Bannerman the Enforcer 13

by Kirk Hamilton

  And he needed all the cover he could get! The rifles opened up again, pinning him, while bark and splinters and clods of earth rained around him. During the lull—he reckoned it must be time for them to reload—Cato threw his rifle to his shoulder and triggered two swift shots at a movement he saw up on the ledge. His bullets left gray streaks on the rocks, whining away in ricochet. He swore. The man up there had himself fine protection. Cato ducked swiftly as lead from downslope tipped the crown of his hat and ripped the felt, knocking the hat askew. He spun and fired a swift volley, as fast as he could work lever and trigger, seeing bark spray into fine powder along the edge of the deadfall. That man down there didn’t have as good protection as the one up on the ledge but, as long as he didn’t poke his head up too far, he would be able to dodge Cato’s lead and help keep the Enforcer pinned down. Unless Cato changed positions with him. And pronto. He glanced up at the ledge. The man up there must be about reloaded by now; for sure there would be some cartridges in the magazine tube and he would only have to throw the rifle to his shoulder and start shooting as soon as Cato showed himself. But, if there were only five cartridges in, with two or three more to go, then it was a better chance than if he waited until the man was fully reloaded.

  Cato leapt up abruptly, lunged for the tree downhill about three yards away, skidded behind it as the deadfall killer triggered, then, barely pausing, dived for the next tree downslope, snatching at the trunk with one arm and spun himself around it fast, keeping the tree between him and the rifle while the man fired. Then Cato went forward across the open ground, legs driving, mouth wide open to gulp down as much air into his lungs as possible, arms pumping, the rifle’s weight throwing him off balance a little but the slope of the ground helping to compensate for it. His sudden charge threw the man behind the deadfall: it was the last thing he had expected, and it seemed it had also caught the man on the ledge off guard, too, for he was halfway to the deadfall before either man started to shoot.

  Cato instantly started zigzagging and brought his own rifle up and across his chest. He saw that the man behind the deadfall was on his feet now, trying to lead him, sighting carefully, his rifle barrel trying to follow his wild maneuvering. The rifle roared and Cato didn’t hear the shot. He saw dirt spout in front of him, and then he was leaping onto the deadfall and lunging forward as the startled killer tried to back-pedal and fell over. Cato jumped down and brought up the butt of the rifle in a sweeping arc. It smashed the other man’s gun from his grasp, caught him a glancing blow on the jaw and sent him sprawling back again. But he wasn’t finished. He snatched at Cato’s ankle and prevented the Enforcer from dropping down behind the deadfall for cover. The rifle on the ledge whiplashed three times and Cato felt the mule-kick in his side and was knocked spinning. The man holding his boot tried to grab his knees but Cato instinctively kicked out, sending him sprawling. His breath was hot and ragged in his throat and his side was numbed. Through the blurring red haze in front of his eyes he saw the man snatching at his six-gun and Cato brought the rifle around one-handed and triggered. The muzzle was only inches from the killer and his body was blown back a couple of yards by the impact, a tremendous hole torn out of his back by the bullet’s exit.

  Before the man had hit the ground, Cato rolled away down the slope, hearing more bullets from the rifleman on the ledge whining off the deadfall. He clamped his arm tight against his side as he ran down the hillside towards the thicker timber. He felt the air whip of lead past his face and he instinctively moved to the left, then back again to the right, pounding for the timber, breathing hard, feeling the blood pouring from the wound in his side. The trees seemed to be lurching and the ground under his pounding boots was like the rolling sea, heaving up and falling away. He whipped his head aside involuntarily as bark from the closest tree tore loose and sap splattered into his face. Then he was past the first tree, the second, the third, and there were trees all round him. He heard a couple of bullets ricochet and then there was silence again as the gunman paused to reload.

  Cato dearly wanted to stop and rest but knew now was the time to get as much timber between him and that ledge as he could. But he did slow down and ripped the kerchief from round his neck and stuffed it inside his shirt over the wound. He couldn’t tell if the bullet had gone in or merely burned a deep furrow in the flesh, but there was certainly a lot of bleeding and all this running wasn’t helping. But it would help a sight less if he stopped. He didn’t know who this shooting might bring. If one man was camped, waiting for the men to return from Concho, there could be others and they might well be drawn by the sounds of gunfire.

