Torture of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m glad for her, bless her little heart. Nobody should have to go through what she did.”

  Leaving the leather goods shop, Smoke mounted Seven, then rode past Delmonico Restaurant, Nancy’s Bakery, White’s Apothecary, then past the Denver and Pacific Depot where Front Street became Eagle Road, which led to his ranch, Sugarloaf, seven miles west of town.

  * * *

  “Here he comes,” Ethan said. “We’ll start ridin’ toward him just real natural like we’re goin’ into town ’n when we get in range, just lift up your gun ’n commence a-shootin’.”

  “I’m ready,” Gilley said. “Let’s make sure we start in to shootin’ before MacMurtry does.”

  The two men started down the road, riding slowly and deliberately.

  * * *

  It may have been the slow and deliberate pace the two men were setting as they were approaching that caught Smoke’s attention first. Also the way the two men were holding the reins, both of them using only their left hand, while their right hand was folded across the saddle in front of them.

  Then he saw a flash of sunlight from the saddle just in front of one of the men . . . it was a brief flash of light, and nothing more, but it did heighten Smoke’s awareness.

  Reaching down to his own gun, he loosened it in his holster, just in case. He continued to close the distance between them, but did so with a heightened degree of caution.

  * * *

  On top of the little hill behind Gilley and Ethan, MacMurtry watched the two men approach Smoke Jensen. He sighted down his rifle and waited, then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he saw both Gilley and Ethan raise their pistols. He was about to shoot, to time his shot with their two shots, but there weren’t two shots! There were four shots! And as the gun smoke drifted across the road, MacMurtry saw Smoke Jensen still mounted on his horse, holding a pistol in his hand. Both Gilly and Ethan were lying on the road.

  Now there was just him, and he aimed at Jensen, but held his fire. A moment earlier he had enjoyed the advantage of three to one. Now, the odds were even, and MacMurtry didn’t like even odds when it meant one-on-one with someone like Smoke Jensen.

  MacMurtry watched as Jensen checked on each of the two men, then lifted them up and draped them across the saddles. That done, he stood in the middle of the road, his pistol still in his hand, observing all around him.

  Damn! He’s looking right at me! MacMurtry thought. Still on his stomach, MacMurtry slithered down the back side of the hill. He waited there, scarcely daring to breathe, until he heard the hoofbeats of more than one horse. Crawling, carefully, back to the top of the hill, he saw Smoke Jensen going back into town, leading Gilley and Ethan’s horses, with their bodies draped belly down over the saddles.

  Once more MacMurtry raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel at Smoke Jensen’s back as he rode away. His finger began to slowly tighten on the trigger.

  “No,” he said, speaking the word aloud, though too quietly for Jensen to hear him. “He’s too far away now, for me to be certain I can hit him. ’N if I miss, he’ll for sure come back after me. There ain’t no way I’ll be a-goin’ after than son of a bitch all by myself.”

  MacMurtry walked back to his horse, angry that he wasn’t able to kill Jensen.

  “I tried, Cutter, I truly did. But here’s the thing. You’re dead, ’n I ain’t. ’N I ain’t goin’ to get myself kilt tryin’ to get revenge for you, be you my brother or not.”

  Mounting his horse, MacMurtry started south. He had had enough of Colorado. He was going back to Texas.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was the middle of the night and the little town of Antelope, Texas, was dark except for six gas street lamps, spread out along Sharp Road. They were positioned one on either side of the street, at the south end of the town limits, one on either side in the middle of the town, and one on either side of the street at the north end of the town limits. This created three golden bubbles of light, separated by larger spaces of darkness.

  Two riders and three horses approached from the south. They were illuminated for just a moment, then passed back into the darkness, their presence marked only by the hollow, clopping sound of hoofbeats. Then they reappeared under the lamps that lit the middle of town. Here, a hangman’s scaffold had been constructed, and a printed sign attached to the front. Because the scaffold was illuminated, the sign could be read.

