Bannerman the Enforcer 1

by Kirk Hamilton

  Yancey was thoughtful for a spell, then said, “That money in your room is going to take some explaining away.”

  “Purdy likely planted that. He had a pipeline to the Magnus ranch.”

  There was silence for a time, then Cato stood up abruptly, tossing the dregs of his coffee into the fire. “Reckon I can find my way back to Austin,” he said.

  Yancey looked at him in surprise. “Figured you’d be staying till we’re ready to take Chuck in for the trial ... ”

  “Might be able to do more good back in town,” Cato said enigmatically. “You handle things from this end. Work out your defense or whatever you call it. I’ll maybe have a word with this Purdy rooster.”

  Yancey frowned as the gunsmith walked over to his mount and began tightening the cinches. He wished he were riding with him.

  ~*~

  The man Purdy was frightened half to death. He had been almost literally dragged away from his work in Chuck’s rented suite, now occupied by the crusty and demanding C.B., by this man he knew only as Cato. The gunsmith had stood up to C.B. and told him that he wanted Purdy for an hour or so and that it would help Chuck. C.B. had reluctantly agreed and Cato had left with Purdy, forcing the frightened clerk to ride out of town into an arroyo a mile or so off the trail. Cato dragged Purdy out of the saddle, marched him over to a boulder and sat him down roughly. Then he drew his ‘Manstopper’ and Purdy shrank back, eyes wide, almost gibbering with fear.

  “What—what are you going to do?” he whispered.

  “Now, rest easy, little man,” Cato said, though Purdy was no shorter than the gunsmith. “I just want to show you something.”

  Purdy swallowed but did not relax as Cato turned and looked towards an area he had set up earlier on his way into town. He had an old bleached cow skull set on a cactus arm and eight small pieces of chola wood lined up along a flat rock. Without warning, Cato braced his forearms against his hips and began firing, rapidly, slip-shooting, which meant holding the gun in both hands, the trigger depressed, while his thumb notched back the hammer and released it. It was different to fanning, did not jar the weapon or damage the action inside, and was far more accurate. The eight pieces of chola wood spun away in showers of splinters.

  Purdy watched, bug-eyed, open-mouthed. He tensed as Cato straightened and turned towards him.

  “Did you count the shots? Eight. Two more than the usual handgun. But you ain’t seen nothin’ yet, little man.”

  He slipped the toggle on the hammer so that the firing pin would explode the shell in the lower barrel, swung towards the bleached cow skull, took a swift sight, and fired. Purdy jumped clear off his rock at the thunderous explosion and the skull shattered, blown several feet. The thick cactus trunk was cut in half by the pattern of buckshot and toppled to the ground. Cato held his stance for a few seconds before turning back to face Purdy. Cato smiled crookedly at the stunned look on Purdy’s face. He broke open the gun, ejected the shells and began reloading.

  “I call it the ‘Manstopper’,” he said casually. “Guess you can use your imagination and see why ... ”

  Purdy licked his lips. “I’m—I’m not interested in firearms, sir. Figures and land deals are my business. I fail to see why you brought me here.”

  Cato smiled again and pushed home the shell in the lower barrel. He snapped the gun closed with an audible click and held it loosely as he placed a boot on a boulder and leaned across his bent knee towards Purdy. “Looks like I’m going to have to spell it out for you,” he said amiably.

  Purdy waited, shaking.

  ~*~

  The courthouse was packed and the guards at the doors were constantly pushing people back as they crowded around, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening inside. Judge Morrison was presiding, a man known to be fair, but one who imposed maximum sentences on those found guilty. He sat at his bench, half-sprawled in a chair, hand cupped under his chin, one elbow on the bench-edge, eyes closed. He gave the impression of dozing, but when he threw a sharp question to ask either Yancey or the Austin district attorney to explain a point more clearly, it was obvious that the judge wasn’t missing a thing.

  The prosecution’s case was simple—and strong. The attorney from the District Law Office had done his research well in the short time he had had to prepare for the trial. He knew about Chuck’s theft of the IOUs from the San Francisco Bannerman bank and he made much of this point, stressing that a man who would arrange such a robbery to cover his gambling losses, would certainly not hesitate to throw in with criminals to plot an armed robbery. Especially when the vaults contained so much money. It would be too tempting to a man of Chuck’s uncertain principles.

