Bannerman the Enforcer 5

by Kirk Hamilton

  He had no plans about what he would do when he did come up with them, but he would figure that out once he saw Cato’s position. The one-eyed man had said he had been a prisoner of Waco Wyatt when he had spotted him in Vernon, but the man Yancey had downed there had said Cato was now working for Blayne as a hired gun. It was all hard for Yancey to swallow and he aimed to get to the bottom of the deal, even if it meant putting his job as Duke’s head troubleshooter on the line. He had been through too much with Cato to just let the smaller man ride out like this. Yancey was still sure there was some explanation for Cato’s behavior that he didn’t know about, but, by hell, he meant to find out what it was.

  Even riding due south, without all the detours and false trails, the horse was hard put to cover the ground at a fast pace. This was rugged country, slashed by canyons and gulches, along a trail that was ideal to lay ambushes, but Yancey saw no sign of bushwhackers. He found the yucca plant that had been blown out of the earth by Cato’s Manstopper and he recognized the sign. He also found the shattered targets and knew he was on the right trail now.

  He found one campsite where the ashes were still barely warm and knew he was making up some time, anyway; all the other campfires he had come across were dead cold. Common sense told him to slow down now; he was overhauling the bunch, slowly but surely, but he should take it easy, approach each ridge and rise warily, for he didn’t know what lay beyond. It was all strange territory to him and he didn’t want to skyline himself on a ridge or cross onto flats with no cover in case he was close enough to be seen by anyone left to cover the back trail. And he figured a man like Steve Blayne would take that elementary precaution.

  There were Indians in this neck of the woods, too; bloody-handed Comanches and Apaches who had busted out of government reservations and banded together to prey on border-bound travelers. He saw distant smoke once, on purple-hazed hills surrounding a saucer-like depression in the terrain that could take him half a day to cross.

  The smoke likely meant he had been spotted by the renegade Indians and it worried him that the signals might not only warn the other Indians, but they could also tell Blayne of his presence if he spotted them.

  The thing he had to do was get across the saucer as fast as possible. He figured it to be the crater of a long-dead volcano, the way the hills sparkled with areas of lava, and the way the dust abraded his nostrils, even through the bandanna covering the lower half of his face. Pumice seemed to work into his mouth, too, and crunched between his teeth, rasping at his throat. He had little water left in his canteen and there was no sign of any around here, which was yet another reason for crossing this section quickly.

  He came into the hills in the early afternoon and saw with relief that he was within yards of a clearly defined trail that crawled up the slope like a pale snake against the darker lava. Right up the center of that paleness was a darker line where the surface had been disturbed recently by the passage of horses. He was on the right trail, but this was dangerous country and a man could be blown from the saddle by a drygulcher’s bullet without even hearing the gun that had fired it.

  Yancey dismounted and led his tired, dust-caked horse up the trail. He wanted a drink badly and knew the animal needed one, too, but he wasn’t prepared to risk his remaining water until he had topped the crest and seen what lay beyond. It could well be more desert or pumice and lava flats and he might be a hundred miles from the nearest water.

  But he wasn’t. He had the shock of his life when he topped the crest. At first he blinked, then he rubbed at his glare-reddened eyes to make sure it wasn’t a mirage, a trick of his heat-dazed mind. About three miles away was the Rio, glistening as it rippled along over a shallow ford before disappearing between narrow, steep banks.

  And, that moving clump of blackness out there, heading for the river, had to be Blayne’s bunch.

  Yancey paused, leaning his forehead against the saddle for a few moments before unslinging his canteen, pouring some water into the crown of his hat for the horse and then he drained the last mouthful, let the final few drops fall onto his eyelids, using the liquid to wash some of the grit away. The horse nudged him for more and Yancey spoke to it in a rasping voice: he could use another half gallon himself, he figured.

  He turned back to look towards the group he had seen moving out by the river. There was plenty of water out that way and by a little zigzagging, he ought to be able to make use of the available cover and get pretty close to the camp without being spotted. Once he was in a position to assess Cato’s situation better he could ...

