They unstrapped the bedrolls and scabbards and glanced briefly at each other as they strode towards the dark and silent house. They were muddy and sweaty, hungry and tired, and wanted only to eat and bathe before hitting the hay.
The rear door of the house was closest to the corral area so they entered the house this way and Tate groped his way across to the big cupboard, felt for the glass bowl of the lamp and then the matchbox. He lifted the chimney and struck a match, and when the wick burned bright set the chimney back in place. Instantly, he drew his six-gun and put a finger to his lips as Deborah stared at him, freezing in mid-motion as she took off her hat and shook loose her hair that she had had piled up on top of her head.
Tate took a step forward and leaned close, his lips brushing her ear.
“Lamp chimney was warm. And look at the table. Someone’s been here and had a meal.”
Deborah saw the plates and remains of a meal on the table now and nodded, as she smelled recently brewed coffee. There was a sudden glint of fear in her eyes and her hand tightened on Tate’s forearm.
He shook his head briefly. “Stay here while I look around,” he said quietly.
She shook her head and slid his rifle from the saddle scabbard he had propped by the door. She levered a shell into the breech silently and gestured for him to lead the way.
Tate started to argue but they both fell silent as there came the unmistakable creak of bed springing from Tate’s room next door to the kitchen. He moved swiftly towards the door and the girl followed with the rifle held ready. Tate’s hand gripped the latch handle. He looked at his sister and she indicated that she was ready.
He dragged down a deep breath and abruptly flung the door open so that it crashed back against the chest of drawers just inside the room. Light from the kitchen table lamp spilled into the room and showed a man spinning and coming up off Tate’s bed, hand diving for the Colt on the chair beside him.
Yancey Bannerman landed on one knee, crouching, his cocked Colt rock-steady and covering the startled Jarretts who had not yet fully brought their guns up into line. He had moved so fast that his speed had actually stunned them, slowed down their own movements.
“Hold it!” Tate said belatedly, lifting his Colt into line at last. Yancey flicked his eyes from one to the other, trying to ignore the pain that thundered through his wounded shoulder and down his left arm. He stood slowly, easing down the hammer on his Colt.
“Could’ve nailed you both,” he told them briefly. “I guess you’re the folks who own this place?”
“We are and who the hell are you?” answered Tate Jarrett. “Name’s Bannerman. Sorry about intruding. I lost my hoss out in the badlands and had to foot-slog across. I dunno where I wandered in the ranges but I came to a drift fence and followed it. Led me to a burnt-out pasture with carcasses of maybe thirty steers. Seen this house in the distance and made for it, but it was just on dark when I got here. I hallooed several times and when I didn’t see any lights comin’ on, I came on in.” He shrugged. “No one home so I helped myself to a meal.”
“And my bed!” Tate snapped.
Yancey smiled faintly. “I’m plumb tuckered, mister. I’d have left you money before movin’ on, come mornin’. Fact, I was gonna pick myself a hoss out of your corral remuda, too.”
“You’re holding that left arm mighty stiffly, mister,” Deborah said suddenly.
“I am, ma’am.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m not a fool, mister! You’ve hurt that arm, is my guess.”
“Not the arm, ma’am. Shoulder. Blade’s kinda gashed. When my hoss went down, he threw me and I landed on some flint. Cut me up some.”
Tate frowned. “Must’ve been a crazy kind of throw.”
“I somersaulted over his head, landed on my back. Not so crazy. And who’m I talking to, anyway?”
“Our name’s Jarrett,” Deborah told him. “I’m Deborah and this is my brother, Tate. I’d like to see the color of your money, Bannerman, but I’d reach for it kinda slow if I was you.”
Yancey smiled slowly and dug out some coins. They saw the glint of golden double-eagles amongst the money.
The girl nodded. “All right. Guess you’re able to pay your way. We’ll tally up what you owe us later. But there’s something else.”
Both Yancey and Tate looked at the girl puzzledly.
“The way you came off that bed and got that gun in your hand, cocked and dead on target. As you said, you could’ve killed us both before we had brought our own weapons into line.”
