Bannerman the Enforcer 11

by Kirk Hamilton

  “Hell, I remember that! If the President hadn’t turned to take a gift from a little gal runnin’ alongside his carriage, the bullet would’ve got him. As it was, they say the hair won’t grow back over the bullet-burn just over his left ear.”

  Locke nodded. “Duane was behind the gun and he got away, despite the biggest manhunt in U.S. history. He saw me in Madame Silver’s and thought I might recognize him, despite this new image he’s built for himself of tough cattleman from the backwoods of Colorado. There was the old grudge against me for sending him to prison, too. He couldn’t pass up the chance. And he was liquored-up, and that always makes him meaner.”

  Cato scratched his head gingerly around the swellings. “Seems we got us some troubles.”

  “I’m only sorry you’re in this, John. I know how you feel. But you got nothing to blame yourself for, John. I honestly figured there’d be no harm in us whoopin’ it up a little after all those formal hen-parties in Cheyenne.” He managed to give a fleeting smile. “It should’ve set us up, made us feel relaxed ... Now look at us!” He shook his head slowly. “You did damn well to trace me here, John. Duane hadn’t expected it and it threw him. Guess that’s why he dragged me out for the flogging.”

  “Well, he’s got us and looks like he don’t aim to kill either of us quick. Wouldn’t’ve bothered to send in the brine or the coffee if he had. I reckon he’s got somethin’ special lined up for us. But we ain’t gonna stick around to see what it is.”

  Locke looked at him swiftly, then frowned. He moved a hand around, indicating the heavy log walls. “I don’t see any way out, John. Even the ceiling has clapboards nailed to rafters with split shingles over them. Window’s got a heavy wooden shutter over the outside. Door opens out and is barred, anyway.”

  “Where is this place? In relation to the rest of Duane’s spread?”

  “The cabin? Back in some trees, away from the main ranch buildings. It’s something he keeps hidden away, I guess. But there’s little law up here, John. He more or less makes his own laws. He seems to be that powerful.”

  Cato got to his feet picked up the lantern and walked slowly around their small prison. The floor was hard-packed earth, would take a heap of digging, and likely the log foundations went down a few feet, anyway. He held the lantern high and examined the ceiling. It, too, was solid, just as the senator had described it.

  He set the lantern down, turned up the wick so that light washed over the heavy door, and then went across to examine it. Thick cedar planks were heavily nailed and screwed to cross bars. The latch looked like hand-wrought iron and, while it could probably be lifted out of its socket from the inside, there was still the heavy bar on the outside. There was an inch-wide gap between the heel of the door and the frame. A cold wind blew through and Cato stepped back to avoid it, but then, trying to ignore the freezing blast, put his face close to the crack again.

  He heard footsteps outside on the gravel. The steps stopped.

  “’Bout goddamn time you got here!” he heard Hog snarl. “My toes are froze solid!”

  “Quit bellyachin’. Wolf’s had the cook brew you up some hot stew. It’s waitin’, so why don’t you get on back ’stead of standin’ around here, bitchin’ ’bout the cold.”

  The second man was Slip and he laughed briefly as Hog spat a cuss at him. Cato heard the man’s dragging footsteps as he started away from the cabin, limping on his wounded foot.

  Cato turned and walked back to where Jonas Locke sat, looking tired and drawn. The Enforcer sat down slowly and rubbed thoughtfully at the lumps on his scalp.

  “Hey, Hog!” he heard Slip call. “Wolf’s gone into town. Wants you to relieve Charley on nighthawk at midnight!” He laughed derisively and Cato and Locke heard Hog’s distant cussing.

  “At least we know it ain’t midnight yet,” Cato said. “Senator … you’ve been outside this cabin. You notice the door hinges at all?”

  Locke shivered and pulled the blanket closer about him. “Hinges? Not really ...”

  Cato looked disappointed. “I could make out three of ’em through the crack between the door heel and the frame. Just wondered what they’re made of ... Didn’t hear any squeakin’ when they brought you in ...”

  Locke snapped his head up. “That’s right! I noticed that myself every time they came and went. Figure they must have the hinges well-oiled.”

