But he pushed the problem of Rosita to the back of his mind and shook hands with Chuck and, when Chuck insisted on knowing what Yancey was doing there, using the name of a gunfighter, Yancey decided to tell him the truth. He reasoned that whatever Chuck was mixed up in now, under the false name of ‘Brandon’, was negated by the mutual recognition between them. There was no reason why each shouldn’t be honest with the other; or mainly so. Though he knew he would have to carefully sift through whatever Chuck chose to tell him.
Yancey finished explaining how he came to be there and studied his brother’s worried face as they sat in the deeply upholstered chairs. Chuck was frowning and his fingertips were pressed together, the nails white with pressure and tension.
“I guess that kind of throws a spanner in whatever scheme you had in mind, Chuck,” Yancey concluded quietly.
“Well, it sure would’ve been easier if you had been the real Sundance,” Chuck admitted, giving a fleeting grin. He slammed a hand down on the chair arm. “Goddamn, Yance! You wouldn’t credit that this could happen, would you? Each of us usin’ someone else’s name and damned if we don’t meet up at the most crucial point of the whole deal!”
“Which I’m still waiting to hear about,” Yancey prodded. “I’ve told you the truth, Chuck, and I expect you to do the same.”
His brother looked at him thoughtfully, lips pursed, for a long minute. Then he sighed. “Judas, why not? It’s shot to hell now.”
He rose, went to a carved sideboard and took up a crystal decanter, pouring two stiff brandies into matching glasses. He handed one to Yancey, standing beside his brother’s chair and looking down at him.
“You’ve really fouled me up this time, young brother. Over the years, I’ve been in many scrapes and you’ve pulled me out of quite a few, usually associated with gambling or women. I haven’t been particularly grateful, not even afterwards when I had time to think, for mostly it meant me getting a roasting from C.B., our beloved father.”
“Don’t talk about him in that tone, Chuck.”
Chuck looked surprised. “Hell, why should you care? He hates your guts. Or seems to. He sure don’t hold any love for you, Yance. I figured you realized that.”
“So what? He’s still our father. We don’t see eye-to-eye is all. And you he sees with a jaundiced eye, Chuck.”
Chuck flushed. “I don’t have that damn good a time with the old man! You don’t see it. You’re away from his rawhiding and his penny-pinching ways. He’s got Mattie damn near a nervous wreck, running that house for him and hosting his dinner parties. His employees in the bank shake in their boots when he shows up, and he don’t treat me much better than one of ’em!”
“Don’t try to get me to feel sorry for you, Chuck,” Yancey snapped. “I know the old man pushes you around and you let him—until you get a chance to slice your pound of flesh. Don’t waste your breath trying to deny it! You’ve been caught at embezzling a couple of times, forging his signature and so on. I’ve hauled you out of those scrapes myself. And I know damn well if you’re pulling something down here now, it’s to your own advantage and not C.B.’s.”
Chuck sneered and sat down on the edge of his chair again. He took a big gulp of his brandy. “That’s where you’re wrong, Yance! This is C.B.’s deal, right down the line.”
Yancey stared into his brother’s eyes until Chuck looked away. He didn’t say anything, merely waited, nursing the remainder of his drink.
“Well, you know C.B.’ll take a gamble himself if he can see the right amount of profit in it. That’s what he’s doin’ now. He’s gambling on a deal here with the Mexican authorities. Only the authorities haven’t exactly got the approval of the Mexican Government in Mexico City, if you get my drift.”
Yancey frowned, but nodded. “A little dealing under the table wouldn’t be anything new for C.B., Chuck, but he’s not too underhanded so don’t insult me by trying to tell me a pack of lies about what he’s supposed to be up to.”
Chuck looked innocent. “Hell, Yance, I’m just telling you how things are. You draw your own conclusions.” He hitched himself a few inches forward in his chair. “Look, simply put, this is the deal: C.B. invests in land down here, raises cheap Mexican cattle with vaqueros who count five pesos a month as a fortune. The cattle are driven to the Gulf ports, put on cattle boats and shipped up to Galveston or Corpus Christi where they’re pushed onto the American market and sold for U.S. prices, but still below the top dollar asked by the Texas boys. We can still turn a three-hundred, four-hundred percent profit this way and sell cheaper meat.”