Yancey’s wide mouth stretched in a faint smile again. “Good reactions.”
“Got that way from lots of practice, I’d say,” Deborah told him unsmilingly.
Yancey shrugged and winced at the pain that knifed through his shoulder and arm. He gripped the shoulder with his right hand, his face pale and drawn in the lamplight.
Deborah frowned, looked uncertain and then set down the rifle on the kitchen table behind her.
“You’d better let me take a look at that shoulder.”
“It’s all right, ma’am. I’ve been bother enough.”
“I’ll look at it. Turn around.”
Yancey turned slowly, sat down on the edge of the bed. The girl motioned for Tate to stand back so that his shadow did not fall across Yancey and while her brother covered the Enforcer, she eased the bloody cloth away from the wound. Yancey had done no more than wash it as well as he could since his arrival and he had folded clean calico into a pad, soaked it with carbolic he found and had lain on it on the bed, gritting his teeth against the bite of the powerful disinfectant.
He heard the girl suck down a sharp breath.
“That carbolic has burned the raw flesh, Bannerman. I’d say it did more harm than good.”
“Well, got to admit that’s the way it feels, ma’am.”
He gasped as she peeled away the remainder of the calico pad and exposed the rest of the wound. Tate frowned as she sat back and then stood abruptly, throwing him a startled look. Yancey twisted his head to see over his good shoulder.
“Somethin’ wrong?” he asked.
“How did you say you got this wound?” she asked quietly.
“Bronc threw me and I landed on some sharp flint. Why?” He knew the ricocheting lead had been flattened when it had hit him and the jagged edges of the pancaked bullet had acted like a knife and sliced open his flesh. He figured he could get away with the story about the sharp flint. He wasn’t about to tell the truth for he didn’t know just how far Tallis’ influence had reached and for all he knew these folk could be kin or friends of the dead negro killer.
“There’s somethin’ in here,” the girl said, bending to study the wound properly. “But it doesn’t look like any piece of flint to me. It looks a whole lot like a flattened bullet!”
“What!” exclaimed Tate, leaning closer.
Yancey stiffened but said nothing. It was true that he could feel something grating when he moved his arm and it hurt like hell at that spot, but he had figured it had been caused by the bullet going deeper and damaging or even severing a tendon.
He hadn’t figured the bullet itself or a part of it could be lodged just under the flesh, but, if it were, it would sure feel something the same ...
By now, Deborah had brought in the table lamp from the kitchen and she held it close for a better look. She turned and stared at her brother who was peering closely. Something glittered in the torn flesh of the deep gash, between the outer skin and the white bone of the shoulder blade that had been exposed in one area.
“By Godfrey, that’s a bullet, all right!” Tate announced and he poked Yancey roughly in the ribs with his Colt barrel. “How come, mister?”
Yancey shrugged, grimacing at the pain the movement caused him.
Tate placed the Colt muzzle against Yancey’s head, leaned close. “You’re in my house, mister, you’ve eaten my grub, slept in my bed, all without permission. I could
shoot you now and no lawman would touch me. Trespassers don’t get much sympathy in this neck of the woods.”
“Tate!” exclaimed Deborah.
“Hell with it, Sis! We dunno who we got here.”
“All right,” Yancey said slowly. “I was in a little fracas down in Albany.”
“Easy, mister,” Tate warned. “We’ve just come from there so we’ll know if you’re lyin’.”
“This was a week, ten days back.”
Tate glanced at Deborah and she shook her head.
“That wound’s not that old,” she said.
Tate’s Colt barrel jarred Yancey’s head. “You heard!”
“Take it easy!” Yancey snapped. “I got the wound later, three, four days ago.”
This time Deborah nodded at Tate’s enquiring look.
“Better. Now get on with it,” Tate growled.
“Well, like I said, a little fracas in Albany. Over cards. Trouble was, feller who drew on me had a lot of friends. I outgunned him but his pards came after me, chased me into the badlands. Cornered me in a canyon across there. Three of ’em hounded me and pushed me right into the canyon where the fourth one was already waitin’, set-up for ambush. It was his lead that nicked me.”
