himself had not been involved somehow in the transaction. Perhaps it had been his idea. Perhaps he had lent his authority in some way to the embezzlement. It didn’t matter. Longarm’s job was to bring them all in and recover the money. That was one of the things he liked about being a deputy marshal, his duty was clear-cut. It wasn’t always easy, but at least it was clear-cut.
There were more screams and more sobbing and moaning.
Longarm was listening carefully. He surprised himself by being able to judge that Earl Combs, even though he was being hurt, was not being tortured to the extent that would cause him to reveal where he had hidden the $200,000. They had not yet reached that point of pain that was worth $200,000 to make it stop. He thought, however, the stove just might be the answer.
Richard Harding said, “Well, this is not working. Jack, go test that stove. Spit on it and see how hot it’s getting, then get his pants off.”
Someone cackled, “Judge, you don’t mean you’re going to set him on that stove, do you?”
Richard Harding said, “Well, it’s a little experiment. Benjamin Franklin said that time was relative. Five minutes with a beautiful woman was different from five minutes sitting on top of a hot stove. I think I’ll test that theory out.”
Longarm could hear Earl Combs instantly begin to protest, sobbing and begging and whining and moaning. The judge said, “Earl, you can stop it anytime you want to. Just tell us where the gold is or lead us to it.”
“You’d just kill me.”
Harding laughed. He said, “Why would I want to do that? All I want is the money. You’re nothing to me. I have no reason to kill you or keep you alive.”
Longarm smiled thinly to himself. The judge was very good at making it sound plausible that he wasn’t going to kill you. He knew. The judge had said the same thing to him.
Longarm glanced at the smoke that was coming out of the stovepipe. He could see little flames in it. He reckoned that Jack had filled the firebox full and that it was going like sixty, He didn’t doubt that it would begin to glow before very long, and it made him shudder inside to think that they were going to put a man’s bare skin onto such a surface.
Harding said, “We’re just about there, Earl, and there you are with your bare ass hanging out, about to have it applied to the stove. I’ll tell you what. We’ll put your hand on it first, and then if you feel like telling us, we won’t roast the ass off you. How’s that?”
Combs began to scream and yell and curse and moan and cry. Longarm could hear the two men swearing at him. He could hear scuffling. They were apparently trying to take him over to the stove. Jack said, “Damn it, you son of a bitch. Quit fighting it. Quit fighting or I’ll break your nose with the barrel of my revolver. Come on, get his arm up behind his back, Morris. Hurry up.”
Harding said, “One of you hold him and the other take hold of his left hand by the wrist with both hands. He’s going to struggle.”
Longarm could hear a sudden sizzle. At first he thought it was the sound of Earl Combs’s hand frying but then he heard Jack say, “There, Judge, I poured some whiskey on it. Listen to it sizzle.” Almost instantly, Longarm got a strong whiff of vaporized liquor. He wondered what it would do to Combs’s hand.
Harding said, “Touch one finger to it first, boys.”
“Judge, it ain’t gonna be easy,” Jack said. “He’s hard to hold. I can’t guarantee just one finger.”
“Get his hand on it then.”
There was a pause and then there was a scream that seemed to almost pierce right through the ceiling and rise high into the sky. In that second, Longarm knew that Earl Combs had reached his point of pain. He began screaming, “I’ll tell ya! I’ll tell ya! Don’t! Stop, please! Oh, my God, I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it! Help me!”
Richard Harding said, “Where’s the money, Earl?”
“The pain! I can’t stand it!”
Harding said coldly, “You get a drink of whiskey and you get to ram your hand into a bucket of water the minute you say where the money is. It’s up to you.”
“It’s in the Laredo National Bank.” Combs was screaming and crying. He said, between sobs, “It’s in a safety deposit box.”
“What’s the number of the safety-deposit box?”
“Five-zero-nine.”
“All right, boys. Give him a rest. Stick his hands in that bucket of water and give him a shot of whiskey.”
Longarm shook his head slowly. The money had been within reach the whole time. Safety-deposit box number 509. That was all he needed to know. Now he could take them in.
He looked around for some way to get them out in the open. The obvious course was to stop up the smoke stack. He took off his hat, looked at it, and then looked at the smoke stack, which was throwing forth dark smoke filled with sparks. It was a forty-dollar hat. He sighed and then thought of something else. Hell, his shirt was only a five-dollar shirt. Better a five-dollar shirt than a forty-dollar hat. As he was taking the shirt off, he could hear Combs still moaning and then he heard Richard Harding say, “Now where is the key to that safety-deposit box, Earl?”
There was a moan and then Combs said, “I don’t know. I don’t know. I can’t think, I’m hurting so bad.”
Harding said, “I’m going to ask you one more time, Earl, before your hand goes back on the stove. Where is the key?”
“Let me think. Let me think, please.”
Longarm had his shirt stripped off. He wadded it into a ball and then stuffed it down into the stovepipe. Within seconds, the cabin was going to fill up with smoke. He didn’t particularly care where the key was—he didn’t need the key. He could go in with a court order and get box 509 open. He began to creep toward the front of the cabin. If matters went right, he was soon going to have company.
