Torture Town

by William W. Johnstone

  “Give me those two names again,” Marshal Hunter said. “I’m talking about the names of the two men who were arguing with Seth and Lou.”

  “Hodge said they called themselves Poke and Tully.”

  “Poke and Tully. No last names?”

  Rex shook his head. “No last names that anyone heard.”

  “Uh-huh. They called themselves Poke and Tully, and they said they were working for Poindexter, but I don’t believe it. Now, here’s the thing, Rex. I know ever’one who works for the Tumbling P, and I don’t know anyone named Poke or Tully. Hell, you know most of ’em yourself. Have you ever heard either of those names before this?”

  “No, I haven’t heard of them, but what does that matter? It’s probably someone he just hired.”

  “Hodge also said that they didn’t look like cowboys.”

  “All the more reason to be suspicious. What if the Poindexters have hired themselves a couple of gunmen?”

  “Why would they do something like that now? I mean, think about it, Rex. Your pa and Mr. Poindexter have been at war for more than twenty years, and in all that time there’s never been any blood spilt. Yeah, there’s been some fights, some bloody noses, even a few broke bones, but there ain’t never been no killin’. Now, you tell me why, after all this time, would Morgan Poindexter suddenly decide that’s it’s time to hire a couple of men like that?”

  “I don’t know,” Rex said. “But I don’t like it. And I’d appreciate it if you would sort of keep a closer eye on things for a while.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Hunter said with a resigned sigh.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I’m not even sure Seth Miller is his real name,” Ben Ross said. “He came here to work for us about ten years ago, and he never talked much about where he came from.”

  “Some of the men say that the reason he never talked much was because he took part in a stage coach robbery up in Wyoming several years ago,” Dean Kelly replied.

  “Do you believe that?” Ben asked his foreman.

  “To be honest with you, Ben, I don’t know whether I believe it or not,” Dean replied. “You know how it is out here—we never pry too deep into a man’s past. We figure if he wants us to know, he’ll tell us.”

  “You’re right, what’s done is done,” Ben replied.

  Ben figured that his foreman had his own reason for not prying. There were rumors that Dean Kelly had ridden with Quantrill during the war, but he had never spoken about it, and Ben had never pressed him about it.

  “All I know is that Seth was a good man. He never gave me any guff about any job I ever gave him. He’d ride fence, or pull a cow out of the mud, always doin’ it without complainin’ about it.”

  “Yes, he was a good man,” Ben agreed. “And, since we really don’t know anything about him—I mean, his family ’n’ all—looks to me like ’bout the only thing we can do is be his family and bury him ourselves.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinkin’ as well,” Dean said.

  “What do the men think about Seth getting killed?” Ben asked. “Do they think that Tumbling P riders were responsible for it?”

  “Most of them do think that, yes,” Dean said. “Especially after what they heard about the two men who were puttin’ the spurs to Seth and Lou.”

  “But nobody has ever heard of these two men before now,” Ben said. “And nobody has seen them since the killing. I don’t know, Dean, I’ve known Morgan Poindexter since we were boys together. Yes, I know, we’ve had our differences for well over twenty years now. But there is no one who is going to make me believe that Morgan Poindexter would have his men go so far as to actually kill one of our riders.”

  “Maybe he didn’t order them to do it, Ben. But over the years the men of both ranches have sort of become more and more enemies,” Dean said. “And that’s like building steam pressure in a boiler. It’s bound to blow some time.”

  “I guess you’re right. All right, I may as well go into town and make arrangements for getting Seth buried.”

  A simple, unpainted pine box lay on the edge of the already opened grave, the box recognizable as a coffin only by its shape, flared at the top end of but tapering down toward the bottom.

  The mourners were composed of men from the BR, as well as several citizens from the town, those who did their business on the south side of Central Street, and those who had establishments on the cross streets and who did business with both the BR and the Tumbling P ranches.

