Yancey knew they were scattering to make it harder for him to group his targets, but he was experienced in this maneuver and threw himself flat in the dust of the plaza even as bullets whined overhead and punched into the ground around him. He snapped a shot at a running man, missed, rolled swiftly over, to a belly-down position, and then came up with elbows braced into the ground and beaded the man again. This time the man staggered and tripped over his own feet, going down and drawing his knees up to his chest, dropping his gun.
Dust and stones stung Yancey’s face as he spun again in a complete roll, twisting around, wrenching his hard-muscled body, scrabbling with his boots, lining up the third man who was almost on top of him. Yancey’s gun roared as the man’s six-gun threw down and the raider spun away, the bullet driving up beneath his chin.
The Enforcer rolled swiftly and this time he somersaulted coming up on one knee. But he had lost sight of the man who had run far out to one side and he started to turn desperately, swinging his gun, even as he realized the killer was now behind him.
Then there was the unmistakable whiplashing of a rifle shot and Yancey was in time to see the fourth man stagger away from the hitch rack, Colt exploding as it dropped from his hands. He stumbled forward, a tall man, lifting up to his toes, one hand clawing up his back towards the bullet wound there, mouth agape in a silent scream of agony. He fell to his knees. The rifle whiplashed again and the killer crashed down into the gutter, twitching, fingers clawing feebly in the dust.
Yancey spun towards the spot where the rifle was and saw the Winchester’s smoking barrel showing around the edge of a feed store alley. Then the owner of the rifle stepped out into the street and at first he thought it was a kid, but then saw the blazing north Texas sun striking highlights from shoulder-length brown, wavy hair beneath the battered, dusty hat and he realized it was a young woman striding towards him. Her ill-fitting shirt did nothing to indicate her sex and the trousers were shapeless, too large, baggy, held up with a piece of frayed rope tied about the slim waist.
Kind of surprised, in fact mightily so, Yancey Bannerman simply stood there in the middle of the plaza, covered in dust, wreathed in gunsmoke, as the girl came towards him and folk began emerging from buildings, someone in the bank doorway yelling for the sawbones.
The girl stopped by the man she had shot and nudged him with a scuffed boot toe. The man groaned and half-rolled onto his side. Yancey was shocked to see her dirt-smeared face contort in brief anger and then she lifted the rifle, placing the muzzle against the man’s head as she levered in another shell.
“Judas Priest!” the Enforcer exclaimed, already leaping forward. He lunged at her and knocked the rifle aside as it exploded and the bullet drove into the edge of the sidewalk, spraying splinters and dust. Folk stopped dead in their tracks as the girl rounded angrily on Yancey and made as if to strike him with the Winchester. He grabbed the barrel and easily twisted the weapon out of her hands.
He saw her face then for the first time, close-up, and figured she was a mighty handsome woman beneath all that dirt. But her eyes were clouded with some deep bitterness, a hatred that was reflected in the harsh twist of her full lips, destroying the warmth of the mouth line. The eyes were blazing angrily at him now. He dodged as she struck at him with small fists.
“Just what the hell d’you think you’re doing!” she hissed angrily, stalking him, striking at him.
“Hey, whoa!” Yancey said, dropping her rifle and hastily holstering his Colt so that he could grab her wrists and keep her from hitting him. She kicked at his shins and he swore, bending from the waist as he stepped back to dodge the blows. “What the blazes! Calm down, damnit!”
The girl continued to swing kicks at his shins, but gave up when she realized she couldn’t reach him. She glared into his face as he still held her wrists, eyes cold now, nostrils flaring as the breath hissed through them.
“Let—me—go!” she demanded.
“Sure, if you quit attackin’ me!” Yancey said.
She glared back defiantly for a moment and then he saw her slim body relax some and she nodded jerkily.
“All right.”
Cautiously, he eased his grip on her wrist and she wrenched free abruptly. Yancey stepped back hurriedly, but all she did was massage her reddened wrists. He saw her gaze go to the wounded man lying in the gutter and then flick back to the rifle in the dust. He stepped forward and planted a boot on the weapon, earning another brittle, deadly glare.
