Bannerman the Enforcer 4

by Kirk Hamilton

  He rode the horse right up to the dead tree and hauled rein. As he leaned back in the saddle and stirrups to stop the horse, Yancey suddenly lunged up out of the grass, holding a branch of the dead tree. He swung it fast and he swung it hard, even as the surprised Kinsey rammed home the spurs to get his startled mount leaping forward again.

  His forward motion and the power behind Yancey’s swing lifted Kinsey clear off the horse’s back, as the dead branch broke across his belly. He fell back, feet well clear of the stirrups, bounced off the animal’s rump, and thudded to the grass, his rifle exploding wildly. Yancey dodged the running horse as it whickered and leapt forward, struck at Kinsey again with the broken piece of branch. He knocked the man’s hat off and Kinsey rolled away, coming up onto his knees, desperately trying to lever a cartridge into the firing chamber of the rifle.

  Yancey hurled himself bodily at the redhead and his naked shoulders slammed into the man’s chest, carrying him over backwards, jamming the rifle between their bodies. Kinsey tried to use the gun as a club but Yancey’s weight pressed down on it and he couldn’t get enough of a swing. The Enforcer rammed an elbow into the man’s face, one hand groping for the rifle barrel. Kinsey managed to slam the rifle around part way and the muzzle caught Yancey under the right eye, opening the skin. He heaved up, used his upper body’s weight to press the rifle down again and drove a knee hard into Kinsey’s belly. The man’s breath gushed out and he writhed and squirmed, trying to get out from under. Yancey smashed him in the face with a clubbed fist, straddling him, fighting for the rifle now. They each had hands on the weapon, straining to wrest it from the other’s grasp.

  Yancey was the weaker of the two but his top position gave him better leverage. He was able to slam the butt around so that the flat side hit Kinsey across the head. The blow didn’t hurt all that much but Kinsey jerked his head, and momentarily loosened his grip on the rifle’s barrel. Yancey heaved back and up, straightening his legs, wrenching the rifle completely out of Red Kinsey’s hands. Yancey staggered in an effort to keep his balance and, Kinsey, realizing he had lost the rifle, rolled swiftly to the side, hand groping for his six-gun. Yancey levered a shell into the rifle’s breech, brought the muzzle down and braced the butt into his hip. He triggered and the echoing whiplash of the shot slapped across the slopes as Kinsey’s face disintegrated into bone and blood and gristle and his body flopped back onto the grass.

  Panting, Yancey lowered the hammer on the second cartridge he had already instinctively levered in, and staggered over to the log and sat down. With any luck, that shot would not have been heard by the other guards way out here. But if it had been, he wasn’t too worried now. He had a rifle, a six-gun and bullet-belt and even a horse.

  For Kinsey’s mount had stopped in a clump of trees and was looking back, ears upright, waiting. Yancey figured he would rest a few minutes, strip off Kinsey’s shirt and gunrig and hat, then get to the horse. There would likely be some food in those saddlebags and there was a leather-covered canteen dangling from the horn that had him running a tongue over dried lips.

  He had no doubt now that he would be able to make Rifle Ridge alive.

  Chapter Ten – Fast Guns

  The echoes of the last gunshot rolled across the target range and Cato eased back, lowering the hammer on the last remaining cartridge in the chamber. Dekker lowered the telescope from his eye and nodded to the man beside him to go and fetch the target. The other two guards stood behind Cato with loaded rifles trained on him. As instructed, Cato lay prone, the gun on a cloth on the ground beside him.

  Dekker said nothing when the man brought back the target and handed it to him. He looked at the large ragged hole made by the five shots and held it in front of Cato. Silently, he took a half-dollar from his pocket and held it in front of the ragged hole. Not one section of the hole was visible and the rancher smiled faintly as Cato glanced up.

  “You’ve achieved what I wanted, Cato. Now, move away. I aim to shoot a group or two myself. And they had better be as tight as that one or I’ll know something’s wrong with the gun and you’ve been compensating for it.”

  Cato rolled aside, sitting up on the ground, still under the rifles of the guards. “There’s nothin’ wrong with the gun,” he said quietly. “If you’re any kind of a shooter at all, and know about keeping steady hold, without moving between shots, you can shoot a group like that with this gun.”

