The commandant was a highly decorated officer, famous for his bravery in battle, his loyalty to the Stars and Stripes. He was a popular hero-figure about which many stories had been written, detailing his exploits against Mexican rebels, Indian savages and the wild men of the border frontier. He was Captain ‘Cougar’ Hood, every Texan’s hero, heart-throb of the Southern belles from El Paso to New Orleans.
And he was the man who was supplying Cannon with the illegal weapons.
Cato couldn’t believe it at first and he figured that Cannon likely wouldn’t have taken him along except that he needed someone to back his play if necessary. They met at noon by a shadowed waterhole at the base of a needle butte far out in the border badlands. Hood was alone when he rode out of the cleft in the base of the rock, but his officer’s model Remington Army .44 was in his right hand, cocked, and pointing somewhere between Cannon and Cato. The small agent recognized him at once from tintypes and countless etchings and woodcuts that had illustrated the sensational stories about him. At first, he figured he had ridden into some kind of trap with Cannon, that the army had somehow learned of their rendezvous, and that Hood was there to execute the capture. The fact that he seemed to be alone would be in keeping with the reckless image of the man that had been built up by legend.
But as soon as Hood spoke to Cannon, Cato knew this meeting was no accident, nor even the first of its kind between Cannon and Hood.
“Where’s Callan?” Hood asked, eyes boring into Cato, the gun covering the small man.
“Gunned down in Condor by a hombre callin’ himself Banner,” Cannon answered easily enough. He gestured to Cato. “Name’s Johnny Colt ... Guess you would’ve heard of him even out here.”
Hood arched his eyebrows at the name and looked closer at Cato. “You’re the one who did that shoot-up in Giddings?”
Cato nodded curtly. “Get that gun off me, mister.”
Hood didn’t move the Remington and his eyes continued to bore into Cato’s face. “Not yet,” he said quietly. He spoke to Cannon, still watching Cato. “You checked him out, of course?”
Cannon shrugged. “What’s to check out? He killed two Rangers, stole an army payroll, dropped a landslide down onto a posse ... And he’s fast with a gun. Good enough credentials for me, Cougar.”
Hood thought about it for a moment, then nodded and lowered the Remington, though he didn’t holster it. “You bring the gold?”
Cannon nodded and touched his saddlebags. “You got the guns?” he countered.
“Will have by the time you get to the Crossing. Cash in advance as usual, Cannon.”
He held out his left hand and Cannon sighed, untied his saddlebags and took out two thong-tied leather bags which clinked as he handed them over. Hood hefted the bags briefly before dropping them into his own saddle pouches.
“Won’t count it here. You know better than to try to shortchange me ... Now, it’s kind of different this time. I had a query about the number of guns I ordered for my armory, so it ain’t just a matter of changing a few figures in the books to cover shortages. I’ve got to ‘arrange’ for ’em to be stolen.”
Cannon stiffened and creases appeared in the smooth flesh between his eyes. “Don’t hold me up, Hood. I got a schedule to keep and El Halcon’s rarin’ to go on the Sonora raid. Won’t do either of us any good if I turn up a day or so late with this load of guns.”
Captain Hood was nodding long before Cannon had finished speaking and held up a hand, finally.
“I said I’d ‘arrange’ it. You be at the Crossing at your usual time and I’ll see the guns get there okay.”
“Full load!”
“Sure, sure. As paid for, Cannon. Have I ever failed to deliver before?”
“Before don’t count, Hood, you know that. It’s this time that’s the important one and I’m the one who has to square-up to El Halcon ...” Cannon’s voice took on a steel edge. “Don’t you let me down, mister.”
Even in the deep shadow of the butte, Cato could see the flush darken Hood’s face. Here was a man who didn’t take kindly to that sort of talk.
“I don’t go back on my word!” Hood snapped. He holstered his gun abruptly and began to lift the reins of his mount. He gave both men a hard, cold look. “I’ll have the shipment at the Crossing at ten o’clock, two nights from now. You be ready to roll because every last damn gun you’ve paid for will be there!” He wheeled the horse abruptly and spurred away around the base of the butte. Cato scrubbed a hand across his jaw and looked sideways at Cannon.
