Bannerman the Enforcer 4

by Kirk Hamilton

  One of the guards helped Dekker upright and the rancher shook his hands off irritably, wincing as he hugged his ribs. He stepped forward, panting, standing over Cato, and drew back a boot, but checked himself before delivering the blow. Swaying, Dekker looked down at Cato, eyes like hot coals.

  “You got a chore waitin’ for you in the gunshop, mister!” he panted. “You get it done ... No use shakin’ your head. You finish that gun and finish it right. Because there’ll be an expert checkin’ it out before it’s put to the use we want it for. Mebbe you’ve heard of him. Reece Brabazon.”

  Even through his pain, Cato stiffened, staring. Everyone had heard of Reece Brabazon. A top assassin; a killer who sold his services to whoever could pay his high fees.

  But there was something else: Brabazon knew Cato; knew he was one of the governor’s Enforcers ...

  “Suppose I don’t feel like finishin’ the gun?” Cato slurred, and Dekker smiled crookedly.

  “You need your hands to work with, but you don’t have to have your toes ... And I’ll break one for every time you say no. Then we’ll start on your kneecaps ... Maybe slice off an ear. You savvy me, Cato?”

  Cato nodded slowly. He would work and finish the gun all right. He had to stay alive now and somehow warn Governor Dukes. Everything was up to him, now that Yancey was dead.

  Chapter Eight – A Gun For the Governor

  Johnny Cato sat back on his stool and looked at the gun, partially assembled, in the wooden jaws of the bench vice. He had just screwed the barrel in tight against the frame, after fixing the trigger and hammer assembly within the butt frame and over the trigger guard. It worked smoothly enough, but would require some adjustments.

  He hefted the hammer he had used to tap home the wooden lock-wedge in the screw-vice and looked at that fragile-seeming top strap of the frame. One solid blow with his hammer and he could crack that strap, break it completely, and the gun would be useless. Or he could bend the blue-metal blade of the foresight which he had screwed home in the top barrel-flat not long ago, after making sure the plane of the barrel was exactly horizontal. There were so many things he could do to sabotage the gun’s function—and not one would do him any good.

  Not if Reece Brabazon was going to test it. In fact, it would do him no good long before Brabazon came here. For Dekker would be at his side, watching the accuracy and performance tests—and then trying the gun himself. He knew enough about the weapon to know if it was performing to its full potential or not. And if it wasn’t …

  Well, Cato knew he had little chance of coming out of this deal alive as it was but he would have even less with broken toes or kneecaps.

  But goddamn it! He had to do something! He might not be able to get away to warn the governor or get a message to him, but there must be some way of sabotaging this gun so that, even if he couldn’t get word out about the assassination, it wouldn’t kill Dukes.

  There had to be some way; but it had to be a way that wouldn’t alert either Dekker or Reece Brabazon that anything was wrong with the weapon. Some way ...

  He sat there, staring at the partly-assembled gun, hefting that hammer, dredging up everything he knew about guns and their assembly. Somewhere amongst all those years of accumulated knowledge, was the answer.

  He hoped he would be able to recognize it and apply it in time.

  ~*~

  There was barely an inch of candle left now and the flame flickered in the breeze that came almost constantly through the drive tunnel.

  Yancey, on hands and knees, inching the candle stub ahead of him, crawled on down the drive, noticing that the roof was getting lower. He had seen pickaxe marks on the walls in many places and the sparkle of quartz and figured that at some time men had worked gold way down here in the earth. They had likely chased the elusive yellow metal right back here and then given it away when the first signs of cave-ins showed. As long as they were digging gold out of the ground, they would have risked their necks, but, after it petered out, there would have been little point in taking chances with rock falls along the length of the tunnel.

  He seemed to have crawled for miles, clambering over several other piles of rubble from older falls. Once he had had to dig his way through a mound, fighting the panic that rose in him when he thougnt, for a moment, he might have reached a dead-end and there was no further he could go. And, of course, no way back. But he managed to dig through and found that it was another minor fall. Now, with the roof lowering, he wondered if he was nearing the end of the tunnel and what he would find ...

