Torture Town Read online

  “Who are you?” he asked in a pained voice.

  “I’m a friend of the little girl you raped,” Matt said. He could have saved his breath, because Hightower was already dead.

  “He raped a little girl?” the woman who had been with him asked.

  “She was fourteen years old.”

  The woman walked over to Hightower’s body and looked down at it. “Y te dejo dormir conmigo, hijo de puta! ” Angrily, she spit on him.

  At that moment, the sheriff and several others came clomping up the stairs and running into the room, their guns drawn.

  “Is he dead?” the sheriff asked, looking down at Hightower.

  “Yes,” Matt said. He pulled out the dodger he held on the man and showed it to the sheriff. “Here is the reward poster, and there is the body. I want the money.”

  The sheriff looked at the dodger for a moment, then at Hightower. “Oh yes, I heard about this. It happened up in Freemont County, didn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Matt replied without elaboration.

  The sheriff studied the dodger on Hightower for a moment; then he nodded. “All right,” he finally said. “I’ll validate that this is Hightower. It’ll probably take a couple of days, though, to get the money down from Denver.”

  “That’s all right,” Matt said. “I can wait.”

  Taos County, New Mexico Territory—1891

  Leaving Sparkle in a livery stable in Conjos with enough money to keep the horse comfortable for at least two more months, Matt continued with his search. With one down, and two to go, he managed to pick up the trail of Rufus Draco and Muley Ferguson, following them down into New Mexico.

  The metal bit jangled against his horse’s teeth. The horse’s hooves clattered on the hard rock and the leather saddle creaked beneath the weight of its rider. Matt Jensen’s boots were dusty and well worn, the metal of his spurs had become dull with time. He wore a Colt .44 at his hip, and carried a Winchester .44-40 in his saddle sheath

  He dismounted, unhooked his canteen, and took a swallow, then poured some water into his hat. He held it in front of his horse, and the horse drank thirstily, though Matt knew that the small amount of water did little to slake the animal’s thirst. The horse drank all the water, then began nuzzling Matt for more.

  “Sorry, Spirit,” Matt said quietly. “But that’s the best I can do for now. We’ll reach the monastery before nightfall, and there’ll be water there, I promise you.”

  The monastery Matt was referring to was the Brothers of Mercy. Records in the monastery indicated the Spanish had built it nearly two hundred years earlier, its location selected because of a year-round supply of water from Cottonwood Creek.

  Matt reached the monastery just before dark. The abbey was surrounded by high stone walls and secured by a heavy oak gate. He pulled on a rope that was attached to a short section of log. The makeshift knocker banged against the large, heavy gates with a booming thunder that resonated through the entire monastery. A moment later, a small window slid open and a brown-hooded face appeared in the opening.

  “Who are you?” the face asked.

  Matt had been here before. He knew Brother Paul, the monk in the window, and he knew that Brother Paul knew him.

  “I am just a traveler,” Matt replied.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to come in. I need food, water, and shelter.”

  “I’m sorry. You can’t come in.”

  “But, Brother, how can you turn me away?”

  “I am sorry,” the monk said again. “God go with you.” The little window slammed shut.

  Matt had known from the moment Brother Paul had asked who he was that something was wrong. The monk was trying to send Matt a message, and, with an almost imperceptible nod, Matt let Brother Paul know that he understood. Matt remounted, then rode away from the gate.

  Rufus Draco and Muley Ferguson were standing just inside the gate. Draco was peering through the crack between the timbers of the gate.

  “What’s he doin’?” Ferguson asked.

  “He’s ridin’ off,” Draco answered.

  Draco chuckled, then put his pistol away. He looked at the short, overweight monk. “You done that real good,” he said. “I don’t think he suspects a thing.”

  “It is not good to deny someone in need,” Brother Paul said.

  “Yeah? Well, I’m in need now. Come on, let’s go see if the cook has our supper finished. I’m starvin’.”

