Torture of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Has something happened?” Sally asked, fear in her voice.

  “What? Oh, no, Sally, no! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Smoke asked me to come see you to tell you he would be away for a little while.”

  “Away?”

  “We know where Cutter MacMurtry is, and Smoke is going after him.”

  Sally nodded. She knew it could be dangerous, but she also had faith in him and in his ability to deal with people like MacMurtry.

  “Good,” she said. “After what MacMurtry did, he needs to be brought to justice.”

  Sheriff Carson shook his head. “Sally, it’s very unlikely that someone like Cutter MacMurtry is going to let himself be taken alive.”

  “Well, Sheriff, there is justice, and then, there is justice,” Sally said with a grim smile.

  * * *

  Smoke had gotten Angus Potter’s address from Sheriff Carson and when he rode into the little town of Fulford, the very first place he visited was Angus Potter’s house. There was a woman out in the front yard rubbing clothes against a washboard in a tub of soapy water. A line was hung with clothes, and a tub adjacent to the washtub contained clear water that was filled with even more clothes. There were many more clothes than a man and his wife would have, and Smoke realized that Mrs. Potter must be taking in wash to make ends meet.

  “Mrs. Potter?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Smoke Jensen, I’m a friend of Sheriff Carson and . . .”

  “Come on in, Mr. Jensen,” Angus Potter said, stepping out onto the porch. He was holding a pistol in his right hand, having been ready to deal with the visitor should he have proven to be unfriendly. Potter’s left arm hung, uselessly, by his side. “Monty must have gotten my telegram.”

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here.”

  Smoke followed Potter into the house. It was quite small, three rooms only consisting of a living room, bedroom, and kitchen.

  “I apologize for my wife not comin’ in to be a hostess, but with this useless arm, there’s not much I can do to make a livin’. Truth is, she supports me, and I don’t know what I would do without her.”

  After a little more exchange of small talk, they got down to details.

  “I’ve been keepin’ an eye on MacMurtry ever since I first seen ’im,” Potter said.

  “You’re sure it is Cutter MacMurtry.”

  “MacMurtry’s not only wanted here, he’s an escaped prisoner from Texas. There are some real good descriptions out on him; big man, bald headed, and no neck. Yeah, I’m sure it’s him.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might be now?”

  “I know exactly where he is now,” Potter replied. “He’s down at the Pick ’n Shovel Saloon.”

  Smoke nodded. “Thanks, Mr. Potter, you’ve been a big help.”

  “Watch yourself with ’im, Mr. Jensen. He’s a tricky son of a bitch.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  * * *

  After turning down an invitation to stay for lunch—he didn’t want to be a burden on what he knew was a tight budget—Smoke rode on into town. Although Fulford was in a different county, it wasn’t really that far from Big Rock, and Smoke had been there several times. Because of that, he knew the town fairly well. He had been here during all seasons, when the single street was covered with snow and ice, and in the spring, when it was a muddy mire, worked by the horses’ hooves, and mixed with their droppings so that it became a stinking, sucking, pool of ooze. He had also been here in the summer when it was baked hard as a rock. It was summer now, and the sun was yellow and hot.

  The Pick ’n Shovel Saloon wasn’t hard to find, because it was the only saloon in town.

  Loosening his pistol in the holster, Smoke walked inside. Because of the shadows, there was an illusion of coolness inside the saloon, but it was an illusion only. It was still hot, and the dozen and a half customers who were drinking had to keep their bandannas handy to wipe the sweat from their faces.

  From what he could tell of the customers, there were only cowboys and a few men who worked in the Fulford Mine. Less than half were even wearing guns.

  The bartender stood at the end of the bar, wiping the used glasses with his stained apron, then setting them among the unused glasses. When he saw Smoke step up to the bar, he moved down toward him.

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Beer,” Smoke said.

  “I know you, don’t I?” the bartender asked.

  “Could be,” Smoke said.

  The bartender grinned. “Yes, you’re Smoke Jensen from over Big Rock way. What brings you to Fulford?”