  He let the canteen drop with a clatter, heeling sharply as his right hand streaked for his gun butt. He lunged to the side as he saw the man rising out of the rocks on his left, rifle coming to his shoulder. Yancey landed flat on his back and fired with his gun held close to his side, just as flame and smoke spat from the rifle barrel. He didn’t hear the sound of the rearguard’s shot. His own bullet laid a streak of silver-gray across the granite boulder in front of the man, flattened into a half-dollar sized disc of lead and ricocheted across the man’s ribs, laying open the flesh like a saber slash.

  The man staggered back, fighting to retain his hold on the rifle. Yancey didn’t know where the man’s bullet had gone but he didn’t intend to give him another shot. He rolled slightly and fired across his own body this time. He heard his lead strike into the man’s body but didn’t see where. The man pitched sideways and backwards across the rock, the rifle clattering from his hand as Yancey bounded to his feet and leapt forward.

  He jumped up onto the rock the man had fallen behind and saw that the drygulcher would give him no more trouble. He was writhing in his death throes on the ground. Even as Yancey stepped down, he coughed his last and the Enforcer saw that he had a scarred hand pressed against his chest, just under the breastbone.

  Gun cocked, Yancey searched the rocks warily but there was no one else. He found the man’s horse and canteen and there was almost a quart of water in it. He drank his fill, took it back to his own mount and gave it the rest. He stood on a high rock and shaded his eyes as he stared out across the flats towards the river, wondering if the group out there had heard the gunshots. Maybe not. They were still riding towards the Rio and the breeze blew from of the south, so the sound would carry away from them.

  But it had been close; if the sun hadn’t flashed in a brief, searing burst of light from the rifle barrel as the ambusher had thrown it to his shoulder, it might be him lying there amongst the rocks.

  He unsaddled his mount and turned it loose: it would work its way down to the river eventually where there was water and graze and would likely join one of the bunches of mustangs that ran wild in the Rio canyon country. He threw his saddle on the dead man’s horse as it was a much fresher animal, and then rode on down the slope, cocked rifle cradled in his arms.

  He didn’t think there would be any more guards, but he wasn’t about to take the chance.

  ~*~

  Blayne’s bunch made camp on the riverbank in late afternoon and a couple of the men threw in fishing lines, in the hope of catching a catfish or bass for supper. The rest sat around, smoking and talking while the unlucky man who had drawn cook duty built a fire, prepared the coffee, and hacked away at the tough slab of sowbelly, having little confidence in the hopeful fishermen.

  Cato sat with two or three of the others, including Steve Blayne, while Waco Wyatt sat alone, smoking, looking sour as usual. The men were telling jokes and recollecting past incidents, trying to outdo each other. Once in a while one of them would stand to demonstrate how he had made his fast draw, or how the other man had died. There was a grim humor in some of the pantomime, only appreciated by men of the calling of the gun. They were interested in placement of shots and how swiftly a man died after being hit in a particular spot; often it meant the difference between themselves living and dying.

  It was a professionals’ discussion that likely would have sickened the ordinary townsman or maybe even the common cowpuncher
who used his gun for little else than shooting at an occasional rattler or cottontail rabbit. The men were deadly serious about anatomy and the killing power of various caliber bullets. One man admitted he favored the dum-dum type of projectile and showed the other how he had taken a clasp knife and cut a deep cross into the nose of each bullet so they would expand on impact with devastating effect. He got into a mild argument with Cato who told him that the cross was cut too deep and would only aid in the bullet's disintegration. It might kill and it mightn’t; he maintained the cuts should be shallower and wider.

  Cato argued that a man who could place his lead accurately didn’t need to go in for fancy tricks like making dum-dums. He told them that it wasn’t just the caliber of the bullet that counted, it was also the loading powder. He said he rarely used factory ammunition in the Manstopper: he loaded his own brass cartridges with powder that he had sieved into fine, fast-burning grains and he slightly enlarged the flash-hole under the percussion cap anvil to ensure instant ignition.

  The other realized that he was speaking from years of experience as a gunsmith as well as a gunfighter and Cato was surprised at the interest shown.

