Torture Town

by William W. Johnstone

  “Over in Risco.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know, ’cause Elmer Puckett had to be in Risco, and he seen the body. It was standin’ up in front of the hardware store, just as pretty as you please, is what Elmer said. Anyhow, Elmer said that he went over to take a look at the body and when he did, he seen that it was one of the two men that kilt Seth Miller.”

  “You mean allegedly killed Seth Miller, don’t you, Mr. Powell? There were no eyewitnesses, so we can never be sure.”

  “You can never be sure, Dempster, because you are a lawyer, and you’d argue which side the sun come up on this mornin’, if you didn’t see it personal.”

  The others laughed.

  “A lawyer’s stock in trade are truth and facts,” Dempster replied.

  “Truth and facts? Ain’t that the same thing?”

  “No, no, not at all,” Dempster replied. “All facts are true, but not all truth is fact.”

  “Now, that don’t make no sense at all.”

  Dempster chuckled. “Oh, it makes a lot of sense,” Dempster said. “Sometimes if the facts are stacked against you when you are pleading a case, truth is the only weapon you have.”

  “Lord have mercy, Dempster, are all lawyers that strange?”

  “Most of us,” Dempster agreed with a chuckle.

  “Anyhow,” Powell said, getting back to his story, “we heard him called Poke while he was in here, and the marshal over at Risco said that his name was Poke Gillespie. And like I said, Puckett said for sure that it was the same person that was in here, arguin’ with Seth.”

  The bartender had been pouring the residue from abandoned whiskey glasses back into a bottle when Matt first stepped up to the bar. He pulled an expectorated quid of tobacco from one glass, dropped the quid into a spittoon, then poured the whiskey back into the bottle. Matt held up his finger.

  “Yeah, can I help you?”

  Matt’s intention had been to order a whiskey, but seeing the bartender’s action caused him to change his mind.

  “I’ll have a beer,” he said.

  The bartender turned to the beer barrel, pulled the spigot handle, and filled a mug. He slid the mug across the bar to Matt. “That’ll be a nickel,” he said.

  “I’d like it in a clean glass.”

  “A clean glass? What do you need a clean glass for?”

  “Carl?” someone from the other end of the bar called.

  Carl held his hand out toward the customer, indicating he wasn’t yet finished with his discussion.

  “There don’t nobody else ever complain about the mug I give them. What makes you any different from them?”

  “Carl?” the customer said again with a little more urgency.

  Carl picked the mug up. “Now, if you want it, give me your nickel. Otherwise, this goes back in the barrel.”

  “Carl, damn it! You’d better come down here, and I mean now!” the customer yelled this time.

  “What the hell are you yellin’ about, Logan? Can’t you see I’m busy here?”

  “Come here,” Logan said.

  With a sigh of frustration, and still holding the beer, Carl walked down the bar to the insistent customer. The customer whispered something in Carl’s ear, and Carl blanched, visibly. Quickly, he poured the beer he was holding into a slop bucket, then got another mug and showed it to Matt.

  “What about this mug, Mr. Jensen? Is it clean enough?” he asked solicitously.

  “Yes, that’ll do fine, thank you,” Matt said.

  “You shoulda said somethin’,” the bartender said as, with a shaking hand, he held a new mug under the beer spigot. “You shoulda tol’ me who you was.”

  “You mean if I were someone other than Matt Jensen, I would have to be satisfied with the dirty beer mug?”

  “Yes, sir, well, like I said, there don’t nobody else ever complain about it. But anytime you want a clean mug, Mr. Jensen, why, you just ask me and I’ll make certain you get one.”

  All the conversation halted as the entire saloon looked at the man nearly everyone in the room had heard of. Matt looked back at them without comment. Then he slapped his nickel on the bar and reached for his beer.

  “No, sir, your money is no good in here,” Carl said. “The beer is on the house, on account of you chose this side of the street.”

  That was the third time someone had mentioned the “side of the street” as if it were significant. Matt wanted to ask about it, but figured that if he stayed here long enough, he would find out.

