~*~
They crossed into the Indian Territory by way of the Red River. Yancey made sure they were spotted by the Cattle Inspectors first and he saw the men watching as they put their mounts into the deep, swift-flowing river and swam them over. Word would spread to the longhorn men punching their steers along the trail north to the Kansas railheads and, from them, to anyone they met during the drive. The ‘telegraph’ that seemed to operate amongst men who were on the dodge would tell of the three riders, two men and what seemed to be a slim stripling, who had tried to cross the Red without being seen. It was a common enough occurrence hereabouts and they would be written off as men on the dodge.
Once across the big river, swollen by recent flood rains, they put their mounts to a hard run and headed due north, paralleling the cattle trails for several miles before veering off to the east. There was a dark line of mountains on the far horizon.
“Half-Ear said to send up smoke from the southern peak of that range if we ever wanted him,” Yancey said to Cato riding alongside. “Hope he sees it.”
“Someone’ll get word to him ... He said he’d help us at any time and from what I’ve heard, Comanches are plenty strong on keepin’ their word.” Presently, he grinned. As always, Anya was riding separately from them, looking grimly determined as she jerked in the small Texas saddle that Yancey had recommended for her. Cato drawled, “Reckon she won’t want to sit down for a spell!”
Yancey nodded, smiling faintly. They had got a surprise when they had met the girl at the rear of the stage depot back in Dallas before pulling out. She had taken a pair of shears and cut off her beautiful long blonde tresses, hacking them down so that she now had no more than a thick mop around her ears and neck, in fact, very little more hair than Yancey or Cato had. It must have taken a lot of nerve to cut off that long straw-colored hair, Yancey figured, and it indicated the lengths the girl was prepared to go to, to get her revenge. She was dressed in denim shirt and levis, with a loose corduroy jacket helping disguise her womanly figure. The rigout made her seem like any long-legged youth. She had backed off a little when she saw the Texas cowpony Yancey had obtained for her, with the small work saddle perched on its broad-muscled back. But Cato had grabbed her around the waist and lifted her up, in spite of her protests, swinging her bodily into the saddle.
“You wanted to get away in a hurry,” he said. “Well, time we were gettin’!”
And he had slapped the little pony across the rump with his hat, just as Anya lifted the reins. She had let out a small squeal as the responsive mount jumped forward, breaking into a run almost immediately. For a moment, Cato had thought she was going to fall off and break her neck or a leg, but she pushed her riding boots into the ox-bow stirrups and settled down to get the feel of the horse. The cowpony wouldn’t stop until she hauled back on the reins, having been trained to respond only to express commands, and she let it run for a couple of miles, swerving it right and left, loping across slopes and leaping across small ditches. Coming along behind, Yancey saw, on a couple of passes, how tightly the girl held on with her knees and the reins were biting into her hands. Her face was set in tense lines and he knew this kind of riding was something she had not experienced before. But she was determined to master it.
“Bet she’ll be wishin’ there was a side-saddle on that bronc!” Cato had chuckled.
“Maybe. But no matter what, she’s going to stick to that cowpony, that’s for sure. I reckon even if we cut out of this chore halfway through, Johnny, that gal will keep right on going it alone. Nothing short of hell itself is going to stop her.”
Cato had nodded soberly.
And they had seen more proof of her determination along the trail.
Before the Red River had come in sight Anya, tagging
along behind, had spurred up level with the two enforcers, her hat dangling from its rawhide thong, the wind stirring her short hair, her smooth skin dusted with trail dirt now. Her mouth would never be able to be disguised, though, Yancey thought. It would always look like a sensuous woman’s.
“How you doin’?” Cato asked.
“I’m managing,” the girl replied a little tersely. She had exchanged no more than a dozen words with the men so far. “The saddle feels strange but I have the horse under control now and it’s responsive. I’ve decided that you’d better call me ‘Andy’ from now on. It is a man’s name but close enough to my own so that I won’t hesitate to reply if someone calls me. You agree?”
“Sure,” Yancey said. “Good idea ... So Andy it is. And, by the way, you’re supposed to be my brother.”
