Still there was no reply and Cato sighed, said a quiet ‘adios’ to the door and then shouldered his warbag and went out into the dusk.
Nine – Triangle R
The only thing Cato could do was to ride for Big Springs. Sanders had too much start to try to trail the man and, in any case, Cato did not know the agent’s horse or its hoofmarks. He would have to depend on the clerk having told the truth about Big Springs.
Camped out that night in the ranges, he wondered if maybe he should have stayed one more night at Marnie’s, then caught the train to Timbertop and started out from there. But it would only be harder for the girl to say goodbye and he could at least be a few miles along the trail this way.
Just the same, he made it a cold camp, not wanting to light a fire and draw attention to himself. The redhead had come out of these hills and there could be others prowling around, alerted by Sanders as he passed through, to watch for anyone along his back trail. But the night passed without incident and he broke camp at sunup, eating cold beef slices in the saddle and washing them down with water from the canteen.
Twice he saw riders on his passage through the ranges but they appeared to be going about their own business and gave him no trouble. Each night he picked his campsite carefully, one that commanded a good view, yet gave him protection and screened his campfire. As he climbed higher into the ranges, the air became cooler and he was glad of a fire’s warmth. He slept with the Manstopper in his hand, his rifle under the blankets with him, his horse tethered nearby so that all he had to do was hit the reins to pull them free.
But it seemed that Sanders had merely ridden clear through the hills in his panic, not stopping to cover his back trail or set up any ambushes. There were too many tracks for Cato to pick out Sanders’, even if he had known the mark left by the man’s mount, for he was following a well-defined trail that took him up and over the range and down the far side onto the Plains proper. A day’s hard-riding brought him into Big Springs just on sundown. By that time, his wound had started a slow ooze of blood.
It was a typical cow town with no outstanding feature unless you counted the old Spanish mission with its bell-tower that had crumbled on one side, exposing the huge bronze bell. The streets were rutted and dusty, and traffic was thinning out now that the supper hour was approaching. Cato put the weary mount over towards the livery and dismounted inside the big double doors. He was loosening the cinch when the liveryman walked across, straw jutting from one corner of his mouth. He nodded civilly.
“Stall and groom?”
Cato nodded. “Dunno for sure how long I’ll be here ... Pay you for a couple of days. That all right?”
“Sure. What do you want? Oats? Grain? Hay?”
“No grain. He might have to do some hard ridin’ and I don’t want his belly bloated like a poisoned pup. Keep it to oats and hay.”
The man nodded, took the money Cato handed him and slipped it into his pocket. He led the horse to a stall and hung the saddle on a wall peg. Cato walked in and slid his rifle out of the scabbard. The liveryman paused in his chores and looked Cato up and down in the lantern light.
“Lookin’ for work?” he asked.
“If there’s any around ... Ranches hirin’ hereabouts?”
“Some.”
Cato sighed. He was going to have to drag every ounce of information out of this man. He thumbed his hat back and winced as the arm movement stretched the skin over his wound and caused the stitches to prick his flesh. There was a small stain of blood showing through his shirt and he saw the liveryman’s eyes drop to it and look away swiftly. The man was suddenly wary.
“Which ranches are hirin’?” Cato said, casually turning so that the stained side of his shirt was away from the man.
The liveryman shrugged. “Circle Seven ... Rawlins’ Top R ... Cross-Bar-T ... Leaning J ... Most of ’em when you get right down to it, I guess.” He squinted at Cato, looking at the set of his massive gun, obviously puzzled as to what kind of weapon it was. “They’re only hirin’ for round-up. No troubles between the spreads around these parts.”
“That so? Nice to find a peaceable neck of the woods. Must be easy on the law.”
“Ain’t none ... Odessa’s nearest sheriff. Fifty miles away. Sometimes a Ranger from Austin comes through or a U.S. Marshal. But they don’t get much work around here.”
Cato watched him work, leaning against the stall, rifle propped beside him, as he rolled a cigarette. “Hear tell there’re some big spreads hereabouts.”