“Tougher and stringier meat,” Yancey pointed out.
Chuck shrugged. “Folk don’t worry about that when they’re beef-hungry. Look at ’em in the years after the war with the big cattle drives up the old Shawnee trail or the Goodnight-Loving, or the Chisholm. They’d pay forty, fifty bucks a head for a bag of bones!”
“Well, I don’t know that there’s any shortage of beef up there right now,” Yancey said slowly but Chuck chose to ignore that.
“Yance, you can see how we could turn a pretty nice—and quick—profit from a deal like that.”
“I can,” Yancey admitted. “And where do the unofficial authorities come into it?”
“Well, land around these parts is administered by a government jefe and his soldiers. Basically, the Mexican Government owns most of the land and the peons work it for food and shelter. C.B. has had to grease a few palms to obtain beef for this scheme. It goes on all the time, Yance, Mexican beeves bein’ driven north across the Rio, but by the time they get up the trail, they aren’t worth a damn and if they’re fattened up before being pushed onto the market, there’s no profit margin left. But shipping ’em out across the Gulf means that they arrive in prime condition.”
“On Bannerman ships.”
Chuck shrugged. “A few lumber ships C.B. was gonna sell anyways. Didn’t take much to convert ’em to hold cattle.”
Yancey sat there and thought about it. He drained his glass but refused a refill when Chuck offered it to him. Finally, he stood up and faced his brother squarely.
“Yeah. I can see how it’d work. A few corrupt officials; C.B. buying the cattle from ’em, then shipping them to Texas ports and the U.S. market. All on the quiet at this end; slowly cornering the beef market. Wouldn’t help him win any popularity contests but that kind of thing never did worry pa.” He flicked his eyes to Chuck’s taut face. “And you’re taking care of this end for him, right?”
Chuck nodded jerkily. “Just got to see the first lot of steers shipped out and that the money’s paid into the right hands.”
Yancey nodded affably enough. “And you used the name ‘Brandon’ so there could be no connection with the Bannerman bank.”
“That’s it, Yance.”
Yancey’s voice had a steel edge to it when he said, “Then how come you wrote to a gunfighter like Sundance and called him down here, Chuck? That damn printing in the letter threw me. I thought I’d seen it before some place, and I know now it resembled your writing. A kind of half-printing, half-flowing script. I hadn’t seen you use that since we were kids.”
“Well, Sundance wasn’t any too good at reading, I heard, so I thought I’d better make it easier for him. That’s why I wrote the words so big.”
“Just like when we were kids. So long ago I couldn’t quite place it, and I sure didn’t have you in mind as the writer of that letter to Sundance. You still haven’t answered my question.”
Chuck shrugged. “C.B. figured we should protect our side of the investment. I can take care of myself, but I’m no gunfighter and these Mexes are pretty rough hombres. So we figured to buy us some professional protection.”
Yancey’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t have to go clear up to the Canadian border to find a gunfighter. There’re hundreds for hire along the Rio.”
“We wanted the best.”
“Sounds a mite lame to me, Chuck. Sundance had a reputation, sure, but it wasn’t one that
was known the length and breadth of the country. He dealt in political assassination, coldblooded murder, range wars, massacre patrols against the Sioux. He was kind of loco when it came to killing. He had a queer kind of secretiveness about him and only occasionally cut loose, for the hell of it, when he was drunk. What I’m saying is, I dunno how you got to know about a man like Sundance. Even Dukes had to send for background information on him.”
Chuck went to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. He swallowed some before turning and facing Yancey again.
“C.B. arranged it, I guess. I only came in after negotiations were just about settled.”
Yancey set down his glass, and looked into Chuck’s face. “You’re lying, Chuck.”