  “I’m looking for someone,” Smoke said.

  “Oh?”

  “I wonder if you might have seen him,” Smoke said. “He’s a big man with a bald head that sits right on his shoulders like a cannonball.”

  “What are you lookin’ for him, for?”

  “He killed a friend of mine, and his wife, then he beat and raped their daughter. She is only fourteen years old.”

  The bartender nodded. “I heard about that case. And you think it was Joe Jones that done it?”

  “Joe Jones?”

  “That’s what he’s tellin’ ever’ one is what his name is, but I never believed it, not for a minute.”

  “So, you have seen him. Do you know where he is? I was told that he was in here,” Smoke said. He took a drink and eyed the bartender coolly. “But I don’t see him.”

  The bartender raised his head and looked toward the stairs at the back of the room. “That may be ’cause you just ain’t lookin’ in the right place,” he said.

  Smoke followed the bartender’s eyes, then finishing his beer, he started upstairs.

  “That’s Smoke Jensen,” one of the saloon patrons said, quietly.

  “Smoke Jensen? Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. His ranch is over near Big Rock, but he’s been here lots of times before.”

  “What’s he doin’ here do you . . . what the hell? He’s holdin’ a gun in his hand!”

  “He must be after somebody.”

  “Yeah, ’n I bet I know who,” one of the other patrons said.

  Muffled sounds from the room at the head of the stairs, which normally went unheard because of the flow of conversation, could clearly be heard now that all conversation had stopped. The attention of everyone was riveted on the man who was climbing the stairs, with a gun in his hand.

  When Smoke reached the top of the stairs he tried to open the door, but it was locked. He knocked on it.

  “We’re busy in here,” a gruff voice replied.

  “Cutter MacMurtry, I’ve come for you!” Smoke called. As soon as said the words, he stepped to one side.

  Just as he expected, a shot was fired, and a bullet hole the size of a man’s thumb and the height of a man’s chest, appeared in the door as the heavy .44 caliber slug tore through the wood.

  Almost immediately after the shot, Smoke heard the crash of glass, and, kicking the door open, he rushed inside. A woman, with an expression of terror on her face lay on the bed, covering her nakedness with a blanket. The floor was covered by long shards of glass, and Smoke ran over to look outside. He saw MacMurtry running up the alley, and lifting the window, he climbed out ono the mansard ledge then dropped to the ground below.

  As soon as he hit the ground there was a shot, and the bullet was so close that Smoke could not only hear the pop, he could also feel the concussion. Smoke was unable to return fire because the shot had come from around the corner of the building, and MacMurtry was not in sight.

  Moving cautiously to the end of the alley, Smoke paused for a moment to look around. There was another shot and this time the bullet hit the ground beside him, then ricocheted off with a loud whine. The shot had come from the loft of the livery across the street and looking toward the opening, Smoke saw a wisp of gun smoke drifting away.

  Smoke ran across the street and dived behind a watering trough, just as MacMurtry fired a third time.
Smoke heard the loud thump of the bullet as it hit the side of the trough. That was followed by the sound of water as it began dripping through the hole.

  Getting up, Smoke darted into the barn itself. The horses in the stalls had been made nervous by the shooting and were now quite restless. A few of the horses were actually kicking at the sides of their stalls.

  Smoke smiled, because he knew that the noises the horses were making in their agitation would be enough to cover any sound he might make as he maneuvered for position against MacMurtry.

  “Who are you, you son of a bitch?” MacMurtry called from the loft.

  Smoke remained quiet.

  “Who are you?” MacMurtry asked again, the tone and expression of his voice showing his fear and agitation. “What for are you after me?”

  One of the horses whinnied, and another kicked at the side of his stall. Using that diversion, Smoke started climbing up to the hayloft, not by the ladder as would be expected, but by the cross bracings that were on the inside wall of the barn. It took him but a moment, then he was able to lift his head up above the floor of the attic and take a look out. He saw MacMurtry squatting behind a stack of hay, pointing his gun at the top of the ladder where he thought Smoke would appear.

