Around noon they figured they might have found out the answer in some part, at least.
Yancey was sitting on the saloon balcony, smoking, and Cato, back from one of his visits to the blonde was stretched out on the bed, eyes closed, hands clasped behind his head. He stirred as Yancey called to him.
“Aw hell, what is it Yance?”
“Come and see.”
Swearing softly, Cato lazily swung his legs down, stood up and walked slowly to the balcony. He looked at his companion quizzically and Yancey pointed down into the street. There were two men talking down there, standing in the dust just off the boardwalk outside the law office. One man was Kirby Steele; the other was a blocky man in gray broadcloth suit with a close-cropped yellow beard and a flowered vest. A cartridge-belt was slanted across his belly and a Colt in a black holster was thonged down to his right thigh. He shaded his eyes with a hand that sparkled as the sunlight struck a ring and he looked up towards the saloon balcony.
“He rode in ten minutes ago, went straight to Steele’s office,” Yancey told Cato. “They just came out and first thing they did was look up here, Steele doing the pointing.”
Cato frowned. “You figure that big dude’s the reason why Steele didn’t want us to leave town?”
“Could be ... Looks like he must’ve gotten some sort of message to that rooster and brought him in here. He’s sure interested in us anyway.”
“Reckon, you’re right. They’re comin’ across the street now. On their way up here, if you ask me.”
Yancey stood up and they both went back into the room and sat down in chairs to wait. In a few minutes they heard footsteps in the passage outside and then there was a knock on the door.
“C’mon in, Sheriff,” Yancey called.
The door opened and Steele entered warily, using his left hand to open the door, his right hand resting on his gunbutt. The blocky man behind him looked amused and pushed past the lawman, coming right into the room and nodding affably at Yancey and Cato. He had a square face, framed by the beard and sideburns and his eyes were pale blue-green and held little warmth as he held out his hand to Yancey.
“I won’t waste any time, gentlemen ... My name’s Dekker, Cayuse Dekker. One day, maybe, I’ll tell you how I came by that name but it’s not important right now. What is important, is that I heard about what you did for this town, gunning down those killers.”
“Did it more for ourselves,” Yancey corrected him. “Bounty hunting’s our trade.”
“You did it, that’s the only thing I’m interested in,” Dekker told him crisply, turning to grip hands with Cato. “So you’re Johnny Cato, the one who packs the Manstopper ... A most interesting gun. Sheriff Steele was showing it to me just a few minutes ago. Gentlemen, I own a large ranch back in the Breaks, the Circle D. You won’t have heard of it; not many people have, outside this neck of the woods. But it’s mine, and I employ a lot of men who are well paid and well fed. I run a lot of cattle and right now I’m having rustler trouble that my men don’t seem to be able to handle. I could sure use a couple of hot-shots like you.”
Yancey and Cato exchanged glances and looked at Steele. The sheriff’s face was, as usual, deadpan, and he seemed more interested in what was happening out in the street than in what was going on right here.
“We’re just waiting for bounty money to come through,” Yancey said. “We gave up riding jobs long ago. We’re man-hunters now.”
“Sure. That’s my whole point,” Dekker said. “You can hunt down those goddamn rustlers for me. I’ve put a bounty on their heads: two thousand dollars, but I can raise it to three if you come and work for me. It’ll be worth it to me. I’ll also square up the saloon damages so your other bounty money don’t have to be touched. What d’you say?”
Yancey figured Dekker must want them real bad to make such an offer. He caught Cato’s eye, nodded very slightly.
“Well, sounds good to me,” Cato said. “How about you, Yance?”
Yancey looked at Steele. “We get our guns back?”
“Of course,” Dekker answered before the lawman could speak. “I’ll see to that.”
The way Steele looked told Yancey who was the boss around here. It all sounded mighty interesting, he figured, as he nodded slowly. “I guess we’ve got a deal,” he said.
It was all too easy, of course, both Enforcers knew that.
But there was something going on here that their hunches told them went considerably deeper than just the hiring of a couple of fast guns. This man called Cayuse was sure involved and the only way they were going to find out how was to go along with him and join his crew.
