Torture of the Mountain Man Read online

  “No, no!” Gates begged. “Please, don’t! I beg of you, please don’t! I didn’t mean nothin’, I was just funnin’ you is all. Sort of welcomin’ you to Texas, if you know what I mean. Let me go, please, let me go!”

  Tom held his thumb and finger on the tender spot for no more than a second longer, then he let go and stepped back. After emptying the shells, Tom took the pistol over and dropped it into the cold stove.

  “That should hold you until my wife and I are safely away,” he said. “Come, dear.”

  The others in the depot stared in shocked silence as the well-dressed Eastern dude and his equally well dressed, beautiful wife left the depot and climbed into the surrey Tom had hired.

  “Damn, I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that,” someone said.

  “Gates, if I was you, I would be gettin’ out of town now,” another said. This was the same man who had warned Tom. “You’ve made yourself a lot of enemies and as soon as they learn you have a arm crippled up so as you can’t use it no more, one of them is quite likely to pay you a visit.”

  Still wincing in pain, Gates walked over to the stove. He tried to lift his right hand to open the door, but, as the big stranger from the East had warned him, he was unable to move his arm.

  “Would somebody get my gun for me?”

  Nobody offered to help, leaving Gates to fish down into the stove with his left hand.

  “I don’t know who that son of a bitch is, but I’ll find him someday and when I do, I’ll kill ’im,” Gates said, speaking aloud.

  “If I was you, Gates, I wouldn’t be wantin’ to run in to that feller again. It don’t matter none whether he’s a Eastern dude or not. I got me a idee that he could handle just about anythin’ that he’s likely to run into, from a grizzly bear to a Injun warrior.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When the hired surrey came to a stop in front of the sheriff’s office in Audubon, Dalton came hurrying out to meet Tom and Rebecca even before they climbed down.

  “Thank God you got here in time,” Dalton said. “He’s still alive.”

  “Where is the doctor’s office?” Tom asked.

  “Right there,” Dalton replied, pointing to a building across the street and about half a block down. “Why don’t you go have a look at him? I’ll get you ’n Becca checked in to the hotel.”

  “Thank you, driver,” Tom said, giving the driver a dollar tip.

  “Thank you, sir,” the driver said with a broad appreciative smile.

  Climbing down, Tom grabbed his medical bag and started down Franklin Street to Dr. Palmer’s office.

  “Why, aren’t you going to greet me, little brother?” Rebecca asked with a warm smile.

  “Thanks, Becca, thanks for coming,” Dalton said, helping his sister down, then embracing her.

  * * *

  “Dr. Palmer?” Tom said as he stepped inside. “I’m Dr. Whitman.”

  “Dr. Whitman! What an honor it is to meet you, sir!”

  Tom took the doctor’s extended hand. “The patient?”

  “He’s back here. His daughter is with him.”

  “Is he conscious?”

  “Yes.”

  Tom followed Dr. Palmer to the back of his office, where he saw someone lying in bed. A very pretty young woman was sitting by his side.

  “Marjane, this is Dr. Whitman,” Dr. Palmer said.

  “You are Dalton’s brother-in-law, aren’t you?” Marjane said.

  “Yes.”

  “According to Dalton, you can do miracles. I certainly hope you can work a miracle with my father.”

  “Well, I’m surely going to try,” Tom said, without questioning the “miracle” accolade.

  “Sheriff, how are you feeling?” Tom asked.

  “Well, I don’t think I’m up to breakin’ any broncos,” Sheriff Peabody replied with a strained chuckle.

  Tom laughed. “It’s good that you still have a sense of humor. That means you have a good attitude, and in a procedure like this, having a good attitude is at least half of the fight.”

  “When do you want to do it?” Dr. Palmer asked.

  “I see no reason to waste any time, let’s do it right now, as soon as we can get him up on the operating table and sedated.”

  * * *

  “He’s under,” Dr. Palmer said about ten minutes later.

  “You monitor his pulse rate while I do this,” Tom said, as he cut into the sheriff’s chest.

  Dr. Palmer put his finger on the inside of Sheriff Peabody’s wrist, keeping it there all the time Tom was searching for the bullet. He gave continuous reports.

