Torture of the Mountain Man Read online

  “This dress will be just perfect for you, Mrs. Dungey. Why, whoever picked out the blue dye for the dress must have been thinking of your eyes.”

  “Oh, Marjane,” Roxanne Dungey said with a self-conscious laugh. “I must say, you are the perfect salesperson.”

  Marjane had just finished making a package of the dress when she looked up to see Jason Pell coming into the store. Pell was a lawyer and a good friend of her father’s.

  “Mr. Pell, did you come to buy something for Mrs. Pell?” Marjane asked with a warm, welcoming smile. “We’ve got some new . . .”

  “No,” Pell said, interrupting her in mid-sentence.

  There was something in the tone of Pell’s voice, something in the expression on his face, that Marjane found frightening. She took a deep breath as she felt her stomach grow light.

  “What is it, Mr. Pell? What’s wrong?” Marjane asked.

  “It’s your father, Marjane. Sheriff Peabody has been shot.”

  “Oh, God in Heaven no!” Marjane said, lifting her hand to her mouth. “Has he been . . .” she stopped in midsentence, unable to say the word “killed.”

  “No, dear, he’s still alive, but he is badly hurt. He’s down at Dr. Palmer’s office now.”

  Suzie York, who owned Miss Suzie’s Dress Emporium, had come to the front of the store when she heard the jingle of the doorbell announcing Lawyer Pell’s entrance. Because she had done so, she had also overheard the conversation.

  Marjane looked toward her employer.

  “Go, Marjane, by all means, go to your father!” Suzie said.

  With a nod of her head, and tear-filled eyes, Marjane left the store with the lawyer. That was when she saw Ponder leaving the sheriff’s office with a covered body lying in the back of his funeral wagon.

  “No! No!”

  “That’s not your father!” Pell said quickly, when he saw where Marjane was looking. “We don’t know who he is, but we believe he may be the man who identified Lanagan, the man your father was trying to arrest when he was shot. The sheriff is down at Dr. Palmer’s office.”

  Marjane ran down the street to Dr. Palmer’s office.

  “Where is he? Where is my father?” she shouted, as she ran inside.

  “He’s back here, child,” Dr. Palmer’s disembodied voice called from the back room of the office.

  Marjane went into the back of the office, where she saw her father, lying on his back on a small operating table.

  “Is he . . .”

  “He’s still alive,” Dr. Palmer said.

  “Papa! Oh, Papa!” Tears were streaming down her face.

  Sheriff Peabody opened his eyes, then opened and closed his hand, as a signal for her to take it. She did so, and he tried to squeeze it, but didn’t have the strength to do so.

  “You are going to have to be brave for him,” Dr. Palmer said. “He is going to need your strength.”

  “Where is Dalton?” Marjane asked. “Why isn’t he here?”

  “I . . . sent . . . him . . . to . . . Antelope,” Sheriff Peabody said, gasping out the words.

  * * *

  Just as the sight of one man holding a rope looped around another man’s neck had drawn attention when Dalton and McCoy had left Audubon, so too did it as they rode into Antelope.

  “McCoy!” someone said. “That’s Seth McCoy!”

  “I didn’t think they would ever catch that murderin’ son of a bitch!” another said.

  Paying no attention to the gathering excitement their arrival had caused, Dalton directed McCoy to the jailhouse.

  “Get down off your horse,” Dalton said once they reached their destination.

  When McCoy refused to dismount, Dalton gave the rope a little jerk.

  “Careful with that, careful!” McCoy said. “I’m gettin’ down.”

  McCoy dismounted and, with the rope still attached to McCoy’s neck, the two men went inside.

  “Sheriff Wallace?”

  “Yes, that’s me,” Wallace said.

  “I’m Deputy Conyers from over in Audubon. I have a prisoner for you.”

  “Seth McCoy,” Sheriff Wallace said. He smiled. “Well now, I must say that the folks here in Antelope are going to be awful happy to see you.”

  “Sheriff, I wonder if you would sign a receipt for the prisoner so Sheriff Peabody can get it cleared off our books,” Dalton asked.

  “I’ll be glad to. By the way, McCoy had already been tried, found guilty, and condemned before he escaped. I expect we’ll get the gallows built and hang him rather quickly so he doesn’t get away from us again. We’ll be hangin’ ’im real soon, just in case you’d like to come back over and see the results of your work.”

