Bannerman the Enforcer 14

by Kirk Hamilton

  Yancey stood there, panting, his head still ringing, trying to get his breath. Slowly, a blood-streaked hand appeared over the edge of the counter as the dazed and battered Cougar started to pull himself to his feet. Then his face appeared, spattered with blood, eyes deadly, mouth twisted up with hate. His other hand suddenly appeared and there was a gun in it. The crowd yelled and jostled and shoved and pushed and cursed as they scattered.

  Cougar snapped the gun barrel down in line with Yancey and the Enforcer’s right hand snapped back and forward almost too fast for the eye to follow. His Peacemaker roared before Cougar’s gun barrel had lined-up on him and a great white sliver of wood was gouged from the edge of the bar. Cougar’s gun blazed but it was a wild shot and he never got off a second one. Yancey’s Peacemaker thundered again and Cougar was hurled back violently into the shelves behind the bar, his face disintegrating as the heavy .45 caliber slug hit him just to the left of his nose.

  Bottles and pottery pulque mugs and bowls crashed down on his body as it twitched on the floor. Then Yancey, raking his gaze around the silent, frozen men in the room, backed off towards the street door. He glanced at Chip but the man was only halfway to his feet, staring incredulously at him. When Yancey’s gun barrel swung towards him, he lifted his hands out from his sides and shook his head fast, indicating that he wanted no more part of this ...

  Yancey nodded slightly and backed out into the street. Passersby who had come running to see what the gunfire was about cleared a hurried path for him as he turned and vaulted into the sorrel’s saddle, yanked the reins loose and spurred the horse down the street towards the bridge.

  The two Mexican soldiers at the Juarez end of the bridge were untangling themselves from their painted señoritas and reaching for their rifles. Behind him, men were yelling excitedly and he turned briefly in time to see Chip come running out of the cantina, gun in hand. The short, blocky man dropped to one knee and began firing. Yancey hunched low, ran the sorrel directly at the soldiers and they decided to hell with their rifles. They leapt aside and the Enforcer’s mount thundered onto the wooden bridge, hoofs drumming over the loose timbers.

  Townsfolk using the bridge got out of his way as he yelled and the lone Texas Ranger at the El Paso end stepped out in the middle, left hand held up in a stop signal, his right reaching for his Colt. Yancey bared his teeth, jammed the spurs into the sorrel and the animal gave a squeal of protest as it jumped forward. The Ranger had his gun out and was bringing it into line as Yancey thundered down on him. His nerve broke and he jumped aside with a yell. Yancey kicked at him with a boot and felt the jar as it caught the Ranger on the point of the shoulder and sent the man spinning. Then he crashed through the congested traffic around the bridgehead and slowed the horse as he turned down a side street and came out on the Plaza del Sol.

  He figured he had made his grand entrance into El Paso ...

  He didn’t know it then but, as he rode his sorrel across the plaza towards the street that would lead him to the Snapping Garter, he was going to arrive in an even grander manner than he had planned.

  As Wes Shannon, he was expected by the Rangers, and, ever since Milt Street had loused things up by jumping Lew Kennedy and arresting him, they had been on the lookout for Yancey. The commotion at the bridge had brought the Ranger sergeant out onto the porch of the Post and he had instantly recognized the big man on the racing sorrel. He had turned back into the Post and bawled:

  “Street!”

  Lanky Milt Street came hurrying out of the rear part of the office. He was a very subdued Ranger since his monumental blunder in throwing Kennedy behind bars and jeopardizing the whole carefully-planned operation.

  “Yes, sir?” he asked quietly.

  The rocky-faced sergeant jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Bannerman’s arrived ... as Wes Shannon. He’ll be headed for the Snapping Garter, I reckon.”

  He stared at the young Ranger and Street shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Hell, Sarge, he’s one big hombre!”

  The sergeant stared back in bleak silence.

  “Aw, hell!” muttered Street as he took his hat from a wall peg and jammed it on his head. He looked once more at the sergeant’s hard face, sighed and went out into the evening and walked briskly across the plaza ...

