Bannerman the Enforcer 42

by Kirk Hamilton

  But there was no need. The man was hit high in the chest and might still have a spark of life in him, but his neck was a sheet of glistening red and he lay huddled amongst the rocks, making no attempt to move.

  As Yancey lurched to his feet and strode forward, he glanced down-slope and saw Cato riding after a horseman who had broken cover and was riding hell for leather between the fold of hills, one arm dangling and flopping uselessly at his side. The man seemed to have no further interest in trading lead with Cato and Yancey saw the small Enforcer’s right hand lift, heard the dull thud-like explosion of the Manstopper and saw the rider slide out of the saddle in an easy, smooth motion, that left him a bouncing, flailing, carthweeling figure on the side of the slope. The man came to rest head down amongst some rocks and Cato dismounted slowly, gun hammer under his thumb, barrel slanted down and covering the man.

  Cato looked up the slope to where Yancey stood and shook his head in an elaborate movement so that Yancey could see the action and know that the man was dead.

  “Got a live one up here,” Yancey called and winced at a sudden burning pain across his shoulder. He felt the warm flow of blood down his flesh as he squatted down beside the only surviving outlaw.

  The Enforcer prodded the wounded man lightly with the gun-barrel.

  “You still with us, Ryker?”

  Ryker’s eyes fluttered open and he stared up at Yancey, blinking, obviously trying to bring the Enforcer into focus. He coughed. There was a harsh, rattling sound in his throat but no blood appeared on his chin as Yancey half expected. He guessed the lead had missed the lung, but had smashed up something vital.

  Yancey glanced up as Cato rode up and dismounted, going to the big Enforcer’s back and looking at the red, wet patch across his shoulders. He tore open the soiled and ragged shirt and looked at the wound.

  “Not too bad. Just a crease. Hey, how about them Burdins! Leavin’ four men an’ vamoosin’ themselves! Yeller sons of bitches.”

  Ryker nodded and struggled to speak, obviously agreeing with Cato. Yancey held the man’s head on one bent knee and took off his hat. He lifted an edge of the blood-soaked shirt and tried to keep his face expressionless as he looked at the bullet wound. Ryker was watching his eyes intently and his hand closed weakly over Yancey’s forearm.

  “Ho—how’m I—doin’?” he croaked.

  Yancey shook his head slowly. “No use lyin’ at this stage, Ryker. We’re too far from a sawbones to do you any good. Not much Johnny or me could do, but if you want, I’d be willing to try to dig out the lead. Kinda deep, though ... ”

  Ryker stared, jaw sagging. He was silent a long spell.

  “I’m—all—through I—guess ... No use complainin’ ... I asked for it; tried to earn that hundred buck—bonus ... ”

  “Bonus?” asked Cato. “What for?”

  “N-nailin’ Bannerman first—Sh-should of knowed then—S-Steve was lyin’. He don-don’t throw his mon-money ar-round.”

  “No sign of either of the Burdins,” Yancey said. “You know where they headed?”

  Ryker was silent so long and his breathing faded so low that Yancey and Cato both thought they had had all they could get out of the man. But then the outlaw opened his eyes and strained to sit up, but flopped back. As he did and as the breath rasped out of him in one long, final, ragged sigh, he grated.

  “The Rio ... ”

  He was dead in less than a half minute and Yancey eased his head down to the ground, thumbed back his hat, wincing at the burning across his shoulders.

  Yancey then stood up and walked down to the outlaw’s horse where it stood nervously. He coaxed it to him, grabbed hold of the bit and spoke soothingly to it as he took down the saddlebags. He brought them back to where Cato stood beside the dead Ryker and spilled out their contents. There was some dry tobacco leaves, a spare tin of vestas, a clasp knife with a broken blade, a few grains of shriveled corn, seven forty-five cartridges, a bent dollar piece that looked like it had been hit with a bullet, and less than a handful of coffee beans so old they had lost almost all their aroma.

  “Not a bit of food. I reckon that crossing of the saltpan hit ’em harder than it did us, Johnny. Steve and Slim won’t chance going down into Mexico without grub. We know damn’ well they’ve got money to pay for supplies and I’d say they’re still carrying all the loot from that payroll car or else Ryker’s share would’ve been in his saddlebags. It’ll cost ’em a deal of it to get across the Rio past the Ranger patrols Governor Dukes asked for. But I reckon they’ll have enough to buy supplies in Del Rio.”

  “Then you figure we head for there first, instead of straight down into Mexico?”