  “His pulse is still steady, Doctor.”

  “Here it is,” Tom said a moment later. “You were quite right in your assessment; the bullet is quite close to the heart.”

  “Do you think you can get it, Doctor?” Dr. Palmer asked.

  “Hand me the retractors,” Tom said.

  Dr. Palmer responded, Tom held open the wound.

  “Forceps.”

  Using the forceps, Tom very carefully grasped the bullet, pulled it out, then dropped it into the pan of water that sat on a bedside table. The bullet made a clanking sound as it hit the bottom of the pan, and little swirls of blood curled up to the top of the water.

  “How’s his pulse?”

  “Strong, still strong,” Dr. Palmer said.

  Tom smiled, then removed the retractor.

  “You did it,” Dr. Palmer said a moment later

  “Now, all we have to do is cleanse the wound,” Tom said and, opening a little tin box, he poured several white things onto the wound.

  “Maggots? You are putting maggots into the wound?” Dr. Palmer asked.

  “Yes, they are an excellent way of debridement, that is to say cleaning out the necrotic tissue within a wound. It isn’t enough just to remove the bullet, we also have to prevent infection,” Tom said.

  “And maggots will do that?”

  “Indeed they will.”

  “Damn, I wish I had known about that durin’ the war,” Dr. Palmer said. “I used to clean all the maggots out of the soldiers’ wounds when I saw them.”

  “That is a natural reaction,” Tom replied. “But it was actually during the war that maggot therapy was discovered.”

  Dr. Palmer stepped into the front of his office, where Marjane was waiting, nervously.

  “Marjane, we got the bullet out,” Dr. Palmer said. “That is, Dr. Whitman got the bullet out.”

  “Oh! How is he?”

  “He came through the operation well,” Tom said. “I think that, barring anything unforeseen, he should have a full recovery.”

  “Oh! Thank God!” Marjane said, getting up from her chair and hurrying to Tom to give him a hug. “Thank you, thank you.”

  “I don’t deserve all the thanks,” Tom said. “If Dr. Palmer hadn’t controlled the bleeding and the shock, and kept him stable immediately after your father was shot, he wouldn’t have been here for me to operate on.”

  Marjane smiled through her tears. “I thank both of you,” she said.

  * * *

  When Tom stepped into the sheriff’s office a few minutes later, he saw Becca sitting across the table from Dalton. The two were playing chess.

  “How is Andy?” Dalton asked, anxiously.

  “I think he’s going to have a full recovery,” Tom replied.

  “I knew you could do it,” Dalton said. “Thank you, Tom.

  Tom chuckled, and pointed to the chessboard. “Why do I get the idea that this is something the two of you have done quite often in your lives?”

  “It was a way of keeping our mind off what was going on down in the doctor’s office,” Dalton said. “When we were growing up, she used to beat me mercilessly,” Dalton complained. “Can you imagine having a big sister as cruel as that?”

  “It made you a good chess player, didn’t it?” Tom asked.

  “Best in this town,” Dalton said with a confident nod. “And, I’m pretty sure I’m about to be
at my sister this time.”

  “You’re going to have to do it without a queen,” Becca said as she picked the piece up from the board.

  “Damn! How did you do that?”

  “It’s called concentration,” Becca replied.

  No more than six moves later, she put Dalton in check, and when he was unable to save his king, the game ended.

  “Tell me, Dalton, how did Sheriff Peabody get shot? Do you know who did it?”

  “I know exactly who did it,” Dalton replied. “Andy was trying to arrest Clete Lanagan, when Dingus Claymore shot him.”

  “They both got away?”

  “I was delivering a prisoner to the sheriff in Antelope,” Dalton said. “By the time I got back, Andy was in the doctor’s office, half dead, and Lanagan and Claymore were gone.”

  “Do you have any idea where they are now?”

  “I have no idea where they are now, but I expect we’ll be hearing from them soon,” Dalton said. “Lanagan isn’t the kind not to take advantage of the situation. And with Andy down and me here, by myself, I’ve got a feeling Lanagan has some devilment in mind. And McCoy may be with them.”