  He was using the trees now to help him, cannoning into them, clawing at them one-handed, easing himself around the trunks, and stumbling, gasping, for the next. He worked his way downhill this way. There was no shooting now and he reckoned the man would be coming after him. The ground suddenly fell away from under him and he yelled a little as he plunged down several feet, struck a mound of earth with a jar that threw him forward, both hands going out instinctively to help break the fall. He struck hard, the jar riding up both arms into his shoulders and neck and then his face plowed into the soft earth and he thought his neck would break as he twisted in a wild, flailing somersault. He landed flat on his back and his legs were dangling over a low bank into swiftly flowing water.

  Dazed, still clinging desperately to his rifle, Cato shook his head and sat up, blinking. He was on the edge of a wide creek, deep, fast, with cutbanks either side. His hat rolled off, splashed into the water and was carried away swiftly. It caught on a snag in midstream and stayed there, the water rippling around it. As the roaring in his ears diminished he turned his head and looked back up the slope. He could hear a horse up there, working its way down through the timber. It seemed the man from the ledge didn’t aim to let him get away.

  Cato couldn’t move far in his present condition and he knew he stood no chance of trying to wade or swim the creek. There was only one place to go and that was under the cutbank.

  There was already a nest of water rats there and he slammed at them with his rifle butt as they snapped and squealed. He killed one and the body floated out to catch on his hat. The others scattered, squealing wildly. Cato, near exhausted, rolled under the shallow cutbank, water lapping his chest, the rifle gripped hard in cramped hands. He lay there and slowly his breathing settled down to near-normal and his vision cleared.

  And the first thing he saw was a horse’s legs only a few feet in front of the cutbank as the killer put the animal down the edge of the stream out of the main current. The horse paused right in front of him and Cato cursed silently as he saw the body of the water rat and the fresh blood trailing away from it near his hat. The man would soon know that the rat had come from its nest under the bank very recently ...

  Cato didn’t even stop to think it out: all he knew was he didn’t aim to lie there and be trapped, shot like a fish in a barrel. He lunged forward and out, coming up through the curtain of grass roots and thin brush that overhung the cutbank, even through the edge of the soft rich earth itself. He burst up as if coming out of the ground and he threw himself forward with a mighty effort, swinging the rifle by the barrel.

  The startled rider, a red-haired man with a deep, livid scar on one side of his cheek from an old wound, hipped in the saddle and started to lift an arm defensively. The rifle smashed the arm aside brutally and Cato heard the bone crack. It broke the force of the swing to some extent but the brass plate on the rifle butt took the man on the side of the jaw and he lifted out of the stirrups, hitting the water with a wild splash, and was carried away swiftly by the mainstream current. Staggering forward, Cato grabbed the frightened horse and clambered awkwardly into the saddle even as the animal moved away. He fumbled a boot into the stirrup and clawed his way over the saddle, falling into the seat and almost dropping his rifle as he lay along the horse’s neck. He jammed his heels home and the animal whickered and lunged forward.

  Cato turned it towar
ds the bank and held on tightly as it lunged out of the water and onto solid ground. The man he had hit was floundering around in the water, struggling to get to the shallows, dazed, his jaw hanging open and slanted at an odd angle. He was no longer interested in Cato and the Enforcer had no time for him.

  As the horse struggled out, he slid the rifle into the dripping scabbard beneath his right leg, bunched the reins and dropped forward as he yelled into the mount’s ear and urged it on at a fast clip. He clamped an arm against his side and wondered if he was going to make it out of these hills alive.

  Seven – Concho Comeback

  The governor tightened his bathrobe about him as he crossed his office, followed by Senator Rainey, still in travel-stained clothes. As the governor sat down at his desk, he gestured for Rainey to bring over the brandy decanter and some glasses. He poured and they drank and Dukes refilled the glasses. They settled back in the chairs, nursing the drinks.