  The discussion went on after dark and during supper which consisted of sowbelly and fresh catfish, indifferently cooked.

  From his hiding place amongst the brush and rocks just outside the circle of light from the campfire, Yancey watched and listened and couldn’t believe that Cato was a part of this bunch of killers. But then, there were many things about Cato that he had found hard to believe lately.

  The man seemed to have settled in, was talking easily and confidently, drawing diagrams in the dust, holding the attention of every man in the camp, from Blayne on down.

  Every man but one, as Yancey found out when a cold ring of steel pressed against the base of his skull and a quiet voice said, “Just stand slow and easy, mister, and unbuckle that gun-rig the same way or I’ll blow your head clear across into Mexico!”

  Yancey swore softly as he stood slowly but, of course it didn’t do him any good.

  Chapter Eight – Revelations

  “What in the hell’s he doin’ here?” roared Cato, leaping to his feet as Yancey was brought into the camp by the guard.

  Blayne and the others were on their feet too, watching as the guard marched Yancey over by the fire and told him to sit down and take off his boots. Yancey did as he was bid, looking around at the hard, fire-lit faces watching him. He settled his gaze on Cato and nodded.

  “Howdy, amigo.”

  “Don’t ‘amigo’ me, you sidewinder!” growled Cato, pushing through to the fore. “Goddamn it, how in hell did you get here? And I warned you! I said next time we met it’d be over smokin’ guns and by hell, that still goes!”

  Yancey smiled crookedly. “All right with me. But I doubt that they’ll give me back my Peacemaker.”

  “Give him a gun, damn it!” yelled Cato, turning towards Blayne and Wyatt who were looking closely at him. “Give the son of a bitch a gun, someone!”

  Cato’s right hand was already resting on the butt of his Manstopper as he looked around, but all eyes were on Blayne. Except for Wyatt; the gunfighter kept looking from Yancey to Cato. Steve Blayne shouldered between the two men and pushed Cato’s hand away from his gun butt.

  “Simmer down, Cato,” he said harshly. “There’ll be no gunplay here. Not till I say so.”

  “But, damn it to hell, Blayne! He followed me! Must’ve. I’ve been tryin’ to shake him for weeks back in Austin and we came to blows over it. I swore next time we’d square-off with guns and that’s what I aim to do.”

  “I said simmer down!” Blayne roared, his eyes blazing. “I’m in charge here. I give the orders and you follow ’em. I don’t want to ride with a man short but I will if I have to, so you shut up, Cato!”

  Cato frowned and the muscles knotted along his jaw as he clamped his lips together. He nodded slowly, glaring at the sitting Yancey. The guard had taken his boots and tossed them to one side, obviously figuring Yancey would not be running off anywhere in this rocky country in only his stockinged feet.

  Blayne turned slowly to look down at Yancey. “Cato has one valid question, Bannerman. How did you get here? I left a man guarding the ridge back yonder.” He gestured north.

  “He’s still there,” Yancey told him flatly. “Or as much as the buzzards and coyotes have left.”

  There was fresh tension amongst the hard-eyed men and Blayne frowned as he exchanged a brief glance with Wyatt.

  “Chola was a good man,” Wyatt said, somewhat grudgingly.

  “Not good enough it seems,” Blayne replied as if half talking to himself. He flicked his gaze back to Yancey. “All right, so you downed Chola somehow and got here. Next question is why?”

  Yancey merely stared back and Wyatt kicked him solidly in the kidneys. Yancey groaned and fell sideways. He gagged as he sat up again, slowly, eyes glaring their hate at Wyatt.

  “Dukes assigned me to trail Cato!” he gasped.

  Blayne looked sharply at Cato who shook his head. “He’s, lyin’. Dukes and me had a blow-up. He wasn’t interested in me any longer after I quit, about thirty seconds before he fired me. He was frightened I was a security risk with all them I.O.U.s floatin’ around waitin’ to be picked up by someone like you, Blayne. After I quit, he didn’t care what happened to me, long as I got out of Austin.” He suddenly snapped his fingers. “But, by hell, there is one reason he could’ve sent this hombre after me at that: he could’ve been sent to kill me.”