Tate’s jaw sagged a little. “You took on four of ’em?”
“No choice.”
“You tryin’ to tell me that you shot your way out of that ambush?”
Yancey nodded. “I had some luck. I got three, fourth one got away but toting some of my lead. I dunno if he’s gonna show with other pards or not, but I would sure appreciate it if you wouldn’t throw me out tonight. I need some rest. I’ll pay for what I’ve eaten and I’ll buy more grub and a bronc from you tomorrow. How about it?”
“Well, I dunno …” Tate said slowly, but Deborah moved around in front of Yancey and stared down at him, her hands on her slim hips.
“You’re very smart, Bannerman. You tell us a story that sets us back on our heels and before we have a chance to decide whether we believe it or not you hit us with a string of questions that requires a decision, too. That’s what I call real smart-talkin’.”
Yancey stared at her. “Takes one to know one, ma’am,” he said very quietly and she stiffened at first and looked angry but abruptly smiled, relaxing.
“Damn right it does!” she admitted suddenly. “And I’ve had to do plenty of fast sweet-talking over the years to hold onto this ranch.”
“Mortgage troubles?” Yancey asked, keeping her away from too many questions about details of the supposed fracas in Albany.
“Yeah, but we’re out of that mess now,” Tate said and Yancey didn’t miss the sudden warning look that his sister threw him. “Er—well, I mean, hopefully, we are. Been to Albany to see the bank’s head office and ask for an extension.”
“Get it?” Yancey asked.
Deborah answered, speaking swiftly before Tate could say anything. “Yes. I used my—uh—charms and sweet-talked him into it. Local man’s not going to like it, I guess, but that’s the least of our worries.”
“Glad to hear it,” Yancey said. “Well, how about it? Can I stay over? I’ll move out tomorrow.”
“Let’s talk it over,” Deborah said, taking Tate’s elbow and moving him towards the door. “Take your shirt off. I’ll cut that bullet out for you, whatever we decide. You’ll be a lot easier then.”
“Obliged, ma’am.”
Yancey sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing gently at his left shoulder as the door closed after the Jarretts.
He wondered what they were up to. There was something about them that didn’t ring quite true, and it had something to do with the mortgage, or the real reason they were in Albany ...
In the kitchen, Tate turned to his sister and spoke in a low voice.
“What’re you doin’? He can’t stay here! I guess you can dig the slug out of him, all right, but he’s got to move on! Pronto!”
“Why?” the girl asked. “Give me one good reason why, Tate.”
“Damn it, you know why!”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t know why. I don’t see that we can throw him out.”
“Uh?”
“Not a man who’s that fast with a gun.”
Tate’s jaw sagged as he blinked at his sister.
“You saw the way he came off that bed,” the girl said. “He was like lightning. He could have nailed us both and we’d never have seen him do it. Man with reflexes like that isn’t any ordinary cowpoke. And did you see the rifle in the scabbard attached to his saddle rig in a corner of your room? It’s got an over-sized lever on it. I’ve read of those. Some men use them for fast-shooting. They can get off a whole magazine of shots in less time than it takes to say your name. Lawmen use them. Men on the dodge use them. But not the working cowpoke or range ranny.”
“Good grief, we don’t want a lawman here!”
“Why? We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“You loco? What about ...?”
“We’ve done nothing wrong!” the girl cut in, speaking the words slowly. “Get that through your head, Tate. We haven’t broken any law and no one could say we have.”
“But—”
“No! Everything’s just as it was. So we’re all right.”
“Even so, we don’t want no lawman here.”
“We don’t know for sure he is.”
“Gunfighter’s worse.”
“I don’t see it. I’ll remove that bullet. He should rest for at least a couple of days. A man who can handle a gun as fast as he can is a good man to have around—in case of unwanted visitors.”
Tate looked at her sharply. “Not likely, is it?”
