Bannerman the Enforcer 16

by Kirk Hamilton

  “If I help you get out of here, show you the way out of the brasada, will you promise that no charges are brought against me?”

  “What makes you think I can do anything like that?” he asked slowly.

  “Don’t play with me! There isn’t time! I—I hit one guard but I don’t know how long he’ll be unconscious. And he’s due to be relieved soon. I know you’re some kind of lawman. I heard Duke say so. But I’ve had enough of being ill-treated by him. He’s kinder to his horse than he is to me! And I’ve just realized that he never intended for me to share in this gold. Nor anyone else for that matter. I’m no longer of any use to him so he’ll get rid of me when he returns.” Her voice hardened. “Except I won’t be here. Well, what d’you say?”

  “I say I can’t promise anything, except to do what I can. Or maybe look the other way while you ride off after getting me out of the brasada,” Yancey said honestly. “Which might be the best and safest way for you—”

  “That’ll have to be good enough.” She stepped close to the iron grille and Yancey saw that the glittering object she held was the key.

  A few seconds later he crawled out and she helped him unkink his stiffened muscles. He couldn’t straighten, entirely and she had to help him buckle on his gunrig. He stamped his feet to get his circulation going and she impatiently urged him to start moving. He was unsteady on his legs and she took his arm. They were halfway across the yard when he spotted the guard coming.

  Even though his muscles were stiffened from his long hours in the Box, Yancey got his Peacemaker out of leather tolerably fast and his shot was only a fraction of a second behind that of the guard. Both bullets missed their marks but Yancey got off a second shot fast and the guard stopped as if he had run into a brick wall. He tried to complete the cycling action with the rifle lever, staggering a little, and Yancey shot him again. The man went down and, just as he hit the dust, more guards came running, guns blazing.

  “This way!” the woman called, ducking between two outbuildings.

  Yancey dived after her and heard lead sing off the iron walls of a tool shed. He pushed through the narrow space and found himself on the edge of some brush and saw that Jeannie was already swinging into the saddle of a buckskin. His gray was standing saddled beside her horse and he hit the stirrup with a lunge that carried him up and into the saddle. As he hauled the gray around, he snapped three shots back at the narrow space between the sheds and sent the guards jostling back, hunting cover.

  The woman was already spurring away into the brush and he put the gray after her, shucking the used shells from his cylinder. He thumbed in fresh loads and by that time they were in thick brush and the branches were whipping at his face. Rifles fired in a ragged volley behind them. Jeannie’s buckskin cut ahead of the gray and he noticed that she had a large bundle tied behind the cantle. It looked like hides but he couldn’t figure out why she would bother to carry those with her.

  Two hours later he found out and he was glad that she had had the foresight to bring them with her.

  They weren’t just ordinary steer hides. These were heavy bull hides, slotted and strapped and buckled for fixing to their mounts. They made a kind of skirt across the horses’ chests, and buckled into leggings down the forelegs. Another skirt buckled around the rump and leather encased the rear legs also. He didn’t ask questions when she handed him the bull hides. As soon as he saw them unrolled he knew what they were for, to protect the animals.

  He had hoped never again to have to ride through one of those terrible rattler thickets in the brasada. He looked at the girl and saw that she was white and shaking. Her hands trembled so badly that he had to kneel in his stiff chaps and buckle her straps around her legs and thighs. As he stood up, he put his hand on her arm and stopped her from mounting. She started to speak but he put a hand to his mouth, indicating silence.

  “I think I hear ’em,” he said. “That way.”

  She nodded. “Ramirez is leading them. He’s part Indian and deathly afraid of Duke. He won’t give up, no matter what.”

  “This snake thicket the only way out?” Yancey asked.

  “No. But with Ramirez on our back trail, it’s likely the safest.”

  “Long as we don’t get bit!”

  “That’s why I brought the bull hide aprons. Ramirez and his men haven’t stopped long enough to outfit themselves with them.” She smiled faintly. “I made sure they didn’t by having our mounts saddled and ready to go.”

