“How the hell do you know how bad it is or ain’t?” he demanded, looking around wildly, one hand dangerously close to the butt of the holstered sawn-off shotgun. He pushed off the bar, swayed unsteadily. The cowboys moved back. “How do any of you? She used me; made me think she was gonna marry me and all along she ... she ... ” He broke off and abruptly seemed to sag back against the bar, shaking his head slowly. “Judas, Yance, I dunno what happened. We was all set for the weddin’, and I was studying my Testament an’ everything’, just like she wanted, then—wham! She’s tellin’ me she only did it ’cause her old man told her to an’ she was goin’ back to Mexico and later to Spain to marry some damn’ greaser with a title ... ” His face was pathetic as he looked steadily at Yancey. “She sure hit me where I live, Yance.”
“I think there’s been some sort of mistake, John. Cato’s gone south to try and straighten it out. Meantime, you come back to Doc’s with me and wait’ll he gets back.”
Yancey was surprised when Early did not resist and pushed off the bar, reaching down beside the end and picking up his carbine where he had rested it. He was moving mechanically, almost as if in a trance and Yancey knew what had happened. The man’s drug-hazed mind had triggered the old responses, the same regular rhythm he had been following for months on his night patrol of the town.
Early likely didn’t realize what he was doing, but he apparently thought he was still sheriff, checking out the town one last time before turning in. Yancey only hoped he could get him back to Doc’s place before the man really cut loose.
“That lil gal was the only one I ever loved, Yance,” Early said as they neared the batwings. “The only one an’ I’d sure have been proud to call her my wife ... ”
“Well, maybe you will yet,” Yancey said, not wanting to get the big man’s hopes up but figuring he had to say something to keep him calm while he was in this tranquil mood.
Then, just before they reached them, the batwings burst open and Beau Hunnicutt came in, closely followed by Brad Venters and some of his men.
They stopped dead when they saw Yancey and the big ex-sheriff and Hunnicutt paled when he noticed that Early was packing his guns. But Venters recovered fast enough, though he eyed the men warily.
“Just don’t say anything, Venters,” Yancey snapped swiftly, trying to warn the man, afraid that any rousting from the rancher would make Early cut loose. “Not if you know what’s good for you.”
But Venters chose to read Yancey’s warning as an order and his mouth tightened.
“The hell with you, Bannerman!” he snapped. “Who you reckon you’re talkin’ to? An’ while you got hold of that big galoot, shove a ring through his nose and lead him out of here before Sheriff Hunnicutt arrests him.”
Yancey swore under his breath, seeing the words ‘Sheriff Hunnicutt’ reach through Early’s fogged brain and the man frowned, straightened and focused his eyes with difficulty, looking directly at the brass star on Beau Hunnicutt’s vest.
“What in hell’s goin’ on?” he roared and Yancey knew that was it: the explosion was about to happen, triggered by Venters’ stupidity.
Venters shot Yancey a sharp look. “Now, look, Bannerman, you got away with bustin’ him outta jail before but you keep him off the streets an’ under control or you’re in big trouble.”
“Taking a heap on your shoulders, aren’t you, Venters?” Yancey queried quietly.
“I should goddamn well smile he is!” thundered Big John Early, swaying unsteadily now, blinking. Yancey knew the combination of alcohol and the drug was working on Early, enraging him. “Listen, Venters, don’t go tryin’ to take over my town, mister! You might be a big frog out in the valley, but here you ain’t no more’n a cockroach. An’ I squash ’roaches!”
Yancey tugged at Early’s arm, not wanting to expose the big man to any real trouble when he was like this. He already seemed uncoordinated and if it got to gunplay he might fumble at the wrong moment and be dead the next.
“C’mon, Big John,” he urged quietly, eyes narrowed and watching Venters and his men closely. “Let’s go have that nightcap.” Early frowned, trying to sort out his muddled thoughts, and isolate the ‘nightcap’. While he was doing it, Yancey took the advantage and pulled the big man through the batwings and out into the night. He had him almost across the boardwalk when Hunnicutt fouled it up by yelling:
“An’ keep that goddamn bull-buffler outta my town or I’ll run him in and this time I’ll throw away the key!”