She arched her eyebrows. “And what surname are we using?”
“Banner ... it’s close enough to my name so that I should answer to it naturally enough. A Ranger told me once never to choose a name too dissimilar to your own. Sometimes it doesn’t register and for an undercover agent, that delay in answering could be fatal.”
“Andy Banner ... Very well, I’ll think of myself as that from now on.” She turned to Cato. “And you?”
Cato shrugged. “I used to own a gun shop in Laramie, Wyoming Territory. Made a bit of a name for myself converting percussion Colt revolvers into cartridge-firing models and lots of folk called me ‘Colt’ ... It’s a name quite a few men use on both sides of the law and I’ll answer to it readily enough, so I’m either just ‘Colt’ or, if someone slips and calls me Johnny, then I’m ‘Johnny Colt’ ... Matter of fact, there was a gunfighter called that a few years ago. Dunno what happened to him. Haven’t heard of him in a long time. Won’t hurt any if folk get the idea I could be him ... He sure didn’t have much respect for the law.”
The girl nodded and gestured to the heavy gun on Cato’s right thigh. “I’ve noticed your strange-looking gun ... It has two barrels, hasn’t it?”
Cato pulled the big gun out and showed it to her. “The top barrel shoots normal .45 caliber ammunition, but I’ve drilled the cylinder so that it holds eight shots instead of the usual six. The underneath barrel fires a single twelve-gauge shot-shell of buckshot. I operate it by thumbing this toggle on the hammer. I built the whole action on an old Colt Dragoon frame and I call it the Manstopper.”
The girl took the gun from him and almost dropped it.
“It’s so heavy! I could never hold this and shoot!”
Cato took the big gun back. “Didn’t have a lady in mind when I made it.” Then, abruptly, he threw down on a lone cactus as they rode by and the bottom barrel thundered and the gun kicked high in the air in recoil. The thick cactus stem was blasted in half by the charge of buckshot and the girl showed she was impressed.
“I see why you call it the ‘Manstopper’,” Anya said. “But I’m afraid I would not be able to shoot it.”
“Like I said, it’s not for ladies,” Cato answered as he reloaded the shot-shell barrel and holstered the gun.
“You will use it on the men who killed my parents, won’t you?”
Cato raised his eyebrows. “Sure. If I have to.”
She turned to Yancey. “I made enquiries about you, too, Mr. Bannerman.”
“You’d better get used to calling me Yancey,” he said. “Don’t forget, I’m supposed to be your brother.”
She nodded, a little impatiently. “I learned that you are a very deadly man with a gun, six-shooter or rifle, and that you have something of a reputation with your fists, too.”
Yancey rode on without saying anything.
“Someone said you also know how to throw a knife. Is that true?”
Yancey looked towards her, “I’ve done most things, I guess.”
“Good enough to show me how to throw a knife?” she enquired.
Yancey and Cato both showed their surprise. “I could show you, I guess—but why?”
She reined in and they stopped too, hipping in leather to face her. Anya looked from one man to the other. “Because I want to help kill these men ... I want to learn how to throw a knife and how to shoot a gun: both revolver and rifle. I have arms. Y
ou supplied the rifle on my saddle.”
“Carbine,” Cato said automatically. “It’s a Winchester with a twenty-inch barrel. It’s not a rifle until the barrel’s twenty-four inches.”
She made an impatient gesture. “Carbine then ... But I have my own revolver, one I bought in Fort Worth as soon as I learned what had happened to my parents.” She fumbled in her saddlebags and brought out a cloth-wrapped bundle. She held it out and Cato took it from her, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a gun in a small holster attached to a narrow belt. He pulled out the gun and examined it expertly.
“Smith and Wesson .32 caliber,” he said, glancing at Yancey. “A gambler’s—a woman’s gun.”
“But it will kill a man?” she asked tautly.
“Sure it will. A little .22 will do that job if you place your shots right. What I meant was, this is the kind of gun for a lady to carry.”
She took it back from him, looking levelly into his eyes. “As long as it will kill ... I want you to show me how to hit what I aim at. For I fully intend to extract an eye for an eye when we catch up with these men who murdered my parents!” From the look of cold determination on her face, Yancey didn’t doubt her at all.