  “Sorry to trouble you this late at night, Governor, but when I saw your light on I figured you might appreciate a prompt report about my investigations into this railroad right-of-way.”

  Dukes waved the apology aside. “The surgeon from Philadelphia has just arrived, so the whole household is up anyway, Jace.”

  “Oh, yes. The man who’s come to help Yancey Bannerman ... How is he by the way? Any progress?”

  Dukes’ face straightened and he sighed, shaking his head slowly. “No, he’s just the same. Doesn’t recall a thing.”

  Rainey pursed his lips, looking suitably compassionate. “Do you think he has anything to remember, Governor? I mean, do you think his investigation into these fake maps had progressed to that stage …?”

  Dukes looked at Rainey levelly. “Jace, frankly I don’t care what information Yancey may have about the fake maps’ deal locked away inside him. I’ll be happy if he can recollect his name and recognize all of us ... That’s more important to me than anything else.”

  “Why, of course,” Rainey quickly agreed and then he busied himself with his battered valise. “As you know, Governor, I’ve been touring around the south edge of the Staked Plains and I’ll be damned if I can see why they call them ‘plains’ when there are so many ranges about.” He took out some papers, sorted through them and placed several sheets on the desk, pushing them towards Dukes. “Those are the figures ... At present the railroad runs through Bent’s Junction and then almost immediately begins to climb through the hills, taking in several more towns, Concho being the biggest, until the railhead is reached at Timbertop ... Now, by taking the new right-of-way, around those hills, staying on the flats all the way, we not only shorten the distance to Timbertop, but we could very well bypass it completely, cut a single tunnel through the range at this low part—Rorke could do it standing on his head, I suspect—and it would open up a whole new area, servicing all these towns in here, large cattle towns like Amarillo, Matador, Childress, Goodnight and so on ... A really worthwhile area to link with the railroad.”

  Dukes studied the rough maps and the notes, spoke without looking up. “And what about the railroad through the hills, and the towns it services at present? Concho and so on?”

  “Leave it as a spur-track, a weekly or fortnightly service. My feelings are that we should grant this new right-of-way application, Governor.”

  Dukes considered. “Well, leave it with me, Jace. I’ll study it thoroughly. You’ve done a good job, it seems, gone right into it.” He looked at the senator sharply. “There was no hint as to what you were doing? If word gets out prematurely ...”

  Rainey shook his head. “Far as anyone knew I was just vote-chasing, Governor …” He stood abruptly, stifling a yawn. “Well, I’m for bed … I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon, if that’s suitable?”

  “Check with Kate in the morning, Jace.” Dukes stood and shook hands with the senator across the desk. “Thanks for all your efforts, Jace.”

  “Pleasure to serve you, Governor.”

  He went out wearily.

  ~*~

  The surgeon from Philadelphia was named Sussex and he was a man who could have been mistaken for a coalminer or a professional wrestler. His hands were massive and Kate Dukes wondered how such thick fingers could wield a scalpel as delicately as they were said to do. He was in his late thirties, which also seemed strange for a man of his stature and experience, but there was a briskness about him that labeled him ‘professional’ as clearly as if he had had a sign painted on his back.

  He looked up from examining Yancey and put away his instruments into his black bag. His muttonchop whiskers bristled as his face crinkled and Kate realized with a start that he was smiling.

  “So far so good. Miss Dukes.” He turned and pointed to Yancey. “From what you’ve told me young fellow, I think you’re healthy enough and strong enough to stand up to such a rigorous operation, so we’ll make a start in the morning. Can you have him moved to the Austin Infirmary first thing, Miss Dukes?”

  “Of course, doctor.” She hesitated. “Can you tell us what chances of success you might have?”

  Sussex sobered. “I’ve been a gambler all my life. Every time I cut into human flesh it’s a risk. I may cut too deep, or not deep enough; the patient’s heart may stop when I least expect it. There are too many imponderables for me to even make a guess, Miss Dukes ... All I can say is that I’ll do everything that has to be done and I’ll do it the best way I know how. If you’re in any way religious, you might like to add that the rest is up to the patient and the Good Lord himself.”

