“Could help your—uh—reputation, if you did lend a hand in getting her out unharmed,” Yancey pointed out.
Asa stared at him levelly. “Maybe. I’ll give the matter some thought. While we’re riding for San Cristobal.”
“When do we move?” Cato asked.
“Soon as you’ve drained that coffee cup, runt,” Morg Purdy growled, his mouth stuffed with chicken meat, gravy dripping down into his beard.
Cato merely looked at the big killer. “Where’s the one-eyed Mex?”
Morg shrugged. “Like all greasers, he couldn’t take it. He up and died on me.”
Asa seemed a trifle uncomfortable. “It was crude but efficient. Time is running out. I don’t normally let Morg have his way but in this instance ...” He shrugged, raked his eyes around the circle of men. “Mount up. We’re breaking camp.”
The men moved instantly, throwing water on the fire, gathering their things.
It seemed that when Asa Purdy spoke, everyone jumped. Within ten minutes, they were all mounted and riding out into the night. There was a moon and, because he knew the market town, Yancey led the way. Cato rode alongside and the Buckskinners strung out behind.
“How come Asa showed when he did in that cantina, Yance?” Cato asked, keeping his voice down.
“Worked his way down through a string of fellers, it seems. Used a gun barrel here, a knife there, finally got the same information that Howie Pepper brought to us, about the gal being taken to Mexico on board the schooner. His bunch had a time of it running the border patrol it seems, delayed ’em considerably. We made good time by that cutter and more or less arrived at the same time. Asa was on his way in to see if he could get a lead on Grant and this Borden hombre when we got caught up in that fracas.”
“Well, hate to admit it, but I’m glad he showed when he did. I still feel like a hoss had rolled on me.” Cato rubbed his sore ribs gently, the memory of that crushing table still fresh. “Looks like we’re stuck with the Buckskinners right now.”
“Might as well use ’em while we can,” Yancey said. “Grant is gonna have the fake Buckskinners backing him. Be too many for us to tackle alone, when we’ve got to try and get the gal away, too.”
“I got the feelin’ they’re usin’ us more than we’re usin’ them.”
Yancey smiled faintly. “Could be,” he admitted. “Either way, there’s gonna be a showdown of some sort at San Cristobal.”
Cato looked sharply at his pard. “You figure we might have trouble with Asa?”
“Not Asa.”
“Yeah. See what you mean. Morg, huh? Well, I’ll watch that sonuver like a hawk watchin’ chicken. I don’t trust him.”
“Me neither, but for now, Johnny, we’ve got to play it their way. If we walk away from San Cristobal, I figure we’ll have other problems. But right now, we’ve got to team-up with this bunch of outlaws.”
“Dukes’d have a fit if he knew.”
Yancey looked grim. “Dukes has enough on his plate without something like this to add to his upset. Whatever happens, I aim to get back to Austin and take care of Dysart.”
“Well, pard, if you don’t, I sure as hell will,” Cato vowed.
They continued to ride on in silence across the high plains country and by sunup they were within sight of San Cristobal de los Casas.
It nestled at the foot of barren-looking hills, beyond which lay the trail to Texas. But there were shepherds and peons working in those hills, somehow grubbing a living from the hardpan soil, bringing their produce into San Cristobal from time to time to exchange for the necessities and, occasionally, some of the small luxuries of life. It was an ancient town, going ’way back to the days of the Spanish Conquistadors, but, strangely enough, it had never had a history of banditry, like so many other hill towns and villages close to the border. These places could act as fine headquarters for sorties north across the Rio, raiding the ranches or stagecoaches on the long lonely runs, then retreating back to the nearest sanctuary of a village.
Somehow, San Cristobal had managed to miss the attention of the bandidos, likely because of that range of barrier hills. That slowed escape considerably …
The bunch of riders reined down and Asa and Morg Purdy put their mounts up alongside the Enforcers. The white adobe buildings of San Cristobal glared in the early morning sun, the mission tower showing a flash of fire near the top as the rays caught the big bronze bell hanging there.
