Bannerman the Enforcer 20

by Kirk Hamilton

  “We-ell,” Harlan replied, “downstairs in the bar I got talkin’ to that ranny who rides for Catlin. He told me Catlin didn’t hire hands without they were recommended.” He rubbed his hands slowly together. “I told this jasper to ask Catlin if a recommendation from Pete and Nate Harlan was good enough to get a man a job on the B-Link-C ... I wanted Catlin to shake some in his boots ... So I said there was three of us here who could be recommended by Nate and Pete. And I gave him our names to pass along to Catlin ...”

  “Hell!” exclaimed the startled Cato, and Yancey stared at Harlan levelly.

  “You loco fool! You’ll bring Catlin’s men down on us now! You’ve involved us in this whether we like it or not! You’ve just started to destroy the best governor this state has ever had or is ever likely to have!” He shook his head slowly, face taut with anger. “He couldn’t take a thing like this. His heart wouldn’t stand it! So Catlin will win, either way, thanks to you!”

  Yancey lashed out with his fist and caught Harlan expertly on the angle of the jaw, knocking him across the room to cannon off the wall and slowly sink unconscious to the floor. Yancey rubbed his knuckles and turned to Cato, his face bleak.

  “We better vamoose, Johnny. We owe that much to Dukes.”

  “Leavin’ Buck here?”

  “It’s his deal. He called the shots. No way he’d come with us anyway, until he’s had his crack at Catlin.”

  Cato nodded in agreement and they both crossed the room to where their war bags rested against the wall.

  It was then that the door burst open and four men crowded in with naked guns. Yancey had his hand on his war bag and didn’t hesitate. He swung it up and around and threw it into the bunch of men. They instinctively ducked, the first two jumping back and cannoning into the others even as their guns exploded wildly. Yancey and Cato had their own guns out by then and they triggered as the bunch sorted themselves out and started firing again. Yancey felt the wind of a bullet past his face and splinters from the wall stung the back of his neck. He dropped hammer and one man threw up his arms and reeled out into the passage.

  Cato’s gun fired and a second man reeled away, clawing at his shoulder. Behind the first four, they could see other men in the passage beyond and Cato swiftly worked the toggle on his gun hammer that would bring the Manstopper barrel into play. Yancey rolled across one of the narrow beds, came up onto his knees, snapped another shot at the men crowding through the door and a third man dropped. Cato lifted the Manstopper and started to throw down.

  At the same instant, the window leading to the balcony shattered and two double-barreled shotguns poked into the room and a man’s deep voice called:

  “Everybody—freeze!”

  Yancey and Cato were staring right down the tunnels of those shotgun barrels and they could see the cold-eyed, hard faces of the men who held the scatterguns. The hammers were cocked back and fingers were curled around the triggers. The blast would blow the room apart and them with it.

  Slowly, the governor’s men eased down the hammers on their guns, threw the weapons onto the bed at a curt command from the men on the balcony and stood up, lifting their hands shoulder high.

  They were caught dead to rights and Yancey had no doubt that these men now shoving them roughly out of the room rode for Brazos Catlin.

  Eight – Prisoners

  They rode all night, roped to their saddles, surrounded by Catlin’s men, and in the first gray light of dawn came to the B-Link-C ranch house.

  It was almost as big as the governor’s mansion in Austin, Yancey reckoned, as they rode into the huge courtyard, fenced with whitewashed planks, neat and clean-looking. The house itself was adobe and terracotta, Spanish style, double-storied and with arched gateways leading to flagged patios and shaded gardens. The main doors looked like hand-carved and polished oak, and were studded with the original Spanish nail heads, pyramidal and bronze, each one gleaming like a fiery eye.

  There were no lights showing in the main house and the men seemed anxious to keep the noise down. Cato figured they didn’t want to wake Catlin and their apprehension told him just how tough this rancher must be, if he could worry tough hombres like their captors. Harlan sat slumped in the saddle, jaw swollen from Yancey’s punch, looking around him silently. The outbuildings were neat, white and solid and there wasn’t the usual ranch yard clutter. Everything seemed to be in its right place and the stables were likely the cleanest Yancey had ever seen anywhere, including those back at the governor’s mansion.

