Bannerman the Enforcer 11

by Kirk Hamilton

  There was complete and utter silence; everything was stilled, even the flies seemed to have stopped buzzing around the necks of empty bottles. There wasn’t even the sound of breathing as Yancey locked his gaze with Duane’s. Then Wolf Duane slowly let his hand drop back to his side and the clothing rustled loudly in the room. His face was tight, skull-like, his eyes like gun barrels as they bored into Yancey. His thin lips peeled back from his teeth in a mirthless grin, heightening the impression of the death’s head.

  “I was kinda afraid you’d be too smart to fall for my story,” Duane whispered. “I kind of figured you for smarter than that, Bannerman. Too bad. You could’ve ridden out safe and sound. Now they’ll have to carry you out!”

  He leapt forward before he had finished speaking, snatched the bottle that the barkeep held out towards him and swung it murderously at Yancey’s head.

  The Enforcer’s iron hard forearm shot up, taking the jarring blow’s force, and hitting Duane’s arm between wrist and elbow. His other fist came around in a looping blow that took the rancher in the side of the neck. Duane staggered but refused to let go the bottle. Yancey lifted a boot and pinned the man’s wrist against the counter front, grinding with the heel. Duane grimaced and swore as his fingers opened and the bottle dropped to the floor. He snatched at Yancey’s leg, managed to grab the boot, and heaved, sending Yancey crashing into a set of tables and chairs. The Enforcer struggled to get free of the splintered wood as Duane leapt forward and drove a kick at his head. Yancey whipped the seat of the broken chair around and it was smashed from his hands, skimming across the top of his head. He rolled away from another boot that caught him in the side, kicked free of the entangling woodwork and pushed to his feet.

  Wolf Duane came in fast, lips pulled back from his teeth, eyes slitted and deadly. As Yancey began to straighten, the rancher caught him with a heaving upward thrust of his shoulder and arm. Yancey staggered backwards, fighting for balance. Duane went after him, hammering at his head and body, trying to put him down. The Enforcer slammed into more tables and chairs, heaved one into Duane and, as the man dodged, lunged back at him. Duane hurled the chair angrily aside as Yancey’s big body drove into him and carried him back clear to the bar. The overhanging edge of the counter caught Duane across the small of the back and the breath gusted from him. Yancey stepped back, drove his full body weight forward again, ducking his shoulder and taking the other in the chest. Wolf Duane grunted and his body jolted with the impact. His legs looked rubbery as Yancey stepped far enough back to measure the man, then clipped him on the side of the jaw with a blow that skidded the rancher halfway down the bar. Yancey stalked after him, not hurrying, seeing Duane was dazed. He hit him again as he began to straighten and the rancher clawed at the counter to keep from falling, scattering bottles and glasses. He was halfway down and Yancey sent him the rest of the way with a boot in the chest. Duane lay there, bloody-faced and dazed.

  Yancey, panting, stood over him, fists clenched, waiting to see if there was any more fight left in the man. He heard metal whisper against leather and the start of a hammer ratcheting back. Yancey whirled, palming up his Peacemaker, his sharp eyes picking out the ranny in the small crowd who was lining his gun up on him. The Colt bucked in his hand and the man lurched as lead struck him high in the chest. Men scattered as the gunman’s pistol blazed into the floor and he dropped to one knee, looked surprisedly at Yancey and tried to bring his gun up again. The Enforcer shot him a second time and the man went over backwards, twitched briefly, and then lay still.

  The smoking gun in Yancey’s hand swept in a lazy arc, covering the other men, but no one made any move towards their six-guns. At Yancey’s feet, the blood-streaked Duane was propped up on one elbow, looking from his dead ranch-hand to the tall Enforcer. Yancey looked down at him soberly.

  “It can end here, Duane, or you can take it further. Your choice.”

  Duane wiped blood from his nostrils and slowly climbed to his feet. Yancey’s gun barrel followed his every movement closely. He swayed, clutched at the edge of the bar and looked around at the crowd.

  “You say the word, Mr. Duane!” growled a tough-looking ranny, hand clawed near his gun butt. “Lief was a pard of mine.” He gestured to the dead man.