“How come a small place like that rates a big bell tower?” growled Morgan, as if it was a personal affront to his sensibilities.
“The old Spaniards liked to build churches in gratitude to the Almighty for showing them the way to El Dorado,” Yancey said.
“The conquistadors never did actually find El Dorado, Bannerman,” Asa Purdy pointed out.
“They took enough gold and silver out of Mexico and Peru,” Yancey countered. “It was near enough. Anyways, El Dorado wasn’t a place, as they thought.”
“No. He was the Gilded Man,” Asa said. “Part of an Inca annual ceremony when the king would cover himself with liquid gold and leap into the sacred lake to commune with his gods.”
Yancey looked at Asa in surprise. “You’ve got quite an education for a man who hardly moves out of the mountains, Asa.”
The older Purdy returned his stare levelly. “My pa sent me to school and then, when I could read, bought—or stole—hundreds of books. For me.”
“I wondered. The way you talk and so on. Yet you live primitively, outside the law.”
“My choice, Bannerman,” Asa said in clipped tones that warned it would be useless to try to probe deeper, though the old man added: “I prefer my way of life to yours.”
“The hell with the gab,” growled Morgan. “What’s the next move, Pa?”
Asa stared at the distant town and then turned his gaze back to the Enforcers. “First thing, I guess, is to establish if the girl is actually there. That’s from your point of view. We only want to know if those fake Buckskinners are there.”
“Could be to your advantage if you were to help return the gal safely,” Yancey pointed out. “If you’re worried about your reputation, getting her out and back to her husband is gonna help considerably.”
Asa pursed his lips and thought about that. Morg watched him closely. He was itching for action and wanted to ride in on a wild raid.
“Wait till dark and then go in and shoot hell outa the place,” Morg suggested.
“That’d be stupid,” Cato growled. “Without spyin’ out the lay of the land first!”
Morg shot him a cold look. “Okay. You go in and spy out the lay of the land!”
Cato held his hot stare and slowly nodded, looking then at Yancey.
“Could be the best way. Gringos passing through ain’t any great novelty down this way, Yance. I could ride around so’s I come in from the north, spread it around I’m on the dodge and headin’ deeper into Mexico. Might be I can pick up somethin’ and then I can slip back to you after dark and we’ll plan our move.”
“Chancy, Johnny,” the big Enforcer said slowly.
“But practical,” Asa pointed out. “My men don’t even have a smattering of Spanish. I understand that you two know the language some?”
“Yancey better’n me,” admitted Cato. “But I could pick up more info by makin’ out I don’t savvy the lingo and keepin’ my ears open.”
“Mebbe I’d better go,” Yancey said, “seeing as I know more Spanish than you.”
“No. I’ll do it, Yance. I’ve got this bullet crease across my upper arm from the fight in El Papaya. It’s fresh enough and it’ll go down better with ’em when I tell ’em I’m on the dodge.”
Yancey nodded, seeing the rip in Cato’s shirt and the small patch of dried blood. The lead had barely broken the surface of the skin but the wound was raw-looking, though far from impeding Cato in any way. It could lend credence to his story.
“All right. But come in from the north, Johnny. I know this place. We’ll rendez
vous an hour after sundown. There’s an arroyo or a dry wash two miles west of town, on a hard swing around a broken butte that looks like a big candle with wax dripping down the side. Can’t quite see it from here, but it’s behind that first low ridge.”
“I’ll find it,” Cato said. He lifted a hand to hat brim and nodded to Yancey. “Adios, amigo.”
“Good luck, pard,” Yancey replied. Then, as Cato loped away he lifted his voice, “Don’t take any chances!”
Cato waved and swung his mount on a long leg that would take him into the foothills of the range and allow him to approach San Cristobal de los Casas from the north, like a man coming down from the Rio with the law on his tail...
“Where do we hang out for the day?” Morg asked surlily.
“Might as well make our way round to that dry wash,” Yancey said, lifting his reins.