“A mite touchy ... How come a big hero like him is supplyin’ some Mex peon cut-throat with U.S. arms?”
Cannon studied Cato’s face closely for a moment before finally answering. “He’s a hero, sure enough, Colt. But a man can’t live on glory.”
Cato’s face showed the surprise that he felt. “Hell! He toured all over the Union! Lecturing, making public appearances.”
“On his normal army pay,” Cannon cut in.
“Well, how about all the books they’ve written on him?”
Cannon shrugged. “A few hundred to use his name, and a couple of exploits. The rest is straight fiction. The writer gets whatever money is due.”
Cato nodded slowly. “Hell, he’s the very last man I’d have figured to be tied in with runnin’ guns into Mexico, but I guess I can see why now. He figures the Union owes him more than it’s willin’ to pay.”
“That’s about the size of it. He’s professional army. It’s expected that he does the things he done; no more nor less than his duty, you might say. Same applies to the newest enlisted man, though I guess they ain’t all expected to be heroes. If it turns out that way, then they’re expected to let the army and government make somethin’ of it ... Cougar Hood just figured it was time he got somethin’ for himself, is all.”
Cato nodded slowly as they rode away from the butte, turning south now, towards the Crossing, he guessed. Hood’s background was a good cover. He would be above suspicion simply because of his army record. Thing was, Cato even felt a sneaking regard for Hood, such was the man’s legend: it was the kind of reckless, daring thing he would involve himself in. But that didn’t alter the fact that the man was a traitor, nothing more nor less. Even if the rest of the assignment turned out to be a failure, this information made the whole deal worthwhile.
Providing he lived long enough to get the information back to Governor Lester Dukes.
It was midday before they allowed Yancey to see Captain Poke Daniels. Or, rather, it was high noon before the tough Ranger agreed to see Yancey.
Since his capture the previous night, Yancey had been imprisoned in the cells at the rear of the law office at the edge of the plaza in Condor. He had been tossed into a cell, helped through the doorway with a kick and a thump with a gun butt, and then the door had slammed shut and all his yelling that he wanted to see Daniels had been to no avail. Until now.
Two Rangers came and opened the cell door and one held a gun on him while the other shackled his wrists behind his back. Then he was marched into the front office where Daniels sat at Tad Meacham’s old desk with three or four townsmen standing in front of him. Yancey recognized Milt Pierce, the barber, Ham the barkeep, and a man named Connor who owned the livery stables. They gave him brief and curious looks as he was brought in but Daniels didn’t even glance in his direction.
“All right, gentlemen,” he said to the townsmen. “You handled things pretty well. We’ll take over from here and I’ll see you get whatever money this feller owes you.” He gestured briefly in Yancey’s direction and shuffled a sheaf of papers he was holding, squaring the edges before putting them into a manila folder. “That’ll be all, gents,” he added quietly when the townsmen showed no signs of moving.
They got the hint finally and nodded awkwardly as they gave Yancey one final look then turned and left the office. Daniels took out tobacco and papers and built a cigarette, concentrating on it, not yet looking at Yancey.
“You weren’t as
rough on the town as you might’ve been, Banner,” he said quietly and there was a query in his voice.
“Maybe,” Yancey said, glancing at the two armed Rangers standing one on either side of him. “If we could talk together, alone, Captain, I might be able to explain a few things ...”
Captain Daniels looked at him then for the first time as he placed the finished cigarette between his lips and struck a match. He lit the smoke before replying. “You can do your explainin’ to a judge and jury, Banner.”
“What are you going to charge me with?” Yancey demanded. “All my gunfights have been fair and square. I’ve paid my way. Sure, I’ve argued some when it seemed the price was too blamed high, but don’t tell me you haven’t done the same.”
