Where the previous one had been built on the massive frame of a Colt Third Model Dragoon, with removable cylinder, this time Cato was using a Smith and Wesson frame, and keeping the pioneer double-action. Smith and Wesson were beginning to make a name for themselves with their ‘American’ and ‘Russian’ model six-shooters in .44 caliber with their double action mechanisms which required only that the trigger be pulled to cock and fire each shot. The majority of weapons in the west at that time were single-action, which meant that the hammer had to be cocked manually and then the trigger pulled.
Not only did the Smith and Wesson have this smooth, faster-shooting action, but it was also a top-break model, which meant the gun barrel and bullet cylinder were hinged on the forward part of the frame and, by releasing a catch, could be tilted forward for fast unloading and re-loading. A push-rod on a spring under the barrel was depressed and a wheel cutout ejected all six cartridge cases at once. It was a disadvantage if only one or two bullets had been fired, as all six would be ejected just the same, but Cato figured this as minor when the speed was taken into consideration. It left the old Colt method of thumbing the shells in singly through a side loading gate, after rotating the cylinder by hand each time, dead on the spot.
Of course, there were many major modifications to be made to the weapon so that he had it functioning the way he wanted.
For one thing, he couldn’t use a shot barrel that would take a twelve gauge shot shell as he had on the original Manstopper. There simply wasn’t the metal in the frame for that. So he had to be content with the smaller 20 gauge. A charge of double-0 shot from a twenty-gauge at close quarters could be just as deadly as buckshot from a twelve-gauge, he figured.
This time, instead of having the shot shell chamber in the center of an oversized cylinder, he was using the inside extension of the added shot barrel, beneath the normal, rifled .44 caliber one. It extended into the frame of the gun and he used it as the sole cylinder pin for it to spin around, just like the old Le Mat revolver of the Civil War period, and which had inspired his original Manstopper.
He made an oversized cylinder so that it would still fire eight .44 caliber cartridges with special loads, though it was no longer than the original, just considerably fatter. The firing pins and selector were no trouble to the one-time gunsmith. The hammer was flat, did not have the sharpened and toughened spur that exploded the percussion cap in the rear of a cartridge. In the Smith and Wesson the flat of the hammer slammed against integral pins on toughened springs that went through the rear of the frame and were driven against the percussion cap. Cato added a second, lower pin that would fire the shot shell and for a selector he made a simple slide mechanism fixed to the left hand side and which could be easily worked by the thumb. Up for the top barrel, .44 caliber, down to engage the shot shell firing pin.
There was a lot of strengthening and machining to do and he removed the original butts and made new ones from selected, smooth grain walnut which he carefully fitted to the shape of his hand and then spent long hours with a pocket knife point, checkering, so they would not slip. He strengthened the locking catch, added heavier screws and bolt pins, shaved and reworked the cylinder pawls, and added a buckhorn rear sight with a ramped blade foresight, carefully filed and slanted so there would be no chance of it snagging in the holster.
The barrels, both cartridge and shot, would be exactly five and three-quarter inches long as against the original’s seven and a half inches. This would mean more violent recoil, especially as the frame was so much lighter, but he reckoned the new handgrips would somewhat offset that and he had another revolutionary idea he aimed to try as well.
He cut short, half-inch slots in the barrel, one either side of the base of the foresight’s ramp. This should, in theory allow some of the gases to dissipate an instant before the bullet left the muzzle and, while not detracting from the muzzle-energy in any way, would considerably lessen the back pressure and so the recoil. He did the same with the shot barrel, only he used three slots, one directly underneath. Only an actual trial would show if the theory was going to be successful or not.
With the gun well on the way to completion and the holster being made, all he had to do now was mate them up and hope that all the theories would prove themselves in practice.
For his whole future depended on it.
If either one failed, either the gun or the new fast-draw rig, he was a dead man.
Yancey was alone in the house when he heard the thin voice calling from out in the yard. He was dressing after a wash, tucking his shirt tails carefully into his waistband, grunting a little as he twisted his body and his wound tightened.
“Anyone home in there?” called the voice from out front, again.