Early stopped dead, resisting Yancey’s tugging hand and almost pulling the Enforcer off balance. Yancey spun as Hunnicutt, flushed with the confidence of Venters and his cowmen backing him stepped out onto the walk, wagging a finger at Early.
“You’re all through here, Early! Quit while you’re ahead, man, and move on. Ain’t no use waitin’ for that greaser gal to come back ’cause she ain’t gonna ... ”
Lacking coordination or not, Big John Early managed to drag out his sawn-off shotgun fast enough from the slim leg holster, and Hunnicutt paled, yelled ‘Hell!’ and plunged back into the saloon, knocking cowmen and Venters sprawling in his hurry.
The sawn-off’s barrels came up and before Yancey could strike at Big John’s hand, the gun thundered and blew the swing batwings to splinters.
There was instant total panic in the saloon as men ran for cover and the exits, clambering over tables in their hurry to get out of the way as some yelled out that Big John was running amok again. But Yancey wrenched the smoking gun from his unsteady hands and rammed it back into his holster. Big John started to shove Yancey away and lifted his carbine one-handed, jerking it in and out around the lever, cycling the action, firing a shot. Guns opened up from the saloon and lead zipped past the two men, struck the horse trough behind them and ricocheted wildly. Yancey swore, hooked his fingers in Big John’s belt and yanked the man after him, dragging his Colt and thumbing the hammer, putting four fast shots into the saloon.
Venters and Hunnicutt and their men were shooting wildly as Yancey backed away across the plaza, dragging the roaring, cussing Early with him, the big man spinning the carbine around in his hand, shooting at anything that moved. Glass shattered. Wood splinters flew. Horses at the hitch rails whinnied and plunged and three tore loose their reins, running between Yancey and Early and the saloon.
The Enforcer figured that was good enough and he turned and ducked into a side street literally dragging Early with him, the big man’s boots scuffing up dust as he kept on swearing and shooting mechanically.
Once in the side street, Yancey looked at Early regretfully and then slammed him across the side of the head with the barrels of the sawn-off shotgun.
“Sorry, pard, gettin’ to be a habit, but seems it’s the only way I can keep you alive a mite longer.”
Yancey ducked, rammed the point of his shoulder into the sagging Early’s midriff and allowed the man to jack-knife over his back. His spine creaked and his legs wobbled as he straightened and hurried as fast as he could up the street, towards the distant lights of Doc Bartholomew’s. Hell, they seemed a long way off and Early felt like he weighed as much as a horse.
The shooting and yelling were still going on behind him, but if seemed to be concentrated in the plaza, now. The cowboys were merely cutting loose, rousting the town, figuring they had beaten Early and Yancey one more time.
As Yancey gratefully turned into the Doctor’s gate and staggered up the path to where the medic waited at the open door, he thought that Venters and Hunnicutt were planning to take over this town.
Which meant they wouldn’t be content just to leave Early stumbling around drunk or doped. They would want him dead.
“Just leave him be, Yancey.”
The Enforcer swung sharply at Doc Bartholomew’s words and frowned puzzledly, gesturing towards Big John Early who was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over a bottle of whisky, morosely and tunelessly singing the ‘Yellow Rose Of Texas’.
“What the hell, doc? Where’
d he get that bottle?”
“I gave it to him,” replied the fat little medic.
Yancey stared with narrowed eyes and then pulled out a chair and sat down, watching Bartholomew all the time.
“Well, I guess you’ve got a reason, Doc.”
“I have, Yancey.” Bartholomew walked across and leaned on the table edge.
Early seemed oblivious to them both.
“I just couldn’t keep pumping him full of dope, Yancey. You saw what it was doing to him. He didn’t know where he was or what happened to him. His reflexes are gone and he can hardly walk straight. Now, while some of those symptoms might also be able to be applied to a drunk, at least he can sleep it off and come back more or less normal afterwards—granted, with a mighty big hangover, but that’s better than total disorientation that could get him killed.”