  They were yanked unceremoniously from their mounts and shoved roughly towards the stable doors, three men following them, guns covering them.

  “Git on across the yard towards that small white buildin’,” a man with a shotgun commanded, ramming the gun muzzles hard into Cato’s back and sending him staggering. “And don’t make any noise. The boss don’t like being woken up this early.”

  They were marching across the yard when Buck Harlan suddenly threw back his head and let out the loudest, bloodcurdling yell Yancey had ever heard. His skin prickled with the suddenness of it and he heard Cato swear with shock. The gunmen stopped dead, blinking, caught unawares and, Harlan, still yelling wildly, ran for the wall of the big bunkhouse where a row of tin tubs hung on pegs above the wooden wash bench. Hands tied behind him, he managed to knock loose two of the tubs with his head before one of the guards caught him and slammed him to the ground with a brutal swipe from the shotgun barrels.

  The tubs hit the bench, rolled off and clattered and boomed across the flagged yard, the other two gunmen in cursing pursuit. By the time they had caught them, there were curses and yells from the bunkhouse, men demanding to know what the hell was going on and why they were being dragged out so early? Lights appeared at two windows in the main house and the man with the scattergun swore savagely as he kicked the dazed and half-conscious Harlan in the side.

  “Goddamn you!”

  Harlan forced a grin through the blood on his face. “Figure it’s only good manners for Catlin to get up and welcome his guests!” he gasped, and the man clipped him with the shotgun barrels again.

  A hard voice called from the house, demanding to know what was happening. The man with the shotgun hurried across the yard.

  “Sorry, Mr. Catlin ... One of the hombres you sent us to pick up broke away and knocked down the washtubs. I’ve dealt with him.”

  Yancey didn’t hear what Catlin said but the hired man’s face was flushed when he came back and he yanked Harlan roughly to his feet, slammed him back against the washhouse wall and slapped his head against the adobe several times before throwing him towards the small white building he had pointed out in the first place. Harlan staggered and fell to his knees but struggled up again and stumbled on, followed by the others.

  The small building was a cell, an area about eight feet square, enclosed by adobe and with iron bars on the two small windows set high up in the walls. The door was ironbound and had a small grilled opening so the prisoners could be observed. The ropes were slashed off Cato’s wrists just as he was shoved inside after Yancey and Harlan.

  “You can release the others,” the man with the shotgun growled and he pointed the long-bladed knife in Harlan’s direction. “Any more noise out of you and the boss says for you to be strung up by your thumbs in the blacksmith’s forge. Think about it, mister.”

  Then he went out, closing the door behind him. Heavy bolts were shot on the outside. Cato massaged his wrists and, when the feeling was back in his fingers, untied Yancey and then Harlan.

  “You sure believe in rilin’ folks, don’t you?” Cato asked.

  Harlan grinned, rubbed at his jaw. “Used to it. Only fun a man could have in the pen was to roust up the guards once in awhile. The beatings we took were worth it.”

  “Maybe they were,” Yancey said, rubbing his wrists. “But they had to be a mite careful and not let too much happen to you in the pen. Here, it’s different. Catlin makes his own law. You get too sassy and you could get us all k
illed, straight off.”

  Harlan frowned in the dim light and continued to rub his jaw gently. “Hell! Never thought of that!”

  “Well, you better remember it,” Yancey warned him. “Getting killed isn’t in our plans.”

  “Nor mine!” Harlan snapped. “Not till I get Catlin, leastways. After that it don’t matter.”

  While that was probably true enough, Yancey knew that Harlan would do anything, make any sacrifice, to get even with Catlin, once he was sure he was the man he wanted.

  And if that meant throwing Yancey and Cato to the wolves along the way, then he would do that, too.

  Brazos Catlin sent for them just before noon. The big man who had handled the scattergun came for them but this time he held a Peacemaker Colt on them and they learnt that his name was Hank Boll. It was a name known to Yancey and Cato. Boll had a fearsome reputation as a gunfighter and troubleshooter, a man who made his living by hiring out his gun to the highest bidder.

  They were to learn that many of Catlin’s crew were paid gunfighters and formed a distinct group from the hired cowpokes who worked the huge spread known as the B-Link-C. The gunfighters numbered about twenty, and usually were an elite group with many privileges that the cowboys did not get. They were known, collectively, as Catlin’s Cougars and the big rancher claimed they were his own personal police force, needed to patrol the long boundaries of his land and keep it free of trespassers and lawbreakers.