“We can’t be sure. I say we use this Bannerman as insurance. He’ll be on our side. He’ll have to be if I dig out that bullet and tend to his wants and we feed him. He’ll be obligated, and that applies whether he’s lawman or gunfighter.” She looked levelly at her brother and said firmly, “So I say he stays.”
Tate sighed heavily.
“Well, I guess you’ve been proved right so many times in the past, it’d be loco for me to go against you now, Sis.” He gave her a quick grin. “So whatever you say.”
Deborah smiled and opened the bedroom door, going inside to where Yancey sat on the edge of the bed, face gray and drawn with pain.
Chapter Six – Another Way Out
It was no good, Johnny Cato decided finally, as the six-gun slipped from his hand for the twentieth time and skidded in the dust. He had to face up to it: he couldn’t hold an ordinary six-gun, let alone the double-weight Manstopper, nor could he get a Colt out of leather with anything like his old gun speed.
He stood in the hot sun on the bare ground of the shooting range at the back of the Enforcer’s training area on Juniper Flats, just outside of Austin. It was some days now since he had stopped seeing Doc Boles regularly for exercises to strengthen his wrist and fingers. He had known, even before he was discharged from the Austin infirmary, that he wouldn’t be able to handle the massive Manstopper anymore. His wrist and hand were too weak for its great weight.
So, while waiting for Boles to finish his final ‘clean-up’ of the injured forearm and hand, Cato had started thinking about a new gun. For some time now he had had it in mind to construct a lighter version of the Manstopper. The great weight of the big Dragoon’s frame helped stability and the longer chambers in the cylinder allowed him to fill his special cartridges with a bigger powder load, and this massive stopping-power was one of the great things about the gun.
But he had to face facts. It was cumbersome, required a reinforced, specially-stitched holster and gun rig and if he ran out of ammunition far from Austin he had to revert to his rifle or an ordinary Colt anyway.
Ideas for a lightweight version had been coming and going in the back of his mind for a long time, usually when he was waiting around for assignments—or women. But he had so far never bothered to put anything down on paper. Now this new problem was, literally, forcing his hand.
First, he had decided to set the Manstopper aside and its successor, if there was going to be one, and he came out to this shooting range to see how he could make out with an ordinary Colt. As he stared down now at the blued-metal of the gun lying in the dust, Cato knew there were going to have to be more modifications than he had figured on. He rubbed his right wrist as he sat down on a rock and stared at the gun. Hell, it only weighed the usual two pounds and two ounces, or all-up, fully-loaded, plus another couple of ounces. Two and a quarter pounds. The Manstopper had weighed exactly double that.
He had had trouble at first adjusting to its weight but strengthening exercises had made his right wrist an inch larger than his left. Dr Boles had told him it had been this fact that had allowed him to keep so much of his proficiency with the injured hand. Very likely his wrist would have been ‘frozen’, permanently stiff, if he hadn’t had that extra sheathing of muscle to call on to support the damaged hand.
Cato picked up the Colt, blew dust out of the mechanism and dropped it back into the holster. He gripped the butt and pulled it out slowly. Suddenly his tanned face contorted with brief, though agonizing pain shooting through his wrist like hot needles. He stopped drawing the gun, studied its position with the last third of the barrel still not clear of leather.
It angled slightly to the rear, in the usual, widely-accepted manner. He lifted the gun clear of leather, felt again that twinge of pain as his wrist straightened and locked when the gun came up and into line, the inside of his forearm braced against his hip for added support and solidity. Doing it slowly this way, he had no trouble retaining his hold on the gun.
His heart beat a shade faster. An idea was beginning to form. He dropped the Colt back into leather, set himself and once again tried the fast draw. The Colt skidded through the dirt near his feet. Again he tried it with the same result.
Cato eased the gun out slowly, bracing himself for the burst of hot pain in his wrist that he had come to expect now, but this time, instead of the pain crippling his fingers momentarily so that he lost his grip on the gun, he was able to control the movement of his wrist and once more brace his forearm in against his body.
Bannerman the Enforcer 39 Page 6