“Why killed, Doc?”
“Well, if he wandered out on the street in a daze, drugged, unarmed—you just think about it. Even if he’s drunk, he instinctively buckles on his guns before he goes anywhere. But the drugs even dull his instincts.”
The Enforcer looked across the table to Early who was slopping whisky into another glass, spilling some on the woodwork. The ex-sheriff was muttering, scowling. Yancey caught a few of his words.
“Prettiest lil gal I ever seen ... Couldn’t b’lieve it when she said she’d marry me ... Big lunkhead like me!” He laughed shortly, downed his drink with a toss of his massive head and then poured more whisky, hands shaking badly. “I was right all along. She wasn’t gonna marry me after all. Ol’ man ... an’ her ... fool of me ... damn’ big ... fool ... ”
“Hell, doc, he’s crying in his beer!” protested Yancey.
“That’s all right, Yancey,” the medic said, stopping the Enforcer as he made to reach out and shake Early by the shoulder. “He’s getting it out in the open, getting it off his chest. Let him go. Doesn’t matter whether you can savvy him or not or how his reasoning is. He’s cleansing his mind ... I should’ve realized long since that that’d be better for Big John Early than any amount of drugs.”
Yancey frowned and scratched at his jaw. “Well, I guess that makes sense. But he’s likely to suddenly turn the table over and stalk out into the street and go on the prod, Doc.”
“It’s your job to stay with him, Yance, sort of ride herd on him.”
“Well, I can but try,” Yancey said. “Yeah, Doc, I been thinking as you were talking: this is likely the best way. Could get kind of wild, but it’s likely best for John. Now all I’ve got to do is try to control him till Cato gets back!”
The medic nodded and his face was very sober as he said, “And let’s hope Cato has some good news for him. If not, my guess Big Bad John there’ll tear this town apart with his bare hands.”
Yancey had to agree that that was a distinct possibility.
Cato had lost a lot of blood from the bullet wound in his side. The Mexican girl had doctored it as well as she could, tying a thick pad of cotton ripped from the tail of his shirt over the wound, but this had worked loose during the rough ride north and blood had seeped out.
All down one side of Cato’s trousers was dark with blood and he was beginning to feel light-headed and dizzy.
There had been pursuit at first. A band of vaqueros had come after them during the night ride and Cato, despite his wound, had dismounted in some rocks and scattered them with a withering fire. Then he had managed to stampede their horses and he and the girl had ridden on.
She knew the country well and led the way off the main trail, the one that vaqueros would expect them to take. By daylight they had the land to themselves it seemed for there were no signs of pursuit. When they reached a line of stony, saw-toothed hills, Cato had ridden to the top, dismounted before the crest and then scanned the country they had traversed with his field-glasses.
Far to the south and west he saw a hint of smudged yellow hanging in the hot, breathless air. If it had been made by the vaqueros they were a long way off—and following the conventional trail. He studied that slowly moving smudge long enough to be sure it was heading along the old trail and then went back to where the girl waited.
By that time he was feeling light-headed from the loss of blood and she insisted that she dress the wound again.
This time she used his trouser belt to bind pads of cloth in place and though Cato gasped at the tightness of the belt, it seemed to stop the bleeding. She over-rode all his protests and cooked a substantial breakfast, insisting that they would be the better for it with good food in their stomachs.
He had to admit she was right and the hot coffee and bacon, beans and sourdough biscuits fried in the bacon grease did wonders for him. It might have only been psychological but he felt a heap better and more alert, ready for just about anything.
But there was still a long way to go to the border and the vaqueros from the rancho weren’t the only ones prowling this neck of the woods.
On the second day Cato was sure they had lost the vaqueros for good. But there were signs that they were being watched by other hostile eyes. Riders appearing out of nowhere, deliberately skylining themselves on high ridges, watching silently for an hour at a time. Smoke rising into the hot sky that could mean Mescaleros, bandidos, or both ...
“If you know another way out of this country, Conchita, I reckon you’d better take it,” Cato said as they rode through a heat-blasted canyon. “I’d hate to get caught in this kind of place by bandidos or renegade Injuns.”