  “I’d better,” Dekker said as he settled himself in the prone position. He held out a hand and Cato gave him five glittering cartridges from the small box he had brought with him. Dekker thumbed them into the cylinder, settled himself again, and worked the wooden stock snugly into his shoulder and against his cheek. He thumbed back the smooth-actioned hammer that came to cock with barely a ‘click’, then took a sight through the small black telescope fixed to the top of the gun. He laid the crosshairs on the new target’s bullseye, took up the very slight slack in the otherwise crisp trigger, sucked in a breath, let it half out and held it, squeezing off the first shot. The muzzle rode up in recoil and Cato, looking through the army telescope shook his head slowly.

  “An inch high.”

  Dekker snapped his head around. “What? It should’ve been right on the bull!”

  “Relax,” Cato told him, reaching out for the gun, but Dekker pulled it out of reach. “Look,” Cato went on, “you’ve got a different hold to me. Everyone’s different: pressure of grip, point of balance, the way you brace your elbows … Barrel’s ridin’ up too high, is all. Just have to move one of those weights along under the barrel slightly, to help hold it down.”

  Dekker stared at him for a moment, then nodded, handing him the gun but signaling the guards to keep their rifle barrels within inches of Cato’s head as the Enforcer made the simple adjustment. He handed the gun back to Dekker.

  Dekker’s second shot went right through the center of the bull. His next barely widened the hole, but the third showed two-thirds of the circular shape of the bullet. Dekker took more time with the other shots and when he had finished, the half-dollar just covered them, a thin dark edge of one hole just showing beyond the coin.

  The rancher nodded. “All right, Cato. That’s working fine. Load the chambers again and I’ll keep the gun in the house now.” He smiled crookedly. “Reece Brabazon is due to arrive tomorrow, so you’ve got things right just in time. You’ll be kept alive until after the governor gets here, just in case the gun should need any maintenance ... After that, well, maybe I’ll let you live. I could use a man like you.”

  “You already have,” Cato said curtly, taking cartridges from the box and thumbing them into the gun’s chambers.

  He didn’t think that either Dekker or the guards had seen him turn the box end for end and take cartridges from a small area he had separated by a partition of thin cardboard.

  ~*~

  It was just on sundown when Yancey rode into Rifle Ridge. Forking Red Kinsey’s horse, wearing the man’s clothes and hat, and even Kinsey’s gun, he slouched in the saddle. It was partly to change silhouette, and partly because he was just so goddamn tired that he couldn’t sit upright anyway. He had actually dozed off several times in the saddle during the ride in from Circle D.

  Yancey was glad it was sundown. A lot of riders drifted into town about this time of day and he would not be noticed so easily. His main concern was Sheriff Kirby Steele. He figured the lawman had to be Dekker’s man. It was a little too convenient that Steele had been out of town ‘on business’ just after the six gunfighters had drifted in. Almost as if he knew there was going to be some sort of hell-raising and he didn’t want to be around to see it. If he was, he would have to do something to stop it ... and, as Yancey figured it, that hadn’t been part of Dekker’s plan. He didn’t know the details, but the way things had gone, things Dekker had said and deliberately let drop, Yancey figured that somehow he and Cato had been set up on this deal.

  Cato had been wanted to complete that assassin’s gun, of course. The on
ly reason Yancey could think of that he was needed for was for pressure on Cato in case the small Enforcer refused to work on the gun. But Dekker hadn’t made any real secret about the gun’s intended use. He must have known he had two intelligent men to deal with and that it would take no time at all to figure Governor Dukes was going to be the target for that weapon. It angered Yancey to think he had been used like this. It angered him even more to realize he had walked into it with his eyes wide open and hadn’t seen the dangers until too late.

  But now he had Dekker’s measure and he figured he had Steele’s too, and he wouldn’t waste words with either of them. Next time they met, it would be over blazing guns and he had to admit, he was looking forward to it ...

  Yancey turned his mount off Main towards the depot where the telegraph office was, mentally composing the cryptic message he would send the governor. It would not be addressed to Dukes, of course, but to Kate, the governor’s daughter, and it would read like a message telling her that he would be returning soon. But there would be a key word contained in the message that would alert her to the fact it was coded and she would soon find out the real meaning.

