It was the speed that was fouling him up.
That and something else. It didn’t make sense, theoretically, but he was giving himself practical proof of his ideas each time he drew slowly. For instead of allowing the gun to come free with its natural back-pointing angle of the barrel, once the frame of the gun was clear of the holster, he was allowing it to pivot slightly around his trigger finger through the guard so that the barrel was actually pointing forward even before it cleared the mouth of the holster.
Once it did that, his wrist no longer hurt and there was strength in his fingers to grip that butt and notch back the hammer. He even managed to hit a couple of targets.
Johnny Cato spent the whole afternoon out on the range and then rode back to Austin and sought out Doctor Boles.
“Doc, I got somethin’ I want to ask you. Got a few minutes?” Cato said as he poked his head in the medic’s office in the rear area of the Governor’s mansion astride Capitol Hill.
Boles glanced up, looking at Cato over the tops of his half-moon glasses. “Come in, John, come in,” he said, waving a mite impatiently, but his gestures always gave that impression. His eyes followed Cato’s scarred hand as the Enforcer came in and dropped into a chair opposite. “I hear you’ve been out on the shooting range again.”
Cato raised his eyebrows. “Keepin’ tabs on me, Doc?”
Boles sat back in his chair, removed his reading glasses and tapped one of the wire wings against his teeth, looking steadily at Cato.
“In a way.”
Cato was genuinely surprised at the admission. “Hell’s sake, why?”
“John, that machete wound kinda turned your life upside down. You’re a man who depends on his gun speed to stay alive. Oh, sure, other things, too, but you know what I mean. Well, the way that hand of yours is, you don’t have the lightning-fast draw you used to have, that’s necessary for you to stay alive or maybe keep you in your job as an Enforcer. You’ve got a lot of enemies out there and the only thing keepin’ ’em away is your reputation with a gun. If that goes, and they get to hear of it, you’re no more than a walkin’ dead man. Now I’m talking plain to you this way ’cause I know I can talk with you this way. You’re the kinda feller who’d want to know the truth and no shilly-shallying. Well, you got it and I saw your face when you tried them grip tests I gave you. You knew right then you’d never be able to handle that Manstopper of yours again.” The old medic shrugged. “To be honest, I had no idea how you’d react privately. Sure, outwardly, you seemed to accept it, but I know you better. The rest of you was mighty churned-up. So I had a couple of the Governor’s Rangers keep an eye on you and I’m not ashamed to admit it. They tell me you’ve been trying to handle an ordinary Colt.” He paused again, seemed to increase the intensity of his stare and added, “Without a lot of success.”
Cato lit the cigarette he had rolled while the medic was talking, shook out the vesta and blew a plume of smoke.
“Yes and no, Doc.”
Boles frowned. “Yes and no? What’s that mean?”
“Means I can’t draw even a Colt Frontier six-shooter fast and keep a hold of it. It flies out of my hand each time I try to lift it into line. If I do it in slow motion, though, it’s fine.”
Boles squinted at him. “You ever seen a slow-motion gunfight, sonny?”
Cato grinned. “Nope, and not likely to, I guess. But what I mean, Doc, is that if my wrist ain’t jerking and twisting four ways to Sunday each time I try to draw fast, I seem to have as much strength in my grip as I ever had. It’s just when the barrel’s about to clear the holster that somethin’ clicks or pinches in my wrist joint and all my fingers go numb and I lose any strength I might’ve had in them.”
Boles tapped his teeth again and sat forward, setting down his spectacles and interlacing his fingers as he looked levelly at Cato.
“Nerve, most likely. Primary one. Pinches tight and cuts off all circulation, nerve power and so on to the fingers.” He shook his head slowly. “No way around it, John. I dunno of any medical man capable of the kind of surgery needed for that.”