  The breeze had to be coming from somewhere: that knowledge alone kept him going. Long ago he had put hunger from his thoughts, the gnawing ache had long since dulled to a leaden feeling and he sucked on a stone to keep the saliva glands working, alleviating his thirst somewhat. The roof was so low now that he had to get down on his belly and slide forward, pushing the candle stub ahead of him. He rolled onto his back once and looked up at the low ceiling. There were pickaxe marks, so that meant men had dug this: it wasn’t some natural cavity in the ground he had wandered into, missing, maybe, a major turn, in the dim and flickering light of his candle flame.

  At least he could still feel that breeze and, once, when he paused, lying on his back, he stilled his own harsh breathing and heard an actual whispering sound ... like the breeze forcing its way past some small obstruction. Working his way on his back now, aware that he had a million tons of earth and rock poised only a few inches above his nose tip, seeing the smoky marks left on the rock by the candle soot, he came to the end of the tunnel.

  By then his head was turned sideways and his lungs breathed shallowly for there wasn’t enough room for his chest to move with a deep breath. Cool, musty air, reeking a little of stagnant water, flowed over his sweating, begrimed face. He lay there, fighting the claustrophobia, knowing that it must be like this in the grave. If the candle went out, that would be the end of it: there would be no room to light it again.

  And it came to him that men could not have possibly worked in here. Yet there were the marks of pickaxes only inches from his eyes on the roof. Impossible! Maybe they were chisel marks ... But no. There wouldn’t even be enough room to swing a hammer against a chisel. Well, some tool had made those marks. He could not see behind him, or rather what lay ahead. He was too close to tilt his head back. The only way was to worm his way back, turn over onto his belly and then squirm back in. He would leave the candle where it was. Then he felt an involuntary scream rising into his throat and his head felt as if it would burst, his brain was boiling with panic-ridden fear. He couldn’t move!

  He had come so far forward that he was jammed tight here. He could go neither forward nor backward.

  Just then, the candle flame flickered and died, leaving him in utter darkness. Like a tomb ...

  ~*~

  The damn gun was perfect, Cato thought savagely as he laid it down on the square of black homespun and stepped back, wiping his hands on the rag he had just used to rub the weapon with. The gun gleamed in the lantern light, the brass trigger guard and backstrap flashing like gold. The metal was still in its ‘white’ state for Dekker had decided that there was no point in spending the extra time bluing or browning it. To cut down glare reflection, all Reece Brabazon would need to do would be to rub candle-black over the entire gun just prior to using it. There was still the chance that the objective lens of the telescopic sight would catch sunlight and warn one of the governor’s guards, but Dekker said he planned to hood this lens with a blackened cardboard cylinder.

  Cato had hand-carved the finger grips on the butt plates and rubbed them smooth until the grain showed its beautiful pattern. Then he had hand-rubbed the wood with oil, coat after coat, using the friction of his hands to burnish it. He had taken pride in the gun almost involuntarily: it was of such a perfect design and balance, such a precise killing mechanism, that the gunsmith in him would not allow him to do less than his best on the assembly and finish. The cylinder was plain, unfluted, and so wou
ld be heavier than normal six-guns. But this was no ordinary six-gun anyway, and the extra weight would not matter.

  The man who used this weapon would not be trying to out-draw an opponent. He wanted a balanced, weighted gun that would hold dead steady and put its shots exactly at point of aim: not slightly high, or a little to the left, which could be compensated for in hold, but exactly at point-of-aim! For there would be no time for a ranging shot, or subsequent compensating shots. This gun was designed for a single, perfectly-placed killing shot the first time. The fact that it held six bullets was merely a safety precaution. Not to give the assassin a second chance, for he would not get one if he missed with his first shot, but to give the man a weapon he could use to aid his own escape should it become necessary.

  One bullet for the governor, the remaining five for anyone who tried to prevent the killer escaping ...

