“Vamoose, hombre, before I get the idea of cripplin’ you so you can’t take this job at all.”
Cato grinned, blew smoke into his face and turned towards the door.
“Wouldn’t do you no good to re-apply. Kate wouldn’t let her pa send you.”
“Git!” Yancey roared as the laughing Cato ducked out and slammed the door behind him.
The big Enforcer sighed and sat down again. Then, abruptly, he swiped at the papers on his desk and sent them flying onto the floor.
Two – Brazos Country
Erik Larsen was glad to see the town he later learned was called Seymour, on the muddy Brazos River. His horse was lame and he hadn’t eaten for two days. His blond beard stubble gave him a curiously old look for it appeared gray at first glance, no doubt the effect being enhanced by the dust clinging to the whiskers. His eyes were reddened and sunken in his gaunt face. His mount was jaded, streaked with caked foam and dust and man and animal drew stares as he rode into the town on the edge of the buffalo country.
He looked like a man who had ridden hard and far over the last week or so and this was exactly the truth.
Far from his native Denmark, Erik had won a hand or two at poker in a town to the south, a place named Larkin, and it seemed that the men he had beaten, all on the up-and-up, just hadn’t been good losers. They’d figured a man who looked like a tenderfoot shouldn’t be allowed to leave their town with so much of their money in his pockets.
But their mistake was in thinking that Erik was a greenhorn, simply because he looked that way with his young, smooth features, precise manner of speaking, and his good quality clothes. They had detected a faint foreign accent, too, and what had made it sit even harder, was the fact that he had beaten them at cards.
They couldn’t know that Erik had been in the country for some months and that a good part of that time had been spent with Yancey Bannerman. It was a long story, but it appeared that Erik had got himself into some sort of trouble in Denmark over a duel and his father had shipped him out of the country in order to save his neck; Curtis Bannerman, Yancey’s father, in San Francisco, was a business associate of Erik’s father. It had been one of the Bannerman Line ships the young Viking had sailed on. Curtis Bannerman had neither the time nor inclination to ride herd on Erik and had swiftly bundled him out west to Yancey in Texas, passing to him the responsibility.
Yancey had seen that Erik, a natural marksman, had been trained in the use of the Colt and other ways of the west necessary for his survival. They had tasted gunsmoke together, side by side, and Erik had come out of it toting bushwhack lead in his side. He had not long been discharged from the Austin infirmary and had decided to see some more of Texas for himself. Making for the buffalo country, his funds running low, he had made the mistake of stopping-over in Larkin and getting into that poker game.
When he had seen the dust cloud behind him, instinct warned him it meant trouble for him. He had been right and there had been a confrontation and a shoot-out. He had gunned down two of the men, sent the others running, and had given himself time to get to one of the dead men’s horses.
Unfortunately, the saddlebags had been all but empty of food and there had been no water canteen. The men had regrouped and set out after him, keeping him on the run, occasionally exchanging shots when they got within range.
He had eluded them somewhere out in the badlands but had lost his way and had wandered aimlessly for a day before getting a northern direction from the sun.
The long, harsh trail had finally brought him to Seymour and he was mighty glad of it. He would even have been glad to see Larkin again. But Seymour was larger than Larkin and didn’t have the mean look of the smaller town. The streets were bustling with wagons as well as riders and there were cattle, too, being driven and hazed down Main by a bunch of dirty, ragged cowpokes.
It was a glimpse of a town on the edge of the wild frontier; just what Erik wanted. The realization even took the edge off his hunger for a spell.
He stalled his weary horse at the livery and accepted the tongue-lashing from the liveryman for letting the animal get into such a condition. He was too hungry and weary to argue. But he paid for a stall, grooming-and-grain, in advance, and also for a space in the loft as a bed—which had thawed the liveryman considerably.
“Got me a pump out back if you want to dunk your head,” he offered. “Or there’s a rain butt there, too, you could soak in. But, if I was you, I’d do it clothes and all!”
Erik gave a tired grin.
“Thank you. Perhaps later. First, I must eat.”
