Bannerman the Enforcer 43

by Kirk Hamilton

  He kissed her lightly, assured her he would be fine, and left, going out wearily. Kate frowned. He looked really beat ...

  Mattie’s news in the letter did little to brighten up Yancey, but he was glad that his father had chosen Texas to come to rather than one of the other many States where he had financial interests. Of course, as Mattie said in her letter, C.B. did not wish her to inform Yancey about the old man’s condition, or even that he was on his way to Texas.

  Yancey again looked at the date at the top of the letter and did some mental calculations, consulting the fly-specked Hannis and Boyd Chicago Meatworks’ calendar hanging on the wall: it featured a graphic, action-packed painting of cowboys rounding up a bunch of mavericks in a dusty draw and Yancey had always considered it so real that he could almost hear the yells and cusses of the riders.

  “Hell almighty!” he breathed, as he figured out the dates. “They arrive in Dallas next week!”

  Already his head was buzzing from the dose of bitter quinine Doctor Boles, Dukes’ personal physician, had given him for the fever. The hot bath and the steam seemed to add to his dizziness. He put his hands to his temples and closed his eyes briefly. He had leave coming, as Dukes had said. The governor didn’t much like his top Enforcer taking any vacation too far from Austin in case he was wanted urgently, but Yancey figured that, under these circumstances, he would have to leave for Dallas in the morning.

  Boles had told him he would have to continue with the quinine for at least three days. Well, it would be hell travelling with his ears buzzing like this, but he would have to move right away if he wanted to get to Dallas before the train carrying his father and Mattie arrived there.

  He and his father sure didn’t get along, but he had to go to the old man now, no matter what, if he was in danger of dying. And there was that last passage in Mattie’s letter that he found worrying ... Yancey reached for it again, the ink beginning to streak a little in the damp tendrils of steam rising from the soapy water where he sat in his rooms at the Lone Star House in Austin.

  “... Maybe I’m unduly suspicious, Yancey, but I can’t help but feel that father’s life is in danger more from outside sources than his personal health. I will, of course, explain more fully when we arrive on the 18th at Dallas. As you know, his biggest cattle holdings are there and he intends to make his headquarters at the Big-B ranch. Already he’s talking about doing an audit of the books of the Bannerman First National Bank in Dallas while he’s in the vicinity. I’m worried that he’s not really going to leave the stresses and strains behind that Doctor Carmody wishes him to.

  “I look forward to seeing you, dear brother, and I’m sure papa does, too, knowing full well that I would advise you of his condition simply because he was so adamant that I shouldn’t! Perverse old devil! Your loving sister, Mattie ...”

  Yancey frowned as he folded the letter and tossed it onto the chair over which his clothes and gun rig hung. Mattie had a sound head on her shoulders and she did not make unnecessary worries for herself. Her suspicions must be well-based on fact or she wouldn’t have voiced them in her letter ...

  His life in danger more from outside sources than his personal health … Something must have happened to make Mattie say that, he thought as he toweled himself dry and pulled on his trousers. He almost fell off the chair once, as a wave of dizziness washed over him, his ears buzzing loudly from the effects of the quinine.

  It saved his life.

  For, if he hadn’t lurched and grabbed violently at the edge of the chair to steady himself, the bullet that crashed through the window would have taken him clear through the head.

  Yancey released the chair and dropped to one knee, using the heel of his left hand to knock the chair over, right hand closing on the butt of the six-gun in its holster. The motion of the falling chair put the gun in his hand and, even as he realized that there was only the sheer building wall outside the window and that the shot must have therefore come from the roof of the building opposite, he turned his Colt and shot out the lantern on the table.

  Blazing oil showered onto the floor and he tipped over the tub of soapy water and its sheer volume swamped the flames before they could take hold.

  The rest of the window disintegrated as three more rifle bullets smashed in and raked the room. He rolled across the wet floor boards and came up to one knee to one side of the window.