  Lanagan and Claymore, the two riders who had just come into town, stopped in front of the scaffold to study the sign:

  SETH McCOY

  To be legally

  HANGED

  HERE

  On Friday Next

  “They ain’t wastin’ no time gettin’ around to it, are they?” Claymore said.

  “There are goin’ to be a lot of pissed-off people when they find out their little necktie party has been canceled,” Lanagan replied with a little chuckle.

  “You got a dime?” a slurred voice asked.

  “Who the hell is that?” Claymore asked, startled by the voice.

  “You got a dime?”

  It was then that they saw the man who was asking the question. He was a derelict, lying in the open space between the gallows and the porch. He got up from the ground and came toward Lanagan, reaching out toward him.

  “You got a dime for a poor man? A nickel will do.”

  “Get away!” Lanagan said, lifting his foot from the stirrup and using it to shove him down.

  “Come on, let’s go,” Lanagan said as the vagrant moved quickly, to avoid being stepped on by the horse.

  The two men rode on down Commercial Street, then stopped just in front of the sheriff’s office where both dismounted and tied the three horses off at the hitching rail. The third horse, though riderless, was already saddled.

  With guns drawn, the two men opened the front door and stepped inside. They could hear loud snoring coming from the side of the room.

  “I can’t see a damn thing,” Claymore complained. Lanagan struck a match and in the flickering flame, saw a lantern. He lit it, then looked over toward the sound of the snoring. He saw a rather portly man sitting in the chair with his feet up on the desk before him. His head was tipped back and his mouth was open, the source of the snoring.

  Lanagan pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt then, moving quietly, got around behind the man. In the next second, he brought the knife across the deputy’s throat, cutting through his jugular and his windpipe.

  The deputy’s eyes came open in surprise, then, feeling pain and a wetness on his neck, he put his hand to his throat, pulled it away, and saw that it was covered with blood. The look of surprise turned to one of horror, and he tried to call out, but the severance of his windpipe had left him mute. Within a few seconds all life and animation left, as he died.

  Picking up the lantern, Lanagan and Claymore moved into the cell area at the back of the jailhouse. Seth McCoy was the only prisoner, and he was sound asleep.

  “McCoy,” Lanagan called.

  “What the hell you want? Can’t a man sleep?” McCoy called back, his voice groggy.

  “Well, you can sleep if you want to,” Lanagan said. “Or, you can come with us, and miss your necktie party.”

  “What?” McCoy said. Sitting up he looked into the lantern, but couldn’t see beyond the light. “Who are you? What are you talking about?”

  Lanagan lowered the lantern so that the light shined onto his face. He was grinning.

  “Lanagan!” McCoy called excitedly. “What are you doing here?”

  “Why, me ’n my pal here have come to take you with us,” Lanagan replied. “That is, unless you had rather stay here ’n hang.”

  “What? No! No! I want to come with you! But what about the guard?”

  “He’s sleeping,” Lanagan said. “And he ain’t likely to ever wake up,” he added, as he fit the key into the lock of the cell door.

  As they passed through the front office, McCoy stopped.

  “Wait a minute,” he said
, and he walked around to the back of the jailer’s desk and jerked open a drawer.

  “What are you doing?” Lanagan asked.

  “This fat son of a bitch keeps a sack of horehound candy, and he never would give me a piece,” McCoy said.

  McCoy took out the sack of candy, then stuck a piece in the jailer’s mouth. “There you go,” he said with a little chuckle. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

  “Wait, I got an idea,” Lanagan said. “The folks in this town are wantin’ to see a hangin’, aren’t they?”

  “Sure looks like to me, the way they got the gallows ’n sign up ’n all,” Claymore said.

  “Let’s give ’em one,” Lanagan said with a smile.

  The three men rode back down to the gallows where the old homeless man had moved back to his position near the porch of the feedstore.

  “Hey, you,” Lanagan called. “If you still want that dime, come over here.”

  The man got to his feet, but he hesitated for a moment, not sure whether or not the offer was genuine.

  “Come over here,” Lanagan said, stretching his hand out. He was holding a dime between his thumb and forefinger.