  “Well, we’d better get started,” Yancey said, sucking down a deep breath and swinging back up into the saddle. “Let’s go.”

  He saw her swallow, hesitate a moment longer, then, with a suddenness that startled him, she let out a yell, jammed her heels into her buckskin’s flanks and leapt him forward. Yancey spurred the gray after her.

  They crashed into the brush and he figured Ramirez would have no trouble tracking them by the noise. And then, only five yards into the thicket, he saw the first rattler and the gray spooked and squealed. He fought it down and watched the thick bodied snake slither away. Sweat was breaking out on his face already. That snake was as thick as a man’s arm, seven feet long if it was an inch.

  “God almighty!” he breathed, but it was more a prayer than an epithet.

  Jeannie fought her buckskin on and he put the gray after her, keeping the horse to the same trail she was making, figuring the snakes would keep away better if he did so. Snakes ahead and all around them, he thought bitterly, and a band of fear-driven cut-throats behind.

  Yancey reckoned there were other places he would rather be right now.

  They hadn’t gone ten yards before the horse shied and he cursed as he fought the animal down and saw the snake dropping away from the bull hide chest shield. Even as the gray’s hoofs came thudding down another rattler struck and hung for a moment by its curved fangs from the leather leggings. The woman was fighting her frightened mount, too, and he saw shakes dropping from the animal’s protective shields. They would be dead without the bull hide, but it wasn’t positive protection. These snakes could uncoil like springs, leap almost man-high and they would be lucky to get through with their mounts under them.

  He grimaced and struck down savagely with his rifle barrel and knocked a rattler from the leather of his own leggings and chaps. Sweat streamed from him: some of these rattlers were large enough to have fangs that would penetrate the thickness of the bull hide.

  There was a blood-curdling man-scream from behind and the woman reined down, hipping in her saddle, her white face startled. The gray cannoned into the buckskin and for a terrible moment Yancey thought they were going down, but somehow they pulled the horses upright, almost physically lifting them in their anxiety to stay clear of the ground. Another scream came, on a different note.

  “Ramirez!” the girl breathed, looking sick. “I—I don’t know if I can go on.”

  Her lower lip was quivering and she made animal sounds of fear as a snake struck at her leg and fell back from the protective chaps. She was very close to breaking. He reached out abruptly and slapped her hard across the face, catching her arm to keep her from falling as she reeled. She blinked at him, tears in her eyes, the red marks of his fingers vivid against her flesh.

  “We have to go on,” he said.

  There was another scream from behind and she shivered.

  “Maybe Ramirez’ men will turn back, but they’ll be watching this brush at the Broken-T end for us to come out and if we do, they’ll run us down … That’s the way to certain death; with the snakes we’ve got some kind of a chance. Long as you can keep your head.”

  She bit her lip, fought her frightened horse and nodded tensely. Yancey reached out and slapped his hat across the rump of the buckskin and it leapt wildly forward.

  “Ride like hell!” he yelled and spurred the gray after the girl.

  The horses smashed through the brush like a pair of runaway buffalo, parting the branches, squealing as thorns raked unprotected parts of their hides. The
riders were forced to lie low over their necks, arms in front of their faces to shield their eyes. There weren’t so many snakes now.

  The woman was several yards ahead, riding well, spurred on by fear. They hadn’t heard any more screams from behind and he figured Ramirez would have given up pursuit, or at least returned to Broken-T for leather to protect the mounts. They stopped once as the girl made sure which direction they should take and, above the sounds of their own breathing and the blowing of the horses, they could hear a constant hissing and a harsh buzzing sound. It was the rattler community, on the alert. It was unnerving and the girl pointed with a wild look in her eyes.

  “That way!” she said breathlessly but Yancey grabbed her arm.

  “Sure? Just take your time. Panic’s your worst enemy now. Just make yourself figure things properly.”

  She struggled, staring at him with bulging eyes, but then some of the wild look went out of them and she nodded, drawing a deep, steadying breath. She put a hand to her forehead and then nodded.