Cato held up his left hand. “Not what I had in mind.” He hitched his chair closer and leaned his elbows on the front of the desk. “Doc, I think I’ve made a discovery. You tell me if I’m talkin’ foolish; but what I discovered is this: as long as I wear that holster rig in the usual manner, low down on the thigh, base thonged down snug, pointed straight down or even slightly to the rear as most hombres do, I can’t get my gun out and keep a hold of it. Except in slow motion. But—now listen to this, though I know it sounds loco—if I hitch that holster up, say halfway between my knee and hip, and have the base tilted forward so that the gun’s muzzle is raked forward when it’s snug in leather, I can spin that gun out and shoot it at somethin’ approachin’ my old gun speed. Now what do you think of that?”
“My first impulse is to say it’s complete nonsense. I don’t see how you could possibly hope to improve your draw over the tried method, certainly not by having your holster higher and raked in the exact opposite direction. But you say it works and I know damn well you aren’t a man who talks just to hear the sound of his own voice.”
Cato grinned widely. “Fine, Doc. My theory is that with the gun barrel slanted back, somewhere between the gun clearing holster and firing, I have to try to straighten and lock my wrist, while carrying the full weight of the gun, my wrist bent backwards. The other way, with the barrel already raked forward, it’s in the right position to start lifting, with a straight pull on my wrist tendons. That way it don’t pinch the nerve and, believe me, Doc, it comes into line so that my forearm’s braced against the side of my body like it’s a part of me. I was wondering if it works because of my weakened wrist or if it would be the same with anybody.”
Boles gave it some thought, finally shrugged. “I guess the principle’s the same for everyone, but it might just be that the power in your wrist is transmitted in a slightly different way and direction now. But what the hell, John? If it works, go to it and develop it.”
“I aim to. But I’ll need a special holster, Doc, and I’m going to make a new gun, too, another Manstopper but a lightweight version. I was wonderin’ if you could help me sort of design the belt and holster rig? I’ve got an idea that if the whole thing is shaped to sort of follow the outline of the body over the hip, instead of just like a trouser belt with a holster danglin’ from it, it ought to work better.”
Doctor Boles showed interest. “You mean contour the belt? Say have it shaped so that it hugs the hip area? That the idea?”
“Somethin’ like that, Doc. Thing is, the holster shouldn’t move so it means a tie-down but the position I aim to have it will make the usual kind of tie a bit awkward. Reckon you could come up with an idea to get around that?”
“Mebbe.” Boles sat back and smiled faintly, shaking his head slowly. “Damn you, Johnny Cato! I could almost accuse you of making me break my Hippocratic Oath!”
Cato blinked, startled. “Huh?”
Boles chuckled. “I took the Oath to heal people, treat their ills, save life. Here you are asking me to help you devise a fast-draw gun rig that’ll no doubt be used in taking quite a few lives.”
The Enforcer smiled crookedly. “Look at it this way, Doc. You help me figure out a rig that really works and you will be helpin’ to save life—mine!”
The medic nodded soberly. “I know, John. And I’ll give it a lot of thought. Could be together we’ll come up with the first anatomical gunbelt ever.”
Cato stood up. “And meantime, I’ve got to try to figure out a gun to fit it that’ll allow me to draw as fast as I ever did and shoot as straight. Don’t be surprised if you don’t see me around for a spell, Doc.”
He walked to the door, turned and flicked the medic a brief salute.
“Muchas gracias, Doc.”
Then he hurried out and Boles turned in his chair to study the big anatomy chart on the wall, especially around the hip and lower back region.
&
nbsp; Banker Seth Bainbridge stared down at the lumps of gold ore on his desk, resting on the square of burlap, and slowly poked at them with a finger that was close to shaking. He looked up with his cool eyes.
“Where did you say you got this?” he said.
“We found a vein by accident, sheer accident,” Deborah Jarrett told him, sitting on the edge of her chair across the desk from the banker. She was clutching her hands tightly together and a plaited quirt dangled from her right wrist. She was dressed in a denim riding outfit of pants and vest with a bright red calico blouse. Her small brown hat dangled down her back by the rawhide thong.
“On your property?” probed Bainbridge.
“Of course on our property. I told you that Tate and I returned from Albany a couple of days ago after having no success at your bank’s head office ...”