  “Drop the gun, MacMurtry,” Smoke said.

  MacMurtry whipped his gun around and shot at Smoke. Again, Smoke could hear the snap of the bullet as it passed close by his ear. MacMurtry missed, and before he could shoot again Smoke returned fire. Smoke didn’t miss.

  MacMurtry put his hand over his chest, as if attempting to stop the bleeding, but the blood flowed freely between his fingers. He looked up at Smoke with a grotesque smile on his face.

  “Is this on account of I kilt Tyrone Greene?” MacMurtry asked.

  “Good guess,” Smoke replied.

  “How’d you know I was the one that done it?”

  “From an eyewitness.”

  “You talkin’ ’bout the little girl?”

  Smoke didn’t reply.

  “Damn, I shoulda kilt . . .” that was as far as MacMurtry got before a couple of pained gasps closed out the conversation, and his life. He fell to the loft floor, his blood staining the straw.

  * * *

  One week later Smoke was in the sheriff’s office in Big Rock. Monty Carson was pouring coffee into two cups.

  “It’s all taken care of,” Sheriff Carson said. “Angus Potter is getting the reward.”

  “Good,” Smoke said. “From what I could tell, he can use it.”

  “It was good of you to do that.”

  “Like you said, I hold a state commission from the governor, so I wasn’t eligible for the reward, and we wouldn’t have known where to find him, had it not been for Mr. Potter. And I would hate to see the reward go to waste.”

  The cups full, Monty handed one of them to Smoke.

  “Here’s to Angus, and to justice being done,” Monty said, holding his cup out.

  “And to Tyrone and Mary Greene, may they rest in peace,” Smoke said, touching his cup to the sheriff’s.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Audubon, Texas

  Aaron Dawson, who was a purchase manager for the Texas Pacific Railroad, was, at the moment, not on a train, but on a stagecoach. He was in a stagecoach because it was, currently, the only means of public transportation between Weatherford, Texas, and Audubon.

  Dawson, who was an overweight man with dark and slickly combed-back hair, was wearing a three-piece brown suit. The suit was causing him to sweat quite profusely, and because of that, he clutched a handkerchief with which he was constantly wiping his face.

  For the first part of the trip Dawson had been reading the newspaper, but he lay it down now and looked at the other two passengers. One of the passengers was an attractive young woman, and the other was her young son. She had told him her name, earlier, along with the information that she was going to join her husband. Her husband, Lieutenant William D. Kirby, was currently posted at Ft. Richardson.

  “Have you come far, Mrs. Kirby?” Dawson asked.

  “Yes, I’ve come all the way from Philadelphia. Of course, most of the trip was by train, so it was quick and comfortable. It has only been these last few miles that we’ve had to endure the ordeal of such primitive travel.”

  “Well, I’ve no doubt but that when you and Lieutenant Kirby leave Ft. Richardson for your next assignment, you will be able to do so by railroad.”

  “I would certainly like to think that,” Mrs. Kirby said, “But I don’t know if it will ever happen or not.”

  “Oh, it will happen all right, for I intend to see to it that it happens.”

  “I beg your pardon, you intend to see that it happens?” Mrs. Kirby asked. “How so?”

  “I am in the preliminary stages of building it now.”

  “You are building a railroad?” Mrs. Kirby asked, impressed by the information.

  “In a manner of speaking I am. I am the project manager, and I am making all the arrangements.”

  “Oh, what a marvelous thing that must be, to be able to build something as wonderful as railroad.”

  “I’m going to drive a train when I grow up,” the boy said.

  “That’s quite a noble ambition, young man.”

  “My name is Albert.”

  “Well, Albert, the day will come, probably within my lifetime, but certainly within your lifetime, when every city in America will be connected by railroad. Why, I’ve no doubt but that it will one day be possible to travel between any two points in America, regardless of how remote, or how far apart they may be, within two weeks.”

  “Oh, think of that!” the young woman said. “Who would have ever thought that any two places on this vast continent would be separated by but two weeks or less?”