“Take it easy,” he said quietly, trying to figure her reactions. “You saved my neck. I’m obliged.” He jerked a hand towards the man sprawled in the gutter. “He’s finished. Likely he’ll die. No need to speed him along.”
The girl flicked her gaze to the dying outlaw. “I hope he dies slow.”
Yancey whistled softly, aware that the girl’s words had caused a stir amongst the crowd that had gathered. He frowned around at the people.
“Where’s the sheriff?” he asked, figuring the man should have showed up by now.
“Dead,” a townsman told him. “He was in the bank. Tried to go for his gun as the robbers started out. That’s when they began shootin’ ...” Others began plying the man with questions about what had happened with the robbers in the bank, crowding around.
Yancey grabbed the girl’s arm and she spun on him, eyes wild, one hand clawing up and stabbing instinctively at his eyes, so that he swiftly released her and stood back.
He frowned, “Okay, sorry. I won’t lay a hand on you. I was just gonna lead you away while the others are busy. I want to talk to you.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “It’s mutual,” she told him curtly. Yancey arched his eyebrows at that, but nodded and said to a man beside him, “See that a sawbones takes a look at that hombre in the gutter. The other three are dead.”
The man nodded and started to speak, but Yancey turned away and the girl followed him down into the alley from where she had fired the shots, picking up her rifle and casting one final look in the direction of the man lying in the gutter.
Halfway down the alley, Yancey leaned against the wall, thumbed his hat to the back of his head, staring at her.
“Like I said, you saved my neck. That hombre had me cold.”
She nodded in agreement. “He had you beaded all right.”
“You’re a good shot.”
She shrugged. “I’ve shot a deer or two out of necessity.”
He frowned. “That’s all?”
“What d’you mean ‘all’?”
“Well—Never shot a man before today?”
Her mouth pulled into a grim line. She stared at him a spell, then shook her head briefly. There was no regret in her eyes. “He was the first,” she said huskily. “But he won’t be the last.”
Yancey studied her bewilderedly. He started to build a cigarette. “Sounds ominous.”
She said nothing.
Cigarette alight now and jammed between his lips, Yancey smiled faintly around it and thrust out his right hand.
“Name’s Yancey Bannerman. What do I call you?”
She hesitated, looking down at his hand. Then, warily, she put out her own slim hand and gripped with him.
“Texas. Call me ‘Texas’.”
Yancey looked quizzical but she tossed her head, thrusting out her jaw defiantly and he decided to control his natural curiosity. Instead, he asked:
“You know that hombre before? The one you shot?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What makes you ask?”
“You seemed mighty sore that he was still breathin’. You were going to finish him right there.”
The girl sighed. “I had my reasons. It was a stupid reaction and I’m glad you prevented me from killing him then.”
“Yeah, it would’ve been kind of cold-blooded.”
The girl seemed surprised, as if that was an angle she hadn’t even considered.
“That’s not what I meant,” she said curtly. “I want to talk to him before he dies, that’s all.”
&nb
sp; Yancey, more surprised than ever, shook his head slowly, cigarette halfway up to his mouth. “Well, you sure are a tough one.” He forgot about controlling his curiosity and bluntly demanded, “What’s your real name?”
She drilled her gaze steadily into him. “I told you: you can call me ‘Texas’.”
“Well, you’re from Texas, I know that much by the drawl. But I guess your Ma and Pa called you somethin’ else.”
“Mebbe they did. But you can call me ‘Texas’!”
Yancey sighed. “Okay. But there’s got to be some story behind this and, some day, you’re gonna have to tell me.” He made a decision, reached into a shirt pocket and brought out a buckskin folder. From it he drew a small oblong of folded parchment, half-offering it to the girl. “You read?”
She flushed a little beneath the dirt. “Some.”
“Maybe enough.” He handed her the parchment and she unfolded it. He watched her lips move as she laboriously spelled out the words to herself. After a while she looked up, frowning.
“I don’t need to read it all. It says you’re an Enforcer for Governor Dukes, that right?”