  The courtyard of the monastery was a verdant growth in the desert, lovingly tended to by the brothers of the order. Two centuries of monks had irrigated and cultivated a garden paradise that was lush with flowers, fruit trees, and vegetables. It was a never-ending task, and even now there were a dozen or more monks in the yard, gathering fruit, picking vegetables, and cutting flowers.

  The building they entered was surprisingly cool, kept that way by the hanging ollas, which, by the process of evaporation, lowered the temperature by several degrees.

  “Did I hear a knock at the gate?” Father Mordecai asked.

  “Yes, Father, it was a stranger,” Brother Paul said. “I do not know who he was.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Water, food, shelter.”

  “And you denied him sanctuary?”

  “I had no choice,” Brother Paul said, nodding toward Draco and Ferguson.

  “You prevented us from offering sanctuary?” Father Mordecai asked Draco.

  Draco was a big, ugly man, bald headed with a bushy red beard. His nose had been broken more than once, and it was flat until it swelled out for the nostrils.

  Ferguson was much smaller, with a ferretlike face, dead eyes, and skin that was heavily pocked from the scars of some childhood disease.

  “Maybe the padre here didn’t know who he was, but I knew who it was as soon as I seen ’im comin’. He wasn’t no ordinary visitor. His name is Matt Jensen, and he’s hot on our trail.”

  “Why is he pursuing you?”

  “That ain’t none of your business.”

  “I see,” Father Mordecai said. “Still, to turn someone away is unthinkable. It is a show of Christian kindness to offer water, food, and shelter to those who ask it of us.”

  “You’re being Christian enough just by takin’ care of us,” Draco insisted. “Now, what about that food? How long does it take your cook to fix a little supper?”

  “Forgive me for not mentioning it the moment you came in,” Father Mordecai said. “The cook has informed me that your supper is ready.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s about damn time. Why didn’t you say somethin’?” Draco said with a growl. “Come on, Muley, let’s me ’n’ you get us somethin’ to eat.”

  Brother Paul led the two men to a rather austere-looking dining room, consisting as it did of nothing more than one long table and benches.

  “If you gentlemen will just have a seat, I’ll bring you your meal,” Brother Paul offered.

  A moment later, Brother Paul came back into the room with two bowls and two pieces of black bread.

  “What is this?” Ferguson asked.

  “This is your supper. Please allow me to ask a blessing.”

  Brother Paul bowed his head and, though his lips moved, his words couldn’t be heard. Not until then did he put the bowls down in front of the two men.

  “What did you bother to bless this for? Hell, there ain’t nothin’ here but beans. Ain’t you got no meat?”

  Brother Paul shook his head. “In this order we do not eat meat.”

  “What do you mean you don’t eat meat? I know you got some beef here. I seen some cows.”

  “The cows provide us with our milk, cream, butter, and cheese,” Brother Paul said.

  “Just eat your beans, Ferguson. It’s better’n nothin’,” Draco said.

  Matt waited until after dark before he returned to the monastery. Leaving Spirit hobbled, he slipped up to one of the side walls, then climbed over it and dropped to the ground on the inside.

 
; There were few lights to be seen, for there was no electricity in this remote place, and the residents of the monastery used candles and lamps sparingly.

  Though the night was dark, it wasn’t quiet. Matt could hear the long, high-pitched trills and low, violalike thrums of the frogs, the chirping of crickets, and the long, mournful howls of coyotes.

  Moving carefully, and staying in the shadows, Matt moved toward the chapel, which showed a light through the window. When he reached the window and looked inside he saw Draco, Ferguson, and Father Mordecai. The priest was holding a chalice, the cup glistening in the flickering light of the single candle.

  “What is it worth?” Ferguson asked, pointing to the chalice.

  “What is it worth? There is no way to put a price on it.”

  “It’s gold, ain’t it? That means it’s worth something.”

  “Yes, it is pure gold.”