  “You bet. Del Rio’s only a coupla day’s ride. Then a frog’s-leap to the Border. That’s the way they’ll go, Johnny. Sure of it. The Burdins’ got a lotta friends down there.”

  “Then let’s get after ’em. I’ll give you a hand to get your saddle loose from that dun they brought down.”

  Yancey looked up the slope to where his dead horse lay and nodded, grim mouthed. “I could be getting a bit too old for this business, Johnny. Been a long time since I came that close to a pine box.”

  “Just lucky you got me to look after you pardner,” Cato grinned. “C’mon, let’s get that wound fixed up and get you into a clean shirt. I’ll change Ryker’s saddle for yours, then let’s get after them Burdins. I got me an itch to get even.”

  Two – “Tough Town, Tough Man”

  The Sheriff of Del Rio was Big John Early. He stood six feet six in his sox, had to turn side-on to get through most normal doorways and wore a sawn-off shotgun in a specially-made holster on his right thigh. He always carried a Winchester carbine with him, too, a ’73 model with a steel butt plate and octagonal, blued-steel barrel. The trigger-guard and lever were nickel-plated, but the plating had worn away from overuse to reveal the raw metal underneath.

  He was a man in his late twenties, with an angular, good-natured face that had had the nose battered well over to the left in some past brawl. It tended to give him a lop-sided look and the fact that his left shoulder did kind of droop from an old bullet wound, often made him appear as if he was fighting to keep his balance.

  Big John Early’s iron-muscled body was a mass of scars, old bullet and knife wounds. He limped slightly, because his right leg had been broken twice, his left once. He had made it through a blizzard with that last injury, carrying a woman with concussion across his shoulders, both of them wrapped in the bloody, warm hide of a steer he had slaughtered with a pocket knife out on the range.

  He was a mighty tough man, was Big John Early and not many folk in or around Del Rio wanted to tangle with him. He ran an orderly town, drank with the boys and went hunting and fishing with them, too, yet always doffed his hat to the ladies and was always in the front row of the congregation at the Baptist church every Sunday. Except for a couple of months back when he had been laid up with a bushwhacker’s bullet under his right shoulder blade.

  The local doctor had said he would never use that arm again. Big John proved him wrong. The bullet was still there, occasionally grating against his shoulder blade bone and causing red-hot pain that would have stopped a horse in its tracks. But the sheriff could use that sawn-off shotgun with as much speed as he ever had and since that lead had lodged there, he had helped young Tim Carney build a log cabin on the edge of town for his new bride, felling trees and manhandling them along when Tim was busy at the small store he had opened on Ridge Street.

  Now, this day, with the sun hammering down into the plaza of Del Rio, Big John Early checked the twelve-gauge loads in his sawn-off, made sure there was a .44/.70 shell in the breech of his carbine, and then stepped out of the law office, to face the bunch of angry cattlemen gathering in the plaza.

  They were mounted and there were guns gleaming in the sun. At the head of the mob, was a tall man sitting a dappled gray, hands folded on the saddle-horn. He was about forty years of age, in his prime and looking it, but his lantern jaw j
utted aggressively and his eyes had a mean narrowness to them. The men bunched behind him held rifles balanced on their knees.

  “Well, Big John,” said the man on the gray, a rancher from out in the valley named Brad Venters. “You know why we’re here.”

  “I do,” agreed the big lawman in a booming voice. “And I told you a week ago it wouldn’t do no good and now I’m tellin’ you again.”

  Venters’ mouth tightened and there were stirrings and murmurings from the bunched riders. He lifted a hand for them to be quiet, his gaze never leaving the sheriff.

  “Sheriff, you know we’re all local here, an’ we all depend for our livelihood on raisin’ and sellin’ beef. There’s a shortage right now ... ”

  “Created by you fellers out in the valley so’s prices would go sky-high,” cut in Big John.

  Venters colored some, but he swallowed his anger and continued. “Now that ain’t right, Big John, an’ you know it. But even s’posin’ it were, no reason for you to allow a damn greaser to drive his beeves all the way up from Mexico to sell ’em here at cheap prices. It just ain’t fair, John!”

  Big John Early’s mouth flickered in a transient smile.

  “Seems to me to be about as fair as makin’ an artificial high price for your meat, and don’t deny it, Brad. You fellers’ve formed your own cooperative out there in the valley an’ you got together and tried to put the squeeze on the town. You tried it out on poor old Skunk Creek first and it worked, but there’re more folk here and some are a mite smarter. When Señor Morales approached me to allow him to bring his steers in to sell, I felt it only fair to allow it. It was my decision and I stand by it and I reckon I’ve got most of the town behind me.”

