Bannerman the Enforcer 20

by Kirk Hamilton

  “Yeah, Pa,” Tommy said and, aided by a boot in his ample backside, streaked out the door and ran up the street towards the distant law office.

  In the front part of the diner, Buck Harlan sat patiently, savoring the smells of the frying steak and looking forward to getting it under his belt ...

  The train began to slow down as it approached the Smoke Hill freight yards and the change in motion wakened Yancey Bannerman where he was dozing on his seat, head against the window, hat tilted forward over his eyes. He sat up, blinking, looked out and saw Smoke Hill fast approaching. Yawning, he reached across the aisle to shake Cato’s shoulder where the smaller man snored, curled up on a seat, his short length easily accommodated with only a slight bend to his legs. Yancey envied him as he stood up stiffly and stomped some of the stiffness out of his long legs.

  “We’re rolling in, Johnny,” he said as Cato stirred, looking irritable.

  “You could have let me sleep a few minutes more,” Cato growled and, as Yancey raised his eyebrows, added, “I was havin’ a beautiful dream. About that big-hipped señorita ... sorry, señora. I never quite got her to keep me warm down in that Mex village.”

  Yancey grinned and heaved down his saddle and war bag from the luggage rack, throwing Cato’s straight at the smaller man so that he had to dodge fast. “We’ll snuggle up to some bacon and eggs at the first diner we come to. That ought to keep you warm if you’re cold.”

  “Cold ain’t exactly the word for the way I feel, but I guess bacon and eggs sounds kind of tempting ...” He stuck his head out the window and let the morning breeze blow some of the cobwebs away. “Hell! Another trail town! Don’t they ever look any different?”

  “They give ’em different names.”

  “Yeah. I could think of a few that’d fit better than some I know!” Cato growled. He sighed and picked up his war bag. “Okay ... Let’s see if we can locate this Harlan hombre, get our wet-nursin’ over and done with and then head back for the bright lights of Austin, huh? I was dreaming of them all the way up from Mexico and what do I get? The cattle yards of a dump called Smoke Hill!”

  Yancey grinned as the train shuddered to a stop, shouldering his war bag. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been called Dung Hill.”

  Cato’s nostrils flared as they stepped down. “I think they made a mistake. Your name suits it better.”

  Yancey grinned but his face straightened abruptly as there was a wild scream from down the track and they both turned in time to see a running man fall and another man come up and start pounding into him with a hickory club. There were other yells and men were hurled out of box cars and flushed from the tie-rods under the train.

  “Nothin’ to be alarmed at, gents,” a depot agent told the two enforcers. “Just flushin’ out the hoboes who ride the rods. They don’t usually try it again after those hounds are through.”

  “Hounds?” Cato asked.

  “The fellers with the clubs ... They call ’em hound-dogs. They keep watch for hombres tryin’ to cheat the railroad by ridin’ free.”

  Cato said something under his breath about penny-pinching railroads and the agent looked at him sharply. “Hounds don’t always get it their own way, you know ... One named Brody got beat-up real bad last night. He’s still lookin’ for the hombre who did it. If you see a tall feller packin’ an old Navy Colt, you just let the sheriff’s office know. He’ll get word to Brody ... And you’ll have a few free drinks to wash the dust out of your throats ...”

  He winked and Cato stood on his toes deliberately as he and Yancey moved away, faces impassive.

  They strolled away from the depot, totally unimpressed with what they had seen of Smoke Hill so far. It didn’t exactly throw down the ‘welcome’ mat.

  “Sounds like Harlan’s got himself in trouble already,” Cato said as they lugged their gear towards the town. “Warden Harris reckoned he was packin’ a Navy Colt, didn’t he?”

  “Warden Harris reckoned a lot of things,” Yancey said grim-faced. “According to him, Harlan’s a mad-dog killer who shouldn’t have been released ... But you saw Harris!”

  “A polecat,” said Johnny Cato simply.

  “Lucky we ran into the friendly jasper at the Houston railroad depot, or we mightn’t have got onto Harlan’s trail so quick,” said Yancey. “Freight train to Smoke Hill, he said.”

