my, to think that Matt Jensen stayed in my hotel. Yes, sir, this is quite an honor.”

  Matt went upstairs to take his bath. It had been a long time since he had been able to relax in a tub of warm water, so he lingered there for at least thirty minutes.

  After the bath he returned to his room, found a pair of jeans and a shirt in his saddlebags that were somewhat cleaner than what he had been wearing. As he was getting dressed, he heard the whistle of an arriving train.

  Onboard the train

  “Los Luna!” the conductor was calling loudly, as he walked through all the cars. “This stop is Los Luna!”

  Sylvia felt a sense of relief that was almost elation. She had been on the train for three nights and four days and now, at last, her long trip was over. It was dark outside, so though she was aware of the great, looming presence of the mountains, the gleaming lights of the approaching town were the only things she could actually see. She felt the brakes being applied as the train slowed, then, finally, came to a complete stop.

  Once the train stopped, several others in the car stood and started reaching for items they had brought on board with them. A small boy started running up the aisle.

  “Cephus, you come back here, right now!” his mother called, and sheepishly, the boy turned and started back. When he got even with Sylvia’s seat he looked at her and smiled, and she returned his smile.

  “Cephus?” the mother called again, and with a little wave, the boy returned to his mother.

  For a moment, Sylvia found herself envying the woman with her young son. It was the kind of life that she’d thought she would have with H. M. Hood. But that was not to be. The comfortable future she had selected for herself—marriage, a home, and children—she knew now that none of that would ever be.

  She had left Springfield, Illinois, to find a new life for herself. But the more she thought of it, the more she realized that she wasn’t running to anything. She was running away from something.

  Because she remained in her seat in such deep reflection, she was relatively surprised when she looked up to see that everyone else who was leaving the train had already exited. She had a sudden fear that the train might leave with her still aboard, so she got up and moved quickly to the door, then stepped outside.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sylvia had arrived in Los Luna at eight forty-five in the evening, and as she stood on the platform of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway depot, the train behind her, though temporarily still, wasn’t quiet. The drive cylinder relieve valve was opening and closing, venting rhythmic puffs of steam. The water in the boiler of the locomotive boiled and hissed, and the journals and gearboxes of the cars popped and snapped as they cooled.

  She looked around for her father, but he wasn’t here. And it wasn’t because she wouldn’t recognize him. He had come to Springfield for Christmas three years ago. She knew exactly what he looked like. He just wasn’t here.

  Sylvia watched as her belongings were off loaded from the baggage car and loaded onto a luggage cart that was green, with red iron wheels.

  “Where do you want your luggage, miss?” the baggage handler asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sylvia said. “My father was supposed to meet me here, but I don’t see him.”

  “You can check with the ticket agent,” the baggage handler suggested.

  “Thank you.”

  The depot waiting room, which was illuminated by gas lights, was empty. Those who had been waiting to board the southbound train were now doing so. Behind a half wall, a man, wearing a green felt visor, was writing something.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Sylvia said.

  Her voice startled the ticket agent, and he jumped. “Oh, miss, if you’ve come to board the train, you may be too late, unless I can persuade the conductor to hold up the departure.”

  “No, I just arrived on the train,” Sylvia said. “My father was supposed to meet me here, but I don’t see him. I wonder if you know anything about it?”

  “Who is your father?”

  “Morgan Poindexter.”

  The ticket agent smiled. “As a matter of fact, miss, I do know something about it,” he said. “Your father sent you a telegram.”

  “He sent me a telegram? I didn’t receive it.”

  “No, I mean he sent it here, with instructions to hold it for you. Just a moment, and I’ll get it for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  A moment later the ticket agent handed Sylvia a small envelope.

  DELAYED. WILL PICK YOU UP

  TOMORROW AFTERNOON. HAVE

  ARRANGED ROOM FOR YOU AT MIXON

  HOTEL. LOVE DAD

  “Thank you,” Sylvia said. “Could you tell me where the Mixon Hotel is?”

  “Here’s your luggage, miss,” the baggage handler said, coming into the waiting room then with four grips and a trunk.

  “It’s down at the far end of the street,” the ticket agent said. “But they have a courtesy country wagon for their guests. I’ll call them and have them send it down here for you.”

  “Thank you,” Sylvia said.

  About fifteen minutes after the telephone call was placed from the depot to the hotel, a vehicle about the size of a buckboard, though a little fancier, arrived. The wagon was green. The writing on the side was in white letters, outlined with yellow.

  COURTESY CONVEYANCE—

  MIXON HOTEL

  As soon as it stopped, the driver and baggage handler loaded Sylvia’s luggage aboard. Then, after helping her board, the driver headed back to the hotel.

  The floor of the hotel lobby was made of wide, unvarnished planks of wood, though much of it was covered with a patterned carpet of rose and gray. There were several comfortable chairs and a leather sofa scattered about. There were at least three steam radiators, as well as a fireplace, though, as it was quite warm, there was no fire. Sylvia walked across the lobby to the front desk.

  “My name is Sylvia Poindexter. I believe you may have a room for me.”

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Poindexter, indeed we do,” the clerk said.

  Sylvia smiled. “You know without checking?”

  “The hotel only has twenty-four,” the desk clerk said. “It isn’t hard to remember when someone makes a reservation. If you would just sign in, please?”

  The registration book was turned toward her, and Sylvia signed in with a neat flourish, in what she called her “teacher hand,” because she took the time to make her signature legible.

  “How much is the room?”

  “Oh, it’s paid for,” the hotel clerk said. “Your father wired the money.”

  “That was quite nice of him. I see that you have a dining room. How late will it be open?”

  “The dining room will be open until ten.” The clerk turned to look at the clock behind him. “You have forty-three minutes remaining,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “If you would like, I can have your luggage sent up to your room, and you can go right into the dining room.”

  “Oh, thank you, that’s very nice of you.”

  When Sylvia stepped into the dining room a few minutes later, there was only one more diner in the room, a tall, broad-shouldered man with hair the color of ripened wheat, and bright blue eyes that contrasted with his suntanned face. Glanc
ing toward Sylvia, he nodded a friendly greeting, and she returned the nod.

  The other diner left before Sylvia finished her meal. After she finished and her bill was delivered, the waiter asked, “Do you know who that gentleman was, who was in here earlier? It was Matt Jensen, that’s who it was. I suppose you’ve heard of him.”

  “No, I haven’t. Should I have?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I would certainly think so,” the waiter said. “He’s a right well-known man, what with books bein’ written about him and all. And he’s stayin’ right here in our hotel. You can tell your family and friends that you stayed in the same hotel as the famous Matt Jensen.”

  Sylvia smiled. “I’ll be sure to remember that,” she said.

  When Sylvia came downstairs for her breakfast that morning she saw that, unlike the night before, the dining room was quite crowded. Though she wasn’t specifically looking for him, she did glance around the room to determine if Matt Jensen was having his breakfast. Or should that be “the famous Matt Jensen”? She smiled as she recalled the awe with which the waiter had spoken of him the night before.

  Her perusal of the dining room produced no results, so she turned her attention to the menu that had been delivered to her a moment earlier.

  “Order what you wish, madam,” the waiter said when he returned to take her breakfast order. “There will be no charge.”

  “What? Why is that?”

  “Your father is a frequent guest of our hotel, and we are always pleased to have him. When Mr. Mixon himself learned that you were a guest in his hotel, he left instructions that you were to be provided with breakfast, free of charge.”

  “Well, how nice of Mr. Mixon,” Sylvia said. “Thank you.” She began perusing the menu, pleased to see that, despite the seeming isolation of this place, the menu offered a bountiful choice.