  “Uh, thank you, no,” Dalton said. “I wouldn’t care to see anyone hang.”

  “It’s not a pretty sight, I’ll give you that,” Sheriff Wallace said as he finished writing out the receipt. “Here you are, my good man, and, do give Andy my best, will you?”

  “Yes, sir, I will,” Dalton replied.

  “Good for you, mister, for bringin’ that killer back so’s we could hang him!” someone shouted to Dalton as he rode out of town.

  * * *

  When Dalton dismounted in front of the Audubon sheriff’s office much later that afternoon, he was carrying both the receipt for the prisoner and a letter of thanks to Sheriff Peabody from Sheriff Wallace in Antelope. He was trying to decide whether to give the thank-you letter to him right away, or give it to him over the chicken dinner.

  “Hey, Deputy, where’ve you been?” C. G. Marvin asked. Marvin was the editor of the Audubon Eagle.

  “I was delivering Seth McCoy to the sheriff in Antelope,” Dalton replied. He smiled. “He was just real pleased to get him too.”

  “Then you don’t know about Sheriff Peabody, do you?”

  Dalton’s smile was replaced by a look of concern. “Know about Sheriff Peabody? What are you talking about? What is there I should know about him?”

  “Then you don’t know. I’m afraid the sheriff has been shot.”

  “What? Oh, no! Was he killed?”

  “No, he’s still alive, but barely. Doc Palmer has him in his office now.”

  Dalton glanced toward the doctor’s office.

  “Go on down there, if you want to,” Marvin said. “I’ll take the saddle off your horse and take him to the stable for you.”

  “Thanks, C.G., I appreciate that,” Dalton said, handing over the reins absently, his mind already on the sheriff.

  * * *

  The first person Dalton saw when he stepped into the doctor’s office was Marjane. She was sitting in a chair clutching a tear-stained handkerchief.

  “Marjane, I just heard! How is your father?”

  “Oh, Dalton!” She said, getting up and hurrying over to him. Dalton took her in his arms.

  “Is he . . . ?” Dalton asked, anxiously, unable to complete the sentence.

  “He’s still alive,” she said in a weak voice. “Oh, Dalton, what will I do if he dies?”

  Dalton embraced her, and while still holding her in his embrace, looked up as Dr. Palmer came into the room.

  “You two can come on back now, if you would like,” Dr. Palmer invited.

  Stepping into the back room, they saw Sheriff Andrew Peabody stretched out on the operating table.

  “Is he going to make it, Doc?” Dalton asked.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Dalton, I don’t know,” Dr. Palmer said. “There is no more internal bleeding, and I’ve managed to keep him from going into hemorrhagic shock. But that bullet is going to have to come out, or it’s going to get much worse.”

  “Why haven’t you taken it out?” Marjane asked.

  “Sweetheart, I’m just a country doctor, I can get most bullets out, but this one is too close to the heart, and I’m afraid if I make an effort I might well wind up killing him. Only a skilled surgeon would even try.”

  “You said yourself that he was going to die if that bullet doesn’t come out,”
Marjane said. “So at least try.”

  “Wait a minute, Marjane,” Dalton said, laying his hand on her arm. “Dr. Palmer, have you ever heard of Dr. Thomas Whitman?”

  “Thomas Whitman?” Dr. Palmer replied. “Yes, of course I have. What doctor hasn’t? As a matter of fact, he has an article on enteric paraplegia in a recent issue of the New England Journal of Medicine.”

  “Do you think he could get the bullet out?”

  “Look, I’m very flattered, but I hope you aren’t comparing me to him.”

  “No, I’m talking about Dr. Whitman. Do you think he could get the bullet out?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he could, but Dr. Whitman is chief surgeon at Mass General Hospital in Boston, and to be honest with you, Dalton, I don’t think Sheriff Peabody could stand the trip.”

  “I wasn’t planning on sending the sheriff to Boston, I was planning on asking the doctor to come here.”

  Dr. Palmer chuckled. “You are going to ask one of the most renowned surgeons in America to come to Audubon, Texas, to operate on the sheriff?”

  “Yes.”