  “Only seems Harlan didn’t bother to buy a ticket. Say, Yancey—” Cato broke off as four men came pounding down the main street, trailed by a chubby boy of about thirteen. The one in the lead, a big man, carried a sawn-off shotgun and two of the others held guns in their fists as well. The fourth man had a badge of some sort glinting on his vest in the morning sun. They ran fast and headed for a diner, the big man in the lead waving his arm and sending the two other men with guns down to the side and rear entrances. He ran to the front, kicked open the door and charged in, the shotgun lifting. The lawman hurried up onto the diner porch, pulled the door closed and stationed himself there, arms folded. Obviously, he intended to block anyone who tried to enter.

  Yancey Bannerman and Johnny Cato hit the diner porch at a run and dumped their gear in a corner. The surly deputy stood with his boots planted wide, arms folded, smack in front of the double doors. From behind him came sounds of furniture being shoved around violently and a man groaned.

  “Find another eatery,” the deputy told Yancey and Cato. “This one’s closed, strangers.”

  There were further crashes from inside and Yancey craned his neck to see past the deputy. The upper part of the door was opaque glass but there was sufficient scraped away for him to see into the diner. Yancey caught a glimpse of men scuffling around in there and there came the crash of breaking glass. “What’s going on in there?” Yancey demanded.

  “Not your business, mister,” growled the deputy. “Now move on. You’ll find another eatery a couple of blocks down the street.”

  Cato and Yancey exchanged glances.

  “We like this one,” Yancey said and, as the deputy’s face hardened and he started to unfold his arms, he hit the man solidly just above the belt buckle. He gagged and doubled over and Cato was waiting to club him on the back of the neck and stretch him out on his face on the floorboards.

  Yancey’s Colt sprang into his hand as he kicked open the door and lunged inside, closely followed by Cato, who had his Manstopper out and cocked. They took in the scene inside in one sweeping glance. The diner owner was at one end of the counter, looking distractedly down at smashed crockery and a splintered table. Two men stood against the walls with guns in their hands, watching as Brody beat up a man who could only be Buck Harlan. An old Navy Colt was on the counter near Brody’s sawn-off shotgun.

  But the tableau only lasted a few seconds as all eyes turned towards Yancey and Cato at the doorway.

  “Keep out of this!” Brody snarled, turning back fast as the bloody-faced Harlan stumbled upright in a corner, kicking his feet free of a splintered table. Brody moved in with fists cocked, ready to slam into the dazed man.

  “We’re drawing cards,” Yancey said quietly and Brody stopped in surprise, one fist cocked, turning his head slowly to stare at the two intruders.

  “What in hell—?” he began, but Harlan took advantage of the diversion and kicked hard into Brody’s shins which he knew were still tender from the gun-raking he had given them in the freight car. Brody yelped and Harlan bared his teeth as he twisted his fingers in the man’s long hair and spun him face first into the wall.

  The other two railroad ‘hounds’ turned their guns on Yancey and Cato, shooting wildly, one bullet smashing in the glass of the door. The diner owner yelled and hurriedly ducked under the counter as Yancey and Cato returned the fire and more crockery was smashed on the shelves. Cato lunged to the left and Yancey went to the right, firing as they moved. Yancey’s man went down yelling, dropping his gun and clawing at his right hip. Cato’s target made a dive for the rear door and the smaller agent went after him, firing just as the man reached the
door. The shot slammed him into the woodwork. He turned, snarling and tried to bring his gun up for another shot. Cato fired again and the man jerked and collapsed.

  Harlan and Brody were brawling wildly now and Brody was desperately trying to reach his sawn-off shotgun on the counter. Harlan slammed into him but the big railroad man wanted the gun and he took the blows without even slowing down. He lunged along the counter, hands outstretched for the weapon and Yancey leapt across the room but saw that he wasn’t going to get there in time. Brody got his hands on the gun and swung swiftly, cracking the short barrels across Harlan’s head and sending him staggering. Yancey dived for the floor and Cato ducked behind an overturned table as the shotgun blasted, just as the deputy charged in through the front door, gun in hand. The charge of buckshot sped over Yancey’s head and caught the deputy full in the chest and face. His scream was cut short, lost in the thunderous explosion, and his body was hurled back into the street as if fired from a catapult.