Chapter Four – Mesquite Wells
The smoke had been rising for half a day from the southern-most peak of the mountain range and Anya Johansen was restless, impatient to be on the trail again and travelling deeper into the Indian Territory.
But Yancey told her they were following a cold trail. They would actually save time by waiting here for Half-Ear, the Comanche warrior, to appear. If he didn’t know anything about the four killers right away, he had much faster means of finding out than they had. Cato tried to keep her interested by giving her some shooting lessons. He found her an apt enough pupil but she tended to become impatient and, while she could get the first couple of shots away accurately, after that she wanted to yank the trigger just as fast as she could, spraying lead all over the countryside. He figured this would pass in time, but the trouble was, he didn’t know how much time they had.
Anya paced up and down by the fire that Yancey fed from time to time with green wood, occasionally throwing on a green-leafed branch and watching the thick column of smoke rise vertically into the hot sky. Cato worked on the Smith and Wesson, taking it apart and making slight adjustments to the trigger sear and hammer spring, the two things that determined just how well a gun fired: not how accurate it was, but how crisp the trigger let off, how firmly the hammer fell onto the cartridge without jarring the weapon. Anya had lost interest now, still not convinced that waiting around for the Indian warrior was such a good idea after all.
It was getting on towards sundown when Yancey jumped up, spinning, hand dropping to gun butt, as Anya let out a small scream. He relaxed almost instantly, though he kept his hand lightly on his six-gun butt, as he saw the lone Comanche standing atop a rock on the edge of the camp. Anya kept her eyes on him and backed off until she was beside Yancey. Cato smiled faintly and continued to put the Smith and Wesson back together.
Yancey lifted his right hand in the peace greeting. “Howdy, Half-Ear ... glad you saw my smoke. Come on in and set a while over some coffee.”
The Indian looked curiously at Anya and slowly came over to the fire, his muscles rippling in the late afternoon sunlight. The girl shivered when she saw the whip weals on his back and shoulders. He was dressed only in buckskin breechclout, moccasins and headband. He carried a pemmican pouch on a belt together with a horn-handled, short-bladed knife. In his hands he held a new-looking Winchester repeating carbine. He squatted down opposite Yancey and laid the rifle down as he accepted a tin mug of coffee, his dark eyes not leaving the girl. She moved uncomfortably and stayed close to Yancey.
During the next hour, they drank several mugs of coffee and ate bacon and beans which Cato cooked in the battered skillet. Anya picked at her food, watching as the Indian mopped up his plate with a thick soda-and-corn dodger and popped the biscuit into his mouth, greasy juice sliding over his hairless chin unheeded. Half-Ear had not spoken a word since entering the camp. Anya nudged Yancey in the ribs.
“Ask him about the men!” she whispered.
“Just about to ... Got to be civil, ma’am. I mean, Andy.”
“Well, hurry up! I—I don’t feel comfortable with him here. His eyes ... ” She flushed a little. “They seem to undress me.”
“He’s picked you for a gal, is all, and he’s wonderin’ why you’re tryin’ to act like a boy,” Cato told her,
“Just hurry up and get him out of here! Please!”
Yancey smiled, took out some cigarillos from his shirt pocket and offered one to the Comanche. Half-Ear took it, picked up a live coal with his fingers and unhurriedly held it so that Yancey and Cato could light their smokes, too. He pointed to his cigarillo and then to the girl, looking at Yancey quizzically.
Yancey shook his head. “Don’t smoke,” he said, smiling faintly.
“I have smoked before this!” Anya said defensively. “We used to smoke at finishing school.”
Yancey held out a cigarillo to her and she hesitated, looked once into his mocking eyes, then took it. Half-Ear held out another live coal towards her but she picked up a burning twig and lit it herself. At the first drag, she began to cough and her face congested and tears squeezed from her eyes. She couldn’t stop coughing and finally threw the cigarillo into the fire, leaping to her feet and hurrying to the water canteen. As she drank deeply, Half-Ear laughed aloud and Yancey and Cato let go the smothered grins they had been trying to hide. The Indian said something in guttural tones and waved his right arm at the girl.