Yancey snatched up his Colt, holding the gun with the inside of his thumb caught in the curve of the hammer spur, as he used the barrel to ease aside the drapes and look out. From this position he couldn’t see directly in front of the house and there was no one in the area that he could see.
“Hey! C’n I come in? I’m awful hungry, ma’am!”
Yancey, in stockinged feet, padded through to the front of the house, looked out the parlor window and saw a kid of about sixteen standing near the porch steps. He looked ragged and thin and starving, and was barefoot. There was no mount in evidence and no one else in sight. Yancey made sure of that before opening the door.
Salty was just starting up onto the porch and he jumped back into the yard, startled, as the big Enforcer stepped out into the yard, holding his gun. He stared, bug-eyed.
“Take it easy, button,” Yancey said, looking beyond the kid, gazing at all the logical hiding places: the barn, corrals, lean-to tool shed, chicken coop, trees, brush. All seemed clear, but Yancey held the gun down at his side as he stared at the kid. “I hear you say you’re hungry, amigo?”
“I’m starved, mister,” the kid told him nervously. He tried to look past Yancey into the house. “Er—you Mr. Jarrett?”
“Nope. You want Mr. Jarrett?”
“Uh—sort of.” The kid scratched his head, looked perplexed. He frowned as he appeared to think hard and Yancey looked at him more closely. He saw that strange look in Salty’s eyes, the generally vacant appearance of the flattish features, and he realized the lad was retarded, if only mildly so. “I—uh—heard in town that the Jarrett’s’d—well, give a feller a free meal.”
“Town? Longbow?”
Salty nodded, licking his lips.
“You walked all the way out here?”
“Yessir.” The kid sounded matter of fact; there was no hint of pride, though it was a good ten miles.
Yancey glanced down at the calloused, splayed feet. Those young feet had seen many a mile pass beneath them, looked like. He stood aside suddenly, ramming his Colt into his trousers’ belt.
“Mr. Jarrett and his sister are out doin’ range work, young feller. Reckon they won’t mind if I give you some grub. What do they call you?”
“Salty, mister. But don’t ask me how come, ’cause I dunno. Long as I can remember that’s what I been called.”
They walked across the parlor towards the beaded curtain hanging in the doorway to the kitchen and the kid was looking around curiously, seeming vaguely uncomfortable in these surroundings. Yancey had a big hand on his shoulder.
“Then I reckon I’d best call you ‘Salty’, too. No need to be scared, kid. No one’s gonna hurt you. You might’ve been ...” Yancey froze as they stepped into the kitchen.
Two men stood there, covering him with rifles. The bearded man held a massive Hawken mountain rifle, the external hammer all the way back to full cock, the brass trigger guard, patch box and barrel clamps reflecting the glowing coals of the banked fire in the hearth. The other man looked like an undertaker, with his battered stovepipe hat and worn frock coat. He held a cocked Winchester.
Yancey rounded on the kid angrily but Salty leapt away and pressed back against the wall.
“Just lift ’em, mister!” snapped E
agles, jerking the heavy octagonal muzzle of the Hawken. “Easy-like.”
The Enforcer had no choice. He lifted his hands out from his sides and half raised them. A jerk of the Hawken again and he raised his hands to shoulder level.
“The six-gun, kid,” ordered the Counselor in his mellow voice.
Salty dashed in and out swiftly, jerking the Colt from Yancey’s belt. He looked away swiftly as the Enforcer put a cold gaze onto him. He handed the six-shooter to the Counselor who rammed the gun into his belt without looking at it. The cadaverous man frowned at Eagles.
“He’s not one of ’em, Eagles. Far too big.”
Eagles nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s what bothers me. But this is the Jarrett place.” He stepped back and, still watching Yancey, called through the half-open rear door. “We got one buffaloed, Mace.”
He glanced outside and then held the door open wide. Yancey watched as a man’s shape filled the doorway and Major Mace Jordan limped inside, using a stick to help support his wounded leg. The Enforcer saw the blood-stained bandages on the man’s left thigh and the purplish flush to Jordan’s puffy features told him the killer’s wound was badly infected and slowly poisoning his whole body.
Jordan stopped just inside the room and leaned heavily on the stick, blazing eyes flicking round the kitchen, coming to rest on Yancey. He stiffened and ripped out a curse.