  Yancey did all the objecting he could until, finally, Judge Morrison told him, wearily, that he seemed determined to make the trial drag on for weeks. Yancey bowed to the bench and kept quiet for a time.

  The prosecutor brought in several witnesses from the bank, from the Palace Hotel and the gaming saloons around town. They variously swore that Chuck had lost a deal of money at the gaming tables since arriving in Austin; that he was a carouser and troublemaker—and they made much of his and Yancey’s involvement in the saloon brawl, inferring that this was the type of behavior to be expected from all Bannermans. It was also alleged that the prices Chuck was offering for land in the drought-stricken state were ridiculously low and represented a Barbary Coast carpetbagger’s efforts to line his pockets at Texans’ expense. Yancey couldn’t let that past him and jumped to his feet to object but the judge waved a hand irritably for Yancey to be seated again. He set his cold eyes on the prosecutor.

  ‘Mr. Cornell, if you persist with this line I’ll declare a mis-trial and insist that you be replaced before ordering a new trial. You understand me, sir?”

  Cornell’s face flushed. “My apologies, your honor. It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” Morrison snapped and closed his eyes. “Continue ... ”

  Cornell had made his point though. The jury had been shown that Chuck was unreliable, a gambler with elastic principles and, further, that he was a stranger come to take advantage of the Texans. This would have done more harm than anything else to date, Yancey figured, and he cursed Cornell for being so damn smart. Then the man called Purdy took the stand and the little clerk admitted that he had found the parcel of robbery money addressed to Chuck and left outside the door of the suite. He insisted that he only opened it because he thought it was a package of papers pertaining to land Chuck was interested in buying.

  “What did you do with the package?” Cornell asked, almost tiredly. It was only a matter of routine from now on, he figured.

  “Took it to the Marshal,” Purdy said quietly.

  Cornell nodded, smiling at the jury. “A wise and proper thing to do, Mr. Purdy. Did you conclude that the money was some of that stolen from the bank and that it was indeed Mr. Charles Bannerman’s share of the proceeds ... ?”

  “Objection!” yelled Yancey, leaping to his feet.

  Judge Morrison sat up sharply in his chair. “Damn your hide, Mr. Cornell, I warned you. If you don’t know better than to lead a witness in a serious trial of this nature, you should not hold the office you do!”

  “My apologies, your honor,” Cornell said swiftly. “I was only trying to ... ”

  “I’m well aware of what you were trying to do, Mr. Cornell,” the judge drawled. He glanced at Yancey. “Is it any advantage to you if I declare a mis-trial, Counselor? Or, maybe I should rephrase that. Is it any disadvantage to you?”

  Yancey frowned, aware that all eyes were on him including Chuck’s, who sat with one of Rillings’ deputies at his side.

  “Neither one thing nor the other, Judge,” Yancey said finally. “But I’d just as soon push on and cross examine this witness right now, if it’s all the same to you ...”

  Morrison sighed and waved a weary hand. “Proceed,” he said, glaring at Cornell. “You have finished with this witness, I take it, Mr. Cornell?”

>   The prosecutor nodded, not wanting to antagonize the judge any further. Morrison nodded to Yancey and the tall man walked out onto the floor, standing in front of the small, nervous Purdy.

  “Now, Mr. Purdy, we all heard you say you took the package of money directly to Marshal Rillings ... Why did you do that?”

  Purdy blinked, looked past Yancey to where Cato sat in a front row, sprawled at ease. The gunsmith smiled faintly at the clerk on the stand and Purdy licked his lips.

  “Answer the question, please, Mr. Purdy,” Yancey urged him. “Why did you take that parcel of money straight to the marshal instead of placing it in the hotel safe? After all, the package was addressed to my brother and you haven’t yet told us how you knew it was money from the bank robbery.”

  “I—er—suspected it was,” Purdy stammered.

  “And that’s why you took it to the marshal?”

  Purdy looked away from Yancey’s hard stare and glanced at Cato again. The man was still smiling faintly and Purdy seemed to shrink back in his chair as he looked slowly towards Yancey.