Yancey took the identification back and tucked it away in the buckskin folder, nodding. “Yeah. The rest says what my rights are and who I can call on for help and so on. With the sheriff of Amarillo killed in the bank hold-up, looks like I’m the law in town until I move along. So, as official lawman, I want to question you about that man you shot.”
She stiffened and he saw a kind of curtain come down over her face. “Ask all you want,” she told him coldly. “You’ll get nothing out of me. Just be thankful I saved you from getting your fool head blown off!”
Yancey held her gaze for a long minute, then sighed, shaking his head slowly.
“Have it your way. But you don’t get near that hombre until you answer some of my questions, savvy?”
He thought she was going to strike him and half moved his head aside, but she controlled herself.
“Go to hell!” she told him quietly, then spun on her heel and walked on back down the alley towards the plaza, the rifle swinging at her side.
Yancey hurried after her, but she swung away from the crowd that was still gathered around the dead men, walking towards the livery, and he hesitated, saw the doctor kneeling on the ground, treating the wounded man. He muttered a curse and pushed his way through the townsfolk, dropping to one knee by the sawbones, glancing briefly at the gray-faced outlaw who was breathing shallowly.
“He going to make it, doc?”
The medico glanced up briefly. “Maybe overnight. Doubt if he’ll last much longer.”
Yancey nodded, took out his Enforcer identification and showed it first to the medico and then to the crowd.
“Take him over to your place, doc. I’d like a chance to question him if possible.”
The medico pursed his lips. “If he regains consciousness, I doubt if it’ll be for long. And he may not be lucid.”
“Set me up a chair by his bedside, doc,” Yancey urged him. “I’ll stay with him all night in case he comes round.”
The medico nodded, called for a couple of helpers and then Yancey got the townsfolk moving, clearing away the three bank robbers’ bodies and getting them over to the coroner’s. The dead sheriff and a bank clerk who had since died of his wounds were also removed.
Then Yancey found his chestnut and took it across to the livery. After instructing the stable hand he asked:
“That gal who came in here, the one with the rifle ... She ride out the back way?”
The stable hand frowned. “Didn’t ride out at all. She don’t have a mount stabled here, mister. She just walked right on through, out by the corrals, and went around behind the blacksmith’s forge.”
“Where’s that lead?” Yancey asked.
“Back to the plaza. Or, goin’ the other way, to a vacant lot.”
Yancey nodded, and slowly turned away, aiming to go searching for a room and bath and something to eat before he caught some shut-eye.
But he couldn’t help wondering about that girl, Texas, as she insisted on calling herself.
Just what the hell was she up to? he asked himself.
The only way to get an answer, of course, was to wait and see. And that was what bothered him. For that girl Texas had the unmistakable look of the killer in her eyes.
Chapter Five – Night Intruder
Cato was conscious and lucid when Yancey returned to the doctor’s house in the afternoon.
The big Enforcer was cleaned-up and he had rested and he felt ready for anything. He even took along a bottle of whisky to share with Cato, but the sawbones wouldn’t allow him to take it into the room. Yancey, however, had anticipated this and had another, smaller bottle of redeye concealed in the flour sack with the clean shirt he had brought for Cato.
The wounded outlaw was in an iron framed bed at the far end of the room, still unconscious, sallow-featured, his cheeks sunken. Yancey gestured to the man as he slipped Cato the flat whisky bottle and the small Enforcer drank.
“Know him at all?”
Cato smacked his lips as he read the label on the bottle and took another swig before he answered.
“Yeah, matter of fact I do.” He eased around in bed, asking Yancey to help move his plaster-encased leg to a more comfortable position. He settled down again, wincing a little. “Name’s Denver. Nothin’ else. Just Denver. Killer from way back. Paid gunslinger, bank robber, road agent, plain murderer. Wanted for a few rapes, too.”
Yancey nodded as he straddled the straight-backed chair, arms folded across the back. “Sounds like the kind of upstandin’ citizen the Magowan’s would be interested in.”
Cato frowned. “Only thing is, he used to operate up around Montana, Wyoming. I knew him when I had my gunsmithin’ business in Fort Laramie. Never knowed him to go south of Colorado, ever.”