  Yancey met the man’s stare levelly, patiently. “Don’t count on me holstering my gun to give you a fair shake, mister,” he told the ranny. “I’ve got the drop and I aim to keep it. You want to argue with me, make a move for your iron now.”

  The ranny looked for a moment as if he would accept the challenge, then swiftly shook his head, lifted his hands halfway up his chest well away from his guns.

  “You’ll keep, Texan!” he muttered.

  Yancey flicked his gaze back to the murderous-looking Duane. “Made up your mind?”

  Duane dabbed at his split lips, set his bleak eyes on Yancey above the blood-spotted rag. “Like Pidge says, Bannerman: you’ll keep.”

  Yancey nodded. That suited him. Keeping the room covered, he backed out of the saloon and hurried back across the street to the hotel. In the lobby he saw Hammond, the clerk, staring at him fearfully from behind the desk. The Indian maid checked at the foot of the stairs with some soiled bed linen in her arms. Yancey pulled out his Colt and the clerk stiffened. The girl froze. Yancey began to punch out the used shells and replaced them with fresh cartridges from his belt.

  “You—you did the shootin’?” the clerk croaked, figuring he needed to say something.

  Yancey gave him a cold look, spun the cylinder and lowered the gun hammer. Then abruptly he cocked the gun again and shoved the muzzle under the startled clerk’s chin. The Indian maid gave an involuntary cry.

  “You got too big a mouth, young feller. Better watch it or it could get you killed. Savvy?”

  Hammond swallowed and nodded vigorously. Yancey held the gun barrel there a moment longer, then put it up and dropped it into his holster.

  “Now: John Cato did stop here, right?”

  The clerk flicked his gaze to the Indian girl and flushed when he realized she had witnessed the scene with Yancey. “Get on about your work, damn you!” he bawled. He was sweating and mopped his face when he turned back to Yancey. “Yeah. He stopped here. But he rode on, couple days back.”

  “Why lie about it?”

  Hammond shrugged. He cast a worried glance towards the hotel door and the saloon across the street. “Duane wanted it that way ... He—he’d kill me if he knew I was talkin’ to you.”

  “Mebbe I’ll kill you if you don’t. Or if you lie to me. Where did Cato go?”

  Hammond shrugged. “Up into the Sierras somewheres.”

  “Why?”

  “Hell, how do I know?” the clerk bristled.

  “Why?” Yancey asked again, coldly.

  Hammond sighed, casting another worried glance towards the door and the saloon. He leaned forward across the desk. He seemed to be sweating more profusely than ever.

  “Bannerman, I’m scared of Duane. We all are. He’s loco. If someone don’t stop him, he’ll kill us all; wipe out the whole town. He can do it with that hard bunch he’s got. Maybe a hombre like you can stop him. So I’m takin’ a chance with you …”

  Yancey waited patiently.

  “Cato was here. He’d tangled with two of Duane’s men outside, Hog and Slip. He shot ’em up some and, after they was doctored, they came over here lookin’ for him. I told ’em Cato’d been askin’ after Duane and they went to his room after takin’ a bucket of water off Cindy. They dragged him out unconscious and only part-dressed. That’s gospel ... But Duane told me if you showed I was to lie about it and let him know you were here.”

  “Where’d they take Cato?” Yancey asked grimly.

  “Diamond-D, Duane’s spread I guess. It’s way back in the Sierras, but I dunno just where. Northwest is best I can do.”

  Yancey nodded curtly. “Okay, kid. I won’t forget this. You just sit tight. I’ll take care of Duane.”

  Yancey went up to his r
oom and the moment he opened the door he knew something was wrong: a breeze tinged with ice touched his warm flesh and that told him the window was open. It had been closed when he had left. He dropped to one knee and reached for his gun. A man’s body cannoned into him and carried him into the wall. The door swung but didn’t close properly, and the light spilling in from the passage glinted from a steel blade as a knife plunged down at Yancey’s throat. He let go his gun butt and caught the wrist in his hand, feeling the strong bones and coarse hair and ridged tendons. His would-be killer was a tough man, very powerful. He used his weight on Yancey’s wrist to double it back, trying to make Yancey’s arm bend so he could drive the blade into his chest.