  “Or they could be leather. It’s common out on these backwoods’ places to use up your old saddle leather as hinges on doors of all kinds. Could explain why the door drags across the stoop, too.”

  “I guess so. But it doesn’t help us, does it?”

  “Say—how does that bar work? Is it a drop-bar that they lift right off each time and put back in iron brackets, either side of the door?”

  Locke thought for a moment then shook his head. “No. It slides into a deep notch cut into the doorpost. But that post is a foot thick, John.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Main thing is the bar doesn’t go all the way across the door, right?”

  “That’s right. But I still don’t see ...”

  “If those hinges are leather, Senator,” Cato said slowly, “we could get out of here.”

  Locke was frowning. “I think I get your general drift. If the hinges are leather and there’s a wide gap between the door and the frame, I guess your idea is that the hinge leather could be cut through and then a push from inside would topple the door outwards. Is that what you’ve got in mind?”

  “Exactly what I’m thinkin’, Senator.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, John. But there’s nothing sharp here you could use. They faring me food but I have to eat it with my fingers. Even the glass from that lantern chimney would be too fragile to hack through weathered saddle leather. That’s if you could reach it.”

  Cato nodded. “Yeah, I know. What we want is a knife with a razor sharp blade, about three or four inches long ... like this.”

  He fumbled at the heavy brass buckle on his belt and the surprised senator saw lantern light blaze off blued steel as the belt buckle came away from the leather when Cato pressed a stud. It slid a short, four-inch double-edged blade out of a stitched sheath in between the belt leather. Cato smiled faintly.

  “Standard equipment for the Enforcers,” he said. “It’s gotten Yancey and me out of a few tight corners. With a little luck, it might work again.”

  “But Slip will be on guard outside the door. No matter how quiet you are, he must surely hear that blade sawing through the leather hinges.”

  “I reckon with that wind howlin’ outside, he won’t stand freezing his ass off outside the door. He’ll hunt up a nice cozy little shelter amongst the trees and hunker down there till he’s relieved. Sound of the wind’ll cover the knife work.” For the first time since the senator had regained consciousness, the pain in his eyes was replaced by a flicker of real hope.

  Four – Tall Rider

  It was dark when Yancey Bannerman finally found his way off the mountain and onto the steep trail that led down through the tall timber to Wildcat Falls. He was forking a rented mount from Denver, a sorrel, and was leading a packhorse with stores for a week’s trail.

  He had been lucky: he hadn’t been back in Austin for more than half a day when Cato’s enigmatic wire reached him. He was able to read between the lines, and figure there was some sort of emergency with Jonas Locke and so he had spent some time amongst the maps of the Federal Land Commission, located Wildcat Falls and quietly taken the train out to Denver. He hadn’t told the governor or his daughter, Kate, where he was going, or why. As far as anyone in Austin knew, Locke and Cato were aboard the first train down from Cheyenne.

  Yancey had been unable to learn much about Wildcat Falls in Denver, or along the wild trails up into the Lavaca mountains. Most folk had only vaguely heard of it. Seemed cattle and lumber were the main industries; the place wasn’t large enough for a permanent lawman; there was one general store, a saloon and a hotel, some scattered cabins, a blacksmith’s forge
and stables. That was all there was to Wildcat Falls. The Lavaca River surged down from the Sierras and dropped a thousand feet straight down off a granite ledge into deep green timber and it was these falls which gave the town its name, though the settlement was actually five miles down-river from the falls. And it wasn’t even ‘on’ the river.

  The town had been built up the slopes of the mountain, just below timberline. No one knew why. Some oldsters said there had been plans for building a log race and a lumber mill but they had never gotten off the ground. Now lumber companies came in on contract work, set up temporary mills, worked their stands of timber, milled it, and moved out until they had big enough orders to come back in again. It seemed that no one had sufficient faith in the future of Wildcat Falls to build a permanent mill.

  Yancey heard about a man named Wolf Duane who took on all-comers and ruled the roost. He fought homesteaders and neighbors and lumber companies: not through the courts, but the old way that was now, thankfully, fading from the frontier: the way of the gun. It was the only law Duane acknowledged and it was generally agreed that he was kingpin in this neck of the woods. He figured Wildcat Falls to be his ...