Yancey raised his eyebrows. “Maybe things got a mite hot. Or maybe the Magowans made him such a good offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“Could be. You notify Dukes you nailed all three Magowans?”
“Yeah. He wants you shipped back to Austin soon as you can make it.”
Cato’s mouth pulled into a tight line. “Damn lousy luck, me gettin’ banged-up this way ...”
Yancey winked. “You’ll be able to get around Austin soon enough on a crutch or a stick. I reckon a man with your experience ought to be able to coax a mite of sympathy out of the ladies ...”
Cato grinned, wincing a little at a sudden stabbing pain from his wounded side. “Well, mebbe you’re right. It’s an ill-wind, so they say ...”
Yancey’s smile faded slowly.
“You look bothered, pard,” Cato said, uncorking the bottle and taking another swig of whisky. He passed the bottle to Yancey who drank sparingly.
“Damn gal saved my neck. Shot that hombre when he had me cold-decked. She’s out to nail him, wants to question him. I won’t let her till she tells me why, but she’s disappeared now, and that’s what bothers me.”
Cato frowned. “Why? If she’s gone, she’s gone.”
“I said ‘disappeared’, not gone. Walked through the livery and out into a vacant lot that overlooks this house. But she’s not there. I searched all through town. No one’s seen her since she went through the livery and she doesn’t seem to have a horse. I’d just feel happier knowing what’s she’s up to. She’s a killer, Johnny.”
Cato stiffened, the bottle halfway to his lips. “Killer!”
Yancey was serious. “That’s what I said. You should’ve seen the way she put that rifle muzzle against his head.” He gestured towards the man in the other bed. “She’d have blown his brains all over the plaza if I hadn’t knocked the gun out of her hand.”
Johnny Cato whistled softly. “A hellcat,” he opined.
Yancey looked dubious. “Not just that, Johnny. It was a kind of—smoldering thing. There’s a helluva lot of bitterness and hurt behind the hate. It’s all over her face. She looks half-starved, to
o.”
Cato glanced at Yancey shrewdly. “Kind of interested, huh?”
“Yeah,” the big man admitted. “She’s got a—haunted look. I figure she’s in trouble, Johnny, or she’s been through a lot of aggravation. I’d like to help her, but can’t damn well find her now.”
Cato looked slowly towards Denver, breathing raggedly in the far bed. “Think she might come back if she wants to question him, still?”
“Dunno. I could’ve turned her off that. Wish I hadn’t been so damn touchy now. Hell, Johnny, I owe her somethin’, too. She saved my neck.”
“Seems as if it suited her at the time.”
“Still saved me,” Yancey insisted.
“Well, amigo, ain’t anythin’ you can do if she ain’t around.” Cato saluted silently with the whisky bottle and drank deeply, afterwards handing it back to Yancey.
The big Enforcer took only a sip before rising. “Think I’ll take another look around. She’s got to be someplace.”
“Hey! Leave the bottle!”
Yancey grinned and gave Cato the bottle, glanced towards the unconscious Denver and then went out.
He searched all afternoon without success. He even saddled his chestnut and rode out of town in several directions, checking old abandoned huts and shacks, brush-choked arroyos. He figured that if she didn’t have a mount, then she had to be within walking distance of Amarillo.
But there was no sign of the girl and he rode back across the sage flats in the crimson glow of sundown and ate a lonely, thoughtful meal at an adobe-fronted cafe just off the plaza. Several townsfolk came up to his table and said how grateful they were that he had arrived in town in time to prevent the Magowans getting away with the bank money. It was the same in the saloon bar and Yancey grew tired of the offered free drinks, went back to the doctor’s house and played several hands of cards with Cato.
Denver had stirred, the small Enforcer reported, but he had spoken a lot of gibberish. Around ten o’clock, the doctor looked in, checked the badly-wounded outlaw. He shook his head in answer to Yancey’s unspoken query.
“No improvement. I doubt if he’ll see sun-up.” The medico gestured to the cards. “You can put them away now. Time for Cato to be gettin’ some rest. And no more smugglin’ in whisky, damnit! If I wanted to prescribe that kind of medicine, I would, savvy?”
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