“Try the Dawn Light. It’s a saloon, but if you got the price of a beer, there’s a counter lunch available. All you can eat for an extra dime.”
“Thank you,” Erik said again, giving the man a brief salute. “I will do as you suggest.”
“You be in by midnight, hear?” the liveryman called after him as he started down the aisle towards the large double doors. “I close my doors then. I don’t wait up all night for rannies to come driftin’ in whenever they feel like it. You ain’t here by then, you lose your sleeping-place.”
Erik waved and continued on down the street, his belly growling audibly. He settled the dusty six-gun more comfortably on his thigh as he angled towards the saloon, dodging in between the wagons and buckboards.
He jumped out of the way of a bad-tempered driver and leapt up onto the opposite boardwalk, seeing, down the street, the cowboys still hazing cattle. Just before he turned into the saloon, he saw a man leaning against an awning post outside the law office across the street. He was a tall, lean man, dressed very neatly in brown whipcord trousers, with a black bowstring tie at the throat of his brilliant white shirt. His leather gunbelt and holster gleamed with buffing and his chocolate brown hat was neatly and evenly curled on the brim with a contrasting tan plaited band that had a couple of acorns attached to the ends of the thongs. The brass star pinned to his shirt blazed in the sunlight. Erik lowered his eyes and whistled softly: even the man’s boots were polished.
He pushed his way through the batwings into the cool gloom of the big barroom, immediately enveloped in the muted noise of the drinkers. He felt his mouth fill with saliva as he caught the odor of malt beer and saw the long trestle tables down one side of the room, watched over by two thick-necked bouncers, piled with bread and sliced beef and even potatoes and green vegetables. A crudely printed sign said: BUY A BEER AND FILL YOUR BELLY.
And that’s just what Erik did. He bought a foaming fish-bowl-like glass of tepid beer and went to the food table. He gulped some of the liquid, set down the glass, and watched silently by one of the bouncers, built himself a massive sandwich of meat and vegetables, cramming boiled potatoes into his mouth as he did so.
He was just finishing his second such towering sandwich, washing down the last mouthfuls with a gulp or two of beer, when an argument broke out at the bar. He turned casually to see a big man with shoulder-length gray hair, a face the color of mahogany, and dressed in filthy buckskins, squaring-off with his fists to a man who was just as tall, but maybe twenty years younger.
Erik didn’t know what the argument was about but the younger man—Steve Dann—ignored the oldster’s fists and drew his six-gun, then viciously slammed it across the older man’s wrists.
The man in buckskins, a buffalo hunter in from the Red River named Smoky Fargo, yelped and clutched his hands against his chest. The bouncers started forward but stood back as Dann stepped in and gun whipped the old man to his knees.
“Lay him out and we’ll get rid of him,” growled one of the bouncers and Dann nodded, raised his gun high, aiming to club Fargo.
It was enough for Erik. He charged forward, ramming his shoulder against the spine of the nearest bouncer and sending him across the food table—sandwiches flying, potatoes falling, dishes and platters shattering.
The second bouncer started to turn and Erik drove the top of his head into the man’s face with such force that the man shot back, hit the e
dge of the bar and somersaulted completely over it to thud to the floor on the far side. Steve Dann turned to watch and Fargo took advantage of it and clawed a hand with a grip like a bear trap into Dann’s groin.
Dann screamed and lifted to his toes, swinging wildly with the gun butt but missing. The buffalo hunter gave a roar and surged to his feet. He lifted the writhing and screaming Dann and hurled him against the bar. The outlaw hit hard and fell to the floor semi-conscious.
Fargo grinned and turned to Erik.
“Thank you kindly, young feller. My old head ain’t hard enough to stand up to the kind of gunwhippin’ that son of a bitch was aimin’ to give me.”
“Look out!” Erik yelled as the bouncer staggered to his feet behind the bar, snatched a bung starter handed to him by the barman and swung it at Fargo. The hunter ducked and the heavy mallet whistled over his head. He straightened, grabbed the bouncer and hauled him forward. The man’s face was already bloody from Erik’s head-butt, and now Fargo twisted his fingers in the man’s long hair and rammed his face into the bar-top.