  “Yes—I’m sure. That way.”

  They spurred the frightened mounts forward again, crashing through the dry brush and Yancey’s eyes narrowed as he saw there were more snakes in this area. They seemed to be slithering away from the horses’ pounding hoofs in all directions and they were hurling themselves at the intruders every few yards.

  Then the woman screamed and her mount went down with a threshing roll. Driven by fear and instinct, she kicked her boots free of the stirrups and threw her leg over the saddle so that she actually jumped from the falling mount and didn’t go down with it. But she couldn’t keep her feet and fell and rolled over and over into the brush. Yancey felt his blood run cold as he hauled rein on the gray. The buckskin was still rolling and skidding, smashing a path through the brush and it was this motion and the noise that drove the snakes away, at least temporarily.

  Jeannie was screaming in wild panic now, trying to get to her feet even before she had stopped rolling, deathly afraid she was going to be struck by the snakes. Yancey fired his rifle in three swift shots down into the brush, hoping that the concussion would help keep them away a little longer. He plunged in with the gray as the buckskin lunged to its feet, foaming at the mouth, three snakes clinging to its neck, another to its flank. It reared, pounding down with flailing hoofs at the snakes on the ground. The woman was getting up, screaming in total fear. Yancey spurred in, rammed the rifle into the scabbard and scooped the staggering girl up in his arm.

  He nearly broke his back to get her up behind him but she had enough sense left to get a leg across the animal’s rump and her arms about Yancey’s ribs almost cut off his wind.

  He rode like hell, seeing the buckskin down on its rump now, frothing, eyes rolling, snakes still striking in a sickening rhythm. The woman was alternatively sobbing and screaming and seemed to be climbing his back. Thorns ripped open his cheek. A rattler struck and fell away from the gray’s chest-plate. He pulled the Peacemaker, fired downwards, fired again, emptying the cylinder, not seeing if he hit anything, using the noise to keep the reptiles away.

  Then they smashed through a thick screen of thorns and the brush was abruptly thinner and, in another twenty yards they were out in the open and trees marched up a hogback in front of them. A swamp was on their right, but there were blue skies overhead and birds wheeled and the sun felt warm against their flesh as Yancey skidded the gray to a halt. It was blowing hard and the girl slid to the ground. Her legs wouldn’t hold her. She collapsed and her body convulsed as she retched.

  Yancey hung over the saddlehorn, drenched with sweat, face blood-smeared, feeling the cold knot of fear slowly unravel in his belly, too spent even to think about reloading his empty gun.

  Nine – Uvalde

  Duke Early led his cavalcade down to the Rio north of Laredo. The river was deep here but there were parts that could be forded if a man knew his way through the tangle of canyons that towered above the muddy waters. And Duke Early knew this country as well as he knew the Broken-T.

  He had used this route many a time to push running-ironed steers across into Mexico. Once he had shoved a herd of almost three hundred across the hidden ford while a troop of Rangers from the Border Patrol were searching the canyons for some sign of him. He had laughed at them from the opposite bank with too much of a start for them to try to catch up. But this time he figured there wouldn’t be any Rangers to worry about.

  Johnny Cato rode between the two wagons that were crammed with hard-eyed, armed men. The other gunfighters were strung out at various positions that suited them and they all seemed tensed, if not downright nervous. Early had not yet returned their guns to them but had promised to do so once they reached the river ford. They could well need them in Mexico on the route south to Uvalde, for the way was alive with bandidos who knew no allegiance to themselves.

  Early had told the men that he had arranged to hand over the guns to the Mexican revolutionaries at a place called Presidio Blanca. It was several miles outside of Uvalde, in rugged country north of that town, and Early had deliberately chosen the place, knowing that it afforded fine cover for an ambush. Early figured that Valdez, the rebel leader, would set up his men around the canyon, aiming to cut down the gringos once the wagonloads of guns were delivered. To make sure, he would have most of his band with him, a group in evidence to allay the Americanos’ suspicions, the remainder hidden around the rocks.