  Luck was against him, as it seemed to have been all through this job.

  Riding out to the depot, he came upon Kirby Steele just returning from seeing off the evening train. The sheriff was on foot and he was smoking a cheroot. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Yancey. The lawman had spotted him earlier but had not recognized him until he was closer. Now, also recognizing Red Kinsey’s mount and clothes, Steele immediately knew Yancey had escaped Circle D and, headed as he was, there was only one place he could be going.

  Yancey spurred the mount forward as Steele dropped a hand towards his gunbutt. The old lawman flicked his cheroot up into Yancey’s face as the Enforcer rode in, dragging at his Colt. Yancey jerked his head back from the hot ash and then his gun was free of leather, rising and chopping down as he thumbed back the hammer. Steele’s weapon was only just clearing his holster by that time but the hot cheroot fell on Yancey’s horse’s shoulder and the animal spooked and jerked to one side. Yancey’s shot went wide and Kirby Steele dodged behind a pile of boxes awaiting shipment out, snapping a shot at Yancey as the big man fought the plunging horse.

  The animal had been burned and it took a deal of quietening. Yancey heard Steele’s second shot blast and then he whirled the horse, snapping a shot under the animal’s neck and saw his bullet chew splinters from one of the boxes. The sheriff ducked and made a run for a stack of barrels and railroad ties. Yancey spurred the horse after him, fired as the lawman ducked behind the ties. The lead whined off the hardwood and then Yancey had to lift the racing mount over the boxes Steele had used for cover. The horse didn’t quite make it, crashed down over the corner of one box and it whickered, stumbling and spilling Yancey out of the saddle. He hit hard and the breath gusted out of his battered body as he rolled.

  Kirby Steele stepped out and fired twice. Yancey blinked as dirt was kicked into his eyes. He spun about in the gravel on his belly, triggered, and saw Steele stagger, but he knew the lead had only clipped the man lightly. The sheriff ducked back behind the stack of ties and Yancey bounded to his feet, ran for the stack of timber lengths and leapt up onto it. It was pyramid style and he was able to run up to the top and along. In the deep shadows beyond, he saw the sheriff running, holding onto his left shoulder.

  Yancey’s shadow was thrown by the setting sun across the path Steele was taking. The lawman turned, face pale as he brought up his gun for his last shot. Yancey dropped to one knee and fired. Kirby Steele spun and went down as if jerked by a wire. He started to get up but coughed and blood trickled down his chin and Yancey held his fire. The old and crooked lawman flopped back to the ground and lay there with his face pressed into the dust, eyes wide and rapidly glazing.

  Yancey Bannerman climbed down from the railroad ties and walked forward as he heard men running up from several directions. He kept his gun trained on Steele until he was close enough to be sure the lawman was dead. Then he lowered his gun-hammer and began to reload, glancing at the staring men who were gathering.

  “I may not look it, but I’m no bounty hunter like you think,” Yancey told them in a rasping voice. “I’m an agent for Governor Dukes and you’ll just have to take my word for that right now … Steele was a crooked lawman, worked for Cayuse Dekker, and he tried to gun me down as soon as he saw me … Guess you’ll have to take my word for that, too.”

  “No they won’t,” spoke up a man, stepping out of the crowd. He was wearing a collarless striped shirt with sleeve garters and a dark green eyeshade that cast a deep shadow over his face. “I seen it all from my telegraph shack yonder ... Bannerman was ridin’ in and Kirby had just seen off the evenin’ train. Soon’s he spotted Bannerman, he dragged iron, and flicked his cheroot up into his face ... I seen it all. It was fair and square.”

  Yancey nodded his thanks to the man. “Go back to your shack, mister. I’ll be wanting to send some messages in a few minutes.”

  The telegraph operator nodded and moved back towards the depot and his clapboard shack. Yancey turned to the others. “Be obliged if some of you’d take Steele’s body back to the coroner’s and tell him I’ll be along shortly to make my statement. I’ve got business elsewhere first.”