By then the second bouncer had thrown off the food that clung to him and, slipping on a pat of butter, he lurched back and clubbed Erik across the shoulders. The young Viking staggered and spun in time to dodge the hammer blow aimed at his face. As the bouncer stumbled forward, Erik ripped several fast blows into his midriff. The man gagged and staggered back. Erik went after him, slugged him in the face but hurt his hand and knew the man’s head was too hard a target. In those few seconds when he had to shift the aim of his blows, the bouncer swung a back-handed swipe that caught Erik across the side of the head and sent him sprawling across the floor and into the tables, scattering about a dozen yelling drinkers.
He sat up, shaking his head and tasting blood. He saw Smoky Fargo had the bartender by the belt and the collar of his shirt and was busily ramming the top of his head time and again into the front of the bar.
Steve Dann staggered to his feet and looked around for a weapon. Erik saw him pick up a chair and smash it down on Fargo’s shoulders. The buffalo hunter dropped the unconscious bartender and fell to one knee. The bouncer then aimed a kick at Erik’s head but the young Viking somersaulted backwards into the wreckage of the table and avoided the heavy boot.
He bounced to his feet as the man stumbled. Erik snatched up the leg of a splintered chair and smashed it across the bouncer’s head. The wood shattered as the man shook his head, his knees buckling, but he came on. Erik retreated, seeing Fargo and Dann well into a bloody fist fight now, aware of the yelling of the crowd and another big man bursting through the batwings and running forward.
Erik dodged a blow from the bouncer, picked up a chair and ran forward, roaring, driving the legs straight into the bouncer’s chest. The man went backwards, caught his heel on a broken table and went down. Erik jumped forward and smashed the chair across his head. He staggered, blinked at the shattered remains of the chair, jerked, and was still.
Panting and sweating, Erik saw that the buffalo hunter was fighting two men now: Dann and the big man he had seen coming through the batwings. He did not know it was Matt Garrett; all he knew was the old man was retreating under the onslaught of the hammering fists and that his back was to the wall. He started forward on shaky legs, still holding the chair-back, as Dann pinned Fargo’s thick shoulders against the wall while Garrett slugged away at his midriff.
“Stay out of it, you!” a voice behind him growled and a heavy hand grabbed his shoulder and sent him spinning.
Erik staggered but got his balance and whirled, lifting the broken chair-back and striking out instinctively. Even as it hit its target, he saw the bright gleam of the polished brass star on the white shirt and the plaited tan band on the chocolate-brown hat. The chair smashed across the sheriff’s face and blood spurted from his nostrils as his nose broke. His lips mashed against his teeth and a broken tooth dropped to the floor as he staggered, instinctively dragging his gun.
Erik was startled to see that he had hit the lawman and dropped the chair-back swiftly, blinking and stunned for the moment.
Sheriff Buck Richards, bloody-faced and in deadly mood, cocked the hammer of his six-gun.
Erik stopped his movement towards the batwings and slowly lifted his arms as the lawman held a bright yellow kerchief against his bloody face. The young Viking sighed, glanced over to his left where Dann and Garrett were working on Fargo. The buffalo hunter was down on his knees and semi-conscious. His gray hair was stained with blood and his face ripped and bruised.
The sheriff fired a shot into the ceiling and the outlaws instantly ceased beating Fargo. They whirled, their hands streaking for their gun butts.
“Keep on goin’ if you want to find out what our Boothill’s like,” Richards growled, his voice muffled by the kerchief.
Slowly Steve Dann raised his hands. Garrett was slower, considering the odds of drawing against a cocked six-gun. He finally figured it would be suicide and let the Colt fall back into leather. He lifted his hands shoulder-high.
“Midge,” the lawman said to the dazed barman who was just pulling himself up by the edge of the bar. “Get them gents’ guns for me, huh? No, damn it! Don’t walk between me and them! Get around behind ’em. That’s it. Don’t just take the guns out—unbuckle their belts for ’em. Right.”
Dann’s gunbelt thudded to the floor. He stepped away from it at a jerk of the lawman’s gun barrel. A few moments later, Garrett’s gunrig fell and the tight-lipped outlaw boss moved away from it, too.