  Splinters flew from the frame and he ducked instinctively, realizing there were two men raking the window in a crossfire. Reaching behind him, he jerked his tattered old discarded shirt off the stool where he had dumped it and hurled it out the window into the night.

  Instantly, both gunmen opened up and he saw their positions by the muzzle flashes. Both were on the roofs of buildings across the street; one was using the false front of the barber shop for cover; the other was shooting over the ridge-top of the peaked shingle roof of a meeting hall.

  Yancey threw down with the Colt, holding the gun with both hands, beading the man on the shingle roof, wincing, but not moving as a bullet chewed into the window frame above his head, and then squeezed off a single shot. The gun’s muzzle rode up with recoil for these cartridges were specially made, high-velocity loads given him by his sidekick, Johnny Cato, the Enforcer’s official armorer.

  He saw shingles splinter and fly into the air, even as the rifleman over there reared up to his knees, the weapon slipping from his nerveless fingers to slide down this side of the roof and clatter into the gutter. The man disappeared behind the ridge and, even as Yancey knew his body would be rolling and sliding down into the yard behind the hall, he turned the smoking gun-muzzle towards the false front opposite.

  The rifleman there levered and triggered off four fast shots and made a dash to get away. Yancey’s Colt boomed and he heard the lead punch clear through the clapboard of the false front. But, as the echoes died, he also heard the pounding boots of the would-be assassin as he ran to the far end of the false front, making his getaway. The Enforcer figured he would likely drop from the guttering over the side alley where he probably had a saddled mount already waiting.

  Yancey didn’t hesitate. He had been aware of a pounding on his door for the past half minute, and now he wrenched it open and the crowd of other guests who had gathered in the passage fell back hurriedly when they saw him, naked to the waist, barefoot, smoking Colt in hand.

  “Get outa the way!” Yancey roared and waved the gun as the people scattered.

  He ran along the carpeted hall towards the door at the far end that led to a landing and to stairs down the side of the building. He cursed as he skidded up to it, seeing that it was locked. He didn’t hesitate: the Colt roared as he blew the lock off and crashed the splintered planks back against the wall, spilling out onto the landing.

  Yancey leapt down the stairs two at a time, trying to remember how many shots he had fired and wishing he had taken time enough to snatch up his gun rig as he had run out. He jumped the last half-dozen steps and landed in the alley, sucking down a sharp breath and swearing as the gravel gouged at his bare feet. But he ran out into the street and was in time to see a rider hurtle out of the alley opposite between the barber shop and the meeting hall. The man was crouched low, had his rifle in one hand, and was raking the animal’s flanks with spurs that had already torn through hide and flesh.

  The killer fired his rifle one-handed, used an old frontiersman’s trick to reload: he whirled the rifle around the lever and trigger guard, the gun’s own weight cycling the action and jacking another cartridge into the firing chamber. As he threw down a second time, streaking past, Yancey dropped to one knee, lifted the Colt in both hands again and beaded the man, laying the blade of the foresight on his weaving figure, moving the gun’s muzzle in a steady arc as he held true and dropped hammer.

  The rifle spat at the same instant and Yancey felt the air whip of the slug past his cheek.

  The rider lifted clear out of the saddle, somersaulting in midair, dropping his rifle. He hit hard and roll
ed and Yancey was already running forward, cocking his Colt again. The man, incredibly, was still alive and fought onto his back, dragged his six-gun and tried to bring it up. Yancey dropped hammer but there was only a loud ‘click!’ as it fell on an empty chamber.

  The Enforcer didn’t hesitate: he threw himself sideways and at the same, time, hurled his empty gun at the downed killer. The man’s Colt roared as Yancey’s heavy gun struck him in the chest and knocked him backwards, the muzzle flash pointing skywards.

  Yancey hurled himself headlong at the man and straddled his chest, wrenching the man’s Colt free of his grasp and ramming the warm muzzle under his ear.

  “Quit! Or I’ll blow your head off!” the Enforcer gasped, sweat streaming from him, ears buzzing madly.