“Some big ones, yeah.”
“Which brand’d be the biggest?”
The man glanced at him sharply and again his eyes dropped to the Manstopper and he looked away again swiftly, went on pouring oats into the feed bin. “Well ... Cross-Bar-T’s pretty big, so’s Rawlins’ Top R …”
“Top R? What’s he use for a brand?”
The man frowned. “You mean what’s it look like?” Cato nodded and the man cleared away some hay from the dusty floor of the stall and drew the brand with his boot toe: the crude outline of a cow skull with a R between the curving horns. “Hard one to running-iron,” he added, smiling fleetingly.
“Can see that.” Cato couldn’t quite keep the disappointment out of his voice. “I was kind of interested in a place that uses a brand of a triangle with an R inside it.”
The liveryman frowned and slowly shook his head. “Not around here ... big place?”
“Figured it might be. Has its own rubber stamp on its mail.”
“No, definitely not from around Big Springs ... Unless ... Say, listen, I hear tell there’s a big place owned by some company down in Austin, down towards San Angelo. Sometimes the riders come into town here for a wing-ding, just as a change from Angelo ... Seems I’ve seen that brand you mentioned. Could’ve been on the rumps of their horses. Long time back, though. They don’t come in often.”
“Thanks. Sounds like the place I want. Have the horse ready to go come sunup. You can keep the extra night’s fee for yourself.”
“All right with me. You want to save a dollar, you can sleep in the loft tonight.”
“Obliged. I’ll do that. Can you tell me just how to get to this Triangle R?”
“Only in general ... Southwest, just below the Colorado, far as I know. Think the river’s their north boundary.”
“Fine. I’ll find it.”
~*~
Yancey Bannerman was in a private room in the Austin Infirmary and Governor Dukes was personally paying for a full-time nurse to be in attendance twenty-four hours a day. She was a buxom woman, the one in attendance now—there were three who alternated over eight-hour shifts—a widow with five children, and she looked weary from her long hours for, apart from nursing at the infirmary, she also cleaned the bakery on Simmonds Street and took in sewing and ironing chores to make ends meet. Her name was Mrs. Wallis and her late husband had been a Ranger who had died foolishly yet heroically and Dukes felt some kind of obligation to help the woman whenever he could.
She fussed around Yancey’s bed, rolling up the extra counterpane and opening the drapes to let in the morning sunlight.
Yancey’s face was gaunt, stubbled, shadowed around the deep-set eyes and Mrs. Wallis was surprised to find that the eyes were open and following her movements. She gave a small gasp and put a hand to her mouth.
“Lordy, but you gave me a start, Mr. Bannerman! I do believe you’re fully conscious …” She hurried around the bedside and his eyes followed her. She turned his head towards the sunlight and watched the pupils contract, evenly. That was important. If one pupil was larger than the other, then it could well mean more complications, but they were both the same size and there was a luster to his eyes that hadn't been there on the other occasions when he had opened them.
She lifted his head and gave him some water. He swallowed greedily. “Not too much at once, now, Mr. Bannerman. Just enough to moisten your lips and throat ... Can you speak to me?”
He stared up at her, frowning.
His mouth moved and she could hear him making the effort. Finally, gratingly, he asked:
“Who—who are you?”
Mrs. Wallis tried not to let the disappointment show on her face. Her husband had known Yancey Bannerman for a long time before he died and she had met Yancey several times. Yet he didn’t know her now. But, at least, he seemed lucid.
She adjusted the ends of the bandage around his head and he grimaced. “I’ve one hell of a headache.”
“I’m sure you have ... Now, I’ll be back in a few moments. I just have to bring the doctor?”
“Doctor?” Yancey frowned, straining to look around his room. “Where is this place?”
“Austin Infirmary.”
“What the hell am I doing here?” he asked, and there was real shock in his eyes at the realization.
She gently pushed him back on the pillow, and then hurried from the room. Yancey lay there frowning at the ceiling, trying to recall what had happened to him. How had he gotten here? What was wrong with his head?