  There had not been a church service, but the Reverend Charles Landers, who had taken the church one year earlier, volunteered to say a few words at the committal. Attendance at the church had dropped off sharply after Reverend E. D. Owen died, because Landers’s “fire and brimstone” style of preaching wasn’t all that well received. Still, Ben thought that there should be some clergy present, so he welcomed Landers’s offer to conduct the graveside service.

  “As I look out over those gathered here, I am reminded that I have seen so few of you in church, and that means that your souls are in peril. It is a sad thing when your only contact with the word of God”—he said the word as gawd-uh—“is when you come to put one of your own into the ground. And notice, I said into the ground, not at rest. Because you see, for Seth Miller, there will be no rest. For him, it is too late. Never once did I see him in church, never once did he hear the salvation that is promised to all who believe. And now, even as we put his mortal remains in the ground, his soul is writhing in eternal damnation and torment as he burns in hell. Amen.”

  “Damn, Preacher, was that supposed to be comforting?” Ben asked in annoyance.

  “My obligation, Mr. Ross, is to the living, not to the dead,” Landers replied. “As I said, it is too late for poor Mr. Miller.”

  “Suppose you just go on back to the church,” Ben said. “We’ll finish burying our friend.”

  Tumbling P Ranch

  “I don’t have the slightest idea who killed him,” Gabe Mathis said. He and Nate Poindexter were currying horses and discussing the recent funeral for Seth Miller, one of the BR cowboys. “Truth to tell, most think it was an accident, what with the bullet just coming through the window like that.”

  “Yes, but there are witnesses who said that Miller and Lou Turner had gotten into an argument with two men who claimed to be Tumbling P cowboys,” Nate replied. “So my question is, what were a couple of our men doing on the south side of Central Street in the first place? Everybody knows that’s just asking for trouble.”

  “I don’t believe it was any of our men,” Gabe replied. “I’ve asked ever’body on the place, and they all swear that there wasn’t none of ’em who was on the other side of the street. None of ’em was arguin’ with Miller and Turner. And what’s more, when the marshal investigated, why, he didn’t find anyone who could actually identify whoever the two men was, other than to say that said their names was Poke and Tully. And we sure as hell don’t have nobody workin’ for us named Poke and Tully.”

  “No, we definitely don’t have a Poke and Tully,” Nate said.

  About an hour after that conversation, Gabe Mathis was inside the equipment room off the barn, taking an inventory of the tack. Looking through the window, he saw three riders coming toward him. They weren’t approaching in any sort of threatening mode, but under the circumstances, Gabe figured he couldn’t be too careful. He walked to the open door, but reached back beside him to wrap his hand around the double-barrel Greener twelve-gauge shotgun that was leaning against the wall.

  “What can I do for you fellas?” Gabe asked.

  “It’s more like what we can do for you,” one of the men replied. The man who spoke had a disfiguring scar that came down through his left eye and across his cheek. “But I reckon we’d better speak to the boss hisself.”

  “I’m the foreman,” Gabe said.

  “Yes, sir, and I’m sure that’s an important job but what I got to say out rightly be said to Mr. Poindexter. And I’m sure he’ll be thankful to
us for bringing him the information.”

  Gabe paused for a second; then he nodded. “All right, wait here. I’ll get him.”

  “Mind if we water our horses?”

  “No, go ahead.”

  As the three riders dismounted and led their horses over to a watering trough, Gabe left the shotgun where it was, and went into big house to summon Morgan Poindexter.

  “Morgan, they’s some men outside want to talk to you. They say they got somethin’ to tell you, and that you’ll be wantin’ to hear what it is.”

  “Do you know them?”

  Gabe shook his head. “Ain’t never seen hide nor hair of nary a one of ’em. I’ll say this for the one that’s doin’ the talkin’, though. He might well be ’bout the ugliest man I ever seen.”

  Morgan followed Gabe outside and saw the men gathered around the huge, circular watering tank. He chuckled, quietly.

  “I see what you mean,” Morgan said under his breath. “He’s an ugly one, all right.”

  Morgan walked up to the men. “Gentlemen, I’m Morgan Poindexter. My foreman tells me you’ve got something to tell me.”