  “Thanks, for the beer,” Matt said, picking up the nickel and pocketing it. He drank the beer in about three long drinks, then set the empty mug on the bar. “Can a fella get anything to eat in here?”

  “Bacon, beans, and fried taters,” Carl said.

  “I’ll go along with that. Any biscuits to go with them?”

  “Biscuits? Mr. Jensen, you ain’t never even tasted biscuit, ’til you eat one of ’em that my wife bakes. Yes, sir, we got biscuits.”

  “Sounds good. With another beer.”

  “Yes, sir, you just go find yourself a table,” Carl said.

  A large man with heavy brows and a bulbous nose had been sitting by himself in the back corner of the room, but he looked up when he heard Matt’s name.

  So that’s what the son of a bitch looks like, he thought, not speaking the words aloud. He continued to nurse his beer in silence as he watched Matt carry his second beer to an empty table. He listened in on the conversation at the next table.

  “Do you think Matt Jensen has come to join up with Poindexter?” Powell asked the others at his table. He spoke quietly, because he didn’t want Matt to hear him.

  “He’s on this side of the street, ain’t he?” Bivens said.

  “Reckon he’ll go after Bodine?” Powell asked.

  “I expect he will. I mean, I figure he’ll at least try.”

  “Try? What do you mean, try? Are you tellin’ me that Matt Jensen can’t handle the likes of Lucien Bodine?”

  “I don’t know, but it would sure be a fine gunfight to watch, though, wouldn’t it? Matt Jensen and Lucien Bodine?”

  “Wonder how many men Bodine has kilt?” Bivens asked.

  “Don’t nobody know, because, truth to tell, I don’t know that anybody really knows that much about Bodine. I mean, I never heard of him ’til he come here. But Strawn knows all about him, and Strawn said that Bodine has kilt himself a bunch of men.”

  “If he’s kilt all that many men, I wonder why it is we ain’t never heard of him?”

  “It ain’t the ones you’ve heard of that you have to worry about. It’s the ones you ain’t heard about.”

  “Well, I’ve heard of Sam Strawn, and I’ll tell you true, he scares the hell out of me, for all that he is on the right side.”

  “Maybe,” Dempster said. It was the lawyer’s first contribution to the discussion.

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe Strawn is on the right side.”

  “Well, he’s on the side of the Tumbling P, ain’t he?”

  “Yes, and Bodine is on the side of the BR. But if you notice, the killing didn’t actually start until Bodine and Strawn showed up.”

  “You’re thinkin’ maybe they started all this, do you? Maybe to settle some score between the two of them?”

  “It could be. What troubles me more is in trying to ascertain Jensen’s side in this.”

  “What do you mean?” Powell asked.

  “Think about it. He is the one who killed Poke Gillespie, and, according to you, Mr. Powell, Gillespie is the one who killed Seth Miller, one of the BR men. So if Jensen is here to support the Tumbling P, why did he shoot someone who may have been acting on behalf of Morgan Poindexter?”

  “Yeah,” Powell said. “Yeah, I see what you mean. I didn’t think about it like that.”

  Matt couldn’t hear exactly what the men at the distant table were talking about, but he wasn’t unaware that he was the subject of conversation. That was easy to tell
because, during the conversation, more than one of them would steal a glance Matt’s way.

  Carl brought his supper to him.

  “Thank you, Carl,” Matt said.

  Hearing Matt Jensen actually call him by name caused a big smile to spread across Carl’s face.

  “Yes, sir, anything I can do for you, why, you just let me know,” Carl said.

  The big man who was sitting back in the corner all by himself drained the rest of his beer, then left.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Supper was pretty good, though Matt was certain that his hunger was the predominant spice. After supper, Matt left the saloon.

  “Yes, sir,” he heard someone say behind him as he stepped through the batwing doors. “That fella there, if he was to go after Bodine, or Strawn, either one, that would be somethin’ to behold. Folks would come from miles around just to see somethin’ like that.”