Chuck flushed. “Look, don’t start in on me, Yance! I’m in no mood for your kind of lecturing and all I got to do is snap my fingers and there’ll be half a dozen men in here with guns!”
Yancey chuckled. “Set yourself up nicely, haven’t you? Whose rancho is this? Does it belong to the Bannerman financial empire? One of pa’s unlisted holdings, maybe?”
Chuck sighed. “No. Belongs to one of the officials down here. I’m just stayin’ here. Look, Yance, leave it alone, huh? I told you what’s goin’ on. Can’t you believe it?”
“As far as it goes, I believe it,” Yancey told him. “I can see pa buying into a deal like this. But your part is less clear, brother. It was you who wrote that letter to Sundance and got him headed down here. From memory, it said something about him taking care of the Texas end of things after he got through with his chores down here. I sure as hell want to know what chores you had for him to do.”
Chuck pushed past Yancey and walked across the room. He stood by the window, looking out into the night, nursing his drink in both hands. Then he turned slowly. His mouth was tight.
“All right. I aimed to have Sundance do something for me, something C.B. knows nothing about.” He came striding back and stood in front of Yancey, his face appealing for his brother’s understanding. “You know how C.B. treats me, Yance. Never allows me enough money, which is why I get into so much trouble with I.O.U.s and so on ...”
“You could stop gambling when you run out of money,” Yancey cut in, but Chuck brushed that aside.
“Well, I get a pretty rough deal from him, I reckon. I have to use my brains if I’m gonna survive. And I’m using them this time.” He lowered his voice, glancing towards the door. “The Mexes we’re dealing with have money troubles, too. They don’t mind the chance at a fast buck and they won’t ask too many questions about where it comes from. So we decided to bring Sundance down to work for us. He was to rough up a few peons, burn their huts, kill a few if he had to. That kind of thing would have appealed to him, ’cause he didn’t like Mexes any better than he liked Injuns, I hear. The idea was to make sure the others would go quietly when we moved in and took over their land and cattle. The fellers who looked after the government cattle would also keep their mouths shut when the herds started to dwindle, or they knew they’d get the same treatment.”
Yancey’s face was iron-hard as he regarded his elder brother. He spoke tightly. “In other words, you were aiming to rustle the cattle instead of paying for them as C.B. had arranged. You, and the officials, I guess, would pocket the money, ship out the steers pronto and no one in Texas would know they were anything other than cattle that had been bought legitimately. The officials were already corrupt, but it wasn’t enough. And, of course, this way, you stood to make a nice profit. Stealing from your own father!”
“Hell, Yance! He was aiming to spend the money anyway! What’s it matter whether it goes into my pocket or that of some greaser? No one’d get hurt, except a few peons who’re used to getting their tails kicked, anyway.”
“Big difference between getting your tail kicked and stopping a bullet.”
Chuck moved uneasily. “It mightn’t’ve come to that. Sundance would’ve been able to scare ’em enough, I reckon.”
“If the government owns this land, how come the peons had to come into it at all? Why not just deal with corrupt officials?”
“The government owns the land but the peons work it. And it’s handed down from one generation to the next. They’re workin’ land that’s been in their families for hundreds of years, Yance. Only a percentage of their cattle goes to the government. They have to be put out of the way. There’s nothing the officials can do if they say they won’t sell to C.B. and it’d only take one to spread the word to Mexico City and the whole deal would blow up.”
“You’re right there,” Yancey said grimly. “And there’d be a lot more to it than just pa losing a few thousand. Something like this, if it got out, could just about start another war between the States and Mexico.”
“Hell, it wouldn’t be that bad,” Chuck said forcing a grin. “Anyway, Yance, I savvy your side of things right now, but seeing as you’re here in Sundance’s place, you reckon you could back us up with your gun? I’ll bet Sundance weren’t any faster than you.”
Yancey looked steadily at his brother for a long minute. Then he brought up his right fist and crashed it against Chuck’s jaw. The man staggered back across the room and sprawled across his chair, shaking his head dazedly, rubbing his jaw. Yancey stood over him.