  “I’m Sam Strawn,” the ugly one said. “And yes, sir, I do have somethin’ to tell you.”

  “Sam Strawn?” Morgan replied. It was obvious that he recognized the name.

  “I see you’ve heard of me,” Strawn said.

  “I have.”

  “Well, sir, it’s good that you’ve heard of me, ’cause that means that when I make the offer, you know I’m someone that can back up what I promise.”

  Morgan was a little apprehensive, and when he responded, his suspicion was reflected in the tone of his voice.

  “What . . . exactly is your offer?”

  “I’m offerin’ me ’n’ my two men as protection for you and your ranch,” Strawn said. “You might call us detectives.”

  “Detectives?”

  “Yes, sir, cattle detectives. Like I said, cattle detectives for your protection.”

  “Protection from what?”

  “It looks like Mr. Poindexter don’t know,” Strawn said to one of the other men. “I told you that like as not, he wouldn’t have no idea about it.”

  “Mr. Strawn, what are you talking about?” Morgan asked. “What is it that I have no idea about?”

  “Tell ’im, Wallace,” Strawn said.

  Wallace had a narrow, pockmarked face and a big, bushy mustache that filled his upper lip.

  “Yes, sir, well, I was over to the BR Ranch, offerin’ to cowboy for Ben Ross. He said he didn’t need no more cowboys, but that he might could use me for somethin’ else. Then he called out to a feller he’s got workin’ for him, Bodine, the feller’s name was. ‘Bodine,’ Ross says. “‘Take this feller with you next time you go out.’”

  “‘Go out where?’ I says. ‘Why to make mischief for the Tumbling P,’ Bodine says.

  “Then, Mr. Ross, he says, ‘We’re goin’ to teach Morgan Poindexter and the Tumbling P that they can’t kill one of our’n and get away with it.”

  “And you heard all that?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes, sir, I heard all that. Only, that wasn’t what I thought I was signin’ on for, so I rode off. Then, when I run across Strawn, who’s an old friend of mine, I told him what I heard, and he figured we might better come to see you, to tell you what’s goin’ on,” Wallace said.

  “What I figure, Mr. Poindexter,” Strawn said, interrupting Wallace, “is that Ross plans to use Bodine to maybe make a few raids agin’ your ranch. Do you know Bodine?”

  “No, I don’t think I have ever heard the name before.”

  “Well, maybe his name ain’t all that well known down here, seein’ as he is most known up in Colorado ’n’ Montana. But let me tell you from some knowledge that I know personal, firsthand, you might say. Bodine is a bad one. From what I’ve heard, they was some strikin’ miners up in Montana once and the mine owners hired Bodine to come in and bust up the strike. Bodine brung in some men and he ’n’ his men busted up the strike. And you know how he done that?”

  “Since I’ve never heard of anyone named Bodine, I don’t have the slightest idea how he might have done it.”

  “Well, sir, what he done was, he kilt seven of the strikin’ miners, that’s how he done it. And his killin’ them miners like he done made the rest of ’em go back to work.”

  “None of my men are striking,” Morgan said.

  “Yes, sir, ’n’ that’s just the point,” Strawn said. “But I figure that what Bodine has in mind is to maybe kill three or four of your cowboys, ’n’ that would more ’n likely make the rest of your cowboys run off.”

  “I don’t believe Ben Ross would do a thing like that,” Morgan said.

  “When is the last time you talked to Ross?” Strawn asked.

  Morgan shook his head. “We don’t talk. We haven’t talked in well over twenty years.”

  “Then you don’t really know him all that well, do you? Thing is, ever since one of his cowboys was kilt, he wants revenge.”

  “I heard about Seth Miller getting shot, but neither I, nor anyone else on the Tumbling P, had anything to do with it,” Morgan said.