“You goddamn fools! He ain’t one of ’em! That’s Yancey Bannerman! One of Dukes’ Enforcers!”
Eagles cussed out loud and Counselor stiffened, looking sharply at the motionless Enforcer. Salty’s eyes bulged.
“An Enforcer!” he breathed, his jaw dropping.
Yancey kept his bleak eyes on Mace Jordan.
“Long time, Mace.”
“Not long enough!” growled Jordan and suddenly he gripped the edge of the table and the heavy walking stick whistled as it swept in a violent arc and cracked Yancey solidly across the ribs. The Enforcer grunted and staggered, doubled-up. Jordan bared his teeth and brought the stick down across Yancey’s back. The Enforcer cried aloud in pain as it struck his wound and he dropped to his knees, fell forward. He put down his hands and his head hung as he tried to clear it, senses spinning, lights whirling behind his eyes as pain flooded through him. Jordan hit him again when he saw the fresh blossom of blood showing on Yancey’s shirt. The Enforcer fell face-first onto the floor and lay there, writhing in pain. Jordan’s face was contorted madly and he lifted the stick again but froze at a cry from Salty.
“No! Stop it!”
Mace Jordan and the others stared at the kid, who was white and trembling, his small fists clenched up at his sides. His eyes were dark, bulging and his breath whistled through his nostrils.
“Stop it! You said no more killin’! After that mountain man. You—you promised, Major! You know you did! It’s the only reason I come in here to help you get the drop on the Jarretts! An’ he ain’t even one of ’em!”
He pointed a trembling, thin arm at Yancey where the Enforcer stared up through a red wave of pain, holding his throbbing, bleeding shoulder.
Mace Jordan looked crazy as he glared at the kid and suddenly swept his walking stick around and laid it across Salty’s matchstick legs so hard that they were swept out from under him and the youngster landed with a thump and a yell beside Yancey. But he scrambled up swiftly and scuttled away to a corner on all fours, whimpering, tears staining his cheeks, like a dog that expects to be kicked and whipped. But Jordan only glared at his cowering figure and then turned his hot gaze to Yancey. He poked him roughly in the ribs.
“Get up onto a chair, you! Kid, go keep a look-out for the Jarretts. An’ you better tell me the moment you spot ’em or I’ll finish you good.”
Salty scuttled out the door, sniffing, wiping the back of his hand across his nose.
Jordan dropped into a chair at the table as Yancey hauled himself painfully into a chair opposite. The Enforcer could feel the blood pouring down his back from the re-opened wound and the pain in his left shoulder and side was like he was lying in a fire. But he sat there, face gaunt and drawn, right hand holding his shoulder, hard eyes on Jordan.
“Who is this hombre, Mace?” Eagles asked.
“Son of a bitch I tangled with couple years back,” Jordan gritted. “Had me a nice little squad of bank robbers at the time, while you was doin’ time on the rock pile in Yuma, it was. This polecat an’ his sidekick, Johnny Cato, cornered us in a canyon an’ I’d’ve swore it was a whole damn troop of Rangers come bustin’ in with guns blazing. He wiped out my bunch to a man. Dunno yet how I managed to slip away, but I carried two bullets in me an’ I was months recoverin’. I always hoped I’d run up agin you again, Bannerman, an’ now I done it, an’ you ain’t gonna like it one bit!” Jordan smashed a fist down onto the tabletop, glared maniacally at the gaunt-faced Enforcer.
“Major, we came here to recover our gold,” Counselor reminded him.
Jordan frowned, still glaring at Yancey, and, after a short spell, nodded and sat back slowly, rubbing at his bandaged thigh.
“Yeah. You’re right, Counselor. Bannerman’s just an added bonus which I don’t aim to throw away. He won’t die fast, you can bet on that.”
“But what’s he doing here?” the Counselor demanded. Eagles poked Yancey in the chest with the heavy Hawken. “Maybe lookin’ for the gold, too. Mebbe he found out the Jarretts got it, like we did, an’ he’s tryin’ to recover it for Dukes, or the minin’ company.”
