MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN:
TORTURE TOWN
William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Epilogue
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Copyright Page
Notes
Prologue
Chickamauga, Georgia—September 20, 1863
The artillery rolled across the field like claps of thunder, first the distant thump, then the sound of the shells coming in . . . a rushing noise like a unattached railroad car rolling down a track . . . then the sharp boom of the explosion, followed by the whistling sound of the shards of shrapnel, flying out from the bursting shell.
Ben Ross and Morgan Poindexter were part of the 38th Illinois Infantry, and they were moving to plug up the middle of the Union line. When their company was moved, it opened up a gap that the Confederate forces exploited, and men in gray came pouring through.
Ben went down and a Confederate soldier rushed over to him with the intention of thrusting his bayonet into Ben’s defenseless body. Morgan shot the Confederate, then ran back toward Ben, dodging bullets until he reached his friend.
“Get out of here! Leave me be!” Ben shouted. “There ain’t no sense in both of us gettin’ kilt.”
“Hush up,” Morgan said, bending down to pick up his friend. With Ben draped over his shoulder, he ran as quickly as he could to get off the open field and into the relative safety of a grove of trees. There were enough Union soldiers there to keep the Confederates at bay.
The battle continued for the rest of the day and into the next, before the Union Forces withdrew back to Chattanooga. The result of two days of fierce fighting was horrendous, with a total of thirty-four thousand soldiers killed and wounded.
Ben was one of the wounded, and Morgan stayed with him until he received treatment from the doctors.
“It is good you got him to me when you did,” the doctor who treated Ben said. “Had you delayed even an hour longer, the wound would have had time to fester, and I would have had to take off his leg. I heard what you did, rushing out on the battlefield like that. He must be an awfully good friend for you to take a risk like that.”
“Doc, I don’t have a better friend in this world,” Morgan said.
Franklin, Tennessee—November 30, 1864
Ben Ross and Morgan Poindexter, both now first lieutenants, stood behind their barricaded men as they watched the Confederate brigades advance across the open field. When the Confederates drew within four hundred yards, the Union batteries began firing canister shells, each shell containing twenty-seven large balls. The deadly blasts cut down the attacking rebels like a scythe through wheat.
Despite the terrible firepower used against them, General Cleburne managed to lead his troops all the way up to the Union defensive line, and even penetrated it, before Cleburne was himself killed, and his troops were finally repulsed.
Morgan Poindexter had been shot, and as the Confederate troops began to withdraw, two of the Rebel soldiers grabbed Morgan, one on each leg, and they started pulling him back across the field with them, dragging him across the ground.
“We might be leavin’, Yanks, but we ain’t leavin’ alone!” one of them shouted.
Ben Ross jumped over the parapet and started after the two Confederates who were dragging Morgan away.
“Lieutenant Ross, you get back here!” Major Baker called. Baker had assumed command of the 38th Infantry only six days earlier, when Colonel Chapman had died.
Ben paid no attention to the major, pursuing the fleeing Rebels on foot with his pistol in his hand. He shot both of the men who were dragging Morgan with them. Then, precisely as Morgan had done for him a year earlier, he picked up his friend, threw him over his shoulder, and started back to his own lines, cheered on by the men of Company B.
Springfield, Illinois—January 15, 1866
“There’s land to be had for free out in New Mexico,” Ben said. “All we have to do is go out there and file a claim on it. Come with me, be my partner. We’ll start a cattle ranch.”
“Cattle ranch?”
“Sure, why not? The war’s over, I’ve got a feeling that the country is going to get mighty hungry for beef. We’ll make a ton of money.”
“You can’t make money without money. How much do you think we’ll need to get started?” Morgan asked.
“I’d say no more than five hundred dollars. We only have to come up with two hundred fifty apiece.”
“Right now I’m about forty dollars short of that,” Morgan said.
Ben laughed. “You’re ahead of me. I need about sixty dollars. But I know how we can get the money.”
“How?”
“The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway is paying five dollars a day to workers. They also feed and house you, so we won’t have to spend a cent. One month of working on the railroad, and we’ll have enough to start our ranch.”
Morgan smiled broadly, and stuck out his hand. “All right, Ben, you’ve got yourself a partner.”
“How soon will you be ready to go?”
“Is an hour too long?”
Ben laughed. “We’ll tell our folks good-bye, and leave tomorrow.”
Rio Arriba County, New Mexico Territory—May 1866
Ben and Morgan discovered that if each of them would file an independent land claim, they could get more property. They filed adjoining claims, and because the county was so sparsely populated at the time they arrived, they were able to stake out two hundred and fifty thousand acres apiece, which they joined to create the half-million-acre R&P Ranch.