  “It don’t matter whether you had anything to do with it or not,” Strawn said. “Ross thinks you did, and that’s all that matters. But, maybe you’re right, maybe Ross will just let it pass and do nothin’. If that’s the case, if he don’t do nothin’ at all, then you won’t need anyone to protect your cowboys, will you? But what if he does do somethin’? Iffen he was to do somethin’, and maybe one or two of your cowboys was to get kilt, then you’re more ’n likely goin’ to feel awful bad about not bein’ ready for ’im, ain’t you?” Strawn concluded.

  “Ben wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “Morgan, Ben Ross might not do it himself,” Gabe said. “But half the county thinks it was some of our men that killed Seth Miller, so it’s damn sure that Ben thinks that as well,” Gabe said.

  “So, what are you saying, Gabe?”

  “I’m saying that it might not be a bad idea to hire these fellers, at least for a little while ’til we see whether or not Ben Ross has anything planned.”

  “I’d be willing to say yes, but I’m not sure I can afford them,” Morgan said.

  “If you can afford to pay cowboys, you can afford us,” Strawn said. “You don’t have to pay us no more ’n you pay any of your other cowboys.”

  “Wait a minute,” Morgan said. “Are you telling me you’d be willing to be—what was it you called yourself, cattle detectives? You’d be willing to do that kind of work for no more than cowboy wages?”

  Strawn may have smiled, though the movement of his mouth did little to soften the image on his face.

  “We’ll work for cowboy wages so long as we don’t have to do no actual cowboy work,” Strawn said. “We don’t want to be pullin’ no cows out of mud holes, or runnin’ ’em down for brandin’, or ridin’ fence line, or anythin’ like that.”

  Morgan chuckled. “All right, Strawn, you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The BR Ranch

  “You aren’t going to convince me that Morgan Poindexter has hired some gun hands for no purpose other than to make trouble,” Ben Ross said.

  “I don’t know, Pop, seems to me like the men that work for Mr. Poindexter have all gotten more contrary lately. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to hear that he had hired some ne’er-do-wells for just such a purpose.”

  “This ain’t somethin’ I just heard about, Mr. Ross,” Bodine said. “Massey here was goin’ to hire on over at the Tumbling P with the other men, thinkin’ they was goin’ to be nothin’ but cowboys. When he heard what they was plannin’, he changed his mind.”

  “And just what are they planning?” Ben Ross asked.

  “From what I’ve heard, they’re plannin’ on makin’ things uncomfortable enough for the men that work for you that they’ll up and leave. As I understand it, he figures that if you can’t keep men
workin’ for you, why, then you won’t be able to keep your ranch.”

  “And don’t forget, Ben Ross, it was someone from the Tumbling P that kilt Seth Miller,” Bill Lewis said. Lewis had been with the BR ever since the BR and the Tumbling P had split into two ranches.

  Dean Kelly, foreman of the BR, shook his head. “We’ve looked into that, Bill. Marshal Hunter says there’s no proof of that. Nobody saw the shooter.”

  “No, but they were in the saloon arguing with a couple of men who said they was with the Tumbling P.”

  “That’s just it. They said they were with the Tumbling P, but nobody has ever heard of them before. Poke and Tully. Do you know who they were?”

  “No,” Lewis admitted.

  “It may be that these two fellas are a couple of the new men Poindexter has hired,” Bodine said. “Which is all the more reason you need to hire me ’n’ my men.”

  “And what, exactly, are you offering?” Ben Ross asked.

  “It’s real simple. Me ’n’ my men will just ride around, keepin’ an eye on things for you.”

  “What about at night? If Morgan Poindexter really did have such an idea in mind, there’s no doubt in my mind but that he would do things at night.”

  “Yes, sir, and I expect you’re right about that. That’s why I intend to have someone watchin’ out at night, too.”

  “And you don’t intend to charge any more than any of my cowboys?”

  “No, sir, not one cent more,” Bodine said.

  Ben nodded. “All right, we’ll give it a try for a little while. I hate it that what started out as a misunderstanding between Morgan and me has now gone on to involve the whole county. Or at least, this part of the county. We were good friends once, did you know that?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ve heard that,” Bodine said. “But I’ve also heard that there ain’t nobody can be more contrary and more dangerous than old friends who have become enemies.”