  Matt knew Strawn, and thought of his near encounter with him back in Pecato. The name Lucien Bodine wasn’t one he had ever heard before, but most of Matt’s travel and experience was considerably north, in Colorado, Wyoming, and even Montana. If a man named Lucien Bodine had made his reputation down here, it was quite possible Matt had never heard of him, no matter the notoriety he might have established. He started back toward the hotel, when he heard a woman’s voice call out to him.

  “Look out!”

  Almost on top of the warning, Matt felt a blow to the side of his head. He saw stars, but he didn’t go down.

  When his attacker swung at him a second time, Matt was able to avoid him. With his fists up, Matt danced quickly out to the middle of the street, avoiding any more surprises from the shadows. It wasn’t until then that he saw his attacker, a large man with heavy brows and a bulbous nose.

  “Mister,” the man said with a low growl, “you kilt my brother and I aim to settle accounts for him.”

  “Fight!” someone shouted. “They’s a fight in the street!”

  Almost instantly, it seemed, a crowd was gathered around Matt and the man who had come at him out of the shadows.

  “Who was your brother?”

  “That’s just like you, ain’t it?” the big man said, moving his fists in small circles as he looked for another opening. “You’ve kilt so many men that you don’t know all their names, have you?”

  “I know their names,” Matt said.

  “Yeah? Well, here’s a name for you. Billy Carter. I’m Frank Carter and Billy was my brother,” the big man said.1

  “I remember your brother,” Matt said. “I remember that he was trying to kill me. What was I supposed to do?”

  “What you was supposed to do was let him kill you, you son of a bitch.”

  The big man swung wildly at Matt, but Matt slipped the punch easily, then counterpunched with a quick, slashing left to Carter’s face. It was a good, well-hit blow, but Carter just flinched once, then laughed a low, evil laugh.

  “You might wonder why I didn’t just shoot you when you come out of the saloon. I didn’t shoot you, ’cause I plan to beat you to death with my bare hands.” Carter swung again and missed, and again Matt counterpunched, but with little effect.

  “Yes, sir,” Carter said. “I aim to enjoy this.”

  “Five dollars says Carter whips him,” someone said.

  “This is Matt Jensen we’re talkin’ about,” another said.

  “Yeah, but this here ain’t a shootin’ now, is it? No, sir, it’s bare-knuckle fightin’, and I say Carter will whip ’im.”

  “I don’t know, I’ve seen men who look like this fight before. They ain’t all that big, but they’re tough as rawhide. I’m going with Jensen.”

  With an angry roar, Carter rushed Matt again, and Matt stepped aside, avoiding him. Carter, unable to adjust his charge, slammed into a hitching rail, smashing through it as if it were kindling. He turned and faced Matt again.

  A hush fell over the crowd now, as they watched the two men with a great deal of interest. Matt was six feet tall, and powerfully built, but Carter had him by at least four inches and forty pounds, none of it fat. It was obviously going to be a test of quickness and ability against brute strength, and they wanted to see if Jensen could handle Carter. Matt and Carter circled around for a moment, holding their fists doubled in front of them, each trying to test the mettle of the other.

  Carter swung another club-like swing, but by now Matt had managed to gauge the timing, so that he was able to avoid Carter’s efforts with little difficulty. Matt counterpunched and again he scored well, but again, Carter laughed it off.

  “I’m willin’ to take ever’thing you can throw at me ’til I get the openin’ I’m lookin’ for,” Carter said.

  As the fight continued, it developed that Matt could hit Carter at will, and though Carter laughed off his early blows, it was soon obvious that there was a cumulative effect to Matt’s punches. Both of Carter’s eyes began to puff up, and there was a nasty cut on his lip. Then, when Matt caught Carter in the nose with a hard right jab, he felt the nose go under his hand. Carter’s nose started gushing blood, which ran across Carter’s teeth and chin.

  Matt looked for another chance at the nose, but Carter started protecting it. Matt was unable to get it again, though the fact that Carter was favoring it told Matt that the nose was hurting him.