The door opened and Mrs. Wallis held it open for Dr. Sussex who came in swiftly, his huge bulk seeming to fill the room, blocking off the doorway behind him as he stood at the end of the bed and looked at Yancey.
“And how are you feeling today, young feller?” he boomed.
“I’ve got one hell of a hangover ... But who’re you?”
“Dr. Sussex from Philadelphia ... You don’t know me. I came down to operate on you. A piece of bone was pressing on your brain. You couldn’t remember who you were …”
There was a rising query in the medic’s words and Yancey tightened his lips. “That’s loco. Of course I know who I am! I’m …” He paused for a brief moment. “I’m Yancey Bannerman and the last clear memory I’ve got is boarding a train in a town on the Staked Plains called Bent’s Junction ... What are you grinning at?”
Sussex turned and spoke over his shoulder. “Mrs. Wallis, I believe you can bring in Bannerman’s visitor now.”
He winked ponderously at the puzzled Yancey and stood aside so that Yancey could see the nurse opening the door to the passage again. She put her head out and spoke softly to someone outside. Then she, too, stood aside and Kate Dukes came hurrying in, her face anxious and strained. She paused just inside, staring at Yancey.
Somehow, he managed to raise a slow smile. “Howdy, Kate.”
She came around the bed to him fast and hugged him tightly to her breast.
“Oh, Yancey! Thank God! You remember!”
Yancey looked quizzically at Dr. Sussex and Mrs. Wallis. He was damned if he knew what all the fuss was about. But he figured they would tell him pretty soon.
~*~
Cato found the Triangle R just south of the Colorado River. Because it was mid-summer and it hadn’t rained for quite a spell, the river was muddy and sluggish, narrower than he remembered. He rode along the north bank for a while, looking for riders on the far side but not seeing any. When he spotted a bunch of steers, he put his mount down the bank to the stretch of mud he had to traverse before he reached the water itself. The horse was able to wade almost halfway across and then the middle of the river deepened for a few yards so that it had to swim a distance before wading out again on the far side.
As he rode up away from the river, Cato kept his right hand resting on the butt of the Manstopper on his hip. He eased in on the grazing steers and they lifted their heads to stare at him. He figured it was some time since they had seen riders out here and guessed the ranch house was quite a long way off. Cato walked his mount slowly around the bunch of steers, leaning from the saddle to study the brands burned into their hides. Triangle R ... He was on the right range.
Now that he was here he didn’t know what to expect, but figured he would find something that would interest him closer to the ranch house and not away out here. At the same time, it would be better if he could get close enough to the house so that he could observe it without being seen himself. He figured he would learn more that way.
There was a low rise a couple of miles across the flats and a small clump of trees grew right on top. It would give him shelter while he looked around to see what was on the far side. He loped the horse across the flats, anxious to get under cover in case someone came riding over that rise. If they did, he would be seen instantly and there was nowhere for him to hide.
But he rode up the rise and reached the clump of trees without trouble. Here he dismounted and led his horse through the brush growing around the base of the trees when he came to the far side. He could see the ranch house straddling the top of a distant knoll. It was a big, sprawling brick and adobe place, glaring white in the hot Texas sun, and there were large corral areas, at least a dozen outbuildings dotted around the main house, but set back some distance from it. Whoever owned the place liked his privacy and didn’t want it disturbed unduly by the racket of the ranch hands either at their work or play. There were thousands of dollars tied up in that house alone, he figured, as he studied it through the old battered, brass-and-leather telescope that he had taken from his saddlebag. He could see men moving about the yard, doing their chores. There seemed to be two barns, a blacksmith’s forge, repair shop, bunkhouse with separate cook shack, chicken houses, stables with a coach house attached, a walled patio behind an iron gate and he could see it was flagged with terracotta tiles. The glistening dark foliage of shade trees hung over the walls in places.