  Brody looked surprised at what he had done, but swung the second barrel towards Yancey as the big man rolled onto his side and snapped off a shot. Brody spun with the impact of the lead and the second barrel of the shotgun blasted into the ceiling, ripping a fist-sized hole in the tarpaper and shingle. Yancey thought he heard the diner owner moan at this new damage as he lunged upright. Harlan had managed to snatch up his old Navy Colt and he whirled on the wounded Brody and let the cocked hammer drop. The old weapon bucked in his hand, thundering with a curiously flat sound in comparison to the sharp cracks of the cartridge weapons, and a huge cloud of swirling gray-white smoke belched from the muzzle, almost obscuring the flash. But the lead ball sped true and took Brody through the middle of the face, smashing him down so that he cannoned off the counter before sprawling on the floor, legs jerking feebly.

  Yancey coughed in the black powder gunsmoke, waving a hand violently to clear it and saw Harlan staring in a kind of surprise at the smoking gun in his hand. Obviously he hadn’t really expected it to go off.

  “Best be moving, mister,” Yancey said curtly, grabbing his arm and hauling him towards the front door. “I figure this town won’t take kindly to being disturbed so early in the morning.”

  Harlan hesitated a moment, shaking his arm free of Yancey’s grip, and looked into the big man’s face.

  “I can take care of myself,” he growled.

  “Yeah,” Yancey said dryly. “We noticed when we came in. But suit yourself. Me and my pard are hightailing it out. No time to argue ... C’mon, Johnny.”

  He started for the smashed front door and stepped over the deputy’s sprawled body, Cato following fast. They saw people moving into the street further uptown and picked up their saddles and war bags. By the time they were leaping down from the porch to the street, Buck Harlan came running out through the doorway, jamming his hat onto his head and still holding his old Navy Colt.

  “Wait for me!” he yelled as all three of them sprinted back towards the railroad yards.

  Up the street, angry, armed men were hurrying towards the diner ...

  “Where’re we goin’?” Harlan panted, keeping up with the two agents as they ran, skipping over the sleepers between the rail tracks. “Ain’t a train due to pull out till noon.”

  “But there’re several trail outfits in town, herding steers into the pens,” Yancey answered, picking his way carefully along the ties. “Cattlemen won’t see their own kind stuck for mounts when the chips are down. And ours are surely all the way down!”

  “I got no money!” Harlan said.

  “Worry about that later,” Cato growled. “Let’s just shake the dust of this lousy town first.”

  Harlan glanced back and saw the group of men gathering outside the diner. Some were already pointing their way and he knew it wouldn’t be long before there was pursuit.

  But he was worried about these two total strangers who had bought into his trouble: his experience had been that no one did anything for nothing. He wondered what they wanted from him.

  His face was grim and his right hand tightened its grip on the old Navy Colt as he pounded on towards the loading pens where a bunch of sweating, yelling, swearing cowboys hazed steers up the chutes. He figured once they were mounted and clear of town, he would shake these two hombres just as fast as he could.

  He hadn’t asked them to stick their noses in.

  Four – Training a Killer

  They finally shook the pursuit from Smoke Hill late in the afternoon. The herders at the railroad pens had supplied them with three hardy work mounts that were used to running all day and it had been this factor as much as Yancey’s knowledge of the country that had enabled them to escape the riders from Smoke Hill.

  The outfit at the railroad yards had been from one of the remote ranches out in the wild country and the men had all run afoul of Smoke Hill law and its representatives at one time or another. They had come up against Brody, some of them, when the big railroad man had been drunk and spoiling for a fight. So no one had any sympathy for the dead deputy or railroad men, and once Yancey and Cato had shown the color of their money, three long-muscled, well-fed and rested cow ponies had been brought to light. The boss had even thrown in a worn old work saddle for Harlan.

  The ex-convict wasn’t easy on the back of a horse at first, having been out of the saddle these past fifteen years, but the trick of it came back to him in time. They made for the hills.