  Yancey was cold, even though he had brought heavy clothing with him and leather shotgun chaps. He didn’t like thin mountain air in the winter and, though the locals figured this as fall in the mountains, it was winter as far as he was concerned.

  The warm yellow lights of the town were a welcome sight as he dismounted outside the lone hotel, draped the reins of the sorrel over the hitch rail, and hitched the pack-horse beside the other horse. He hurried into the hotel foyer and walked to the small stone fireplace where a low fire burned. He nodded to the young, sour faced clerk behind the desk and warmed his hands.

  “Kind of a nip in the air tonight,” the clerk said.

  Yancey smiled crookedly. “We call it more than that where I come from.”

  “Guess you're from the south or the plains, huh?”

  “Both. Texas.”

  The clerk arched his eyebrows and Yancey thought he tensed but the tall Enforcer walked slowly across to the desk, pulling loose the rawhide loop-ties on his heavy jacket and letting the flaps swing apart. He saw the clerk’s eyes drop to the low-slanted cartridge belt and the tied-down Colt Peacemaker in its plain, well-oiled single-loop holster.

  “Got any rooms?”

  “Take your pick,” the clerk said, waving a hand in the direction of the key board with all the keys hanging on tagged nails. “How long you want it?”

  “Not sure. S’posed to meet a pard of mine here.” This time Yancey was sure the clerk stiffened and the man’s mouth was drawn into a tight, thin line as he straightened, trying to act casual.

  “Yeah? What’s his name?”

  “John Cato.”

  Yancey’s hard eyes bored into the clerk’s face but the man shook his head, looked away and busied himself at the hotel ledger.

  “Nope. He ain’t arrived yet. Leastways, not here. And ain’t nowhere else he can get a room. Saloon’s only got a bar and the owner’s room above.”

  Yancey nodded slowly and then abruptly decided to try something else. “How about Jonas Locke?”

  The clerk’s fingers whitened about his pencil and almost broke it. He snapped his eyes up towards Yancey but looked away almost immediately. He shook his head vigorously.

  “No one stayin’ here by that name. You wanta pay in advance? It’s a dollar and a quarter.”

  Yancey nodded and held his cold stare on the man as he fumbled out some coins. The man went into his pitch about it being extra for hot water and so on and then Yancey asked if someone could take care of his horses. The clerk said he would do it himself and yelled.

  “Cindy!”

  When the Indian girl appeared, he told her to show Yancey to room nine and handed her the key. Yancey watched the young man hurry from the room and then began to climb the stairs behind the Indian girl. He nodded his thanks as she stopped by the ill-fitting door of room nine and handed him the key.

  “You heard of a man called Cato in town, ma’am?” he asked suddenly.

  She looked at him with her sloe eyes and shook her head slowly.

  “How about Jonas Locke?”

  Again she shook her head slightly, her gaze unwavering. “You want bath? Hot water?”

  Yancey scrubbed a hand around his stubbled jowls, then shook his head. “Nope. Not right now. Later mebbe. You still have water available?”

  “You say when you want. I bring.” Then she turned, unsmilingly, and hurried back down the stairs.

  Yancey watched her go, then went into the room.

  ~*~

  Later, Yancey went out. As he entered the saloon, he saw the hotel clerk hurrying back across the street, coming from the direction of the alley beside the saloon building. The man was almost jog-trotting, he was in such a hurry.

  Inside, the big barroom was warm and smoky but there were only about a dozen drinkers. There was a silence as Yancey entered and their eyes followed his tall form as he walked down the room to the scarred counter where a languid barkeep was idly spinning an empty shot glass on the counter, not looking at the man from Texas.

  “Redeye,” Yancey said, slapping a coin onto the counter-top.

  The barkeep spun the glass, let it settle, reached under the counter and brought up a bottle of whisky. He tugged the cork with his teeth, splashed some liquid into the smeared glass, and rammed the cork back in the bottleneck with his thumb. Only then did Yancey realize the man was one-armed. The Enforcer picked up the glass, nodded briefly, then tossed down the drink. It near scalded his throat and tears came to his eyes.