  But the man under him went limp. Yancey backed off slowly, keeping the cocked, reeking gun only inches from the killer’s face. People were running up as Yancey dragged the man around so that lantern light from a shop awning washed over him. He didn’t know his name but had seen him around town often enough: a hard case living on the edge of the law and whose loyalty could be bought briefly for a few dollars. He was alive, but only just.

  Yancey stood up and glanced around at the crowd, seeing a deputy town marshal thrusting through, gun in hand. The Enforcer knew him.

  “Gar—this ranny’s still breathing. Get him to a sawbones and tell him to keep the son of a bitch alive long enough for me to question him. I’ll be back.”

  The marshal, long used to fracases involving the Enforcers, merely nodded and immediately grabbed a couple of men from the crowd and ordered them to take the dying outlaw across to Doctor Swanson’s offices.

  Yancey used the boardwalks to move along to the meeting hall and then, pressing close against the side of the building, moved silently down the alley to the rear. He had the killer’s cocked Colt in his hand as he came to the corner and he dropped to one knee, peered around cautiously, knowing the blackness of a high plank fence was behind him now so that he would not be silhouetted.

  There was no need for the precautions. The man from the roof lay spread-eagled on his back in the center of the yard. There was a lot of blood on his shirtfront and his head was twisted almost completely around on his obviously broken neck.

  Yancey nudged the body with his foot until a pale light showed the man’s face. He, too, was a local hard case. This one’s name, he knew, was Foley. The man had thirty dollars in bills in his hip pocket.

  Yancey grunted. Whoever had paid him had obviously known he could be bought cheap. He wondered how much the other man had been paid ...?

  It was also thirty dollars, he found out when he went across to Doctor Swanson’s offices.

  But that was all he would find out, for the hard case had died before he could question him.

  Three – Dallas

  Kate Dukes was shocked the next morning when she learned what had happened.

  There had, of course, been many attempts on Yancey’s life over the years since he had joined the Enforcers, but this one seemed to come out of nowhere—and for no obvious reason. She looked across the sitting room at him now as he poured her a brandy and brought two glasses over. He handed her one as he sat down on the sofa beside her.

  “But why were they trying to kill you, Yancey?” she asked, holding the glass in both hands. “I mean, you’re not on assignment now and, as you say, you haven’t really locked horns with either of those hard cases.”

  “Well, it was nothing personal. The money in their pockets spelt that out plain enough. Someone paid them to nail me. Damn near succeeded, too. If that quinine hadn’t made me a mite dizzy just then, you’d be wearing black and watching ’em lower my coffin into a grave on Boothill right now.”

  Kate stiffened. “Don’t talk that way, Yancey!”

  He shrugged, saluted her silently and sipped his brandy. “Relax, Kate. I’ve made a lot of enemies. Some are dead, some are behind bars, some have been there and are now out, others are still walking the streets. There are a lot of folk who’d be happier with me dead. Goes with the job.”

  Kate sipped her own drink, frowning deeply. “I guess that’s true,” she agreed slowly. “How is the fever, anyway?”

  “Better,” he said, though it really wasn’t. “Listen, any news of Johnny?”

  “There was a coded wire this morning. He should be back in Austin by tomorrow or the next day. He’s had to appear as a witness for the Rangers in a court case in Laredo. It’s taking longer than he figured.”

  Yancey’s lips tightened. “Damn! I was hoping he’d be here before I had to leave for Dallas.”

  “Dallas!” Kate blinked.

  “Yeah. That letter from Mattie says she and pa are arriving there by train on the eighteenth. He’s got some lung trouble ...”

  “Oh, Yancey, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, he’s getting on now and he’s been driving himself hard for thirty years. Doesn’t know when to ease up. It’s taken its toll, apparently, and his doctor’s ordered him to a dry climate. He chose Texas.” Yancey’s tone turned bitter. “Because the books of the Dallas branch of his bank are due for audit and he wants to check his steers on the Big-B ranch. Killing two birds with the one stone. Maybe three.”

  Kate looked a question.

  “Killing himself,” Yancey explained, “if he’s not careful.”