  Yancey had no trouble getting a room at the Snapping Garter. His biggest problem was keeping out the hordes of painted ladies who wanted to come in with him. He finally made it alone, dumped his warbag and took a look out into the street through the grimy window. Crowds thronged the street all the way back to the plaza and most were on foot. Not many folk had business in the red light district that required a horse or wagon. They were there to stroll around and sample what was offering or just to look, but not many rode or drove through.

  All the goods deliveries were made from the twisting narrow alleys at the rear of Shore Street. Someone had crossed out the ‘S’ of course, and replaced it with a prominent ‘W’ that no one had bothered to remove ... and these deliveries were made in the daytime when the area was a lot quieter than in the evenings.

  Yancey had no idea how he would be contacted by the Rangers, but he figured it would be an undercover man who sought him out. He went out, locking his room behind him, and pushed his way past the clamoring girls who were on their way down into the saloon area of the sporting house. He grinned at some of the invitations he received and turned at the foot of the stairs, looking back up at the line of whores just coming on duty. They all pasted big smiles on their painted faces. Some showed him a little thigh, others tugged down their gown-tops to expose the cleft between their breasts. Yancey tried to suppress a smile as he shook his head slowly and, making his voice much thinner and higher than normal, said:

  “Sorry, ladies. I’m sure you’re all beautiful and exciting but ...” He shrugged and let a huge smile spread across his face, unable to control it as he saw some of the expressions on their faces at the sound of his effeminate voice. “Maybe later you can send one of the Mexican houseboys up to my room, huh? To bring me hot water for a bath, you know? And I mean a boy, none of your slatternly maids ...” He touched a hand to his hat brim. “Muchas gracias, señoritas.”

  Still grinning, Yancey turned away and continued into the saloon area. Behind him the painted ladies were cussing him out disappointedly.

  Yancey breasted the bar and ordered whisky, waiting while the harassed barkeep tried to serve everyone within a reasonable time. He used the mirror to look over the crowd and, when his whisky came, he turned and sipped it slowly, elbows on the bar top, inspecting the customers. He couldn’t see anyone who came close to Kennedy’s description. But it was possible Kennedy was in the room, though there was the whole red light district to cover. During the time between leaving Austin and arriving here, Kennedy could well have quit this neck of the woods completely and moved on someplace else. He might have run out of gold to spend ...

  Yancey swore as he was jostled violently and what was left of his whisky spilled over his hand. A bony elbow raked across his ribs as he turned and saw a young, lean man shoving his way to the bar, working his way in regardless of anyone else. His high heels stomped on Yancey’s feet and the Enforcer swore again and stumbled as the young man shoved him roughly aside, yelling at the barkeep to bring a whole bottle of redeye, that he had a gal waiting upstairs in room nine and she was mighty thirsty.

  Yancey dropped a hand on the young man’s shoulder and yanked him away from the bar, shoving him roughly into the crowd. As Wes Shannon, he couldn’t take this kind of treatment without some show of resentment. Men cursed the young man and shoved him off them and he turned pale amber eyes onto Yancey, his mouth twisting.

  “Who the hell you shovin’, big feller?” he demanded.

  “You,” Yancey said flatly.

  “Well, I got a beg pardon comin’!”

  “Like hell,” Yancey said and began to turn back to the bar.

  In the mirror, he saw the young man hurl himself forward, hands clawed as the
y lifted to come down on Yancey’s shoulders and heave him back bodily. But Yancey turned before the hands could touch him and ripped a left and right into the young man’s belly, stopping him dead in his tracks. The man’s lean face congested as the breath exploded out of him and he sagged. Other men, used to brawls and ignoring the fracas, shoved the young man roughly aside and he was soon lost in the crowd as he sagged down to the floor on his knees, arms hugging his midriff. Yancey held up his shot glass to the barkeep and the man nodded, indicating that he would get to Yancey in a minute.

  Then Yancey felt a heavy blow slamming across his kidneys and his legs buckled. He grabbed at the bar edge, turning, grimacing in pain, surprised to see the young man coming at him with face set in grim determination. A fist chopped into Yancey’s face and rocked his head on his shoulders; another took him in the throat and he rolled along the bar, gagging. Rough hands heaved him away as drinks spilled and there were curses and yells for these fighting fools to get the hell out of here, as the young man charged after Yancey, hard fists sledging.