  “Hell’s flames! That’s like turpentine!”

  The barkeep shrugged and flipped Yancey’s money off the counter-top into a wooden tray. He plainly didn’t intend to argue with Yancey about the liquor.

  Then a tall, hatchet-faced man with dark stubble on his jaw, rose from a side table and sauntered down the bar. He looked mean and dangerous, moving like a cat. He jolted Yancey’s shoulder and the big Enforcer tensed as he turned to face the man.

  “You Bannerman?”

  “Mebbe.”

  “You’re him, all right. You just rode in from Texas, been askin’ a lot of questions that could make trouble for a lot of folk, and now you come in here and complain about our saloon’s likker. Seems to me, Bannerman, you’re spoilin’ for trouble.”

  Yancey looked at the man coldly. “And you’re just the hombre to give it to me, huh?”

  “I’m Wolf Duane,” The man smiled bleakly. “But you can save yourself a heap of upset by just ridin’ out of here come sunup.” He spread his arms expansively. “See? We’ll let you stay snug and warm in room nine over at the hotel for the night.”

  “Don’t do me any favors, mister,” Yancey said flatly. “Tell me: what questions have I been askin’ that could cause anyone trouble, huh? Only asked about a pard of mine who was s’posed to meet me here. Man named John Cato,”

  Duane frowned. “Cato? Was that his name? Hell, young Hammond, the hotel clerk, must’ve misheard you. He thought you said Kayser ...”

  “That makes a difference?” Yancey asked.

  “Hell, yeah! This hombre Kayser’s a real hell-raiser. Works for a lumber company I’m havin’ trouble with on my range. He’s foreman there and we heard he was importin’ guns from down on the border …” He grinned suddenly. “Hell, you know what it’s like. The whole town’s jumpy. Young Hammond figured you must be one of the gunfighters when you asked for Kayser ... He thought you said Kayser. But Cato’s a different matter.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, what’s this Cato look like?”

  “Smallish feller, about five-six. Maybe a hundred and fifty pounds ...”

  “Carries a hogleg with two barrels and a cylinder like a beer keg?”

  Yancey nodded slowly, his gaze still on Duane.

  “Aw, yeah, he was through here couple days ago.”

  “Throu
gh here? You mean he didn’t stop by?”

  “Only long enough to pick up some stores. I was in the bar here when he came in for a drink. Said he was headed north, some place above the timberline. We tried to tell him it was dangerous this time of year. Blizzards are already started way up on the bare peaks and it’s mighty cold. Many a man’s ridden out to go up there and never been heard of again.”

  Yancey looked at him levelly.

  Duane shrugged. “That’s the way it goes, Bannerman. Don’t be surprised if you never see your pard again. Blizzards blow up out of nowhere. There’s avalanches, deep drifts. Man needs to know that country before he goes in there.”

  “He didn’t leave any message for me?”

  Duane turned to the barkeep. “Lew?”

  The one-armed man shrugged. “All I recollect him sayin’ was that he hoped no one’d be loco enough to try to follow him. That he had to do this chore alone.”

  “Didn’t mention Jonas Locke?” Yancey asked.

  There was a brief silence and then the barkeep shrugged again and shook his head. Duane looked puzzled.

  “Don’t think he did, but name sounds kind of familiar. Should I know him?”

  “Guess not. Well, if Cato’s already pulled out and didn’t leave any messages, I might as well pull up stakes in the morning.”

  “Aw, hell, that was when we was riled at you, figured you for a gunfighter on Kayser’s payroll,” Duane said. “You can stay if you like. Though there sure ain’t anythin’ to keep you in this neck of the woods. But have a drink on us and sleep on it, Bannerman.”

  “No, thanks. I still don’t like your whisky.”

  “We got a different bottle for our friends,” the barkeep said but still Yancey refused.

  “Okay,” said Duane. “Sorry about the misunderstandin’, Bannerman.”

  He held out his right hand towards Yancey. The Enforcer glanced down at it then looked hard into Duane’s dark, smoldering eyes. “No misunderstanding, Duane,” he said flatly, his deep voice carrying through the big room. “Just a pack of lies ... on your part.”