  “No, sir,” he said very quietly.

  “Speak up, Mr. Purdy. I want the judge and jury to hear.”

  Purdy cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders as he looked around the packed room and his eyes rested briefly on the deadly face of Hawke Venters. He paled but swallowed and held his resolve. “No, sir, I did not take the money to Marshal Rillings because I suspected it might be part of the bank robbery,” he said loudly.

  “Then why, Mr. Purdy ... ?”

  There was tension in the courtroom and even the judge opened his eyes and leaned forward across his bench, awaiting Purdy’s reply.

  “I took it to the marshal ... because ... because I was told to!” Purdy blurted and there was a quick murmuring in the courtroom which the judge swiftly stopped by smashing his gavel several times onto the block.

  “Who told you to do that, Mr. Purdy?” Yancey asked.

  Purdy’s voice was a squeak when he spoke again, his terror obvious, bulging eyes on the deadpan face of Venters in the crowd. “The man who left the package told me!”

  Another bombshell and the judge again hammered for order.

  “Is that man in the courtroom, Mr. Purdy?” Yancey asked when it was quiet again.

  “No, sir. It was a man named McEvoy, a drifter who works on some of the ranches around town when he’s low on drinking money.”

  “McEvoy?” Yancey echoed. “Would that be the same Tad McEvoy whom Marshal Rillings earlier identified in his testimony as being involved in the bank robbery? The man who is still at large with the other robber, Hank Boden?”

  Purdy nodded, and at Yancey’s insistence, spoke his confirmation.

  “Then why didn’t you also tell this to Marshal Rillings?”

  Purdy seemed to fold in on himself. “Because—because, sir, McEvoy threatened to abduct my small daughter on her way to school if I didn’t do as he said.”

  “I see. You were afraid something would happen to your only child, so you gave the money to the marshal, with the inference that you didn’t know who had left it?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s right. Out on the trail, McEvoy told me that Chuck Bannerman was being framed and that the planted money would make him guilty in the eyes of the law.” He swallowed. “As God’s my witness, I only did it because I was afraid.”

  “And aren’t you afraid now that something may happen to your child?” Yancey asked.

  Purdy shook his head, smiling fleetingly. “Not now, sir. Not since I put her on the train this morning with her mother. They are visiting relatives in another state. I am afraid, but not for my daughter.”

  “You are afraid for yourself?’

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “Then don’t be, Mr. Purdy. I’m sure the judge will order that you have the full protection of Marshal Rillings and his deputies ... ” Yancey glanced at the stern-faced judge and Morrison nodded. “Thank you, your honor. You may stand down, Mr. Purdy.” Yancey turned to face the jury. “Charles Bannerman was framed. He is innocent of complicity. In the bank vault, the witness, Mr. Tom Randall, testified that the defendant called out, ‘You said no shooting,’ but the defendant himself, on oath, has sworn that what he actually said, under stress, was, ‘There’s to be no shooting.’ A subtle difference, gentlemen.” Yancey turned to face the judge. “Your honor, what the defense has done is to raise a ‘reasonable doubt.’ Now, I’m sure I do not have to remind your honor that Texas Statutes 112A through C, state that, ‘Where a reasonable doubt exists ... ’”

  “No, Mr. Bannerman, you do not have to remind me of the laws of this state!” Judge Morrison cut in sharply. “It is a law that I regard not only as fair, but necessary.” He turned his cold eyes towards the startled jury. “I have to direct you to bring in a verdict of not guilty. And I also direct that Marshal Rillings’ office further investigate this matter and that, pending this investigation and for his personal safety, Mr. Purdy be held in custody.”

  Purdy smiled in relief, but avoided looking in the direction of Hawke Venters.

  “Charles Bannerman,” continued Judge Morrison, “you are free to go but, pending further investigations, you are directed not to leave this state and, at all times, you must notify Marshal Rillings of your whereabouts.”

  Chuck slumped in his chair, pale and shaking. Yancey glanced at him and moved his gaze to where C.B. sat. The old man looked through him, his face immobile, showing no signs of gratitude. Yancey felt disappointment but kept his face carefully blank as he began to gather up his papers.

  “A very clever move, Mr. Bannerman,” a voice said at his elbow, startling him.