  Kate nodded. “I—I understand, doctor.”

  He squeezed her shoulder briefly. “I’ll see you in the morning at the infirmary.”

  Sussex made to turn away and suddenly Yancey lifted a hand and spoke. “Just a minute, doc …”

  Arching his eyebrows, Sussex stopped, turned back to his patient. “Yes, Mr. Bannerman?”

  “No one’s asked me yet if I want the operation.”

  Kate looked stunned. Sussex’s face creased in a frown and Dr. Boles pursed his lips.

  “All right ... I’m asking now,” Sussex said.

  “And I’m telling you I don’t want the operation,” Yancey replied.

  Kate and the two doctors exchanged glances. The girl smiled, forcing it, clasping Yancey’s hand. “Oh, Yancey, you don’t mean that?”

  “I do. Doc Boles told me the risks. If that big hombre fumbles it, I’ll be a vegetable. I’d rather be able to get around and not remember anything of my past life than be like that.”

  “But ... You’ll have no memories! Of—of us. Or anything!” Kate protested.

  Yancey shrugged. “I’ll remember from here on in, won’t I, doc?” he asked Sussex.

  “Well, yes ... But, you’re being very foolish, Bannerman. Apart from anything else, you’re the governor’s top operative. You could have vital information locked away inside your head. It’s my duty to try to unlock that.”

  Yancey frowned. “Wait a minute ... You tellin’ me it doesn’t matter whether I want it or not?”

  Kate and Boles were looking at Sussex as his jaw jutted like a rock and he nodded curtly. “That’s it ... But you’ve got a good chance.”

  “What odds?” Yancey asked tightly.

  Sussex looked at him soberly for a long minute.

  “I won’t lie to you ... Sixty-forty ... You’re the low one.”

  He nodded briskly and went out. Boles squeezed Kate’s shoulder briefly before he followed Sussex out. Kate went to Yancey’s side but he wouldn’t look at her. He was looking down at his hands locked so tightly together on top of the sheet that the fingers were bone-white.

  ~*~

  Marnie Hendry straightened over the bed and tossed the bloody rag into the tin bowl of warm water on the bedside stand. She pushed a strand of hair back off her forehead with a forearm and looked down at Cato as he lay back on the sheets, face gray and strained.

  “How’s it look?” he asked gratingly.

  “I think I’ll have to get
the doctor, John. I can see a rib showing. The wound should be stitched.”

  “Hell! I don’t want anyone to know I’m here, Marnie!”

  “The doctor won’t say anything if I ask him not to. No one saw you come back. If you lie low here, no one need know you’re wounded and you’ll have time to recuperate. I can get him here while it’s still dark, John. And I really think you need his attention. I just can’t stop the bleeding.”

  Cato sighed and coughed as the deep breath caught him and he grabbed at his side, face contorted with agony. He nodded. “Okay, okay ... Long as no one knows I’m here. But before you go, Marnie, give me my Manstopper to hold.”

  The girl looked at him sharply and then went across the room to where his heavy gunrig lay. She brought it back and handed it to him, watched him pull the massive gun out of leather and check the loads.

  “You think ... someone might come here after you, John?”

  “I left one alive. He had a busted jaw but he was alive and he knows I was alive! Maybe he didn’t get to follow me here, but someone’ll be around to see if I made it ...”

  Marnie bit her lip as she nodded. She folded a clean cloth and pressed it over the wound. “You hold that tight as you can over the wound while I go fetch the doctor. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  ~*~

  Yancey refused to ride the trolley into the infirmary; he walked under his own steam and there were two of Dukes’ personal Rangers accompanying him as well as Kate and Dr. Boles. At first Yancey had resented the Rangers, figuring the governor was merely making sure he didn’t make a run for it, because he wasn’t keen on having the dangerous operation. But Kate assured him it was for his own safety; he could have vital information locked away in his brain and someone might try to make sure it was never divulged by killing him. While it would be difficult to do this at the governor’s house on Capitol Hill, while he was travelling to the infirmary would be an ideal time for any attempt on his life.