  “I admire your loyalty to the sheriff, Dalton, and your desire to do what is best for him. But just what makes you think a noted surgeon like Dr. Whitman would come here?”

  “I’ll ask him to come,” Dalton replied, innocently.

  “And you think Dr. Whitman is just going to drop everything and come running to Audubon, Texas. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, Dalton, please don’t tease about a thing like that,” Marjane said. “This is my father we’re talking about.”

  “I’m not teasing, Marjane. I’m going to ask him.”

  “I must say, I admire your confidence, Deputy. But just what makes you think he would even read your letter?”

  A huge smile spread across Dalton’s face. “It won’t be a letter, it’ll be a telegram, and I won’t be sending it to him, I’ll be sending it to my sister.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would you send a telegram to your sister?”

  “Because my sister is married to Tom Whitman.”

  “You . . . you mean you actually know him?” Marjane asked, the concern in her face replaced by a hopeful smile.

  “Yes, Tom is my brother-in-law.”

  “Oh, Dalton!” Marjane said, excitedly. “Do you really think he will come?”

  “I know he will come,” Dalton said.

  Dr. Palmer stared at Dalton for a long moment. “Well, Dalton, if you know him, and you really think he might come, I suggest you get in touch with him, right away, because if that bullet doesn’t come out within a matter of a few weeks, Sheriff Peabody is certain to die. In the meantime I’ll keep Andy stabilized and aseptic, which is the best I can do. But your brother-in-law must get here as quickly as he can.”

  “Come, Marjane, walk down to the telegraph office with me,” Dalton invited.

  “Yes, I will. Oh, Dalton, thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston Dr. Tom Whitman and Dr. Gene Parrish visited Mrs. Allen, who was now recovering nicely in her own, private room. Her husband, Joe Allen, was in the room with her

  “Well, Mrs. Allen, you’re going to be released tomorrow, so how do you feel?” Tom asked.

  Mrs. Allen smiled, broadly. “I haven’t felt this well since I was a young woman,” she said.

  “Ha! That’s not saying much. You are still a young woman,” Tom said.

  “Doc, they tell me that what you did with my wife is something just real special,” Mr. Allen said. “And to show you how much I appreciate it, I just gave the hospital a gift of one hundred thousand dollars, and I did it in your name.”

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Allen, I appreciate that, and I know that the hospital appreciates it as well.”

  “To have my Maggie back, healthy again? Believe me, Doc, I’m the one that is appreciative.”

  When Tom returned to his office, he found his wife, Rebecca, waiting for him.

  “Hello, Becca. What a happy surprise to see you here.”

  “Tom, you’ve been saying you wanted to take some time off, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have. Why do you ask? Do you have someplace in mind you would like to go?”

  “Audubon, Texas.”

  Tom chuckled. “Audubon, Texas? Oh, I don’t know if we can manage that or not. I mean, a place like Audubon? Why, there must be thousands of people wanting to go there,” he teased.

  “I’m serious, Tom. I got this telegram from Dalton.”

  SIS DO YOU THINK YOU AND TOM COULD

  COME TO AUDUBON STOP SHERIFF

  PEABODY SHOT DOC SAYS BULLET

  TOO CLOSE TO HEART TO REMOVE STOP

  WOULD TAKE SOMEONE LIKE TOM STOP

  PEABODY IS GOOD MAN DON’T WANT

  HIM TO DIE STOP PLEASE COME QUICKLY

  LOVE DALTON

  The hospital administrator of Massachusetts General had just heard Tom’s request to take leave of the hospital.

  “I don’t know, it took me forever to get you to leave Texas in the first place, and now you want to go back?”

  “Dalton needs me.”

  “If the bullet is all that close to the heart, what makes you think you could remove it?”

  “I may wind up killing him,” Tom said. “But if I don’t try, he’ll be dead within another month, anyway.”

  The hospital administrator nodded. “You’re right about that. How long do you plan to be gone?”

  “About a hundred thousand dollars’ worth.” The administrator laughed. “You do have a point there. All right, go ahead, Tom, and stay as long as you need. You have my blessing.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Tom replied with a broad smile.

  * * *

  Hatchett MacMurtry pushed his hat back and stroked the week-old stubble on his chin. “You sure he’s in there?” MacMurtry asked.