  “So if I was to take it, and melt it down, I’d say there must be at least twenty ounces there, then it’s got to be worth no less than four or five hundred dollars.”

  “Melt it down? How can you even think such a thing? No, that would be an unspeakable sacrilege! You would have to kill me first!” Father Mordecai insisted.

  “Well hell, preacher-man, that ain’t goin’ to be no problem,” Ferguson said, cocking his pistol. “I can take of that for you right now.”

  Matt leaped through the window, then fell to the floor and rolled. The sound of breaking glass got the attention of the two outlaws.

  “Son of a bitch!” Ferguson shouted, turning his pistol away from the priest and toward Matt.

  Matt fired at the candle, snuffing the light. “Run, Father!” he shouted.

  As Matt was shooting at the candle, one of the outlaws was shooting at him, and Matt felt a hammer-like blow to his shoulder. He returned fire, using the muzzle blast of the pistol that had shot at him as his target. He heard a grunt, followed by the sound of someone falling.

  He also heard someone running, then the crash of glass from the other side of the building, and he realized that someone had jumped through that window. He lay on the floor for a moment longer until his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and, by the ambient light of the full moon, he saw Father Mordecai crouched in a corner. He also saw that one of the two outlaws was down, and the other was gone.

  “Are you hurt, Father?” Matt asked.

  “No.”

  Matt got up and walked over to the man on the floor and saw that, while not dead, he was seriously wounded. Matt picked up the wounded man’s pistol, then moved quickly to the window. He looked outside, but saw nothing. The other man had gotten away.

  Rufus Draco was the one who had leaped through the window and escaped into the night. Muley Ferguson was the man Matt had shot in the exchange of gunfire, and though Matt wanted, very much, to question him, Ferguson was unconscious and unresponsive.

  Both Matt and Ferguson had been wounded in the shoot-out, and the Brothers, after tending to them, put them in the same room on side-by-side bunks. And even though Ferguson was an outlaw who had bullied the Brothers and had been in the process of attempting to steal one of their most precious artifacts, the Brothers gave him the best care they were capable of providing.

  Over the next twenty-four hours, Ferguson’s condition worsened, and Matt realized that there was very little chance that he would be able to question him to find out where Draco might have gone.

  The Brothers buried him the next day. Matt, with his shoulder expertly bandaged, stood out with the others as Father Mordecai prayed over Ferguson’s body. The outlaw was interred, not in the consecrated graveyard, but at least on the grounds.

  “How can you pray for him?” Matt asked. “Don’t you understand that he was about to kill you?”

  “I wasn’t praying for the body. I was praying for the soul,” Father Mordecai said.

  “What makes you think that a body like that even had a soul?”

  “Oh, but you don’t understand, Matthew. We aren’t bodies with souls. We are souls with bodies,” Father Mordecai explained.

  It was two more weeks before Matt, with his shoulder nearly mended, stood beside Spirit just inside the front gate, ready to ride on. Brother Paul and Father Mordecai were there, along with all the other Brothers of the monastery. Matt lifted his left arm and moved it around.

  “How is your arm, Matthew?” Brother Paul asked.

  “As good as new,” Matt replied. “Nobody has ever done a better job of patching me up.”

  Father Mordecai handed Matt a package wrapped in cloth.

  “What is this?”

  “I noticed that you developed a particular liking for black bread,” Father Mordecai said. “So I asked the cook to bake up a couple of extra loaves for you to take with you. Also ajar of honey.”

  “Well, now,” Matt said with a big smile. “It looks like I won’t be hungry for a while.”

  “You will be going after Mr. Draco?” Brother Paul asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I know what Mr. Draco and Mr. Ferguson did,” Brother Paul said. “And I know that we are supposed to love the sinner and hate the sin, but I am finding that very hard to do so with someone as evil as Rufus Draco. I find myself hoping that you do find him, and I pray that, in any such encounter as may ensue from such a meeting, you escape unscathed.”