  Blayne frowned. “How come?”

  “Because of what I know. I worked for Dukes for quite a spell, you know. Did him some personal favors that never appear in any of the reports. Could be he figured I knew a little too much and sent Bannerman after me to shut my mouth for keeps.”

  Blayne nodded slowly, figuring this theory had some merit. He nudged Yancey firmly in the ribs. “That it? That why you’re here?”

  Yancey glared back, flicked his gaze to Cato. “It’s his story.”

  Wyatt drove a boot toe against Yancey’s spine again and the big Enforcer groaned and fell onto his side. He was a long time straightening up this time, his face lined and gray with pain.

  “I want your story,” Blayne said easily. “We’re close to the river here, mister. You ever tried breathin’ underwater?” Yancey’s eyes widened slightly with what looked like a touch of fear and he glanced around at the hard-faced group swiftly.

  “All right,” he sighed. “All right. Dukes didn’t send me. Like I said, he’s got no interest in him at all. He figures Cato let him down—which the runt did—and I figure the same thing. I figure too, he owes me some sort of explanation. We’d been pards for a damn long time and I was loco enough to figure that maybe there was somethin’ I could do to help him if he was in any kind of trouble. So I had a chore to do that took me through San Antone where I ran into a hombre with only one eye who told me he’d seen Cato ridin’ through Vernon with Wyatt here. But Cato was a prisoner, hands roped to the saddle horn. I finished my chore and, like the damn fool that I am, ignored Dukes’ orders to return to Austin and came after your bunch to see if Cato needed help.” He curled his lip at his former pard. “I see what a damn big mistake I made now. He don’t need help. He’s one of you; part of whatever you’re up to, and I’ve come all this way and stuck my neck out for nothing.” He looked steadily at Cato and said flatly, “And I mean nothing!”

  Cato smiled crookedly. “Just like you, Yance! A loco fool, all stuffed up with heroics and morals and principles! Yeah, Blayne, I believe him now; that story makes sense, because I’ve seen him do the same sort of thing a dozen times, take all kinds of chances he didn’t need to, just to make sure everyone had an even break.”

  “Plumb loco!” opined Wyatt and Yancey set his cold gaze on him.

  “I’m still alive, Wyatt. And I’d sure admire the chance to give you an even break in a square-off.”

  Wyatt stiffened and glanced swiftly at Blayne. “That
’s okay with me. How about it, Steve? Just me and Bannerman! I’ve been wantin’ to test his speed for a long time. I just don’t believe any man’s as fast as they claim Bannerman is.”

  Yancey started to climb to his feet. “Let’s find out.”

  Blayne shoved Yancey roughly so that he sprawled back on the ground and shook his head at the frowning Wyatt. “Nope, I’m not taking any risks. That’s Chola’s horse that just wandered in, and it ain’t his saddle on it, so I figure Bannerman was speakin’ gospel when he said he killed Chola. Which makes him pretty good. And there’s his reputation: if he’s only half as fast as they say, we can use him.”

  “Like hell!” snapped Wyatt.

  “You’re loco!” snapped Cato, startled.

  “We ain’t ridin’ with any lawman!” spoke up one of the others and there were protests from all around the fire.

  Blayne held up a hand and said nothing until all the talk had died away. He looked at Yancey.

  “It comes down to you in the end, mister. How do you feel about ridin’ with my bunch?”

  “You don’t have to waste your breath asking me, Blayne.”

  Blayne smiled crookedly. “Well, let’s put it this way ... I need all the fast guns I can get for this chore I’ve got comin’ up. You’ve accounted for one of my best men at a time when I can’t replace him, unless you step into his boots. And, if you don’t, you’re dead in a few minutes, Bannerman. So now how do you feel about ridin’ with my bunch?”

  Yancey frowned and looked from Blayne to Wyatt, and then let his gaze travel slowly around the faces of the other gunfighters. They would all kill him willingly, he knew that. He let his eyes rest on Cato’s stony face. The small man’s eyes were like chips of flint and they held his gaze steadily.