If it had nothing to do with Dukes’ impending visit to the area, then they could cut out and get back to Austin. Likely it didn’t have anything to do with Dukes, but Yancey couldn’t help feeling that someone had sent for those six gunmen and it hadn’t been just so they could cool their heels around town.
Chapter Four – Beyond the Law
The gate across the trail was a massive affair of logs bolted together and the posts were set solidly in the ground. There were chains and padlocks and two mounted, armed guards. There was a plank swinging above the gate on rusty chains, creaking in the hot breeze, and there were words burned into the wood.
CIRCLE D—UNASKED YOU’RE UNWELCOME
TURN BACK OR BE BURIED HERE
CAYUSE DEKKER
There were several crosses and weathered headboards in a small cemetery on a rise to one side that attested to the fact that the words were no idle threat. Yancey and Cato exchanged glances and Cayuse Dekker smiled crookedly as he noticed.
“That’s right, gents, I make my own law out here,” he told them, waving to the mounted guards to unlock the gate. They eyed the two Enforcers suspiciously. “We’ve got an afternoon’s ride to reach the ranch house. This isn’t one of your piddling quarter-sections. Circle D runs for nigh on fifty-thousand acres back into the Breaks ... That’s why I have so much trouble keepin’ the rustlers down. They’ve got a big area to operate over.”
They rode through slowly and Yancey was aware that one of the guards was looking at him closely. He was a lean man with a lantern jaw and the left eyelid was hooded, drooping some from an old knife scar. His lank dusty-looking hair hung almost to his shoulders. He said nothing, but Yancey felt the man’s eyes boring into his back as he rode on down the trail to the ranch house not yet visible.
“I’ve got a village on my land for the workers and their families,” Dekker continued, riding slightly ahead of the Enforcers and talking without looking at either of them. “Mostly Mexes with their women and snotty-nosed kids. Got to keep ’em separate from my other crew.”
He paused and they knew he was expecting them to ask ‘What other crew?’ so Cato obliged quietly.
“The white men, fellers you’ll be livin’ with. Got a right fine bunkhouse for ’em. The Mexes do all the menial chores, though all the crew has to pitch in at round-up time ... Rest of the time they oversee the Mexes, ride patrol, take care of any problems that might come up.”
“But they can’t handle rustlers,” Yancey said flatly.
Dekker half-hipped in the saddle, his eyes flat-looking and cold. “They could. In time ... But I want ’em cleaned out pronto. That’s why I’m willin’ to raise the bounty.” He reined down and signaled for the others to stop. Dekker folded his hands on his saddle horn, looking hard at both men. “Be a good time to get somethin’ straight, too ... When you’re on my land, you’re under my law. I make the rules, you obey. If you don’t ... ” He shrugged.
“If we don’t?” Yancey asked bleakly.
Dekker gave a faint smile before turning his mount and starting along the trail again. “You just obey the rules and you got nothin’ to worry about,” he said, then spurred away fast.
Cato and Yancey shrugged, urged their own mounts after him.
“We got us another King Fisher here, if you ask me,” Cato said quietly and Yancey nodded agreement.
&nbs
p; Cato was referring to one of the most notorious ranchers who ever stole an acre of Texas land, King Fisher, a psychotic egomaniac who believed that he was actually ‘king’ of his domain. It was said that a man didn’t count the miles to King Fisher’s place, he counted the graves. Looked like Cayuse Dekker was out of the same mould, a man who believed he was beyond the law. Once again, the Enforcers wondered at the real reason they were being brought here.
Cato put his mount in closer to Yancey and spoke in a low voice. “Noticed one of the gate guards eyeing you some … You recognize him?”
“Yeah, hombre named Chuck Bendix ... Tangled with him about seven, eight months ago down on the border in a place called Rondo ... I was wearing a beard then and using the name of Jim Banner. He might not recognize me. Thinks he knows me from someplace, but not likely he’ll associate me with Banner. Far as he knew, I was a gunfighter, so even if he does recognize me, I can still pass it off. I wouldn’t be the first gunfighter to change my name.”
Cato frowned worriedly. “I remember that Rondo deal, Yance. Your cover was blown. If Bendix remembers, then you might be in trouble.”
“We’ll ride with it for now,” Yancey decided. “If this place is as big as Dekker says, we mightn’t even run up against Bendix again.”