  With a smile, the bum moved toward him, and when he got there and reached out for the coin, Lanagan brought his pistol down, hard, on the man’s head.

  When Lanagan, Claymore, and McCoy rode out of town five minutes later, the old derelict was hanging by his neck from the recently constructed gallows.

  “Hey, McCoy, who was that feller we hung back there?” Lanagan asked. “When you was here before you went to jail, did you ever see ’im?”

  “Only when he would come around beggin’,” McCoy said. “Somebody said that he used to be a soldier oncet, but I don’t know if that’s true or not.”

  Convicted Criminal Escapes.

  Leaves Behind Two Murdered Men.

  Seth McCoy, a man who had been convicted of a brutal murder and was, until recently, waiting in a jail cell that was in the very shadow of what was to be the instrument of his demise, has cheated the hangman. It is not known how McCoy made good his escape, though it is an absolute certainty that he had assistance.

  Before leaving, McCoy added two more murders to his gruesome tally. His first victim was Martin Coker, the jailer, who was 49 years old. Coker was a widower, his wife having died two years previous. He had one son who lives in St. Louis.

  When the sun rose this morning, its beams fell upon the pathetic figure of Carmine Teodoro, who, by his neck, hung suspended from the same gallows that had been constructed for the special purpose of hurling into eternity the most foul and perfidious Seth McCoy.

  Most citizens of Antelope knew Teodoro only as a derelict who, of late, has been roaming the streets of our fair town begging for coins from those who pass by. But there is much more to know about this gentleman, and had we known the full story, our citizens would have looked on him with more kindness and, yes, perhaps even some admiration.

  Sergeant Major Teodoro served with the Seventh Cavalry under the gallant George A. Custer and was with him on the august general’s last ride to Glory. Of course Teodoro wasn’t with Custer himself, for all the troopers with him perished. Sergeant Major Teodoro was actually with Major Marcus Reno and so great were his personal actions in the fight against the Sioux that he was awarded the coveted Medal of Honor. It is believed that the horrors he witnessed on that fateful day contributed to his becoming the drunk that we knew.

  Weatherford, Texas

  After three days of travel, Rebecca was in the waiting room of the Texas and Pacific Depot in Weatherford, Texas while Tom was making arrangements to hire a surrey to take them the fifteen miles north, to Audubon.

  “Hello, little lady, you’re sure a purty thang, though. You come to work for Lulu, did you?”

  Rebecca turned to see a scruffy-looking man, a week since his last shave, a month since his last bath, and at least three months since any attempt at a haircut. He was grinning at her with what could only be described as a ribald smile.

  She looked away from him without answering. “Don’t look away from me when I’m talkin’ to you,” the man said. “Why, I’m one of Lulu’s best customers. Like as not, oncet you become one of her whores, why me ’n you’s goin’ to get to know each other just real good.”

  “I have not come to work at Lulu’s,” Rebecca said without looking back toward him.

  “Goin’ inter business for yourself, are you?”

  “Please, sir, leave me alone.”

  “Well now, I’m just tryin’ to be friendly, is all.” He reached out for her, and she turned to avoid him.

  “Now that ain’t very friendly,” he said. He reached out again, and again Rebecca was able to avoid him.

  “Playin’ hard to get, are ye? Well, I like them little games,” the man said.

  “Sir, I do believe my wife has shown you, by word and action, that she would prefer that you leave her alone,” Tom said, coming back into the depot then. The one who had been pestering Rebecca looked around to see a rather large man. His size was offset by what he was wearing. He had on a three-piece suit, a four-in-hand tie, and a bowler hat.

  Rebecca’s tormentor laughed.

  “Well now, ain’t you the fancy lookin’ one, though? This here is your wife, is it?”

  “She is.”

  “You look to me like an Eastern dude. Is that what ye are? Some Eastern dude?”

  “I am from Massachusetts.”

  The expression on the man’s face showed, clearly, that he had no idea where, or even what, Massachusetts was.

  “Yes, I am from the East.”