  Boll was sided by two other gunmen when he marched the three prisoners across the yard to the big ranch house, two men named Dallas and Vinnie, hard-eyed, unsmiling, with notches carved into their gun butts. They were men who liked to keep tally of the men who fell to their gun speed, and were ever-ready to add more notches. Killing was their trade.

  They found Brazos Catlin to be big, mean-eyed, and expensively dressed. He didn’t mind putting creases in his fine gray broadcloth by wearing a gunrig. The belt was fancy, soft, hand-tooled leather. Probably Mexican, judging by the conchas that decorated it and the braided edge of the holster and leg tie down. The gun looked like one of the Special Colts that the Colonel’s factory turned out as prestige items: ivory butt, carved with steer heads in relief, the gun frame and barrel heavily engraved and inlaid with gold leaf. The cartridges in the belt were all polished, the copper bullet jackets shining like spots of gold. Special ammunition, too, Cato noted with an expert eye. Jacketed bullets. Not man stoppers, because they tended to go clear on through, punching neat holes front and back in the flesh, making a man bleed but leaving him with plenty of fight in him. The old lead slugs might not look so well strung around a bullet belt, but when they hit solid muscle, they mushroomed and came out leaving a hole a man could stick three fingers in. So Cato figured the gun and fancy bullets were for show and that would be in keeping with Catlin’s position. He was rich enough to buy any fighting he wanted done these days.

  Catlin looked well-fed, though not flabby. He was deeply tanned so he probably spent a lot of time outdoors, but whether it was on ranch inspection or riding for pleasure, was anybody’s guess right now. But for all his air of prosperity, the aura of power and riches and good living, Catlin’s eyes gave him away: underneath that well-groomed look, he was just as mean as any back shooting owlhoot who snuffed out a man’s life for the price of a cup of coffee.

  Now he raked those mean eyes over the three prisoners standing before his polished cedar desk while he lounged back in a padded chair. He crossed his legs and Yancey saw the tooling on his half boots, the silver spurs and gold rowels. Catlin was a man who believed in displaying his wealth. It told Yancey just how confident the man must be of his own safety.

  “Which one’s Harlan?” he snapped, looking at Yancey and Buck, as they were the youngest. He went on before either could answer, pointing a stiffened forefinger at Buck. “You, I guess. I can see some of Pete and Nate in you ... Thought you were dead long ago.”

  “Mebbe you’ll wish I was!” Buck Harlan growled and Dallas kicked him behind the knees so that he stumbled and Vinnie hooked an elbow into his ribs, knocking him into Boll, who rammed his gun muzzle hard into Harlan’s belly. Harlan grabbed at his middle, doubled over, face contorted, gasping for breath.

  The expression on Catlin’s face hadn’t changed. He flicked his eyes to Yancey and Cato. “Bannerman and Cato ... You’re siding him in this, huh? Why?”

  So he didn’t know yet they were connected with Dukes, thought Yancey. He was thankful for that and shrugged.

  “We ran into him along the trail, takin’ on a whole damn town with an old percussion Navy Colt,” he said quietly, dropping into his ‘cowboy’ voice and jargon. “Seemed like he was gettin’ a raw deal so me and my pard figured we’d back him. We just kinda stuck with him after that. He was fresh out of Houston pen and walkin’ into all kinds of hell with his eyes wide open and not even knowin’ it. We sorta thought we’d see him right.”

  Yancey figured Catlin would have his sources and would check their back trail, so he told a story that was close enough to the truth.

  “How come you were aiming to cut out from him in Bowie?” Catlin asked.

  “We found out who he was goin’ up against and we didn’t aim to tangle with B-Link-C,” Yancey said candidly. “When we found out he’d sent our names in to you, we figured to vamoose, pronto ... Just weren’t quite fast enough.”

  “You’re not saying much,” Catlin said to Cato and the small agent shrugged.

  “Yancey’s said it all. We don’t want to tangle with you, Mr. Catlin. Whatever grudge Harlan’s got against you he can work off without our help. Or he could’ve only you moved in on us.”