“It’s your deal,” Cato said but he was plainly apprehensive for they did not know what they were riding into.
It was near sundown when they first sighted the ranch. It was like a small town: two towns, with the Mexican village about a mile away from the cluster of main buildings. The village was a cluster of adobe and shanty-type houses, down by a creek. There were plots of land growing vegetables and even some flowers. But there was a three-pole fence that ran all the way around the village itself and the Enforcers could make out what appeared to be a store amongst the shanties. It seemed that the Mexican village was more or less self-sufficient and kept as separate as possible from the rest of the ranch.
The house was long and rambling, a mixture of adobe, logs and flat riverbed stones. There was a flagged patio with a stucco wall around it, topped by terracotta tiles. Flowering vines hung along the wall like immobile snakes. Lemon trees and persimmons grew in small groves between the house and the village. The main house was on a rise, four hundred yards away from the outbuildings. There were the usual barns and forges, a large U-shaped stables, separate cook shack with split cords of wood piled high either side of the door, and a long, flat-roofed bunkhouse. A small shed-like structure of yellow logs was behind it. It looked fairly new. There were six different corrals and five of them were crowded with work mounts. The sixth held only five horses and they looked to Yancey to be bloodstock, clean and sleek. He had no doubt that they would have their own grooms and hand-tooled saddles and harness. There was a fortune in that one corral.
But there were several fortunes tied up in the furnishings inside the large ranch house and Dekker showed them off proudly, but with the arrogance of a man who wanted to let other people know he was rich, with evidence of painting and imported Italian marble fireplaces, British Georgian silverware, Persian silk drapes and Italian glassware, hand carved cedar cupboards with ivory decorations inlaid into the doors ... Yancey had seen the same thing before in his father’s mansion on Nob Hill in San Francisco. He was unimpressed but did not make it apparent for Dekker’s benefit. Cato whistled and remarked he’d like to load all on a wagon one dark night and head for the border. That seemed to please Dekker, and he told them that they would dine with him in the main house.
It was an elaborate affair with lace tablecloths and silver cutlery and crystal glassware. They were waited on by Mexican servants and Dekker wasted no courtesies on them if they made a mistake: he berated them, yelled for the major domo and abused him in fluent and vitriolic Spanish. He made no apology to the Enforcers afterwards, merely returned to his meal and the conversation as if there had been no interruption.
“As you can see, we live well here on Circle D,” Dekker told them. “Those who please me do, leastways. Those who cross me—well, let’s hope you gentlemen never have to find out about that at first hand, eh?”
“You’d better give us some details about this rustling deal,” Yancey said. “We’d like to get it over with as soon as possible. Got us some more men to hunt up north.”
Dekker looked at him, then drank some wine and continued to eat for several minutes, not answering. Abruptly, he pushed his plate away and stood up.
“Supper’s finished,” he announced though Cato still had almost half his steak to eat and Yancey had not yet worked his way through his vegetables. “Leave that.”
Yancey and Cato checked with forksful of food halfway up to their mouths. They saw that Dekker was tense, on edge, and they figured there would be no point in riling him at this juncture. They shrugged and stood up. Dekker smiled, pleased at what he considered to be his power over these men. He was a petty-minded man it seemed, but a dangerous one. Since passing through that gateway to Circle D, the man was gradually losing the affability he had displayed in town and he was showing more and more signs of what Cato termed ‘power-craziness’.
“Come with me,” he said now, turning and walking briskly from the room. He paused only to take a lantern from a hook and led the Enforcers out into the yard, angling across on a path that would take them behind the bunkhouse. They were heading for the new-looking log structure and Yancey noticed several men crowding the doorway of the bunkhouse to get a better look at the new arrivals.
A rider came in and dismounted down by the corrals, starting up towards the bunkhouse, carrying a rifle in one hand.
He arrived just as Yancey and the others were walking through the shaft of light coming from the bunkhouse side windows and Yancey saw that it was the man he knew as Chuck Bendix.
The man paused and his eyes followed Yancey and he frowned slightly.
“You been relieved, Fargo?” Dekker snapped and Bendix started, swiveled his gaze towards the rancher.
