Bannerman the Enforcer 43

by Kirk Hamilton

  “Sure, it’s your territory, Peggy,” cut in Enderby, “but he’s takin’ advantage of you just because his name’s Bannerman. You don’t serve us common cowhands after supper’s been on, so you don’t have to show him no special favors. Don’t let him bluff you none, throw his weight around ...”

  “Hell, he weren’t ...”

  “His kind can charm the leg off an iron stewpot when they really want somethin’. But he’s here to check up on us all, Peggy, and your job could hang on his say-so. We ain’t afraid of him, and we ain’t gonna stand by and watch him use you, old timer.”

  The use of the plural made Yancey look beyond the big ramrod and he nodded slowly to himself as he caught a glimpse of several cowhands standing outside the cook shack. He stood up slowly.

  “Say, what the hell is this?” the cook said, bewilderedly, looking from the ramrod to some of the punchers who were starting to crowd in.

  “Don’t worry about it, old-timer,” Yancey said quietly, his eyes on Enderby’s hard face. “It’s nothing to do with you really. He’s just using it as an excuse to prod me. That’s the purpose of the exercise: get Bannerman. Right, Virg?”

  The foreman was thinking fast and it showed on his craggy face. Then he made up his mind how to play this and he smiled abruptly.

  “You’re tellin’ it, boss-man.”

  “Don’t you wreck my kitchen!” bawled Peggy suddenly.

  Yancey smiled thinly. “We’ll go outside, Peggy.”

  He stepped forward and brushed past the ramrod, squeezing him up against the doorpost as he stepped out into the dark yard. The cowpunchers fell back and Yancey turned as Enderby followed.

  But he wasn’t fast enough. The ramrod suddenly leapt forward and his big fist slammed into Yancey’s kidneys before the Enforcer had completely turned to face him.

  Someone yelled as Yancey gagged and dropped to one knee and then the fight was on. Enderby stepped in fast, snapping up a knee into the Enforcer’s face. Yancey was flung backwards and rolled onto his side. Shaking his head, feeling the warm blood gushing from his nose and smashed lips, Yancey looked up in time to see Virg Enderby’s boot stomping down towards his face.

  He spun away and the boot heel hit his shoulder, drawing a curse from him. Then, instead of completely spinning away from the ramrod, he hurled himself back towards the man, grabbing his legs and ramming his shoulder into his knees. Enderby yelled as he fought for balance and then sat down with a thud. He tried to kick his legs free but Yancey heaved up and dropped a knee across them, pinning them down. At the same time he rammed the top of his head into Enderby’s face and felt the man’s nose pulp.

  The ramrod crashed back, gagging, and Yancey lifted and dropped onto his belly with both knees. Enderby doubled-up and rolled about on the ground as the Enforcer staggered up to his feet, head spinning, ears ringing with the yelling of the cowboys. The ramrod slowly eased down his legs and started to clamber to hands and knees. Yancey kicked him in the side and he went down again.

  This time Enderby rolled away and managed to stagger upright. He roared like a bull, wiped the back of a hand across his bloody mouth, and charged back at the Enforcer. His thick arms went out to encircle Yancey, hoping to crush him in a bear hug. The Enforcer stepped nimbly aside, spun and drove a clubbed fist into Enderby’s kidney section. He grunted and fell to one knee, gagging, fighting for breath. Yancey moved in unhurriedly and Virg Enderby lifted an arm protectively across his face as a fist crashed down, knocked the guard aside and thudded into his jaw.

  The ramrod went down and he stayed there, half sitting, head hanging, blood dripping from his nostrils. Yancey swept his leg around in a short arc and kicked the supporting arm from under Enderby. The man sprawled and it seemed to stir him. He shook his head savagely, glared up at Yancey through a film of blood and then reared up with a wild roar.

  He came in with fists flailing. Yancey ducked easily and buried his right fist to the wrist bone in the man’s thick belly. Virg Enderby stopped dead, jack-knifed, hugging himself. Yancey brought up a knee. Enderby was flung back. Cowboys scattered and the ramrod kept staggering back until he was brought up hard against the cook shack.