  “McCoy?” Tom asked.

  “The prisoner I delivered to Antelope was Seth McCoy. There was notice, by telegram, that went out to sheriffs all over northern Colorado and southern Wyoming. According to the notice I received, the jailer over in Antelope was killed, and McCoy escaped.”

  “And you are suggesting that there is some connection between McCoy and the man who shot Sheriff Peabody?”

  “I’m doing more than just suggesting. McCoy and Lanagan used to ride together. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind but that Lanagan is the one who busted McCoy out of jail.”

  “You think McCoy will be joining him?”

  “Yes, I do. And that would make three of them. Lanagan, Claymore, and McCoy together would be quite a formidable group. I just hope they don’t get anyone else.”

  * * *

  Three weeks after the aborted ambush of Smoke Jensen, Hatchett MacMurtry was the little town of Rowland, Texas. He had fourteen dollars, which was enough to sustain him for a short while, but he was going to have to find some way to make a little more money, and he hoped to do that here.

  Going into the Ox Bow Saloon, he stepped up to the bar and ordered a whiskey. He was just starting on his second whiskey when he saw a familiar face.

  “Slater? Ed Slater?”

  The man at the far end of the bar turned toward him with a look of irritation on his face. But the irritation turned to recognition and a smile.

  “Hatchett MacMurtry,” he said. “Damn if I ain’t seen you in a coon’s age. Where you been off to?”

  “I was in Colorado some.”

  “So you decided to come back to Texas, did you? What about your brother? Where’s Cutter at?”

  “Cutter got hisself kilt up there.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. What brings you back to Texas?”

  “Lookin’ for work, I guess. You know any ranchers that’s lookin’ for hands?”

  “They’s prob’ly some at’s lookin’, but I got a line on somethin’ that’s just a hell of a lot better,” Slater said. “That is, if you’re interested.”

  “Yeah, I’m interested.”

  “Bring your drink over to the table, ’n let’s talk a bit about it,” Slater said.

  “Hi, hon,” one of the girls said to MacMurtry. “I don’t think I ain’t never seen you in here, before. Are you lookin’ for a little fun?”

  “Leave ’im be, Trudy,” Slater said. “Me ’n him has got some business to take care of. After we’re done, he’s all yours.”

  “What is this job you’re talkin’ about that’s a lot better ’n punchin’ cows?” MacMurtry asked when they sat down at a table.

  Slater laughed. “Hell, MacMurtry, what ain’t better ’n punchin’ cows?”

  Hatchett laughed as well.

  * * *

  Dingus Claymore and Vernon Joad dismounted in front of the cabin that sat just back from Rock Creek.

  “What’s this place?” Joad asked.

  “You said you was lookin’ to get on somewhere, didn’t you?” Claymore asked.

  “Well, yeah, but I was figurin’ on doin’ somethin’ that could maybe make a little money. I mean if it’s trappin’ or somethin’ like that, I ain’t interested.”

  Claymore laughed. “It ain’t nothin’ like that. Come on in, I’ll introduce you.”

  When Claymore and Joad stepped into the cabin he saw two men. One was sitting at the table playing solitaire, and the other was standing at the stove, cooking bacon.

  “Put on a little more bacon, McCoy,” Claymore said. “I’ve got us another soldier.”

  Claymore introduced Joad to both McCoy and Lanagan. “Lanagan is the one you got to listen to,” Claymore said. “He’s the boss.”

  “Boss of what?” Joad asked.

  “Why, he’s the boss of our group,” Claymore said.

  “I think what Joad is wanting to know, is what is it we plan to do with this little group,” Lanagan said. “Is that it?”

  “Yeah,” Joad said. “That’s sort of what I had in mind.”

  “I can tell you in two words. Make money.”

  Joad smiled. “Well, sir, I do like to make money.”

  “Are you particular about how you make it?” Lanagan asked. “What I’m askin’ is, you got ’ny thing against stealin’?”

  “It don’t matter none to me how we get it, long as I get my share.”

  “Well, Joad, what we do is, we steal money. ’N if somebody gets in our way, it may be that we’ll have to kill ’im.”