  Yancey grunted and strained and the sweat poured from him. He grabbed his own wrist with his other hand, pushing against the weight of the killer, but his skin was slippery with sweat and slowly the blade came down towards his throat. The other man used his knees to ram into Yancey’s belly and ribs, grunting and swearing gutturally. He had much more purchase now, braced his boots against the door edge and applied more pressure.

  Then Yancey took a chance, a very dangerous chance. He tensed, and abruptly released his hold on the man’s wrist, at the same time, wrenching his head aside and heaving his left shoulder up off the floor, twisting his upper body away from the plunging blade. It cut through the heavy wool of his jacket sleeve and he felt the searing pain as the blade edge slashed his flesh. But the point had missed and was an inch deep in the floor and the assassin wasted precious seconds trying to pull it free. Yancey backhanded the man across the mouth, knocked him sideways, then rolled to his knees and threw his weight behind a punch as the man started back towards him with a snarl, the knife in his hand upraised.

  The punch hit the man in the face and he staggered, but slashed wildly in a backhanded swipe with the knife. Yancey threw himself backwards. The killer reared up and leapt forward, knife well above his head this time.

  The Enforcer swiftly rolled up onto his shoulders, bringing up both boots and catching the man squarely in the chest. Yancey straightened his legs abruptly and the man yelled as he was hurled back across the room, lifted clear off the floor. His back struck the open window and his shoulders smashed the flimsy wood of the frame. Glass shattered and there was a brief scream as the attacker’s body catapulted clear through the window and down into the street. Yancey leapt up and, gun in hand, went out of the room, down the stairs three at a time, and ran outside to where the body lay. He used a boot toe to heave the man over onto his back and saw by the way the head lolled that his neck was broken. It was the cowboy, Pidge, who had wanted to avenge the man Yancey had shot in the saloon.

  He whirled as men came pounding up and he recognized Duane and the hotel clerk in the crowd. He stooped and picked up the knife that had fallen near the body, turned so that lantern light washed over his torn jacket which was now bloodstained.

  “He was waiting in my room for me. With this.”

  He threw the knife and the blade quivered in the earth between the feet of Wolf Duane. The rancher stepped back fast, face paling. Then, jaw muscles knotted, he lifted his cold gaze to Yancey.

  “He was your man, Duane.”

  “You killed his pard,” Duane said easily. “Guess he wanted revenge.”

  “That’s the way it was meant to look, I guess,” Yancey said.

  Duane’s teeth flashed white as his lips pulled back. “You’ll never prove it was any different, Texan.”

  Yancey didn’t see any point in answering that. He holstered his Colt, nodded briefly to Hammond, and walked back into the hotel, the men staring after him.

  Five – Timberline

  Cato’s fingers were numbed. The cold wind blowing through the gap between the door and the frame chilled the brass buckle-handle of the knife and the awkward pressure as he sawed back and forth at the tough, heavyweight saddle leather made his fingers ache.

  He was almost through the second hinge. The first one, the bottom one, had already been cracked from continual movement of the door and exposure to the weather, and the sharp blade sliced through without a lot of trouble. But the middle hinge seemed to be of newer leather and it had folded back on itself, and the blade kept jamming, occasionally making a squeaking noise as he yanked it free of the gripping steer hide.

  After each screech, Cato and the senator waited tensely, listening for Slip’s footsteps as he came to investigate. But wherever the man had chosen to hole-up out of the wind, he was apparently too far away to hear. Or he was just plumb lazy. Either way, Cato continued with his sawing but his fingers were becoming so numbed now that he couldn’t really feel his grip on the buckle and twice he dropped it. The second time it caught between the door and the frame and he had one hell of a job getting it free. Luckily, he had already cut through the bottom hinge, and he was able to get his feet against the bottom of the door and push it out far enough for it to release the knife. Jonas Locke tried to take a turn at hacking away at the hinges but he was too weak and the movement of his arms and shoulders brought groans of pain to his lips as the weals on his back started bleeding again.

  Cato sat back on his haunches abruptly, blowing out his cheeks and wiping sweat from his face before it began to freeze up in the chill wind blowing into the cabin. The lantern was barely alight now and he turned the wick up a little.