Scowling, Morg followed and Asa nodded to the others. The cavalcade rode out across the plains under the hot sun.
Cato rode into the plaza of the market town and saw the conical, open-sided structure used for selling the goods brought in from the ranches and farms slap bang in the center. The earth around the steps was packed hard and gleamed in the sunlight. It had obviously had much use but today was not market day and there were no stalls set up. Only three or four Mexicans dozed against the small building’s sides in the warm sunlight.
There were not many folk moving about for it was siesta hour and Cato had deliberately delayed so that he might enter town at this time. There would be enough watching eyes to confirm that he had come in from the north and he deliberately held his left arm a little stiffly out from his side, giving the impression that his wound was a shade more serious than it actually was.
It never hurt to let the opposition think you were not as spry as you actually were, he figured. In fact, that credo had gotten him out of several tight spots in the past and it might work again here.
First thing to do was to establish contact with the fake Buckskinners and Kip Grant. This ‘Borden’ he figured would be the leader of the bunch who had pulled the raid in Houston.
As he rode through the plaza, heading the horse towards some stables, he looked around from under the shadow of his hat brim, trying to figure out where they might keep Dolores prisoner. There were many buildings around the plaza, places of business, and there were lines of houses straggling out towards the edge of town, gradually rising into the foothills.
It was obvious that it wasn’t going to be an easy job unless he was lucky enough to get a good lead. And that would depend on how well he was accepted as a fugitive gringo, briefly stopping over in San Cristobel on his way south.
He kicked the stable hand awake and left instructions for his mount to be grained and groomed, though he had little hope of the horse receiving any proper attention before the siesta hour was over. He flicked the Mexican a dollar.
“Take care of him, amigo,” he said, shouldering bedroll and Winchester. “And where can you recommend a man to stay for the night?” He winked. “Somewhere that has rooms with windows.”
The Mexican was still sleepy but Cato’s words tended to bring him alert. He squinted at the Enforcer, took in the set of the man’s unusual gun rig and the big, bulging weight of the Manstopper. He slowly raised his eyes to Cato’s hard face, with the beard stubble and the trail dust. He looked again at the horse and noted that it, too, was dust-spattered and showed signs of having been ridden hard.
“The cantina Charro, señor,” he said quietly. “I theenk it would be suitable. Eet opens onto the plains.”
Cato nodded. “Sounds fine.” He gave the man another dollar. “There could be some friends of mine in town right now, too. Maybe six gringos, one named Grant, another Borden. And there could be a señorita with them.”
The Mexican showed concern at Cato’s casual query and backed away a step, shaking his head. “I—I do not know these theengs, señor. I weel take care of your horse.”
He grabbed the animal’s reins and led it away down the aisle between the stalls, glancing back nervously at Cato. The Enforcer pursed his lips, turned and walked slowly back through the doors into the sunlight. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked about Grant and the others...
The Charro, which, in Spanish meant ‘flashy’, didn’t live up to its name. Perhaps once it had been gaudily painted and had been a bright center of attraction in the town. Now the adobe was showing through the faded paint and the shutters sagged, and there were dead plants in the garden boxes and terracotta pots, giving the place a general air of dilapidation.
But Cato was able to rent a room for a few cents for the night from the sleepy-eyed barman and ate a bowl of chili in the kitchen. After seeing the state of the place, he figured he wouldn’t be eating too many other meals here. The room was adequate, though barely so. It had wornpine boards for a floor, a bed with a lumpy mattress, and a rickety washstand containing terracotta ewer and bowl, both of which were chipped badly.
The window was interesting. It had no glass, but there were two big wooden shutters on leather hinges. They opened, after some thumping and straining, onto the roof that covered the kitchen area, which sloped down into the yard near a sagging chicken coop and, beyond this was open land all the way back to some low hills. Which would provide good cover for anyone having to leave hurriedly by way of the window ... Cato figured that was a ‘plus’ in favor of the room. It sure had little else going for it.