“Sure, Mr. Dekker,” he said swiftly. “Wouldn’t leave my post otherwise ... ”
Dekker grunted and continued on, followed by Cato and Yancey. Looked like Bendix was using another name here, Yancey mused as the man slowly went into the bunkhouse.
Then they were approaching the log building and Dekker turned and handed the lantern to Cato. “Hold this,” he said, digging into a pocket of his flowered vest and bringing out a silver chain with a small ring of keys on one end. He went to the door and selected a key, then inserted it into the small brass padlock. He unlocked it, and removed it from the bolt hasp, sliding the shaft back in well-oiled channels. Then he lifted the latch, swung the door open, and turned to take the lantern from Cato. Smiling in anticipation, Dekker stepped inside and held the lantern up.
“Come in,” he invited.
Yancey had to duck his head a little to get through the doorway but Cato walked through standing up at his full height. They both stopped dead in their tracks just inside the door as Dekker held the lantern aloft, moving it around so that they could see the oil-gleaming machinery and metal tools scattered around the benches and hanging on the walls. Cato pursed his lips slowly as he looked around at the familiar things.
It was a gunsmith’s shop. And a very well fitted-out one at that.
“You should feel right at home, Cato,” Dekker said, unable to restrain a chuckle at the Enforcers’ surprise. “Nothing but the best here.” He ran a hand lightly over a dark-green painted lathe. “Penn-Royal lathe, the best that Pittsburg can turn out; Rigdon dies and taps; Ferris files; Hackett Brothers’ steel tools, and Morton-Leach bellows on the forge ... I’ve spared no expense to fit out this shop, Cato, because I want only the very best to come out of it.”
He looked at the small Enforcer expectantly and Cato asked in genuine interest, “Very best of what?”
“What do you usually make in a gunsmith’s shop? Guns, of course!”
Cato glanced at Yancey who was just as puzzled as the smaller man. “You�
�re not expecting me to make guns for you?” Cato said to Dekker.
“Why not? Any man who can build a weapon such as that Manstopper of yours must be a genius with guns ... ”
Cato shook his head. “Nope. You hired me to track down and kill some rustlers. That’s what I aim to do or there’s no deal ... ”
Dekker’s face was hard and dangerous in the lantern-light at first and then it softened slowly. He laughed and set the lantern down on the bench, beside another, and lit this second one, too, driving back the shadows in the gunshop. He folded his arms as he leaned his hips back against a bench and studied the two men.
“The rustling deal was only something to get you out here. I thought the money would attract you.”
“And you were right,” Cato told him.
Dekker held up a hand swiftly. “Of course I was ... But just because you won’t be tracking down any rustlers doesn’t mean the money’s not available. In fact, there could be a good deal more than the original three thousand I offered.”
Yancey and Cato showed definite interest at this and Dekker smiled smugly: he figured he had their measure now.
“You seem interested, gentlemen!”
“How much are you offering?” Yancey asked flatly. “And for what?”
“Five thousand dollars, flat.”
Cato whistled softly. “Sounds good ... What do we have to do for it?”
Dekker looked from one to the other of them and took his time about replying. He picked up a scribing tool and idly felt the sharp point, looking at it rather than the men now. “I want you to build me a gun ... A very special gun.” He whipped the tool suddenly into the desk where it quivered as he straightened and looked directly at Cato. “And I want it completed in a week.”
“A week?” Cato echoed.
Dekker waved an arm around the room. “You’ll find everything you need right here. If there’s anything else you want, let me know and I’ll see that you get it.”
“Hell, man, d’you know what building a gun from scratch means?” Cato asked. “I have to forge the barrel, polish the bore and get it absolutely dead straight, put in the rifling—and if I do it by hand which is the best way in the long run—that alone could take most of a week ... Then there’s the threading of the barrel and the frame to take it, springs to be tempered for the action, the hammer to be balanced, trigger sear adjusted for pull, butts carved and fitted to the hand of whoever the gun’s for ... Judas, man, you’re asking the impossible. Besides which, I dunno that I want to do it. I left gunsmithin’ a long time ago because I was bored with it and I don’t aim to get back into it.”
Bannerman the Enforcer 4 Page 4