“You damn fool, Chuck! You’d risk a war just to put a few bucks in your pocket, which would damn soon slide across the nearest card table to some four-flushing houseman! Well, I just told you, this is much bigger than you think and I’m taking you back to Dukes to spill the whole deal and after that, if you’re still out of prison, you can square up to pa and tell him what you were gonna do!”
He grabbed Chuck’s collar and yanked him to his feet, shaking him savagely. Then he turned as he heard a sound by the door.
Rosita stood there with a small revolver in her hand and there were two armed guards behind her, their rifles leveled at Yancey.
“I think not, señor,” she rapped. “You are going nowhere except to see the men who agreed to your brother’s plans in the first place.” She smiled without warmth. “I do not think your reception will be very cordial!”
Seven – The Only Way Out
Cato lay down amongst the rocks and studied the walled rancho. He had managed to follow the trail of Yancey and the girl, though he’d had some trouble picking it up again when they had veered off the main trail several miles past the butte where he had killed the two ambushers.
It was nearing sunup but there were lights burning in the house beyond the wall. He saw movement in the guard tower and hoped he hadn’t been seen. There was a good chance that he had made it this far without detection, for the flats behind him were dark, and he had been careful not to make any undue noise during his approach.
He couldn’t make up his mind about his next move. He had no way of knowing what was going on inside the house and could only hope that Yancey had managed to pull off the masquerade successfully.
There was a sudden, hollow sound at the gates and Cato tensed. The heavy wooden gates began to swing back slowly and he caught the glint of light along a rifle barrel. The man in the watchtower called down in Spanish, asking what was happening. The man on the left hand gate answered him, his words punctuated with grunts as he strained to push the heavy portal back.
“They ride for the governmenta jefes! There has been some trouble with the gringo who calls himself Sundance. And Señor Brandon is not even who he says he is.”
“Madre de dios!” cried the man in the tower. “What will happen now?”
“There will be killing, I think, and we will not have as many pesos to fill our pockets as we had hoped!”
Cato heard the stream of expletives hissing across the open ground, but he was already bringing his rifle up, working the lever silently and laying the cocked weapon down beside him. He placed the Manstopper beside the Winchester, with the hammer toggle set for the shot barrel. Then he took spare shot-shells from his pocket and lined them up on a flat stone near at hand. He kept h
is eyes on the gates, seeing the two men who had opened them standing on either side of the gateway, rifles to hand. They were still talking quietly with the man in the watchtower.
There was movement behind them and Cato heard the creak of saddle leather, the clink of harness and indistinguishable voices. The men at the gate stopped talking. Cato strained his eyes and saw the silhouettes of approaching riders. He saw two men with big sombreros, probably more armed guards, the girl and the easily recognizable shape of Yancey. There was another man, too, and Cato guessed this was Brandon. They were riding towards the gateway and Cato eased the rifle into his hands, bringing it over slowly, keeping it close to his body so that it would not reflect light and thus warn the man in the tower. He could see him plainly now, as the gray light strengthened. The guard was looking down into the yard as the riders approached. The two Mexicans rode one each side of the group, rifles in hands. The girl was holding a pistol, too. It looked as if Yancey and the other hombre at least had their hands free.
Cato drew a bead on the man in the tower, figuring he was the one to get first. He waited until the riders had reached the gateway and the girl spoke sharply to the guards. He didn’t hear what they said in reply, but the group rode through and the guards started to swing the heavy gates closed behind them. That was fine with Cato. He heard the big bar drop into place and saw the group riding out along the trail to his right. He figured that in a matter of seconds now, the girl would give the order to increase speed.
Cato fired and the man in the watchtower lurched upright, flung violently backwards by the lead. He made no sound as his body arched over the low rail, then he fell and dropped from sight behind the high wall.
Cato didn’t wait to see the results of his shot. He swung the rifle around to the group of riders and saw the two Mexicans bringing their guns down towards his cover. The girl started to lift her revolver towards Yancey but Cato was already committed to his next shot and he blasted one of the Mexican guards out of the saddle.
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