  And this would mean that there would be few men left to stand guard over the gold which would be somewhere in Uvalde.

  Duke Early did not plan to keep his rendezvous at Presidio Blanca. He aimed to make straight for Uvalde, while Valdez and his cut-throats cooled their heels out at the canyon, waiting to ambush the stupid gringos.

  Cato had to admit that it was a good plan and stood a good chance of working. The only big snag seemed to be that Early didn’t know just where the gold was being kept in Uvalde and he couldn’t afford a pitched battle that would keep his men busy while someone rode hell for leather to Presidio Blanca and alerted Valdez. He would have to go in fast, strike directly at the gold store, load it into the wagons, and get headed back towards the Rio, pronto, all without alerting Valdez. The rebel leader might stay at the canyon for the full day—the rendezvous was for mid-morning—waiting for Early to show, but he wouldn’t stay longer. He would send out scouts.

  So they could only depend on a day’s start at best.

  The wagons rumbled and bounced through the rugged canyons and the men inside cursed at the drivers and hung on tightly. Cato worked his mount through the rocks, feeling the heat blasting back at him, wondering how Yancey was making out in the Box. Yancey was a goner. If the Box didn’t kill him, one of Early’s men would. He had no doubt that Early would have left word to this effect. So it was up to Cato. At least he was still riding free and soon he would have his Manstopper again and his rifle. Early likely wouldn’t kill him before they were back at Broken-T. He would depend on using Cato and his gun up until that time. So Cato would have to go along with the raid, try to survive, until he could break loose back on U.S. soil and somehow get word to the Rangers or the army.

  And there it was, glinting through a narrow defile up ahead where a man wouldn’t figure there was any kind of a break in the rocks at all: the Rio. Even from way back here Cato could see stones on the bottom which meant that the water was shallow enough to ford. Early knew his way around this border country, all right.

  It was one hell of a job getting the wagons through the defile and the men had to climb down and put their shoulders behind the big Conestogas, cursing and sweating every inch of the way. It told Cato something, though: they would never get the wagons back this way, loaded down with gold bullion, so Early must be planning to recross the Rio somewhere else. Another reason why he had to survive this raid.

  They fought the wagons through the defile and then slung ropes to the tailgates and rear axles so as to ease them down a steep, almost vertical slope, to the sandy flats that ran out
to the river ford. The horses could slide down loose banks a little way along, but this was the only firm ground that could take the weight of the Conestogas. Early, surprisingly enough, dismounted and threw his weight into the struggle with the others, sweating and cussing and slipping, his clothes dirtying-up, hands raw where the ropes burned across his palms.

  The two wagons rattled and rolled down onto the flats and the teams were hitched up again and they were run, empty, across the sand and into the ford. Once the iron-shod wheels were resting on the rocky bottom, the men climbed in again, sloshing through the shallows and jostling each other to get aboard.

  “All right!” yelled Early, brushing himself down as he settled into the black saddle on his black horse. “Onward!”

  He waved his arm forward and rode to the head of the column again, like some knight leading a crusade. And Cato had no doubt that this was how Duke Early saw himself.

  They pushed on into Mexico, rolling through the sparse brush and cactus, clattering over the sun baked rocks, seeing no sign at all of life. Maybe the bandidos had been warned off by Valdez, or maybe they had joined him and were lying in ambush at Presidio Blanca. Early was constantly consulting his watch now, riding back down the lines to hurry the men along. As he came level with Cato, the small agent spoke up.

  “How about our guns, Duke? You said when we crossed the Rio we could have ’em.”

  Early looked at him coldly. “The others will have theirs in a few minutes. I will hold your rather peculiar weapon until we reach Uvalde. You can carry it with you when you make your lone sortie into that place.”

  Cato stiffened. “How’s that again?”

  Early gave him a bleak smile. “You will see when we reach our destination.”

  He pulled the big black around and rode on down the line.

  Cato frowned after him. Now what the hell!