Daniels frowned through the tobacco smoke. “Well, what I’ve done or haven’t done, don’t make a hell of a lot of difference, Banner. You’re the one in trouble, not me. You tried to take over the town, intimidated the inhabitants, chased the elected law out ... By the way, we found Tad Meacham’s body floating in the Rio. His throat had been slit from ear to ear and there wasn’t a stitch of clothin’ left on him. Boots and all had gone. Typical Mex job. Which explains how come he never reached our post at Del Rio …”
At least he didn’t seem to be getting the blame for Meacham’s murder, Yancey thought, but he had to get Daniels alone and reveal his true identity. Otherwise the Ranger captain would louse up the whole deal ...
“Captain, I have to talk to you. Alone. If I don’t ...”
He shrugged then shook his head dolefully. “There’s gonna be more trouble than either of us can handle.”
Daniels paused with his cigarette halfway to his mouth. “Sounds like some kinda threat in there somewheres, Banner, and I don’t take kindly to threats.”
“No threat, Captain, just a statement of fact.”
Daniels drilled his eyes into Yancey’s, then he motioned to the guards. “Toss him back in the cells.”
Yancey’s lips clamped together. Stubborn old fool! The guards reached out for his arms. Then he spun swiftly, kicking the man on his right in the shins with one heavy riding boot and the Ranger yelled and doubled up. Yancey leaped aside swiftly as the second man swung at him with the rifle butt. It missed Yancey but clipped the first man lightly across the side of the head, spilling him to the floor. While the second guard was bending forward off balance from his blow, Yancey brought his knee up, hard into the man’s face. He went down and by that time, Daniels was around the desk and lunging for Yancey. The big agent slammed his shoulder into Daniels, driving the man backwards so that the edge of the desk caught Daniels across the hip. Yancey heard the guards struggling to their feet behind him and lunged hard at the Ranger captain again, catching him in the chest and knocking him off the side of the desk to the floor.
Yancey flung himself on top of the man, catching a fist in the face that smashed his lips against his teeth and drew blood. But he ignored the pain and the thuds of other blows slamming against the side of his head, got his bloody mouth against Daniels’ ear and slurred two words: “Governor Dukes!”
The words brought Daniels up short, so unexpected were they in this situation, and he, poised with a clubbed fist ready to drive into Yancey’s face. Their eyes locked briefly and Yancey nodded curtly.
“I’m his man!” he whispered hoarsely and then Daniels’ lips twisted and he let drive with that poised fist.
It smashed squarely into the middle of Yancey’s face and the lights and stars exploded behind his eyes and then there were other blows on his back and his sides and rough hands hauled him to his feet. His legs felt like rubber and would hardly support him. His senses reeled and he forced open his eyes. Captain Poke Daniels’ form seemed to sway and rock in front of him. The Ranger was rubbing at his jaw and his eyes were bleak as he nodded to the guards who had painful grips on Yancey’s arms. “Throw him back in the cells!” Daniels growled, stumbling towards the chair behind Meacham’s desk, “and don’t be none too gentle with him!”
Yancey was dragged away roughly and as his senses spun again he felt a hollowness in his belly. He had failed. Now it looked like the whole deal would blow up in Cato’s face.
Two men sat their horses on a ridge in the shimmering heat of high noon and looked down into the border badlands at the two riders making their slow way across the alkali. The men down there, the small one and the big one, seemed slumped in the saddle, weary, hunched against the blinding heat.
On the ridge, Loveless turned to Clayton and handed him the small leather-and-brass telescope, pointing. “See which way they’re headed?”
Clayton looked through the instrument for a while, then nodded slowly as he took it from his eye. “Ain’t much doubt about it. They’re headed for the Crossing.”
Loveless nodded, taking the telescope, folding it and putting it back into his saddlebag. “Lucky we got it out of that greaser after the last delivery just where it’s at. Now we know their trail, we can get on ahead and set things up.”
Clayton looked hesitant “Hell, Luke, there’s only the two of us. Maybe we should go back and get some backin’. I mean, sure, there’s only Cannon and that Colt ranny right now, but there’ll be two, three wagonloads of guns and someone’s got to be drivin’ ’em. Could be someone ridin’ shotgun as well. We’ll have ourselves a real chore tacklin’ a crew like that.”