  Yancey walked over to where his horse had stopped and he examined the piece of hide that had been gouged out of its belly where it had come down on the box corner. The wound was only minor and, picking up the reins, he led it up to the telegraph shack and tethered it to the hitch rack outside. He went in. The operator was lighting an oil lamp now. He looked up at Yancey.

  “Message pad’s yonder,” he said, gesturing to a desk and Yancey walked over, picked up the stub of pencil and small pad and began drafting his wire. It took him about ten minutes to get in all the information that he wanted to and he waited while the operator sent it off, tapping the Morse key with rapid expertise.

  “How much do I owe you?” Yancey asked.

  “Be two dollars even.”

  Yancey took the money from Kinsey’s trouser pocket and paid the man. “Obliged for you speaking up out there. Could have been nasty if the whole town had turned on me.”

  “That’s all right,” the operator said. “We’re all kind of fed up with Cayuse Dekker and his crew. And that included Kirby Steele. He was old, and was just lookin’ for some extra money for his retirement, but he’s done a heap of killin’ on Dekker’s say-so, but with the protection of his badge. You done us a favor, Mr. Bannerman. Now I’d like to do you one ... ” He picked up a message spike with several yellow wire forms on it, leafed through them and took one off, handing it to Yancey. “Might be of interest to you. Came in this afternoon and I got a copy off right away to Dekker.”

  The message was addressed to Cayuse Dekker, Circle D, Rifle Ridge, Texas. It read:

  ARRIVE RIFLE RIDGE TOMORROW A.M. HAVE MONEY READY AND I’LL START WORK.

  REECE BRABAZON

  “Interested?” the operator asked.

  “Sure am. Thanks a lot. What time’s the train get in in the morning?”

  “Around nine, nine-thirty … ”

  The Enforcer smiled. “Guess I’ll meet it.”

  ~*~

  The train rolled into Rifle Ridge right on time and there were only a dozen passengers stepping down to the cinders, when Yancey eased out from his hiding place behind the telegraph shack. He ran his eyes over the men passengers and frowned; one of them was Reece Brabazon.

  Yancey knew Brabazon. He had never actually tangled with the assassin, as Cato had done, but he had seen him in various towns throughout the West in his travels. He had seen Brabazon in gunfights and knew his gun-speed was to be respected. The man didn’t do all his work from bushwhack positions and he had no fear. He would square-up to any man and match gun-speed against him. As Yancey recalled him, Brabazon was about Cato’s size, lean, whipcord tough, unsmiling, with the coldest set of eyes Yancey had ever seen in a
human being. Wherever he went, after making his appearances, there was apparently little sun, for Reece Brabazon’s skin was always pale, even his hands. Some said he went back East between jobs; others claimed he lived in a plush whorehouse in New Orleans; still another rumor was that he had a schooner on the Gulf where he lived, cruising back and forth off-shore, because the man had so many enemies.

  But wherever Brabazon disappeared to was of no concern to Yancey right now. He wanted to know Brabazon’s present whereabouts; he should have been amongst the passengers stepping down from that train ...

  “Waiting for me, Bannerman?”

  Yancey whirled, hand streaking to gunbutt, but he stopped the draw, the gun half clear of leather. He was looking at Reece Brabazon. The man’s chill eyes seemed mildly amused.

  “I never leave trains by the usual doors, Bannerman,” Brabazon said in that quiet, husky voice of his. “I thought you’d know that,”

  “Should’ve remembered,” Yancey agreed, running his eyes over this man who must have had over a hundred kills marked up.

  His clothes were of the best cloth and cut. He wore two rings, one with a large ruby set in the gold, the other flashing with diamonds. His fingernails were neat and clean and a gold watch chain was strung across his silk vest. The boots were small, plain, but highly polished leather without a speck of dust on them.

  “I usually have a scout around railroad depots before moving into town,” Brabazon said quietly, his hands gradually easing his coat open so that Yancey could see the fancy engraved Smith and Wesson double-action revolvers that he wore in tooled-leather holsters. The guns had pearl grips and one holster had the letter ‘R’ worked into the leather, while the other had a ‘B’. “Heard you were in this neck of the woods, Bannerman, doing some menial chore for the governor, as usual.”

  “As usual,” Yancey agreed readily. “Flushing out the vermin before stomping on ’em.”