  Yancey got his balance as he caught a fist on the jaw that sent him staggering again. More rough hands shoved him back towards his opponent and he jolted as a two-handed attack on his mid-section sent him crashing back against the bar’s edge. He swung up an arm, blocking another blow, and drove a straight left into the middle of the young man’s face. He went hurtling back into the crowd as if shot from a catapult, face smeared with blood, eyes crossed, arms flailing. He took three men down with him and a table and chair. Somehow he managed to sort himself out of the tangle first and came rushing back at Yancey with the chair upraised.

  The Enforcer swore feelingly. What was wrong with this loco kid? So far, Yancey hadn’t put all his force behind the blows, figuring a couple of hefty ones would make the kid see the error of his ways. But the young man was stubborn and kept coming back for more so it looked like he would really have to slam him one. He leapt aside as the chair whistled down at his head and the legs splintered against the edge of the bar. The kid didn’t let go the remains of the chair. He swung it in a sudden, sweeping arc, not bothering to lift it above his head, as Yancey rushed in. The heavy chair seat and one splintered leg caught Yancey across the stomach and put him down in a flailing heap amidst the feet of the crowd that was taking an interest at last, yelling, shouting encouragement to the kid, and taking bets on the outcome.

  Yancey started to get up and the chair swung down again. He rolled onto his shoulders, bringing up his legs and taking the blow on his boot soles. He kicked the chair out of the kid’s hands, somersaulted up and rushed back, catching the other off guard.

  Yancey was facing away from the bar now and he caught the kid in his arms as his driving rush carried him down the room towards the street batwings. They lost balance, went down and rolled and kicked and gouged and punched their way towards the street doors. Yancey got to his knees and slammed the kid down as he tried to come upright. He threw himself bodily at the other and the young man squirmed out from under, lay on his back and drove both boots into Yancey’s chest as the Enforcer hurled himself forward again. Yancey went hurtling back through the batwings, the back of his head striking the heavy frame of one swinging door. There was a yelling crowd on the boardwalks, too, and they hurriedly pushed back to give the fighters room as the bloody-faced, stubborn kid came staggering out and stomped at Yancey’s face. The Enforcer rolled aside and dropped off the boardwalk to the street.

  The kid leapt at him with both boots thrust out before him. Yancey rolled swiftly aside and heard the kid grunt as his boot-heels jarred into the dust and the impact jolted up through his lean body. He stumbled, one hand keeping him from going all the way down. Yancey leapt up and kicked that arm out from under him and the young man fell, but rolled over and staggered upright on rubbery legs. Yancey moved in, hooked him on the jaw with a right, used the same blow again to snap the kid’s head back, and again, knocking him back a yard with every blow. Blood flowed and the kid spat out a broken tooth as he tried to cover. Yancey shifted his attack, hammered at the lean belly and the kid lurched forward, clinging to him. Yancey ripped several more blows into him. The kid was making gagging, growling sounds and only after another half-dozen blows did Yancey realize he was saying something.

  “Ra-ranger!” gasped the young man as he took another blow in the ribs.

  Yancey was stunned and stepped back, blinking, his fists cocked. The youth suddenly straightened, wound up a haymaker and took a wild swing. Yancey was caught off-guard and it slammed into the side of his jaw and sent him flat on his backside in the street. The mob yelled for the kid to move in and finish it with his boots and the kid staggered forward, but his legs were too rubbery and they gave way and he sprawled. He was just staggering to his feet when two beefy men burst through the crowd and Yancey froze when he saw the guns in their hands ... and the Texas Ranger badges on their shirts. They covered him and yanked him to his feet. One man, a sergeant by his stripes, went to the young man and hauled him up just as unceremoniously.

  “All right, Street! Brawling again, huh?” bellowed the sergeant. “I warned you last time! You and your pard there can spend a few days in the cells and see if that’ll bring you to your senses!”

  Milt Street looked at his sergeant with dazed eyes and his superior had to support him with an arm about his waist as he hurried him away from the jeering crowd. Yancey made no resistance as the other Ranger took his Colt and then jabbed his gun barrel against his spine and shoved him roughly forward after Street and the sergeant.