  The sheriff of Smoke Hill organized a ragtag posse and once the fugitives came within rifle range and there were long minutes of dodging lead as they made the first steep climb up into the hills. Then they had rounded a jutting butte that protected them from the posse’s guns and they had increased and held their lead all the way to the top of the mountain. Harlan had suggested they might dismount and pick off some of the followers but Yancey and Cato decided to keep riding. Yancey led the way down the far side of the range to a slow-moving stream with a sandy bottom. They headed upstream and, when the water ran out, they went through sand, the hoof marks filling up as soon as the mounts walked on. There would be no trail for the posse to follow here, and above was a bulky ridge that screened them from the men who would soon come riding over the crest of the range.

  Steadily, they climbed the western peak, keeping below the skyline as they moved around a precarious high trail and went down onto a grassy prairie that stretched to the horizon. Yancey reined in and hipped in his saddle to look at the others as they came alongside.

  “Reckon we’ve shaken ’em,” he said.

  “For sure,” Cato agreed, squinting at his partner. “Didn’t know you were familiar with this neck of the woods.”

  Yancey shrugged. “Drove a trail herd through here for Big Jim Castledine a few years back.”

  “You got one hell of a memory,” Cato said, with a touch of admiration in his voice.

  “Just as well,” Harlan said, looking at the men who had saved his neck, then glancing around at the sea of grass stretching out in all directions. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sure smells sweet ... Well, I’m sure obliged to you gents for pullin’ me out of that scrape. Dunno when I’ll ever be able to pay you back for what you laid out for the horse and saddle, but I won’t forget you. I’ll square up when I can. Where can I find you?”

  Yancey lit a cheroot, and folded his hands on his saddle horn, looking closely at Harlan. “We’re kind of fiddle-footed, mister. Drifters. We never stay put in one place for long. Guess it’s about time we introduced ourselves.” He held out his right hand. “I’m Yancey Bannerman and this here’s John Cato, sometimes known as ‘Colt’ on account of how he used to be a gunsmith once. Johnny specialized in converting old cap and ball weapons, like that one you’re wearing, to cartridge arms.” Harlan hesitated then gripped hands briefly with both men, nodding curtly. It seemed to be a real effort for him to speak his own name. “I’m—Buck Harlan.”

  “And where do you figure on headin’, Buck?” Cato asked.

  Harlan shrugged and w
aved an arm around vaguely. “I guess there’ll be towns out there.”

  “Some,” Yancey agreed. “Might take a heap of finding for a stranger. What d’you do, Buck? You don’t look like a cattleman and I’d say it’s a long time since you forked a horse.” Harlan gave him a hard look and didn’t answer.

  Cato gestured to the Navy Colt on his hip. “And how come you’re totin’ such an out-of-date firearm, man? You could get yourself killed depending on that to get you out of trouble. Leastways, until it’s fine-tuned and oiled. That looks kind of neglected to me.”

  Harlan dropped a hand to the gun butt, frowning, staring from one man to the other. “I guess I'll make out,” he said curtly, in a low voice. He nodded jerkily. “Obliged again. So long.”

  Neither Yancey nor Cato moved and Harlan stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “Something wrong?” he asked tightly.

  They went on staring at him and his mouth tightened. “To hell with you then!” he muttered and kneed his horse forward.

  Yancey let him ride about ten yards, then called, “You’ll come to Preston that way. Sheriff’s one of the toughest in the Southwest. He don’t like saddlebums.”

  “And he sure hates jailbirds,” Cato added quietly, his words bringing Harlan up short. The lanky ex-convict whirled, hand going for his Colt but he was long out of practice and was staring into the muzzles of their Colts before he had the Navy half clear of leather. He sighed and let the gun drop back into the old holster.

  “I don’t get you hombres,” he said tightly. “You know I ain’t got any dinero. What do you want?”

  “Maybe we like your company, Buck,” Yancey said, holstering his Peacemaker as Cato put up his Manstopper. He rode forward. “Man, you stand out like a sore thumb with that cropped haircut and pasty skin and those old clothes. It all adds up to Territorial Prison just as plain as if you were wearing denims with the name plastered across your backside, like they have on the rock pile. Before the lash chops it up, that is.”