  Yancey stepped in, hit him in the ribs with a dozen sledging blows, arms working like pistons. Enderby’s legs buckled. The cowboys were silent as they watched the tough ramrod hammered to the ground. Yancey stretched him out with a crashing uppercut and Enderby fell on his face, unmoving.

  The only sound was Yancey’s ragged breathing as he leaned against the cook shack, head hanging, cheeks blowing as he fought for breath. Then the cowboys began murmuring amongst themselves and when he glanced up. Yancey saw new respect in their eyes. No one seemed unduly upset at the fact that Virg Enderby had been battered and the Enforcer figured the man had been a bully and hazed the hell out of the crew; it would be Enderby’s style.

  At the outer edge of the crowd he saw Todd Loomis. The ranch manager was taut, his face pinched and angry, eyes cold as they bored into Yancey. The Enforcer gave him a crooked, bloody grin and threw a silent, mocking salute. Loomis clamped his lips together and spun away, striding back towards the house, shoulders stiff and hunched in contained anger.

  Then Yancey felt a hand on his arm and he turned slowly to look into the grubby, beard-shagged features of the cook.

  “If you still hanker for that son of a gun stoo, there’s a double helpin’ waitin’.” Peggy paused and winked as he added: “Might even find a wedge of apple pie for the man who could lay out that sidewinder Enderby.”

  Yancey heaved off the wall and stood there, swaying a little. He dropped an arm about the cook’s shoulders and together they staggered into the cook shack.

  Behind them, someone threw a bucket of well water over Virg Enderby and as the bloody ramrod stirred and groped to sit up, the crowd dispersed and moved away across the yard.

  Eight – Closest Shave Yet

  Next morning, both Yancey and Virg Enderby looked the worse for wear when they showed for breakfast. The Enforcer might have been the winner of the fight, but it was obvious from his battered face that he hadn’t earned his victory easily.

  Enderby moved slowly, stiffly, and could only see out of his right eye: the left was a purple and black puffy slit. His nose was lopsided and one corner of his upper lip overhung the bottom one like a flap of raw meat. Understandably, his mood was not the sweetest and, after the meal, he bawled and roared and cussed as he delegated chores for the day.

  When the men had shuffled out, muttering, and only the cook and Yancey were left, Enderby raked his surly gaze over the Enforcer.

  “You comin’ out on the range or restin’-up?”

  Yancey smiled, even though it hurt his split lips, and drained his coffee cup as he stood slowly and jammed his hat on his head.

  “I’ll be riding.”

  Surprisingly, Enderby grinned. “Bueno! Let’s go.”

  “What part of the range you working?” asked Yancey.

  “All over. But mostly the eastern hills: that’s where the branded stock is.”

  “I aim to tally the mavericks, too.”

  Enderby shrugged. “You’ll have to ride on down to the Buckhorn Creek range then.”

  Yancey nodded and followed the foreman outside. He paused in the doorway to throw a brief salute at Peggy. “Fine breakfast, Peggy.”

  The cook nodded and then rolled his eyes warningly indicating the ramrod mounting his horse out in the yard behind Yancey. The Enforcer acknowledged the warning with a slight nod and then walked down to the corrals in the early morning light and yelled to the wrangler to cut him out a paint. As he threw a saddle on the horse, Enderby rode up on his prancing, half-wild sorrel.

  “I ain’t got time to wet-nurse you, mister. I got chores to get done. Just stay outa my way on the range, huh?”

  The ramrod wheeled his mount and rode off before Yancey could answer. The Enforcer completed his saddling and before mounting checked the loads in his Winchester in the scabbard and
, as an afterthought, pulled out his Colt and checked it over, too.

  As he swung up into leather, he saw Todd Loomis watching from the porch. The ranch manager signaled for Yancey to hold up, and walked across. He stood beside the paint’s head and looked up at the big Enforcer.

  “One thing you gotta get straight, Yancey: Virg’s the ramrod, in charge of the round-up. What he says, goes.”

  “With the men, sure.”

  “You, too, if you get in the way.”

  Yancey smiled faintly. “Sure.”

  “Listen, you stay back and let him get on with the job, Yancey!” Loomis said hotly. “I know why you’re here and you ain’t gonna cause hell on my spread!”

  Yancey leaned forward. “Tell me why I’m here, Todd.”

  Loomis scowled. “I ain’t got time to stand here jawin’ with you!”