  “If we’re gonna run out of oil, we might as well make the most of what little’s left,” he said. “That’s the second one through. Now the top one’s gonna be a mite different. When I cut through it, the whole damn door might just fall outwards. If it does, it’ll make plenty of noise and we’ll be sitting ducks for Slip. You can bet wherever he is, he’s able to at least see the cabin. So we need somethin' to hold the door in place first, then we got to get Slip over here ...”

  “Over here?” echoed the senator.

  “Yeah. I’ll have to take your blanket, Senator. If I tear off some strips, we can make a rope, tie it to the inside part of the latch. Reckon you could hold it? There shouldn’t be much weight on it at first, maybe not at all. That wind’s blowing against the door from the outside, so it’ll tend to keep it upright.”

  “I’ll try,” Locke said grimly. He knew their lives depended on their efforts.

  Cato tore the blanket into a series of strips, knotted several together until he had a length of about ten feet. Then he made a similar series of strips and twisted both lengths together, making a crude but effective rope. He tied one end around the inside section of the latch and then, keeping it taut, took the other end back to where the senator lay. He put the rope into Locke’s hands in the gloom, for they were beyond the small pool of deep orange cast by the dying lantern light, and felt the rope go slack, even when the man strained to hold it taut.

  “No good, I’m afraid, Senator,” Cato said, taking up the slack. “Anyway, you better start getting your warmer clothes on now we’ve ripped up the blanket. You’ll need both hands for that ... I’ll see if there’s some place I can anchor the end of this.”

  “I’m ... sorry, John,” Locke panted regretfully.

  “Better that you save your strength, anyway, I guess. Once we’re out of here, you’re gonna need it all.”

  Locke nodded and started to struggle into his woolen shirt, sucking in his breath sharply as the fibers raked across his raw back wounds. Cato looked around for something to anchor the crude rope to but could find nothing handy. Then he saw the window, kept his weight pulling back on the rope, and found that he had about a foot to spare by the time he had reached the window. He kept it pressed against the wall with his knee while he jarred the warped frame loose and lifted it a couple of inches above the sill. Then, shivering in the cold blast of wind, he knotted the end of the rope and forced it under the window frame, holding it taut with one hand while he hammered the window down hard with the other, jamming the knot under the frame. He tugged on the rope and found it fairly taut. It would be tight enough to support the door’s weight, anyway, while
he cut through the top hinge.

  Cato returned to the door, picked up his buckle knife and worked the blade into the gap, beginning to saw away at the leather hinge. The hide was dry and tough and he couldn’t feel the razor-edged blade even bite into it, at first. Then he seemed to break through the outer, weathered covering and gradually the steel cut its way down through the creased leather. He strained to work a fingertip through and could just manage to touch the base of the hinge leather. He figured there was about a half-inch of sound leather left. Probably it was too tough for him to risk leaving it and to hope it would snap when he threw his weight against the door. So, sighing, blowing on his fingers, the lantern out now, unnoticed by him, Cato sawed and cut until the blade sliced clear through the last hinge. The door jarred down onto the jamb and sagged outwards an inch or so. He held his breath, hoping it wouldn’t fall out far enough to be noticed. The door jammed against the frame and held. He felt the blanket-rope now and it was as taut as a guitar string.

  “How you doin’, Senator?”

  “I could—use a—hand, John.”

  Cato groped his way to the senator’s side and helped him struggle into his jacket. Then he got the man onto his feet and Locke swayed unsteadily. He took a few tentative steps and grabbed at the wall for support.

  “You just stay upright, Senator,” Cato encouraged. “Move your legs a little. Use all the time we got while I try to get Slip over here. You okay?”

  “I’m—fine,” Locke panted weakly and Cato knew they were going to have to be very lucky to get out of this alive.

  He went back to the door, holding the brass buckle knife, and put his mouth up against the freezing slit between the door edge and the frame.

  “Hey!” he bawled. “Hey, you out there, s’posed to be on guard! I’ve been shoutin’ my lungs out for help! The senator’s actin’ kind of strange. Makin’ queer noises. His breathin’s all ragged. I reckon he’s dyin’ ...”