Bainbridge smiled crookedly. “I could have saved you the journey. President Nathan Kine isn’t one to grant extension to overdue mortgages. It was a sheer waste of your feminine wiles, Miss Jarrett!”
Deborah colored angrily but she calmed herself. She could afford to ride with the punches now. She forced a tight, crooked smile.
“As the preacher has often remarked from the pulpit, Mr. Bainbridge, God moves in mysterious ways. You know I’m a God-fearing person and that I put a lot of faith in prayer. But I also help myself when I can. When Tate and I returned we decided we had better bury those dead steers that had been burnt.” She smiled wider. “When we were digging a large hole to push their carcasses in, we came across the vein of gold. I believe there should be enough to pay off the mortgage in its entirety.”
Bainbridge was grave as he poked at the ore again. “I’ll have to have it assayed, of course, to determine its exact value.”
Deborah stood up abruptly. “Do that, Mr. Bainbridge. By all means.” She walked to the heavy, paneled door, while the pinch faced banker made no move to show her out. With her hand on the ornate gilt door handle, Deborah turned and gave him a wide smile. “Let me know if it’s not enough.”
He stiffened. “Just how much more have you—found?”
Deborah gestured to the ore on his desk. “Just let me know if you need any more. Good day to you. Mr. Bainbridge.”
She went out fast and the president sighed as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the gold, tapping a pencil against his pointed chin.
Then he gripped the pencil between his hands and snapped it, ripping out an oath. He hammered violently on his desk with a gavel he kept for the express purpose of summoning his clerks.
A side door opened and a man in a green eyeshade and cardboard cuff protectors looked in fearfully.
“Yessir?”
“Have this ore assayed as quickly as possible,” snapped Bainbridge. “And on your way out, send in Mr. Malcolm with the mortgage papers on the Jarrett property. Quickly, man!”
The clerk almost ran from the room, clutching the burlap square of ore samples against his chest, leaving a small trail of crumbling rock dust. Bainbridge hurried him along with a shouted, “Dolt! Fool! Get that cleaned up!” and then sat back in his chair again, face clouded with anger.
The Jarrett place was a desirable property; even more so now that there had been gold discovered there. But it looked as if the Bank had lost it.
He swore out loud. Seth Bainbridge was not a good loser.
Chapter Seven – Closing In
Yancey sat on the porch in the warm sunlight, feeling somewhat older than his years.
He was naked from the waist up except for the bandages that encircled his torso and slanted over his left shoulder, holding a thick pad of cotton in place over the wound. His left arm was in a crude sling across his chest.
The girl had known what she was about and when he had commented on this she had admitted that some years ago she had gained experience at digging bullets out of men when there had been a range war in the area and her father had reluctantly become involved. Her fingers were deft and gentle and there was vast relief for Yancey once the flattened piece of lead had been removed. It had not been the complete bullet. During ricochet, it had broken and fragmented. Perhaps one third of the actual bullet had lodged under Yancey’s skin.
She had flooded the wound with iodine and for a full day she had kept the wound wide open, draining away infection, bathing it frequently with very hot water, finally applying a drawing poultice of lye soap and sugar. It gave Yancey hell for a while and he didn’t sleep at all the first night.
But next morning the wound felt better than it had since he had first sustained it. She changed the poultice, told him it was clean now and the infection seemed to have gone down. In a few days, Deborah told him, he should have full use of his arm and shoulder again. Meantime, he should keep the arm immobilized, and rest.
“Sure obliged to you, ma’am, for all your trouble,” Yancey had said. “You could’ve kicked me out right away when you discovered me here.”
Deborah had smiled as she gathered up the bandages. “We don’t do those things around here, Yancey.” She frowned then. “You know, your name seems vaguely familiar Yancey Bannerman. There are no—wanted dodgers out on you, are there?”
Yancey grinned. “No, ma’am. But there have been times when I’ve driven trail herds through here. Few years back now, though.”
She nodded. “That must be it, then. Well, you rest up. I have some business in town. Tate will be around the place if you need anything.”