“No goddamn time to go back,” Loveless growled. “We’ve come this far, we can see it through ourselves. Besides, we’ve got a saddlebag full of dynamite which they don’t have. That’s our equalizer, Clay.”
Clayton still didn’t seem convinced and they argued further about it until, finally, he agreed with Loveless’ plan.
“But only if we can find a pass we can blow down on top of ’em,” Clayton said. “I ain’t ridin’ in against all them guns.”
“There’s a place they got to go through on that trail down to Los Moros, we ride on ahead, set ourselves up and when they show and are slap-bang in the middle of the pass.” He paused, grinned crookedly through the dirt and whiskers and slapped his left-hand saddlebag lightly. “We blow half of Mexico down on top of ’em!”
Clayton’s grin wasn’t quite as wide or as enthusiastic as his pard’s.
Below, in the badlands, Cannon and Cato rode on slowly towards their rendezvous with the stolen guns.
Yancey, his mouth split and sore, head aching from the fight in the front office, lay stretched out on the crude bunk in the cell, staring at the ceiling. Blast Daniels for a rock-headed fool! He would have thought that at least the man would have followed through and wanted to know what Yancey had meant by claiming to be Governor Dukes’ man. But all Daniels had done was have him tossed back into the cell and he hadn’t seen anyone for about three hours. He had no way of judging time accurately as they had taken his pocket watch earlier.
He turned his head as he heard the door leading to the front office open and he stiffened a little when he saw Captain Daniels coming into the passage that led to the cells. The Ranger turned and locked the door after him and Yancey saw that he was carrying a coffee pot and two tin thugs. Hope rising in him, Yancey swung his boots to the floor and moved to the barred door of the cell. Daniels had stopped outside and was staring closely at Yancey. Then he lifted the tin mugs in his left hand and filled them with steaming black coffee from the battered pot. He held out a mug towards Yancey who reached through the bars and took it gratefully. Daniels stepped back fast, set down the coffee pot and hunkered down on his haunches out in the passage, blowing into his mug as he continued to stare at Yancey. The scalding coffee brought tears of pain to Yancey’s eyes as it touched his split lips.
“So you reckon you’re Lester Dukes’ man, huh?” Daniels said abruptly. Yancey nodded and Daniels continued, “Sounds like hogwash to me.”
“I can prove it,” Yancey told him, “Long as you don’t shoot me while I’m doing it.”
“That’s a chance you’ll have to take, mister.”
&nbs
p; And Yancey figured that was all he could hope for right now so he set down the coffee mug carefully and fumbled at the heavy brass buckle of his wide trouser belt. Daniels’ eyes narrowed as he watched closely but he didn’t change position, merely remained hunkered down, sipping at his coffee.
But when Yancey freed the buckle from its pocket in the belt leather, pushing the holding stud through the slit and withdrew the buckle, then Daniels came lunging to his feet, tossing his coffee aside, right hand palming up his Colt and covering Yancey. For the buckle had a short, four-inch, finely-honed knife blade attached and it glinted wickedly.
“Hold it right there!” Daniels snapped.
Yancey smiled crookedly. “Don’t fret yourself, Daniels. I’m not going to slit your throat. It’s standard agent equipment and I have to remove it so I can get at my papers. When you read them, you’ll know who I am and what I’m doing here.”
“You set that buckle-knife down careful on the floor, Banner, then you nudge it outside the bars and step back.” Yancey sighed, silently cursing this cautious man as he did as he was told. When Daniels had the buckle-knife in his left hand, he stepped back to examine it briefly, then gestured towards Yancey’s belt and its secret pocket.
“All right, you can take out whatever you got in there now, but do it slow and easy ... First glint of metal and you’re dead, savvy?”
Yancey nodded slowly and began to draw out his carefully folded papers of commission in their oilskin wraps. He hoped like hell that these would convince Daniels of his true identity and that they would be able to come to some sort of arrangement about an ‘escape’. If they didn’t, then there was nothing else he could do: it was his last card and if it didn’t work with Daniels, then nothing would.
Bannerman the Enforcer 18 Page 7