“There is one way,” the girl said slowly, thoughtfully. “But it is around the side of a mountain, on a narrow, broken ledge. We would have to dismount and lead the horses.”
“What would it save us?”
“We would not have to travel through the series of canyons like this that lie ahead and we would go through the heart of the mountains, gaining perhaps one day, possibly a little more.”
“Then lead the way.”
Conchita frowned in concern. “It is a very strenuous trail, Johnny. Your wound ... ”
“Lead on,” he said impatiently, pointing to a smudge of smoke rising above the peaks ahead. “They’re waitin’ for us up there.” The girl paled a little and nodded, indicating that they should veer left. They followed the deep shadow of the canyon walls around the perimeter and she dismounted, walked ahead through what appeared to be a fall of scattered boulders and then came back smiling in a few minutes.
“I have found the entrance to the trail, Johnny.” The smile slowly faded as she looked at his side and saw the fresh brightness of blood showing through the padded cloth. “You had best dismount here. I will lead the way. We may have to push fallen rocks and old trees over the side. It will be—strenuous, difficult—for you, Johnny.”
He gave her a grin that didn’t quite work.
“We’ll manage. We’ve come this far; no use in lettin’ anythin’ beat us now.”
Conchita looked concerned as Cato dismounted stiffly and clung to the saddlehorn, his forehead resting against the horse as he waited for his spinning senses to settle.
She wondered if they would make it.
Brad Venters stalked across the plaza, his square jaw out-thrust, shoulders squared, hand brushing the Colt on his hip. He looked mean and townsfolk who saw him coming swiftly stepped aside to make way for him.
There were riders coming into town from various points of the valley, too. Cowboys who were normally rough and tough and cut up wild on a Saturday night were now riding openly with bottles of whisky and guns in their hands. They shot into the air and at houses, riddling chimneys with bullets, smashing windows.
Folk started to run indoors. The signs were plain to read. The ranchers from the valley were finally going to completely take over the town.
They knew Venters had had notions of this for some time now. He had been the one to organize the ranchers into a so-called Del Rio Valley Cattleman’s Association, but it had only been a device to group the men together so that they could hold the town to rans
om. First it had been riding rough-shod over the townsfolk on a Saturday night, the cowboys all coming in in a bunch and cutting loose, bullying their way past townsfolk and the old sheriff who had then been in office.
Then they had begun to terrorize storekeepers, taking what they wanted and refusing to pay. If the storekeeper protested, he was either beaten or his store was wrecked or, as in one case, burned to the ground.
It had been too much and folk had sent for a new sheriff when the old one ran with his tail between his legs. That new lawman had been Big John Early and right from the first day he rode in things turned sour for the men from the valley. Early took on all comers, with fists or guns and that sawn-off shotgun of his was a great equalizer.
He drove the men back into the valley and told them when they came into town, they would have to adhere to the law or pay the consequences. Some tried to buck him. Two died in the dust of the plaza. Four others spent weeks with limbs in plaster or their jaws wired-up. After that, the cowmen quietened down and peace came to the town.
Until Venters and Hunnicutt tried to pull this deal with the beef, holding out for exorbitant prices.
But now, Early was almost out of the picture, a drunken bum, maudlin, thinking only of the Mexican girl who had jilted him and, in his opinion anyway, made a damn’ fool out of him.
Bannerman was busy riding herd on Big John and Venters figured there would never be a better time for him to take over the town completely. Hunnicutt had the badge and that sure helped. Venters had been out in the valley, rounding up all the men he could, urging them to hit town today, supplying them with booze and free ammunition. The order was to cut up rough and take over: he was declaring Del Rio wide-open.
Once he had control, he would show these meat packing houses they couldn’t by-pass him for cheap Mexican beef. By hell he would. For he would control the railhead at Del Rio and they would find that not only would they be paying top dollar for valley beef, but they were going to have to cough up with money for increased freighting costs to even get them out of the town.
Bannerman the Enforcer 42 Page 10