  Yancey turned swiftly, surprised to see Kate Dukes standing by his table. He straightened and smiled faintly. “Thanks to your father’s library, ma’am,” he said quietly. “In fact, it was about all I could do, but Purdy’s the one who did the job. It took a lot of sand for that little man to speak up the way he did.”

  “It was a smart move getting his wife and child out of town first. Was it your idea? And your money for the fare?”

  Yancey merely smiled wider, shrugging. “Had to give him some incentive to testify the way he did.”

  Kate nodded, smiling too. “My father would like to see you and Mr. Cato as soon as it is convenient. Can you come to the mansion this afternoon?”

  “Well ... sure. I guess so.” Yancey looked across at Cato who shrugged. He nodded to Kate “About three o’clock be all right?”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Kate answered and left.

  Yancey and Cato watched her go and Cato nudged the big man. “Reckon she’s taken a shine to you, old pard.”

  “That lady?” exclaimed Yancey. “You’re loco!”

  Cato shook his head. “I’ve had a mite more experience with women than you, Yancey. Believe me, she’s plenty interested in you.”

  Yancey frowned but didn’t answer as Chuck and C.B. came across. Chuck shook hands vigorously with Yancey.

  “Thanks, Yance! My God, for a time there I figured I was a goner! That damn prosecutor! But you outfoxed him. You did a great job. Didn’t he, Father?”

  They all looked at the old man who stared coldly at Yancey and merely said, “So he should have. It cost me enough for him to become a qualified lawyer. Not that I’ve ever had any benefit from it ... ”

  Chuck looked uncomfortable and Cato pursed his lips silently and glanced sideways at Yancey. The big man said nothing.

  “You haven’t got him off the hook entirely, anyway,” C.B. growled. “He can’t return to ’Frisco till this marshal does more investigating. You’re still under suspicion, Charles, after your remark in the vault.”

  “At least I’m not locked up,” Chuck muttered tightly, not meeting his father’s gaze.

  C.B. glared at him. “I’m not altogether sure you shouldn’t be. I’m no fool, Charles. And Tom Randall’s got good hearing. Also, I haven’t forgotten about the safety deposit box affair in ’Frisco. All r
ight, we’re wasting time here. We have a lot of things to discuss.”

  He took Chuck’s arm and hurried him away from Yancey and Cato. Chuck looked back at his brother in a helpless kind of way and Yancey gave him a brief salute.

  “No wonder you didn’t want to work for your old man,” Cato said quietly.

  “He wasn’t always like that,” Yancey said.

  “No? I guess it’s just since he didn’t get his own way and you walked out on his Bannerman empire,” Cato opined.

  Yancey didn’t reply. His face was deadpan, but his jaw was set stubbornly.

  Eight – Special Agent

  GOVERNOR DUKES looked gray around the jowls, Yancey thought as he sat at his desk in the big mansion on Capitol Hill. Kate stood close by him, mixing a draught of some dark green medicine while Cato held the silver tray for her. Dukes grimaced as she handed the glass to him but he drank with a quick, backward jerk of his head, getting it down in one gulp.

  “Damn swamp water,” he muttered. “Well, gentlemen, I won’t beat about the brush ... In fact, I don’t have a lot of time. I’m due to leave shortly by special train for San Antonio, for a meeting with a representative of the Mexican government. We’re to discuss the subject of wetbacks and the growing network of men organizing their crossing the Rio into Texas. One of my political rivals, J. J. Magnus, has a hand in some of it, I suspect, but I can’t prove anything. Yet.”

  Yancey and Cato waited patiently, wondering why the governor was confiding in them so openly. Kate busied herself putting away the medicines in a travelling apothecary’s chest.

  “I have had my agents watching Magnus for quite some time,” Dukes continued. “He knows it and at least one of my men turned up dead, murdered. Another simply disappeared. Believe me, Magnus will stop at nothing to get the governorship in the coming elections.” He added, “I suspect he was behind the bank raid.”

  Yancey nodded. “It’s a good hunch, Governor.” And he told Dukes about Chuck being taken to Magnus’ ranch and blackmailed into helping with the robbery. “They beat him up for good measure and after he was arrested they tried to organize a lynch-mob.”