  “Is this all we got?” Joad asked. “Just the four of us?”

  “It ain’t four, yet,” Lanagan answered. “Right now there’s just the three of us. There won’t be four, ’til you decide to come in. Are you in, or out?”

  Joad looked at the other three, and saw, by the way they were looking at him that he really had no choice. It was too late now to tell them he didn’t want to join them. Lanagan had already told him that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill, which meant that if he left them, he would represent a threat to them. And he knew they wouldn’t tolerate a threat.

  “Hell, I’m in,” he said

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The stagecoach was two and a half hours into its trip from Weatherford to Audubon. There were three passengers inside: a young, newlywed couple and a man in his midfifties.

  “I have never seen so much country with so few people,” the young woman said. “Why, we haven’t seen a town for the last two hours. We would never travel so far in Virginia without seeing some form of life.”

  “You folks are from Virginia, are you?” the older man asked.

  “Yes, sir.” The young man put his arm around his wife. “My name is Gary Sinclair, and this is my wife, Bobbi Lee. We were married as soon as I graduated from William and Mary, and now we are going to Audubon, where I am to be an apprentice lawyer with Jason Pell.”

  “Well, you couldn’t pick a better man to start out with,” the older man said. “Jason Pell is very well thought of throughout the whole state.” He stuck his hand across the gap between the seats.

  “I’m Josh Tanner, I own the Audubon Mercantile.” He smiled. “I expect you’ll be seeing me whenever you set up your house.”

  “Yes, sir, I expect we will,” Gary replied.

  “I wish we would see someone,” Bobbi Lee said. “All this open space seems so desolate.”

  * * *

  Less than one mile ahead, Clete Lanagan, Dingus Claymore, Seth McCoy, and Vernon Joad were waiting on the Weatherford Road, about to carry out the robbery of the stagecoach.

  “You sure this here stagecoach is carryin’ money?” McCoy asked.

  “No, I ain’t exactly sure, but it more ’n likely is,” Lanagan said. “Anyway we’re in the need of some operatin’ money right now, so we’re goin’ to have to take whatever it has.”
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br />   McCoy smiled. “You got that right. I ain’t got two nickels to my name. I’d kind ’a like to have me a little spendin’ money.”

  Claymore pointed to a rooster tail of dust, which was at a considerable distance down the road.

  “Coach is a-comin’,” Claymore said.

  “Yeah, I see it,” Lanagan replied.

  “How far away is it, do you think?” McCoy asked.

  “I don’t know. I’d make it half a mile, maybe,” Claymore said.

  “All right boys, get ready,” Lanagan said. “It’ll be here just real soon.”

  The horses of the four outlaws were staked out about twenty yards off the road, behind a stand of trees. Lanagan went over to his own horse and snaked the Winchester .44-.40 from the saddle sheath. Returning to the road, he got behind a rock, levered a shell into the chamber, and waited.

  McCoy had been looking at the approaching coach through a telescope. He slid the scope shut. “I’ll be damned.”

  “What is it?”

  “That’s Hank Waters, ridin’ shotgun,” McCoy said.

  “You know him?” Lanagan asked.

  “Yeah, I know the son of a bitch. He was in the posse that catched me ’n got me put ’n jail. They didn’t nobody know who I was then, but that’s how I wound up over in Antelope near ’bout to be hung.”

  “Well, you got nothin’ to worry about, ’cause I’m about to take care of him,” Lanagan said.

  * * *

  “This dust is just terrible,” Bobbi Lee Sinclair said of the dust that was rolling in through the window of the stagecoach. She was using a fan in a losing effort to brush it away.

  “I know, dear,” Gary replied. “But it won’t be much longer.”

  “The railroad will be coming soon. By this time next year, we’ll be able to make this trip by train,” Josh said. “Why, then, the trip from Weatherford to Audubon will take little more than an hour, quite different from the half day it requires now.”

  “Oh, how wonderful that will be,” Bobbi Lee said.

  “Yes, it will be. Everyone in town is quite excited by it. Why, I expect our population will just about double, in no time.”