  He was still dazed even as he realized he was on his way to the cage in the El Paso jail.

  He certainly had arrived in a grand manner, he thought as he staggered along. He certainly had ...

  Five – Cellmates

  At the Ranger post, Yancey was shoved roughly inside and sent stumbling across the floor. All the way back, both Yancey and Street had been manhandled by the sergeant and the other Ranger, pushed and prodded clear across the plaza so that passers-by turned to stare.

  Now, when the post door closed behind them, the sergeant and the second man put away their guns and faced Yancey and Street. The young man was bloody-faced and groggy and he clung to the back of a chair, breathing heavily, nostrils still dripping blood. Yancey, too, felt mildly weary after his exertions and he didn’t wait for an invitation to sit. He dropped into the nearest chair and pulled off his neckerchief, using it to dab at some of the cuts on his face. He looked at the Ranger sergeant with bleak eyes.

  “When Dukes said contact would be made, I wasn’t expecting some hot-blooded ranny ...” he gestured towards Street “... to jump me and cut me up.”

  The sergeant smiled crookedly. “My name’s Maguire. This here’s Ranger Kibbe and that sorry-lookin’ specimen who jumped you in the Snappin’ Garter is Milt Street. He also claims to be a Ranger, but there are different opinions about it.”

  Street looked up slowly, curled a lip in sardonic humor and then went back to mopping at his battered face.

  “Guess you’re Bannerman,” the sergeant continued. “Leastways, you better be, I reckon!”

  Yancey nodded curtly. “I’m Bannerman. Did you have to put that damn whelp onto me? Couldn’t you figure some other way to bring me up to date about Kennedy?”

  The sergeant gave Street a hard look and sat down on the edge of a table, folding his arms across his chest. “Sorry about that, but it was Street’s punishment for a mistake he made.”

  Yancey snapped his head up, eyes narrowing. “He made some kinda mistake and you used me to bring him into line!” He stood up and Maguire held up his hands placatingly.

  “Easy now. You’ll likely wish you’d beaten him to death when you find out what the loco kid went and done.”

  Yancey waited, jaw muscles knotted.

  “Tell him, Street!” the sergeant ordered.

  The young Ranger sighed and slowly turned his head to stare at Yancey. He winced a little when he saw the Enforcer’s hard f
ace. His hands moved in a helpless gesture. “I—I went and jumped Kennedy and threw him in the cells.”

  Yancey’s eyes widened in surprise. He looked from the battered and contrite Street to Maguire and Kibbe. The sergeant nodded, tight-lipped.

  “Yeah, wouldn’t believe it, would you? He’s so goddamn eager for promotion, that he figured the best place for a hombre like Lew Kennedy was in jail! He was too green to be taken into the deal and shouldn’t have been where he could overhear as much as he did. So he jumped the gun and now we’ve got Mr. Kennedy as a guest in the jailhouse back there!” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb.

  Yancey looked hard at Street and the youngster sniffed, dabbed at his swollen red nostrils with a bloodied bandanna. He had sure paid for his mistake. And he had done his part, kept coming back for more punishment when he should have stayed down, away from Yancey’s hammering, crippling fists. The big Enforcer turned to Maguire, looked at him coldly, then hauled off and slugged him smack on the point of the jaw. The man somersaulted clear over the table, scattering papers, clattering to the floor with a chair on top of him. He lay there, dazed and blinking, rubbing his aching jaw. Kibbe prodded Yancey with a gun and the Enforcer instinctively rounded on him, moving with the speed of a striking rattler. His left fist chopped down into Kibbe’s forearm, knocking the gun well away from his twisting body, and his right looped over and slammed into the man’s neck like a cleaver chopping into a side of beef. Kibbe went down, gun clattering on the floor, but Yancey didn’t make any move to pick it up. Street cowered back in his chair but Yancey made a brief gesture that told him he wasn’t going to be slugged again and the young Ranger relaxed as much as he could, watching, wide-eyed as Maguire and Kibbe climbed groggily to their feet.