There was little to be gained by staying in the room now that he had rented it. He needed to make contacts, get information about the girl and the others. By the reaction of the stable hand, he figured maybe he was treading on dangerous ground, that Grant and his men had a reputation here in San Cristobal that seemed to have the population spooked.
It could be an advantage or not.
Right now, he figured to ask around. If he was right and the fake Buckskinners had the town scared, someone he spoke to would get word back that there was a gringo asking all the wrong questions. That, too, could be an advantage or otherwise. It might get him an interview, or a bullet.
And there was only one way to find out.
He stayed in the room until the town began to stir again after siesta. He smoked, checked his weapons, looked out the window and made notes of the best escape route. There was no sense in wasting the time. Twice he went down into the cantina and stood at the front entrance archway, observing the plaza, figuring that any gringos in town might not stay put during siesta, but none showed.
Then he returned to his room after the second reconnaissance, stepped inside and stared down the yawning muzzle of a Sharps buffalo rifle. The scarred stock was tightly bound with copper wire and the man who held it as big as a buffalo, bearded, and dressed in greasy buckskins.
“Come on in, amigo,” he invited in a deep rumbling voice. “Or I’ll blow you out from under that there hat!”
Eight – Full Circle
Cato recognized Kip Grant as soon as he was shoved roughly into the room at the rear of the church tower. He didn’t know the man personally, but Grant had been described by Guanida very accurately.
The ramrod was cleaning his six-gun and he glanced up as Cato stumbled in, and kept staring at the Enforcer. There were other white men scattered around the room on chairs. Most were either working on guns or knives or had their weapons handy.
The bearded man in buckskin with the wired-up Sharps, kicked the heavy wooden door closed and leaned back against it.
“Gents, this here’s the hombre who’s been askin’ around town about us. Says his name’s Catlin and he’s on the dodge.” He lifted the Sharps and pointed with the barrel towards Cato’s torn shirt on his left shoulder. “Says Ranger lead did that.”
“What made you ask about us, Catlin?” queried Grant.
Cato shrugged. “Man gets to hear things along the border.”
“Like what?”
“Like how Kip Grant, one-time ramrod for Borden Dysart, and who should’ve returned from bringing a he
rd of cows down to Matamoros by sea and didn’t, tried to get the payment in cash from the agent. And how Dysart’s Mex wife is missin’ and is bein’ held for a hundred-grand ransom.” Cato smiled thinly. “Now, when that same ramrod has taken one helluva lot of ridin’ from said Dysart and been made to look kinda small over and over, I figure it all adds up.”
“To what?” gritted Grant, standing now, face flushing.
Cato bored his gaze into the man. “To the ramrod bein’ behind the kidnappin’. Gettin’ his own back. And bein’ well-paid for it.”
Grant didn’t move for a moment and then he suddenly lashed out with the Colt in his hand, slamming it side-on across Cato’s midriff. The small Enforcer grunted, gagged, staggered and fell to one knee. The big man with the Sharps snapped the gun butt up and clipped Cato on the side of the head, knocking off his hat and stretching him out on the filthy floor.
Cato lay there, groaning, feeling deft hands going through his pockets. He felt the Manstopper being lifted from the holster.
Someone whistled softly. “By glory! Will you look at this! Two barrels, one for bullets and the bottom one’s a shot barrel... Hey! It holds eight cartridges and a shot shell. Man, this is some new weapon.”
Through the red haze that gradually subsided, Cato focused on the bearded man in buckskin. It was he who held the Manstopper. It looked small in his giant fist. He nudged Cato roughly.
“What the hell kinda gun’s this, Catlin?”
Cato pretended to be hurt more than he was, feigned dizziness, and took his time answering.
“My own design. I used to be a blacksmith.”
“Seems I’ve heard of some kind of lawman carryin’ a gun like that,” Kip Grant allowed.
“Not this one, amigo,” Cato assured him. “I’ve only had it a couple of months. See for yourself it ain’t been used much.”
Bannerman the Enforcer 41 Page 9