“What was that?” Anya demanded, coming back, wiping her mouth. “What did he say?”
“He said the young boy smokes like a woman,” Yancey told her straight-faced. “Just his way of letting us know he’s onto you.”
“Well, I don’t see anything to laugh at!” she blazed.
“Your own fault. You didn’t have to take that cigarillo.”
“Oh ... why don’t you just ask him about those killers?” She sat down on her bedroll, pouting a little and Half-Ear made another remark that brought grins to the faces of the men.
“And now what’s so funny?” Anya demanded.
“I wouldn’t be game to tell you,” Yancey chuckled, then, seeing her blazing eyes, turned swiftly back to Half-Ear and began to speak in his halting Comanche, making signs and drawing in the dust at the edge of the fire.
The Indian sat there in silence for a long time, then abruptly stood, saying one word before swiftly melting away into the darkness. Anya leapt to her feet, staring into the night after him.
“So we’ll save time by waiting for the Indian to come to us and tell us where to find the killers, will we? Well, I don’t know the Comanche language, but I’m sure he didn’t pass any information along to you with that one word he spoke after you explained to him what we wanted.” She stamped her foot. “Damn you, Yancey Bannerman! You’ve wasted over a half day’s travelling time!”
Yancey looked at her steadily until she dropped her gaze and then he said simply, “We’d better turn in. Get an early start in the morning.”
“To make up for lost time!” Anya retorted bitterly, flinging herself down onto her bedroll.
Cato shrugged at Yancey and both men dragged their blankets into the shadows beyond the firelight and stretched out, listening to the crackling of the fire and the sounds of the night.
They breakfasted before it was fully daylight, huddling close to the campfire in the early morning chill and Yancey started as the girl suddenly grabbed his arm, her fingers sinking into his flesh. He looked at her face, saw she was staring across the fire and turned his head. Half-Ear was squatting there, warming his hands at the flames. He nodded slightly to Yancey, and Cato poured a mug of hot coffee and passed it to the Indian, who drank it straight down without it seeming to burn his gullet. The others could barely sip theirs without scalding their lips.
After
food, Half-Ear suddenly began to talk and draw a crude a map in the dust. Yancey and Cato hunkered down opposite him, listening and watching. Anya stood back a little way, frowning as she scraped off the plates and scoured them with sand, afterwards looking at the redness of her slim hands. She washed her hands with a small amount of water from the canteen and was surprised to see that Half-Ear had gone when she turned towards the fire again.
“Better to have dirty hands than to waste water that way out here,” Yancey told her soberly.
The girl flushed and covered her embarrassment with a flash of anger. “Well? Did your Indian friend tell you anything useful? Or was it just that he liked our coffee and bacon?”
Yancey gave her a hard look. “He’s been travelling all night. He hasn’t had any sleep and he must be half frozen in just that breechclout. He earned his coffee and bacon. Damn right he did.”
Anya tossed her head, aware not for the first time that she had no long tresses to fling about her shoulders in defiance. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Yancey sighed. “The men we’re looking for passed through a place called Mesquite Wells, about forty miles northwest of here. Maybe two weeks ago. They didn’t have any of the cattle they stole from your pa so likely they got rid of ’em somewheres along the line. But they still had a small remuda of horses.”
“Well, where are they now? That’s what we’re interested in! Not where they were a fortnight ago!”
“Hell, you know, my hand fair itches to whale the daylights out of you at times, ma’am!” Cato exploded. “Fair itches ... And, I swear, if you don’t come down off your high horse pronto, I’m goin’ to do it ... ! Now that’s a promise!”
Anya tilted her chin defiantly but she flushed, too, and slowly a look of contrition came over her face. She made a helpless gesture with her hands. “All right ... I guess I am being unreasonable. But I’m impatient! Time’s passing by and those men are getting farther and farther away from us!”
“Look at it this way,” Yancey said quietly. “When we started out, we were on a month-old trail. Now we’re onto a fortnight-old trail ... We’ve made up two weeks.”
Bannerman the Enforcer 2 Page 4