“Obliged again, ma’am,” Yancey had said ...
He had given Deborah a message to send on the telegraph in Longbow. It was a coded message to Dukes, via an intermediary known as ‘Melody Clay’, San Antonio. The message told the Governor briefly that he had taken care of Tallis and, slightly wounded, was resting-up a spell at the Jarrett ranch. The message, when decoded would be telegraphed over a private wire direct to the Governor of Texas’ mansion on Capitol Hill. It would put his mind at rest, and that of Kate Dukes, his daughter, for she and Yancey were something more than just friends. She always worried if she didn’t hear from him and he knew that even the carefully phrased coded message would have her on tenterhooks until she knew the exact extent of his wounds.
With that chore done, his shoulder beginning to lose its stiffness, Yancey figured to take a few more days’ rest here with the Jarretts.
But he had his own reasons. One, he could watch the trail out of the hills from here, the trail that led from the direction of the badlands, and he would be able to make sure that none of Tallis’ kin were continuing the pursuit.
The other reason he was staying instead of moving on when he really was quite capable of riding out, was because he had a hunch there was something strange going on at this ranch. It seemed to him that neither Deborah nor Tate Jarrett wanted him to leave. Not yet a spell, anyway.
He didn’t know why, though he suspected it had something to do with the way he had handled his Colt when they had surprised him sleeping on Tate’s bunk.
If that was the case, then likely it meant there was some sort of trouble brewing-up for the Jarretts and they figured to use him. It was likely why they were being so attentive. He wasn’t a man to look a gift horse in the mouth, but he lived by his hunches and he was curious to know just what was going on. He had overheard snatches of conversation between the brother and sister without actually trying to eavesdrop, but he couldn’t figure much, except that there was a mortgage owing and they were going to be able to pay it off. It sounded to him as if this was something to do with their absence when he first arrived.
Beyond that, he knew nothing and it disturbed him. If he was going to be used, he liked to know why ...
Tate Jarrett came around a corner of the house, stripped to the waist, sheened with sweat on his bony, whipcord body, and holding a double-bladed axe in one hand. He wore his six-gun around his waist and Yancey knew he worked with a loaded rifle nearby.
Deborah, when she set out for Longbow, had taken along a double-barreled shotgun in a calico saddle s
cabbard, as well as a small, short-barreled Colt Sheriff’s model in .36 caliber.
Yancey figured these two were edgy about something and whatever it was, it had to be tackled with guns.
He nodded to Tate as the man leaned the axe against the awning post, dropped down onto the stoop with a sigh and dug out a linen sack of Bull Durham tobacco and wheat straw papers. He built a cigarette and offered the makings to Yancey who accepted with a nod of thanks. When they were both smoking, Tate looked at the big Enforcer and then stared out over the sun baked ranch yard.
“You’re mighty handy with a gun, it seems,” he allowed quietly.
“That so?” Yancey asked flatly.
“Damn right. Way you came off that bunk, I never seen anythin’ so fast.”
Yancey smoked in silence, letting Tate get to the point, if he had one.
“Notice you don’t hardly move anywhere without your six-gun in reach.”
“You, too,” Yancey pointed out and Tate raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Well-out on the range, you know. Lots of snakes round here, varmints, too, the odd mountain lion.” Tate wouldn’t look at him, dragged at his cigarette slowly, deeply. “You sleep with your gun under your pillow.” He glanced up sharply at Yancey as he said this and gave a quick, crooked smile. “I know. I’ve looked in on you a couple of times and seen your hand holdin’ the gun under the pillow.”
Yancey smiled faintly. “I know. I saw you.”
Tate’s jaw dropped in surprise. “Judas! I—I never seen any sign, that you were even awake! Man, that’s a nervy deal! Just lyin’ there like that, watchin’, not movin’!”
“Like to be sure what I’m shootin’ at before I start blazin’ away,” Yancey told him gently.
Tate blew out a long breath, shaking his head slowly. “Well, just in case, that’s the last time I check on you durin’ the night! I don’t want my head blowed off by mistake!”
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