“His, too,” Richards said, turning his gaze onto Erik. In a moment, Erik was disarmed. “See what that damn hunter’s got on him. He’ll have a knife at least.”
The bartender reached inside the filthy buckskin jacket of the dazed Fargo and pulled out a big-bladed Bowie knife which had seen a lot of honing. Richards put away his blood-spotted kerchief, walked forward and took the heavy knife from Midge. He drove the blade into the bar top, then snapped off the first two inches back from the point, hurling the now useless weapon behind the counter. He jerked his gun barrel towards the batwings.
“Out, gents. It’s the lock-up for you till we figure how much damage you done and what I’m goin’ to charge you with.” He set his bleak gaze on Erik.
“Sheriff, I must explain,” the Viking said. “I was only going to the aid of the old man who had been gun whipped by this man here. When you laid a hand on me, I reacted instinctively—I did not mean, or wish, to harm you.”
Richards glanced sideways to look at himself in the fly-spotted bar mirror. His nose was swollen and bruised and canted towards the left side of his face. His mouth was smashed and puffed and he had one broken tooth and another snapped off at the gum.
“Get that lousy skinner up on his feet and move across to my jailhouse,” he snarled. “And I’d be pleasured if you give me some trouble, you greenhorn son of a bitch! I won’t forget what you done to my face, mister. Every time I look into the mirror to shave, I’ll remember you. And you’ll be goddamn sorry you ever poked your nose in where it didn’t belong.”
He shoved Erik roughly and the Viking stumbled, then moved across and helped the battered old man to his feet. The buckskin reeked as the man swayed against him, dripping blood onto his steadying hand.
“Obliged for your help, young feller,” he said thickly. “Won’t forget it. I’ll pay any fine—square away with you—”
“Get the hell out of here!” snarled Buck Richards, shoving Erik and Fargo roughly, then gestured to the silent, bloody outlaws.
Matt Garrett, his face grim, steadied the wounded Dann as they made for the batwings.
~*~
Yancey toyed with his fork, pushing it through the food on his plate. Across the table, Kate Dukes, lovely in a maroon, lace-trimmed dress, with jewels sparkling at her throat and on her ear-lobes, frowned slightly, watching the big Enforcer. She thought he looked handsome in his dark broadcloth suit and had enjoyed having him escort her around Austin these past weeks. She had seen the
envious glances of other women and the admiring looks from some of the men, too.
But she was reading the signs correctly now. Yancey was restless, craving action and the wide freedom of Texas and a roving assignment again. She had detected the signs some weeks earlier but had ignored them, secure in the knowledge that Yancey would be around Austin until the current batch of Enforcer trainees were through the Ironsite course.
Now she knew she was going to have a battle on her hands to keep Yancey in Austin much longer. She was like any other young lady with a beau: she wanted him to spend as much time with her as possible. She certainly didn’t want him riding off on some dangerous job that could get him killed. But that was exactly the kind of chore that Yancey liked best; one with a high danger content, something that would call upon all his ingenuity and gun speed and other abilities; a constant sort of test, where, each time, he laid his life on the line. He seemed to live for this kind of assignment and he had had many close shaves. Kate was simply afraid that, by the law of averages, his luck must run out soon.
“Not hungry, Yance?” asked the governor from the head of the table; a gaunt, gray-haired, gray-faced man with goatee beard and moustache. The whiskers served to hide some of the pain-warped lines etched into his face by his chronic heart condition that, one day, would kill him. Dukes’ only wish was that it might get him quickly, while he was still working for Texas. He hated the thought of lying in bed, wasting away, too weak to work or even feed himself. He had made a private vow that should it strike him down in this manner, then he would end his own life.
Yancey glanced up and smiled faintly.
“Kind of lost my appetite for a lot of things, lately, Governor.”
Yancey didn’t glance in Kate’s direction, but the old governor did. He was astute enough to know when there was friction between his daughter and his top Enforcer.
He said nothing, pushed his own plate away and nodded to one of the waiting servants to bring his box of cigars.
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