The first thing they did was build a cabin. The first night they were able to sleep inside, they sat at the table they had made, drinking whiskey and staring into the crackling flames in the fireplace.
“We’ve got us a cattle ranch,” Morgan said. “But we don’t have any cattle.”
“Yeah, that’s the next thing we need. I guess we have enough money to buy us a couple of seed bulls and some heifers,” Ben said.
“It’s goin’ to take a long time to build up a herd that way.”
“You got any better ideas?”
“Maybe,” Morgan answered. “I’ve been hearing about something called cow hunts, down in Texas.”
“Cow hunts?”
“During the war, a lot of the cattle down in Texas left the ranches and started wandering all over the place. Now there are huge, unclaimed herds down there. All we have to do is go down there, round some of them up, and bring them back here.”
“Just the two of us?”
“I think if we
go up to Denver, we’ll be able to find someone to help us,” Morgan said. “If we can figure out how we are going to pay them.”
“Suppose we cut one cow out of every ten that we collect, and use those cows as payment. If we can round up five thousand head, that’ll give us five hundred head of cattle to use for working capital. If we only got five dollars a head, that would be twenty-five hundred dollars,” Ben said. “That should be plenty enough.”
“Damn!” Morgan said. “That’s a good idea, Ben! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Because I got the brains and you got the looks,” Ben teased.
In Denver, Ben and Morgan rounded up ten people who agreed to their terms of being paid when they finished the round-up. The youngest of the drovers was fifteen and the oldest was twenty-one, though they did hire a cook who was in his late fifties.
Buying a chuck wagon and filling it with possibles, they started south.
When they began their “cow hunt” in Texas, they weren’t particularly careful as to whether the cattle were wild or not. Several of the cows had brands, but often there were many different brands mixed into the same herd, that they used that as justification that the cattle were now free-range cattle. When they had three thousand head, it was Ben who suggested that they start back.
“I thought we were going to round up five thousand head,” Morgan replied.
“You want to hang around until a posse comes?”
“What posse?”
“The kind of posse Texans send after cattle rustlers.”
“We aren’t rustlin’ cattle,” Morgan said.
“More than half of these cows are wearin’ brands,” Ben said.
“Yes, but all different kinds of brands. We didn’t go onto any ranch land, every cow we took was from open range,” Morgan insisted.
“You want try and explain that to a necktie party?” Ben asked.
Morgan was quiet for a moment; then he smiled, sheepishly. “No,” he said. “I think you’re right. We need to get back to New Mexico.”
June 1868
Within two years the R&P Ranch was the largest and most productive ranch in the entire county. Ben Ross and Morgan Poindexter had become wealthy men, and the nearby town of Thirty Four Corners profited from the business the R&P Cattle Ranch brought in.
“Do you remember me tellin’ you that we might want to get married someday?” Ben asked Morgan a couple of months after they had left the cabin and built two houses, one for each of them.
“Yes.”
“Well, for me, that someday is coming sooner than later,” Ben said. “Look at this.”
Ben showed Morgan an advertisement in the Rocky Mountain News.
MARRIAGE BROKER
~
Let us find a Bride for you
Only Women of Finest Character
“I’ve ordered me a bride. She’ll be arrivin’ in Denver in two more weeks. What I’d like you to do, if you would, is go meet her for me, and bring her to Thirty Four Corners.”
“Wait a minute, Ben. She’s goin’ to be your wife. Shouldn’t you be the one to go get her?”
“I’m not goin’ to have time. I’m goin’ to have to be gettin’ the house ready for a woman. And I got to make arrangements with the preacher for the wedding.”
“What’s her name?”
“Her name?” Ben looked puzzled. “I don’t know her name.”
Morgan chuckled. “Ben, how do you expect me to pick her up, if I don’t know who I’m lookin’ for?”
“Wait, I got a letter from her. I haven’t read it yet, but more’n likely her name is in the letter.”
“What do you mean you haven’t read it yet? The woman is going to be your wife for crying out loud—the least you can do is read her letter.”
“Yeah, okay, let me get it, and we’ll read it.”
“I don’t need to read it. It’s a personal letter to you.”
“How can it be personal? She doesn’t even know me.”
A few moments later Ben returned with the letter.
Dear Sir,
You may be wondering what sort of woman would submit herself to the indignity of a brokered marriage. Let me assure you that it is not a character flaw that has driven me to this point of desperation. Both of my parents have died, and I am left in a condition of severe financial need. I am twenty years old, tall, fair, well-educated, accomplished, amiable, and affectionate. I am a good woman, and I will make you a good wife. I ask only that you treat me well.