  Except for the opening blow, Carter hadn’t connected. The big man was throwing great swinging blows toward Matt, barely missing him on a couple of occasions, but, as yet, none of them had connected.

  After four or five such swinging blows, Matt noticed that Carter was leaving a slight opening for a good right punch, if he could just slip it across his shoulder. On Carter’s next swing, Matt threw a solid right, straight at the place where he though Carter’s Adam’s apple would be. He timed it perfectly and had the satisfaction of seeing Carter put both hands to his neck as he gasped for breath. Then, with Carter leaving his head unprotected, Matt sent a powerful right jab to his jaw. Carter dropped to his knees, still clutching his Adam’s apple.

  Carter was vulnerable, and Matt could have finished him off, but he just stood there, looking down at him.

  “Carter, you aren’t responsible for your brother,” Matt said. “You can’t be blamed for anything he did, and you don’t owe him anything now.”

  Carter didn’t respond, except for a few audible gasps.

  “Eat only soft food for the next few days. Your throat is going to be sore, but you’ll live through it. You have a choice now. We can call this finished, or you can come after me again. And if you come after me again, I might have to kill you. So, which will it be?”

  Carter was still unable to vocalize any answer, but, while still on his knees, he extended his hand, offering it as a handshake. Matt took it.

  “Good choice,” he said, as he shook Carter’s hand.

  Matt looked around at those who had gathered to watch the fight, then addressed two of the men who were the closest. “Help him up,” he said.

  The two men moved quickly to Carter and, with one on either side, helped him regain his feet.

  As a result of the initial blow, Matt’s right eye had been swelling all during the fight. He walked over to a nearby watering trough, stood there with his hands resting on the edge of the trough as he leaned against it, breathing hard to recover his breath. He looked at his reflection in the water and saw that, by now, the eye was swollen completely shut. He shut both eyes.

  As he stood there with both eyes closed, he felt something cool and damp pressed up against his swollen eye. When he opened his good eye he saw that a woman was standing next to him, holding a damp cloth over his eyes. It was one of the women he had seen earlier, standing out on the upstairs balcony of the brothel.

  “Thanks,” Matt said.

  “Do you have a hotel room?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Too bad. But, if you’ll allow me, I’ll walk you to your room.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  It was quiet wh
ere Shardeen, Cates, and Dagan waited in the rocks. They could hear crickets and frogs, a distant coyote and a closer owl, but nothing else. Then, they heard the sounds of approaching men, the drum of horses’ hooves, the rattle of the saddle and tack.

  “Here they come,” Shardeen said. “Get ready for ’em.” He pulled his pistol and checked his load, then waited.

  The riders continued their ghostly approach, men and animals moving as softly and quietly as drifting smoke. Then, four riders appeared in the moonlight. They were completely unaware of what awaited them.

  Shardeen, and the men with him, cocked their pistols and waited.

  “Now!” Shardeen shouted. “Shoot ’em down!”

  Gunfire erupted in the night, the flashes of the muzzle blasts illuminating the rocks like lightning. Shardeen, Cates, and Dagan were well positioned in the rocks to pick out their targets. The four riders, on the other hand, were astride horses that were rearing and twisting about nervously as flying lead whistled through the air and whined off stone.

  The deadly ambush was over within half a minute and it was quiet, the final round of shooting now but faint echoes bounding off distant hills. A little cloud of acrid-bitter gun smoke drifted up over the deadly battlefield and Shardeen walked out among the fallen men cautiously, his pistol at the ready. With Shardeen’s white skin gleaming in the light of the full moon, he looked like a ghost, moving through the night. He kicked at each man to see if anyone was still alive.

  It wasn’t necessary. All four men were dead and the entire battle had taken less than a minute.

  “Who were these men?” Dagan asked as he watched Shardeen move from man to man.

  “It doesn’t matter who they were,” Cates answered.

  “Then why did we kill them?”

  “We need the killing to spread beyond the two ranches. We need to get more people involved.”

  “Why?”

  “You said you wanted in, didn’t you? You wanted to make a lot of money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you don’t need to understand.”