Yancey kept his face blank as possible, but he was very puzzled by all this. He had heard Deborah and Tate mention gold ore briefly, but, when they realized he was within earshot, they had said no more, and he hadn’t pushed it. They did seem very elated now because they had paid up a bank mortgage—mighty suddenly, Yancey thought—but he wondered if the gold they had spoken of had enabled them to do this? They had not mentioned it again and neither had he. He was actually getting ready to move out back to Austin when he had heard Salty calling out front. Yancey had intended to get going as soon as the Jarretts returned from whatever chore was keeping them out on the range.
Now it looked like he would die here, for Mace Jordan had a hell of a lot to square away with Yancey.
He jerked his head up suddenly as Jordan’s stick poked him in the throat and he was aware that the man had been talking to him while he had been deep in thought.
“I asked if that’s right, Bannerman!” the Major snarled. “Huh? You after the gold, too?”
“I dunno anything about any gold,” Yancey told them, pressing back in his chair as Jordan increased the pressure of the stick against his throat. “The Jarretts were just takin’ care of me.” He half-twisted and grimaced to show his bloody shirt on his back. “I rode in totin’ lead from a bushwhacker. They doctored me, is all. I was aiming to pull out this afternoon.”
Jordan’s mouth lifted at one corner. He slowly shook his head.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He removed the stick from Yancey’s throat abruptly. “Damned if I know why, but I believe you, Bannerman. There ain’t been time for Dukes to buy into this. Local law, sure, mebbe the Mining Company’s own investigators, but Dukes wouldn’t be in this.”
“Unless he owned shares in the company or it was State controlled,” Counselor pointed out cautiously.
That brought a deep frown to Jordan’s face. “That it, Bannerman?”
Yancey shook his head wearily. “I told you. I been here about a week, maybe a little longer.”
“Since about the time it happened, Mace!” growled Eagles. Major Mace Jordan drummed his fingers on the table. “They tell me there are two Jarretts, brother and sister, Deborah and Tate. They was down in Albany a little while back. Went to see a banker about their mortgage. Not back three days before they’re able to pay that mortgage off to the bank’s branch in Longbow. Paid it off in gold ore. Which they claim they found here, on their property. What you know about it, Bannerman?”
Yancey shrugged. “Just what you told me now.”
Jordan’s stick struck him across the face, almost knocking him out of his chair. He straightened painfully, rubbing at the red weal across his cheek, eyes blazing.
“Liar!”
Yancey shook his head. “They told me nothing.”
The stick lifted again.
“They wouldn’t if they knew he was a lawman, Mace,” the Counselor said placidly.
Jordan lowered the stick slowly, grunted. “Mebbe. I’ll tell you what happened, Bannerman. Me an’ my men went to a lot of trouble to find out when there was to be a shipment of gold ore from the mines at Albany, found out all about their decoys and so on and got the gospel truth about when and where it was bein’ actually shipped. We held up the wagon, an’ the crew an’ guards got ’emselves killed. Their own fault for resistin’. But—just as we got our hands on that gold, two masked rannies showed up an’ took it off us.”
Despite his pain and his swelling face, Yancey grinned. “That must’ve hurt like hell, Mace! Couple of amateurs relieving you of that gold after all the trouble you’d taken!”
Yancey just managed to pull his head back in time as the stick whistled past his face. Jordan smashed it down on the table top violently.
“You’re right, Bannerman. It hurt. Hurt like hell! They made a fool of us, winged me, left us tied to a rock in mid-stream. If it hadn’t been for the kid we might still be there. He’d watched it all from the bushes an’ he seen the gal’s hair fall down from under her hat at one stage before she put it back up. Rest of us thought it was two fellers till Salty told us one was a woman. I spotted a ‘J’ or a pothook brand on a roan hoss one of ’em was forkin’ an’ we got to Longbow an’ started askin’ round about anyone who was throwing money around all of a sudden. Or gold. Havin’ a high time or squarin’-off old debts.”
He paused and bared his teeth.
“Guess what we found? That a gal named Deborah Jarrett an’ her brother Tate had just come back from Albany, paid off a mortgage after strikin’ gold accidentally on their land! Now even you gotta admit that’s too big a coincidence to pass up. They just gotta be the two that held us up an’ stole our gold!”
Bannerman the Enforcer 39 Page 9