  “You and he don’t get along, Yancey—do you think you can—accomplish anything by going to him?”

  “That I don’t know, Kate. But I have to go. It could be my last chance to see him. Whether relations between us improve or not is in the lap of the gods.”

  Kate reached out and squeezed his hand gently, looking into his face with warm, understanding eyes.

  “I’m sure pa won’t object,” she said. “He’ll have Johnny Cato on hand should any emergency arise.”

  Yancey nodded, standing, and swaying a little as a wave of dizziness caught him. He helped the girl to her feet, placed her glass on a table and slipped his arms about her waist.

  “Kate, I’ve got a bad feeling about this. One of my hunches, if you like. But I figure my old man’s in more danger than from his health. Mattie said so in her letter and you know she wouldn’t put her suspicions into words unless there was mighty good cause. Could you ask Johnny to kind of—stand by here? That I might need him? Provided it’s okay with the governor, or course.”

  The girl nodded slowly. “It will be, Yancey, I’m sure.” Her eyes searched his gaunt face. “When are you leaving? This afternoon’s train?”

  He shook his head and drew her closer.

  “Now,” he said quietly. “I’m travelling by horse. I’ve sent some wires on ahead and there’ll be fresh mounts waiting for me at several points. I can beat the train up there, that way.”

  Kate knew he must really fear for his father’s life if he were prepared to make such a swift, grueling ride so as to be in Dallas when Curtis Bannerman and Mattie arrived.

  She clung to him, reluctant to be separated from him again so soon.

  He almost didn’t make it past Waco.

  Yancey had a supply of quinine with him and had promised Doctor Boles that he would complete the course of medication. Although he hated the side effects, he took the doses and had to admit that half a day after the last one had been swallowed, he was beginning to feel better than he had done in weeks. The constant ‘chilled’ feeling that had been with him since his visit to the Yucatan had at last left him and he began to see things more sharply; there had been this strange feeling that he was slightly disoriented all the time and looking at things with a faint haze clouding his eyes. Now that was gone and there was an edge on his appetite.

  The constant riding was taking its toll, of course, and he didn’t sleep much even when he did stop to roll up in his blankets for a few hours. But, long ago, when trail driving, Yancey had learned to doze in the saddle and catnapped this way on several occasions as he made his way north.

  One such occasion almost cost him
his life.

  He was riding across the high plains just outside of Waco when waves of weariness overwhelmed him and he began to doze. The horse continued along the well-worn trail, through wide-open country. But Yancey had expected to waken long before they moved into the broken country of draws and arroyos and canyons that he knew were just ahead.

  He was still dozing, swaying in the saddle, when the mount walked into the first of the draws.

  A rifle whip cracked and a red weal leapt across his left cheek, a small half-moon of flesh disappeared from his left ear and warm blood sprayed onto his shoulder and trickled down his neck.

  Yancey was instantly awake and alert, his Colt palming up with blurring speed, as he rammed home his heels into the mount’s flanks. It leapt forward and he jerked the reins to the left, spinning the horse in that direction as the rifle fired again. The bullet tore away part of the saddlehorn and he smelled singed leather and sucked in his belly muscles as the lead ricocheted.

  He dropped out of the saddle, onto the left side of the racing horse, a boot in stirrup, left hand gripping the damaged saddlehorn, Colt blazing across the flying mount’s back. His hat was whipped from his head but the wind was roaring so much in his ears that he couldn’t be sure if it was the motion or a bullet from the rifle.

  There was a puff of powder smoke up on the wall and Yancey got off two more shots before he dropped from the running horse as it flew past a patch of brush. As he heaved away from the animal, he snatched at the jutting butt of his Winchester in its saddle scabbard. His backward and downward motion tore it free of the scabbard and then he was hitting the brush, feeling it crush beneath his weight and cushion his fall. Dust flew and branches snapped and tore at his clothes and flesh. Blood from his face wound trickled into one eye. The breath was hammered from him as he bounced out of the brush and landed on his belly.