  “We are living in a wonderful age,” Dawson said. “Travel by train, and messages sent as rapidly as a streak of lightning. Why, I have even read of a device that is like the telegraph, except that it will allow a person to speak into one end of a wire and have the very words he has spoken heard by someone at the other end.”

  “Oh, yes!” the woman answered excitedly. “It is called a telephone. There are many who have them in Philadelphia. Why, by the time Albert is grown I’ve no doubt that he will have one in his house, and with it, be able to have conversations with distant friends.”

  “I will talk to you and Papa,” Albert said.

  “I’m sure you will,” Mrs. Kirby replied, smiling at her son.

  “Audubon!” the driver called down from his seat. “We’re comin’ in to Audubon!”

  A few minutes later the stagecoach came to a halt in front of the depot in Audubon, and Dawson stepped down.

  “Well, this is where I must leave you,” Dawson said. “But I do hope the rest of your travel is comfortable.”

  “Hurry up and build the train so that when we leave we can ride on it,” Albert said

  “You can count on it, young man. I mean, Albert,” Dawson replied with a smile.

  He supervised the off-loading of his luggage, then arranged for it to be taken to the Del Rey Hotel. That taken care of, he walked two blocks down to the Bank of Audubon, as the stagecoach continued on its journey.

  Audubon was a bustling little town, with three churches, a school, two cotton gins, four saloons, several mercantile stores, two blacksmiths, a lawyer, Jason Pell, and one physician, Dr. E. B. Palmer.

  “May I help you sir?” a rather thin, officious-looking young man asked as Dawson entered the bank building.

  “Yes, you may. I am Aaron Dawson, and I would like to speak with Mr. Charles Montgomery.”

  “I’m Drury Metzger, the vice president of the bank. I’m certain that I can help you with any business you may have with the bank.”

  “No, I must speak with Mr. Montgomery.”

  “Really, Mr. Dawson, this is not a convenient time for the presi—”

  “It’s all right, Drury, I’ll speak with him,” a tall, silver-haired, very dignified-looking man sai
d.

  “Very well, sir. This gentleman has introduced himself as Aaron Dawson.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dawson, I received your letter and I have been expecting you,” Montgomery said. “Please, come into my office.”

  Drury stepped into Montgomery’s office, along with Dawson, but Montgomery held out his hand to stop him.

  “That’s all right, Drury, I’ll handle this. If you don’t mind, please see to the bank’s business while I am engaged with Mr. Dawson.”

  Drury stopped just inside the door. He was being dismissed. He didn’t like that; he was the vice president of the bank. Dawson had no right to dismiss him.

  “And please, close the door,” Montgomery said. Montgomery waited until the door was closed before he turned his attention back to his visitor.

  “Now, Mr. Dawson,” Montgomery said. “How may I help you?”

  “I’m sure that you are aware, are you not, that the Texas Pacific Railroad has laid plans to build a railroad from Weatherford to Fort Richardson. That will, of course, bring the railroad right through Audubon.”

  “Yes, I have heard that,” Montgomery said, with a big smile on his face. “It has been the talk of the town, but we have received no official word that it is actually to be done.”

  “Oh, it will be done, sir. As I represent the Texas Pacific, you may regard this as official word. And, because Audubon is almost exactly halfway between Weatherford and Fort Richardson, it is our intention to use Audubon as the headquarters for this expansion project.”

  “What a wonderful thing that will be for our community,” Montgomery said. “Now, sir, you have come to see me for a specific purpose. What can I do to help bring this about?”

  “Our anticipated cost, at least for the preliminary construction, will be one hundred thousand dollars. You can be our banker for this project,” Dawson said.

  Montgomery gasped. “Oh,” he said. “As much as I would like to, it would not be possible for this bank to make a loan that large. I’m afraid that the amount you just mentioned exceeds our total deposits.”

  Dawson chuckled. “You misunderstand me, sir. We aren’t asking for a loan—we have sufficient funds to carry out the building. What I meant to say is that we will soon be depositing one hundred thousand dollars in your bank.”