  “You do know, don’t you, Brother Paul, that the only way I can escape unscathed is if Rufus Draco comes out the worse in any direct confrontation. And that means that I will probably have to kill him.”

  Brother Paul chuckled. “Yes, I know. In such a way I can pray that justice be done, without praying, directly, for any evil to befall the man.”

  Matt laughed, and reached out to put his hand on Brother Paul’s shoulder. “Brother Paul, you are a most devious man,” he said. “I like that in a person.”

  The gate to the monastery was opened, and Matt rode out, waving good-bye at the men who had nursed, fed, and befriended him.

  As the gate closed behind him, Matt thought about the task ahead. Draco had escaped him this time, but Matt was sure he would catch up with him someday. And when he did . . . he would kill him.

  Chapter Three

  Pecato, New Mexico Territory

  It had been three weeks since the incident at the monastery, and Matt had lost direct contact with Rufus Draco’s trail. He wandered into Pecato, just on the chance that Draco may have come through there, and he tied up in front of a false-fronted saloon called Mad Dog. Inside, under the soft, golden light of three gleaming chandeliers, the atmosphere was quite congenial. There were a few men standing at one end of the bar, engaged in friendly conversation, while at the other end, the bartender stayed busy pouring drinks and cleaning glasses. Most of the tables were filled with cowboys, miners, and storekeepers laughing over exchanged stories, or flirting with one of the several bar girls whose presence added to the enjoyment of the evening.

  Because it was mid-June, the two heating stoves were now cold, though the distinctive aroma of wood smoke from their winter’s activity continued to hang around these appliances. Mixed with that scent were the smells of liquor, tobacco, and women’s perfume, and the occasional odor of too many men with too few baths.

  Matt took advantage of the ambience of the saloon, getting into a game of stud poker with three other players he had befriended. The other three poker players were a doctor, the owner of a livery stable, and a driver for the New Mexico Stage Coach Company.

  To the casual observer it might appear that Matt was so relaxed as to be off guard. A closer examination, however, would show that his eyes were constantly flicking about, monitoring the room, tone and tint, for any danger. And, though he was conversing easily with the others at the table, his keen sense of hearing was listening in on snatches of dozens of other conversations, listening to see if he could find out anything about Rufus Draco. Additionally, he possessed a sense that could not be described . . . a kinesthesis developed by years of exposure to danger.


  “I believe it is your bet, Mr. Jensen,” Dr. Dunaway said.

  Matt had two queens. He had hoped to draw another queen but failed to do so. The doctor had two kings showing.

  “I fold,” Matt said.

  Joel Matthews, the livery stable owner, also folded. That meant that Manny Crabtree, who was showing two jacks, was the only one left to challenge the good doctor.

  “You know what, Doc? I don’t think you’ve got those kings backed up. On the other hand, I might have my jacks backed up, but it’s goin’ to cost you to find out, so I’m raising you five dollars.”

  Dr. Dunaway smiled, and slid the money out into the middle of the table. “All right, I call,” he said.

  “Damn!” Crabtree said. “You ain’t supposed to do that.... You’re supposed to raise me back so’s we can spar a bit longer.”

  “I don’t need to spar. I’ve got you beat,” Dr. Dunaway said. He turned over a third king.

  Two men came into the saloon then, and they walked over to the bar. The men caught Matt’s attention immediately. Perhaps it was because of the way they wore their guns, low and kicked out, or maybe it was how they looked at everyone in the saloon. Since Matt entered a saloon the same way, their caution was something that he immediately recognized. One of the two had a disfiguring scar that came down through his left eye and across his cheek. Matt had to look twice, before he realized that he didn’t even have an eyelid over that eye. Though the other one had no disfiguring scars, he stood out because of dull gray eyes that looked lifeless.

  But it was more than their looks that caught his attention. It was something else, though it was nothing he could explain. It was just a feeling that these two men meant trouble.