Sincerely
Dorothy Clay
“Her name is Dorothy,” Ben said. “So now that you know it, you can go get her for me.”
“All right, I’ll do it, because you’re my friend,” Morgan said. “But I tell you true, Ben, it just doesn’t seem right that I’m the one to go meet her.”
“Who better to send than my best friend?” Ben asked.
According to the marriage broker, Dorothy Clay would be arriving on the two o’clock train, so Morgan was standing on the depot platform when the train rolled in. He watched all the passengers detrain, and saw only two women get off alone. One of the women looked to be in her late fifties, short and stout. The second woman was considerably younger, and with a pinched face and beady eyes.
He had no idea which of the two women it would be, but neither one was what you could call a “looker.” Poor Ben, he thought, as he started toward the two women. But what else can you expect when you get a pig in a poke?
Just before he reached the two women, the older woman smiled broadly as a man approached her. The two hugged, then walked off together. That left only the pinched face woman.
Morgan touched the brim of his hat. “Would you be Miss Clay?” he asked.
“Get away from me, sir, or I shall call an officer of the law!” the woman replied in a shrill voice.
She turned and walked quickly away from Morgan, who, with his back to the train, watched her storm off. He still didn’t know if this was Dorothy Clay or not.
“I am Miss Clay,” a soft, well-modulated voice said from behind him.
Turning toward the train, Morgan saw one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life standing on the bottom step.
“You?” he asked in a disbelieving voice.
The woman stepped down from the train and extended her hand. “Am I meeting my future husband?” she asked, with a big smile.
“No, ma’am, but I sure wish to hell you were,” Morgan said. “I’m just here to pick you up for my friend Ben.”
There was only one church in the town, and it served all denominations. This morning the church was filled because there was about to be a wedding.
Ben was waiting in the pastor’s office with the preacher.
“Looks like the whole town is here,” the Reverend E. D. Owen said.
“Don’t you go preachin’ now, just ’cause you’ve got a big crowd,” Ben joked. “All I want to do is get married, and get back out to the ranch. I got some calves to brand.”
Owen laughed. “That’s some honeymoon you’re going on.”
“Dorothy knew when I sent for her what she was gettin’ herself into.”
“I suppose so,” Owen said.
Dorothy Clay was waiting in the narthex with Morgan Poindexter. There had been some discussion as to whether Morgan should be used as a best man, or as a surrogate father of the bride, so he could give her away. At Dorothy’s request, Ben decided to let Morgan act as her surrogate father. At the moment, only the two of them were waiting in the narthex.
“I don’t want to give you away,” Morgan said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t want to give you away,” Poindexter repeated. “Truth is, Dorothy, I love you, and I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you get off the train in Denver.”
“Oh, Morgan,” Dorothy said. “Why didn’t you say something before? When you came to pick me up, I thought you were the man I was to marry. You’ve no idea how disappointed I was when
I learned that you weren’t.”
“Don’t go through with it, Dorothy,” Morgan said.
“I have to go through with it. It’s too late, don’t you see? Ben paid for my passage out here.”
“I’ll pay him back.”
“But what . . . what would you have me do?”
“Come with me. We’ll go to Denver and get married.”
“We can’t do that.”
“Do you love Ben? Or do you love me?”
“I . . . I love you,” Dorothy said.
“Dorothy, if you go through with this marriage with the way you and I feel about each other, we’re going to get together. You know it, and I know it. And if you’re married to Ben when that happens, one of us is going to wind up dead. I don’t want to kill Ben, he has been my best friend since we were boys. We fought in the war together. But if it came right down to me or him, I’d have no choice.
“So, don’t you see it would be better if you came with me now . . . before you are married?”
In the church the organist started playing the music, and, nervously, Dorothy looked toward the closed door to the nave.
“All right,” Dorothy said, quickly. “God help me, all right.”
With Morgan holding her hand, and with the train of her wedding gown trailing behind her, Morgan and Dorothy left the church, and ran toward the buckboard Morgan had brought into town today. He helped her in. Then, untying the reins, he hurried around, climbed into the seat, and urged the horses into a gallop.
In the pastor’s office Reverend Owen, hearing the music, opened the door and looked out toward the sacristy.
“It’s time for us to go wait for your bride,” Owen said, with a broad smile.
“Hurry the wedding up, will you, preacher? Like I said, I got work that needs to be done,” Ben said.
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