  The extra stock to fit into the butt and turn the gun into a short-barreled rifle fitted its slots exactly and locked positively into position. It was only the work of seconds to fit it or dismantle it. The woodwork on this, too, had been hand-rubbed with oil and shone with a matt polish that had so much depth it was almost a glow, thanks to the quality of the wood.

  The three under-barrel weights slid along their grooves perfectly, the locking screws holding them so positively in place that they didn’t even mark the metal of the barrel’s underside. Beautiful engineering and design, Cato allowed, not even considering his part in the finishing, working to the finest of tolerances and turning out this near-perfect job.

  The gun lay there now, gleaming in its bed of black homespun, and Cato’s mouth was grim. This was a weapon any gunsmith would be proud to put his name to. Except that this fine gun was going to be used to kill a man who was not only governor of this state, but his good friend as well.

  And he had not only made the gun, he now had to load the bullets that would be fired from it. Reece Brabazon might pull the trigger, but Cato would be every bit as guilty of Governor Lester Dukes’ assassination.

  ~*~

  The mountain was squatting on his chest. At least, that was what it felt like to Yancey, lying in the dark, sweating, trying to keep from going insane.

  His arms were down at his sides. For long minutes, maybe an hour, maybe two, for he had no way of knowing the passage of time, he had been gouging into the earth and rock, tearing his flesh, breaking his nails, skinning his knuckles. Slowly, very slowly, he was making a shallow depression under his back and kidney area. He was gradually sinking lower, coming away from the crushing weight of the mountain above him, a centimeter at a time. His nose was pressed flat, impeding his breathing. Sucking in air through his mouth, he nearly choked when particles of rock and dirt caught in his throat. During a fit of wracking coughing, he thought he would burst a blood vessel in his head or neck. Then the convulsion passed and he began working his bloody, sore fingers again.

  As his hips slowly sank down he found he could move his pelvis area and he swiveled it, from side to side, using his buttocks to scrape away another few centimeters of packed dirt.

  Gradually, he had enough of a slope down into the shallow trough so that he could begin to move backwards, out of the crushing pocket. The skin scraped off his face and his nose. One ear raked across a stone and he yelled a savage, damning curse, near-deafening himself with his own voice, venting the pent-up rage and fear and frustration. Inch by inch he wormed his way out until he could no longer feel the mountain sitting above him. But he knew it was still there. In the dark, poised and waiting for him.

  He stopped thinking like that. Only madness lay in such thoughts. He rolled over onto his side, actually surprised when his hip didn’t scrape the rock above. He flopped over onto his belly and began to inch back into the pocket where he had just been wedged for so long. This time, he had his hands well out in front, but, even so, the mountain was pressing against the back of his head and his face was pushed into the earth before his groping hands found the candle stub. He backed out again, lay on his side, fumbled out his vesta tin and felt around in it. There were two vestas left. Carefully, he scraped one into flame on the roughened surface of the tin. His thumbnail was too raw and broken to use. Squinting, he touched the flame to the candle wick and looked ahead to where he had been jammed.

  He swore softly. If he had been on his belly instead of his back the other time, he would not have gotten jammed. He would have had his hands out in front and been able to tear away at the ridge of packed earth he could see, almost completely blocking the tunnel, but with a couple of inches free at the top. The breeze whispered through here. He could see now how those tool marks had gotten on the roof: the tunnel had filled up with dirt, likely from a fall on the far side and it had been pushed up here by the huge wave of compressed air that always forms in an underground collapse. It had almost, but not quite, filled the drive tunnel.

  With the candle in danger of going out completely and staying that way, Yancey set it down and scrabbled at the ridge. It was dried, desiccated earth, and it broke to dust in his fingers. In seconds, his arms were through, reaching into air space beyond. In a few minutes, he had a hole large enough to drag his aching body through and he took the last tiny piece of tallow that supported the wick, resting it on a stone, and clambered through.