  Catlin looked soberly at Cato for a long time, then turned back to his desk and drew a small leather-covered cigar box towards him. He took out a short, fat cigar, pierced the end with a gold spike fixed to the inside of the box lid, and took a vesta from a silver dish. He fired up and puffed clouds of aromatic smoke, shaking out the vesta slowly as he swiveled his chair to look steadily at Harlan.

  “Buck Harlan, eh? And what d’you figure you’ve got to square away with me, mister?”

  “You and Sawyer never got caught by the Yankees,” Harlan growled. “But the rest of us did and they were all shot except me. I’ve had fifteen years in the pen, Catlin, fifteen years to think about the man who turned in our bunch and stole our gold.”

  Catlin raised his eyebrows, smoked slowly. “And you figure it was me?”

  “I’ve seen Sawyer. He convinced me it wasn’t him,” Harlan told him wryly.

  “That so? Well, dunno as I’m worried about convincin’ you it wasn’t me, either. Be a lot simpler if I just turned you over to my boys and told them to get rid of you. But three strangers all disappearing at once might get a few questions asked, even in my own territory.”

  “You’ll never convince me it wasn’t you who turned us in, Catlin! Had to be! There was no one else!” Harlan snapped.

  Catlin checked Boll as he stepped forward. “Harlan,” he said, “there was one feller who organized it all.”

  Harlan blinked. “How’s that again?”

  A faint smile lifted the corners of Catlin’s mouth. “Don’t tell me you figured those fools of brothers of yours could set up a raid like that?” He laughed briefly. “Hell, man! That took planning, perfect timing, with the guards in the right position so as to give as little trouble as possible ... Needed someone with inside knowledge to figure those moves and set ’em up just right for us. Now I know damn well he was never caught! But he’s a rich and powerful man now ... So maybe you should look him up, huh?”

  Harlan was confused, shaken by this new information. He was staring hard at Catlin, trying to read the man’s face.

  “I never heard of anyone else!”

  Catlin waved the objection aside. “You were only a kid. Who’d bother you with details? All you had to know was where to be at what time and where to point your gun. You were only a diversion, Buck, you must remember that. There was no need for you t
o know anything about the part of the raid the rest of us handled ...”

  Yancey could see Harlan thinking that over and slowly agreeing with Catlin.

  “By the way,” the rancher said, “spreading word that I took part in that raid will do you no good. No one’d believe you for one thing and you could stir up someone enough for them to come gunning for you, just for muddying-up my name. Get me?”

  The warning was plain.

  Abruptly, Catlin stood and gestured to Yancey and Cato. “Take ’em back to the jailhouse, Hank ... Buck and me, we’ve got a few things to talk over.”

  Boll and Dallas grabbed Yancey and Cato by the arms and shoved them roughly towards the door. Harlan stood there tensely and Catlin jerked his head irritably at Vinnie. “You get out, too.”

  Vinnie nodded and walked towards the door where Yancey and Cato were being ushered out.

  “See they get something to eat and drink,” Catlin ordered and, as the door closed, Yancey saw him walk over and pull out a chair from the wall and gesture for the puzzled Harlan to be seated.

  Then the door closed and Yancey was shoved roughly along the hall towards the side door of the house.

  It was late afternoon when the door to the small adobe jailhouse opened and Hank Boll gestured with his cocked six-gun for Yancey and Cato to come out. They blinked in the sunlight, saw that Vinnie and Dallas were standing nearby with drawn guns. There was no sign of Buck Harlan as they were marched back to the house, through the side doorway and into Catlin’s study again.

  Catlin was standing by a liquor cabinet with a glass of whisky and smoking a fresh cigar. Buck Harlan, cleaned-up some, and shaved, was sprawled in an easy chair, holding a drink and smoking a cigar similar to Catlin’s. He waved lazily as the agents were shown in and Catlin nodded to Hank Boll and the other gunmen. They went out and closed the door. Yancey and Cato kept their faces blank.

  “You fellers get taken care of okay?” Harlan asked, with a smile, but Yancey could detect underlying tension as he nodded. “Fine,” Harlan said and downed some of his drink, took a puff or two at his cigar. “Me and Brazos have had a long talk ... There’s been a change in plan.”