  The Enforcer wrenched the reins suddenly and the paint’s head swung in a short arc that caused the manager to leap backwards, cursing, to avoid being hit. Yancey grinned as he jammed in his heels and set the horse across the yard at a run. Loomis glared after him, his face savage.

  Promptly at noon, Curtis Bannerman arrived at the First National Bank on Texas Street in Dallas. It was actually in the plaza, at least the front of the building was, but the big business district of Texas Street began at the bank’s corner and most folk always thought of it as being ‘in’ Texas Street rather than one of the buildings fronting the Plaza del Sol.

  It was an imposing building, redbrick with the mortar joints outlined in white. There was a keystone arch supported by pillars, all of local granite for the main doors and the doors themselves were heavily-paneled oak with gleaming brass hinges and handles, and lock plates. Inside these was a second set of doors, heavy hardwood planks, sheathed in sheet-iron with four sets of massive padlocks and hasps. Thick bars covered all the windows and the safe, though of ancient design, was the heaviest in Texas.

  The makers, the famous Century Foundry in Pittsburgh, guaranteed that nothing short of ten pounds of dynamite could blow those doors and even then, secondary lock tongues would spring out with the vibration of the explosion and effectively keep the door jammed in place.

  So far, no one had ever tried to put the theory to the test.

  There had been robbery attempts, certainly, but these had been attacks on the clerks’ counter by bands of masked men with shotguns and Colts, menacing staff and customers, taking whatever money they could lay their hands on. No one had tried to break in at night and blow the safe. The word amongst the professionals was that, while it could be done, it was just too much hard work and too risky, for nitroglycerine would have to be used. And only desperate or loco men boiled up the sticks of Dr Nobel’s dynamite to skim the oily unstable explosive liquid off the top that was known as nitro.

  Curtis Bannerman had always been pleased with the construction of the Dallas branch of his banking chain. It was the only one he had built from scratch. Others he had bought as existing buildings, mostly as banks that were in financial trouble—sometimes deliberately engineered by C.B. and his minions, for there were many ways of winning in the financial world, and not all of them were clean and aboveboard.

  But a dollar was a dollar, as C.B. was fond of saying. Earned honestly or otherwise, it still purchased a dollar’s worth of goods.

  This attitude was one more reason why Yancey had quit the world of Bannerman Holdings ...

  Lincoln Barnett came hurrying across the polished parquetry floor as Curtis Bannerman entered the bank proper and the clerks at their cages behind the heavy counter seemed to draw up to attention, staring a little awestruck at this legendary figure they had heard so much about over the years. He seldom left ’Frisco and only two staff members could recall C.B. having visited the Dallas bank previously.

  Samuels, the head clerk, stood nervously smiling beside a gate in the counter at one end, beyond which was his work area. There were several desks occupied by accountants under his supervision and his own desk was huge and ornate, now covered in neat stacks of leather-bound ledgers. The silver ink-well set had been highly polished and the wells were filled with red and blue ink, the pens had fresh nibs, and the blotter pad was clean and white. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen and the high polish of the desk top reflected other parts of the bank.

  The chief clerk looked red-eyed and weary, tense.

  The accountants stood beside their own tables, stiffly, wearing their green eyeshades and cuff protectors. Beyond them was Lincoln Barnett’s own office with the words ‘Private’ and ‘Manager’ on the polished door panels in gold lettering.

  What customers were in the bank turned to stare as C.B. strode across the floor, with Barnett hovering about him anxiously. Curtis Bannerman pulled out a clean white kerchief and covered his mouth as a fit of coughing took him. His face purpled and his shoulders shook as the spasm wracked him, but he did not slow his pace, nodded to Samuels as he stepped through the gate and went straight to the desk holding the stacks of ledgers. He fought a final fit of coughing and then lowered the kerchief from his pale lips.

  “Up to date?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Bannerman,” Samuels assured him emphatically. “I worked all night, sir, me and my team, I mean, and we have everything ready for your inspection.”

  C.B. nodded again and sat down in the leather chair. Barnett looked a little puzzled.

  “Uh—C.B., I thought you might like a cup of coffee or a light luncheon in my office before you began your audit ...?”