  He had time to see that he was in another wide tunnel with shored-up walls before the candle snuffed-out forever. Standing perfectly still, Yancey tore strips off his filthy shirt, choosing the driest parts and, working by feel with his raw fingers, ripped them into narrow ribbons. He wound them loosely together, took off his belt and wedged them through the buckle and keeper-loop. Then he removed his vesta tin, with its last match, carefully groped for it, and cursed when he was unable to feel it properly with the numbed and raw fingertips He worked it up to the very edge of the tin and held his breath. If he dropped it now ...

  Yancey had it in his hands, fumbled the tin around, feeling for the roughened side and scraped the vesta head across it. He swore aloud as he felt the head crumble under his pressing finger. It must have gotten damp ... But, wait! There was about a third of the head left. He turned it until it pressed lightly against the roughened part of the tin and, hesitating only briefly, dragged it across. It sputtered, sparked—and burst into flame. Not daring to breathe, using his body to shield it from the dank breeze, he nursed that spark into a flame that crept halfway up the vesta shaft. Carefully, he suspended the shredded rags above the flame and watched as they smoldered, the reeking smoke rising into his face and making him cough.

  Very slowly, the rags burned, with a dull flame that gave almost no light. But he waved the belt very gently, fanning the flames so that they flared briefly and, in the light he saw once again the shored-up walls of the tunnel that was maybe seven feet high, squared off down the walls and with wooden rails set in the floor for ore-tracks.

  He figured then that this was another mine, one that had been worked well, right up to the back wall that was now rubble. He had seen it happen before: two different sets of miners, following a vein of gold from opposite ends and meeting in the middle, pick-point to pick-point, eyeball to eyeball, and, sometimes, gun to gun, as they accused each other of trespass. And theft.

  His makeshift torch alternately smoldering and flaring at his side, Yancey staggered on down the new tunnel, hunched over, unaccustomed to being able to walk upright. He would follow the wooden rails. A tunnel drive such as this for ore trucks had to lead to the surface, maybe come out on a hillside. And, as he stumbled on, he felt the breeze against his face strengthening.

  His torch went out, the pungent odor of burning rag striking at his nostrils. But it hardly mattered now. For far ahead, when his eyes were adjusted once more to the darkness, he saw the faintest of glows, just a misty luminosity, but enough to lend new strength to his tortured leg muscles, and he broke into a lumbering run.

  ~*~

  The target at the end of the range jerked in the frame as the bullet punched through the car
dboard with a dull crack. Then the target shuddered again as the second bullet punched a hole so close to the first one that they overlapped. The third shot passed clear through this enlarged hole, barely clipping the edges. The fourth bullet enlarged the hole even more and the fifth touched the edge of this new hole, turning the lead-gray edges of cardboard back.

  Cato held the sixth shot in the chamber, eased up from the prone position, working his right eye a little as he adjusted to sunlight after having had it pressed against the lens eyepiece of the telescopic sight. He unclipped the stock from the butt and looked at Dekker beside him. The man had a brass-and-leather army telescope to his eye.

  “How’d it do?” Cato asked, seeing the armed guards keeping him under their cocked shotgun muzzles, knowing there was still one more cartridge in the chamber.

  The telescopic sight on the gun was only about four magnifications and while it brought the target closer, it was not sufficiently powerful to show him just where the bullets had hit. He knew there seemed to be a large black hole, but this could be made by a spread of bullet holes that were so far apart a nickel could be laid between them without touching two edges of the holes. Now, Dekker lowered the much more powerful telescope and turned his deadpan face to Cato. “Quite good,” he said, then turned to one of the guards. “Go bring up that target, Stretch.”

  The tall guard nodded, ran down to the fifty-yard line and ripped the painted cardboard square out of the wooden frame. He brought it back and handed it to Dekker who examined the single large, ragged-edged hole critically. He took a half-dollar from his pocket and placed it over the hole. The rancher looked up slowly and shook his head at Cato.

  “One complete hole outside the circle. I said I wanted all five shots to be covered by a half-dollar!”

  Cato looked at the target and shrugged. “That group would blow a hole the size of a fist in a man’s chest. Any one of those shots would hit the heart if that’s what was aimed at. For certain sure they’d hit the head. You won’t get this gun any deadlier than that, Dekker.”