  “Yeah, it’s Smoke Jensen, all right. I seen ’im go into Longmont’s saloon not more ’n ten minutes ago, ’n he ain’t come back out yet,” Poke Gilley said. Poke was one of two men that Hatchett MacMurtry had with him. The other man was Frank Ethan.”

  “The son of a bitch kilt my brother,” MacMurtry said. “So I aim to kill him.”

  “From ever’ thing I’ve heard about Smoke Jensen, he’s goin’ to take a heap o’ killin’,” Frank Ethan said.

  “You don’t want the hunnert dollars?” MacMurtry asked.

  “Yeah, I want it. I was just commentin’ is all. I mean, hell, who ain’t heard o’ Smoke Jensen?”

  “After today, folks will be sayin’, who ain’t heard o’ Frank Ethan,” MacMurtry said. “You’ll have the hunnert dollars ’n you’ll be famous.”

  “Yeah!” Ethan said as a broad smile spread across his face. “I’ll be known as the man who kilt Smoke Jensen.”

  “Where are we goin’ to do it?” Gilley asked.

  “His ranch is out on Eagle Road, some east of here. Way I figure it is, we’ll wait ’til he starts back home, ’n we’ll be ridin’ toward him like as if we was just comin’ into town, mindin’ our own business and such. Then when we get into range, why, we’ll just open up on the son of a bitch.”

  “Yeah,” Ethan said. “He won’t be suspectin’ nothin’ like that. More ’n likely we’ll put three or four bullets in ’im afore he even knows what’s goin’ on.”

  MacMurtry, Gilley, and Ethan rode out of town on Front Street until it turned to Eagle Road. When they were about a mile west of Big Rock, MacMurtry held up his hand.

  “We’ll wait here,” he said. “You two fellers, make sure your guns is loaded, ’n take ’em out ’n hold ’em on the saddle in front of you. That way he won’t know that you already got ’em out, ’n when you’re close enough, you can just raise ’em up ’n start shootin’ without givin’ him no warnin’ or nothin’. You’ll both be shootin’ while his gun is still in the holster.”

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Gill
ey said.

  “I got me another idea too,” MacMurtry said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I ain’t goin’ to be down here on the road with you.”

  “What? You ain’t? Why not?”

  “’Cause I’m goin’ to be up there on that rock with a rifle.” MacMurtry laughed. “Like as not, before you all start in a-shootin’, I’ll have already kilt the son of a bitch.”

  “Wait, if you’re the one what kills him, we’ll still get the hunnert dollars, won’t we?” Ethan asked.

  “Yeah, you’ll still get it.”

  “All right, only don’t start shootin’ too quick, ’cause I want to get famous for bein’ the one that kilt ’im,” Ethan insisted.

  “If we’re both a-shootin’ at ’im, how will we know which one of us done it?” Gilley asked.

  Ethan chuckled. “It won’t make no never mind which one of us it is what actually kills ’em. With us both shootin’, more ’n likely both of us will be the one that done it.”

  “Unless it’s MacMurtry,” Gilley said.

  “MacMurtry, don’t you go shootin’ ’til after we start shootin’ first,” Ethan said.

  “All right, all right. Quit you palaverin’ about it ’n just be ready when you see ’im comin’,” MacMurtry said.

  * * *

  After leaving Longmont’s, Smoke stopped at Murchison’s Leather Goods shop to pick up a pair of leather chaps Kenny Prosser had asked him to get for him.

  “Ha, I see you burned Kenny’s name on the chaps,” Smoke said.

  “Yes, sir, just like he wanted.”

  “Well, I’m sure he’ll be pleased with them.”

  “Say, Smoke, I don’t know if anyone else has told you, but speakin’ for myself, I’m damn glad you got MacMurtry. He was one mean bastard, killin’ Tyrone Green ’n his wife like that. ’N what he done to that little girl, well, sir, I just want to tell you I’m glad you got ’im.”

  “Thank you, Tim. But I just wish it hadn’t happened at all. The Greenes hadn’t been here all that long, but they were mighty good neighbors while they were.”

  “Where’s the little girl now?” Tim asked.

  “Oh, she’s down in Texas with some people who have known her since she was born. They’re giving her a real good home.”