  Now the man smiled again, a diagonal slash of mouth that displayed missing, crooked, yellow teeth.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. So, tell me, how’d some Eastern dude like you ever manage to get yourself such a purty whore for a wife? You ever been in Texas before?”

  “Becca, I have rented a surrey and have it loaded,” Tom said, ignoring the question of the irritating man. “We can go, now.”

  “Hey, Eastern dude, it ain’t very nice, you not answerin’ me ’n all, so I’m goin’ to forgive you this one time on account of you not bein’ from here. It’s more ’n likely that you ain’t never heard of me before, but my name is Emile Gates. And they don’t nobody be uppity aroun’ me ’n stay healthy, if you know what I mean.”

  “If we get started now, we can be there before dark,” Tom said, putting his hand on Rebecca’s elbow and starting toward the door.

  Gates hurried over to stand in the door to prevent them from leaving.

  “I ain’t through with you yet,” Gates said.

  “Perhaps not, but we are through with you,” Tom said. “I would appreciate it if you would step aside.”

  “’N I’d appreciate it if you showed me a little respect,” Gates said. He pulled his pistol and pointed it at Tom. “Now you may be a big feller ’n all, but out here in Texas that don’t make no never mind.” Once again, a twisted smile appeared on Gates’ face. “’Cause you see, here’s the thing. It don’t much matter none how big ’n strong you are, ’cause you sure as hell ain’t bigger’n a .44 caliber bullet. Now, this is what we’re goin’ to do. You’re goin’ to have that purty little lady of your’n give me a kiss, right here on the cheek. If she does that, I’ll let the two of you get on about your business.” Gates put his finger to his cheek and again showed his yellowed teeth in a crooked smile.

  “Oh, I don’t think she would want to do that,” Tom said.

  “Then I reckon I’ll just shoot you.”

  By now everyone else in the waiting room had been drawn into the drama playing out before them, and they watched to see how the Eastern dude would handle it.

  “Oh, I hardly think you would shoot me in front of these witnesses,” Tom said, confidently.

  “I wouldn’t count on that, mister,” one of the others in the depot said. “It’s pretty clear that you ain’t never heard nothin’ about ’im, or else you’d know
better. But the truth is, if Gates wants to shoot you here in front of ever’ one else, he’s likely to do it.”

  “That’s the truth,” another said.

  “All right, go ahead and shoot,” Tom said, calmly.

  The smirking smile left Gates’ face and he glared at Tom.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, go ahead and shoot me, if you think you can.” Tom’s words were quiet and calm, so calm that Gates became agitated.

  “What do you mean, if I think I can?” Gates asked.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll make it real easy for you. I’ll move closer so that it is impossible for you to miss.” Tom stepped right up to him.

  “Mister, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Gates muttered, cocking the pistol.

  Tom reached down and wrapped his left hand around the pistol, putting his thumb against the hammer so it couldn’t fall, and preventing the cylinder from turning. Then, reaching up with his right hand, he applied pressure to the area of Gate’s neck that joined his right shoulder.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” Gates cried. He sank to his knees and released his grip on the pistol so that Tom pulled it away from him. Tom continued the pressure and Gates’ cries of pain grew louder, to the complete shock of everyone else in the depot.

  Tom released the pressure, but Gates remained on his knees. “What was that?” Gates asked, his voice laced with pain. “What was that you done?”

  “I applied pressure to the levator scapulae. That can be quite painful, can’t it?” Tom said easily.

  “I . . . I can’t move my right arm!” Gates said.

  “Oh, that’s right, you can’t, can you? Well, I’m afraid your right arm will be paralyzed for a while, but there’s no need for you to worry, it’s only a temporary condition. By tomorrow you’ll regain use of it. Oh, it’ll still hurt, and it will continue to do so for two or three more days, but at least the paralysis won’t be permanent.”

  Tom put his thumb and forefinger back to the same sensitive spot. “I think you should know that I could, quite easily, paralyze this arm for the rest of your life. And should you desire to continue your rude comments, I shall do that very thing.”