  Seated, C.B. raised his eyes to the president’s face,

  “I asked that the books be ready by noon, Lincoln, for the very good reason that that was the time I intended to begin my audit. Now Samuels has assured me the books are ready and I am ready, so I see no reason to postpone the check. Besides, I already ate at the hotel. Mr. Samuels ...? If you’ll join me?”

  The chief clerk nodded and glanced a little nervously at the tight-faced Barnett. The bank president was angry at C.B.’s rejection of his offer and his eyes narrowed as Samuels hurriedly drew up a chair at one end of the desk where C.B. sat.

  “Now, Samuels, if you’ll be so good as to inform me just what these ledgers represent, I think we’ll begin.”

  Barnett stepped forward. “Uh—C.B., look, just before you start—wouldn’t it be more private in my office? Less distracting? I can have all this moved in. I’ll gladly make all facilities available for you and ...”

  Bannerman looked up slowly, his eyes chilled. “Lincoln—I pay you to manage this bank for me. Surely your time is precious and fully booked-up? By all means take a luncheon break if you must, but …”—and C.B.’s voice took on a steely edge—“… just allow me to begin, will you? Nothing distracts me once I begin to work, not even a gun fired behind me. Samuels ...?”

  Barnett flushed as he was so peremptorily dismissed and he scowled angrily at the staring clerks and irritably waved them back to work as he strode towards his office. He paused at the door and looked back at Samuels’ desk where the chief clerk was explaining the mortgage book to C.B.

  He compressed his lips and then wrenched open his office door and went inside, closing it loudly behind him.

  The dust and noise of round-up were sweet music to Yancey’s ears as he rode the range of the Big-B down by Buckhorn Creek with its nostalgic memories.

  It seemed only yesterday that, as a gangling kid, he had slipped down to Jaunty John’s camp here and told the legendary old trail driver that he wanted to go with him. He could still see the approximate spot where the big pre-dawn campfire had been and Jaunty had stood, wearing the great woolly chaps that were his trademark, greasy with spilled bacon and beans and spotted with coffee stains. He could still see the wolf-lean face with the nicotine-stained longhorn moustaches drooping so much that not only was the mouth hidden, but most of the iron jaw, too.

  “You gotta be plumb loco, button,” Jaunty had said, wiping the back of a gnarled hand over his coffee-dripping moust
ache. “Leavin’ a holiday on your pa’s ranch for a trail drive.”

  “I’ll do any job you want, Mr. Wisselling,” Yancey had told him in his eager, piping voice. “I can ride and I’m not too bad with a rope—leastways, when I’m standing; I wouldn’t mislead you and say I could rope good from a galloping horse.”

  The old trail man had laughed then. “Hell, boy, you got your head in the clouds! No roustabout gets to ride and rope on his first drive! He scrapes the grub-spoiler’s pots and splits the firewood, slaps axle grease on the chuck wagon, tends to sick and ailin’ calves and beeves, runs errands for the cowpunchers and I’m tellin’ you, they run you ragged from point to drag all day long and then kick your tail come suppertime ’cause you ain’t washed their shirt or long johns like they asked you to. No use sayin’ you ain’t had time, you has to find time. And you has to be ready any hour of the day or night to jump outa your blankets and get coffee for the trail crew comin’ in or goin’ out. There ain’t no fun in this kinda drive, son. You still innerested?”

  “Yes, sir,” Yancey had replied without hesitation and for a moment old Jaunty’s eyes had crinkled warmly and then he had drained his coffee cup, turned and picked up his plate that still held a mess of egg yolk and bean sauce and bacon fat on it.

  “First job is to get that there plate shinin’ so’s I can see my face in it. And water’s plentiful enough here, but it won’t be on the trail north, so I want you to do it without usin’ water, savvy?” Yancey had nodded and turned away to begin the chore and Jaunty had called after him:

  “Shinin’ like a mirror I said! We’re pullin’ out in ten minutes.” The punchers laughed and the surly cook spat as Yancey knelt by a patch of sand and began scrubbing a handful over the tin plate. The skin of his hands and fingers was red raw by the time he had the plate shining well enough to suit the trail boss.

  Jaunty had merely grunted, taken the plate without thanks and jerked his head back towards the lumbering chuck wagon. “Go see what the grub-spoiler wants you to do.”