This was more like a mansion than a ranch; more on a level with the haciendas of the big Mexican hidalgos than was usually seen—or expected to be seen—in this part of Texas. If the place was owned by an Austin outfit, they had sure set up the manager’s living quarters well. He had heard of some syndicates doing things like this, of course, but there was something about this set-up that just didn’t seem to sit right to him. He couldn’t put his finger on it …
It was when he was folding up the telescope and putting it back into its scuffed leather case that he realized what was wrong. There were no riders around; not many cattle in the home pastures he could see. A huge spread like this should have hundreds, thousands of cattle dotted all around ... And all the men at work seemed to be busily engaged close to the house.
It could mean several things, of course. The most obvious was that there were plenty of chores that needed doing close to the house, but the general yard area was in trim condition and wouldn’t require many men to maintain it. Another reason could be that the boss wanted to keep the men close by because he would be needing them soon for some project that would require their numbers.
Still another reason, and the one Cato favored, was that they were close to the house in case of trouble; so they would be on hand for guarding whoever was in the house, able to protect him.
Whatever the reason, he knew he had to get closer and see what the devil was going on.
And that was Cato’s mistake. He should have stayed hidden in that clump of trees for a little longer. Then he might not have been spotted by the small band of riders who suddenly came up out of a hidden arroyo as he was riding across open country, trying to keep a line of trees between him and the distant ranch house. The first he knew of their existence was when the sound of a gunshot boomed across the range, causing him to spin in the saddle, hand reaching for the Manstopper.
He could have drawn and shot all four men out of their saddles, but he figured that would be plumb loco right now. Men up at the house had probably heard that gunshot and he would have little chance of escape in this strange country once they all started after him in pursuit. So he turned his mount slowly and sat there with hands folded on the saddlehorn, waiting for the men to come closer. They rode around him, guns naked in their fists, looking him over. They stared at the dried mud on the horse and knew immediately from which direction he had come. They made no attempt to ride in and disarm him, but he was covered by four cocked Colts and it would have been plain suicide for him to try to reach either his rifle or the Manstopper now. Instead, he put on a friendly smile and nodded.<
br />
“Howdy, gents ... Hope that shot wasn’t aimed at me!”
The leader of the bunch was a mean-looking half-breed, his dark skin and eyes and hawk like nose proclaiming Apache blood. “If it had’ve been we’d have hit you,” this man told him sourly. “Who are you and what in hell are you doin’ on Triangle R land?”
“Lookin’ for work,” Cato said. “Come down through Big Springs and the liveryman told me about this place ... Said I might have more chance of gettin’ work down here than in town.”
“You’re lyin’ mister,” the half-breed said. “Most of the spreads around Big Springs are hirin’ now ... Drought’s pushin’ ’em into early round-up and movin’ the herds down to what water there is.”
Cato frowned. “You know, I figured that’s how it should have been, but the liveryman, he told me it wasn’t. Best bet was around San Angelo, he said. Try the Triangle R. Big place, pays well, bound to be hirin’ ... I had enough grub in my saddlebags and took him at his word.” He sighed and swore mildly. “He must’ve had a pard of his lined-up for whatever work was goin’ around Big Springs, I guess.”
They stared at him without saying anything. He went on easily. “Anyway, now I’m here, what are the chances of a job?”
“You still ain’t said who you are,” the ’breed reminded him coldly.
“Name’s Johnny Castle.”
“You ain’t from around here. Not even Texas.”
“Nope. Laramie, Wyoming Territory. But it’s been a long time since I was back there. Well, what do you reckon? Can you hire or do you have to take me up to the house to see the boss?”
The ’breed’s dark eyes narrowed and he glanced around at the others. Their faces didn’t seem to alter and he looked back at Cato thoughtfully.
“I guess we’ll go see the boss,” the ’breed decided finally. “But you better give me them guns first.”
Cato stiffened. “Hey, hold up! I’m only after work! Not aimin’ to rob the place!”
The ’breed’s Colt menaced him. “Your guns!”
Cato sighed and reluctantly handed over the weapons, the Manstopper to the ’breed, the rifle to the man next to him. They were all interested in the massive Manstopper.
Bannerman the Enforcer 13 Page 10