  “You’ve got Conchita Morales alongside you, that’s what you got, Early!” bawled a rangy rancher just behind Venters. His name was Beau Hunnicutt and he was a mean one, horse-faced, hard-eyed, big-fisted. He looked challengingly at the tight-faced lawman: “You ain’t foolin’ anyone, Early! You fell for that greaser gal an’ that’s why Morales got to bring his cows in here!”

  Big John moved fast for a man of his bulk. With a lunging, catlike movement, he took two long strides and was beside Hunnicutt’s mount in a flash. The carbine swept in a short, whistling arc and the heavy octagonal barrel smashed across the side of Hunnicutt’s head. The man gasped as he hurtled from the saddle, his horse prancing away. The rancher hit hard and rolled about in the dust, almost under the hoofs of the others’ horses as they tried to pull their mounts out of the way. Blood poured from his nostrils and mouth. He was semi-conscious and lay there, moaning, clawing at his face.

  The sheriff moved casually back onto the porch and spun to face the silent bunch of riders. His sawn-off shotgun came smoothly out of the long, narrow holster and jutted out from his big right hand, one hammer cocked. Early flicked the carbine, using the weapon’s weight to work the lever and cycle a cartridge into the action.

  He stood with boots planted wide atop the porch steps, a gun in each hand, menacing the staring ranchers.

  “Morales has been here three times. You’ve had plenty of time to climb down off your high hosses and sell at a reasonable price. You ain’t done it. You’ve gotten stubborn and dug in your heels. Folk have gotta eat. You can’t blame ’em for buyin’ cheaper beef. And you know damn well the packin’-house agents are gonna go for the cheapest and right now that happens to be Señor Morales’ steers. You hombres figure you ain’t gettin’ a square deal, it’s your own fault. Now get away from here. Scatter. Go get yourselves a drink and then light out back to the valley an’ talk it over. Don’t hang around town roustin’ them Mexican vaqueros. They’re only doin’ their job, same as your cowpunchers. They do what they’re told an’ I’ll bet there ain’t a one of ’em wouldn’t rather be back in Mexico romancing his señorita, than hangin’ round here, never knowin’ when to expect a roustin’ from you fellers. Now, vamoose ... fast!”

  He loosed a rifle shot into the air and Venters cursed as he fought to control his suddenly prancing mount. Then the carbine spun around the lever and trigger-guard again and a fresh load was in the chamber, ready to nail the first hombre loco enough to try to reach for a gun. Two cowboys dismounted and helped the bloody, groggy Hunnicutt back into the saddle where he sagged drunkenly. One man steadied him as they turned and rode slowly away across the plaza.

  Early stood there, menacing, giant-like, guns jutting out like they were part of him. The whole bunch of riders moved on. Except two.

  The sheriff frowned into the glare of the sun as he saw the big man on the black and the smaller man beside him, sitting their mounts with hands folded on the saddle-horn. He squinted as he thought the big one smiled.

  “That includes you two,” the sheriff said, jerking the sawn-off shotgun barrels a mite. “Vamoose. You got time for one drink, then you move on, savvy?”

  “I feel like a lot of drinks,” growled the big man.

  Early’s shotgun barrel jerked a little. “This says you have one and light out. Or it can make you teetotal—and plant you six feet under. Choice is yours, mister.”

  “Don’t tell me what I can or can’t drink, you big galoot. I aim to stick around for a spell.”

  By now Big John Early had moved slightly so that the sun wasn’t blinding him and he caught a look at the man’s beard-shagged face, the dust of hard and long trails, the thick light brown hair showing beneath the battered hat.

  “Wait a minute!” Early growled. “You’re—By hell, it is you, Yance! Yancey Bannerman! Well I’ll be a cross-eyed son of a bitch!”

  The Enforcer grinned, his teeth showing white against the trail dirt, and dismounted stiffly. He went forward to meet Early who deftly holstered his sawn-off shotgun and thrust out his massive right hand. They gripped hard, slapped each other on the shoulders and Yancey winced and jumped back. Early looked concerned.

  “Somethin’?” he asked swiftly.

  “Bullet burn is all. Kinda fresh. Two, three days ago.” Yancey sucked down a sharp breath and forced a grin. “Big John, I’d like you to meet my sidekick, Johnny Cato. This here man-mountain’s known far and wide along the Border as ‘Big Bad John’ and I reckon he’s got the ugliest face to go with it. What do you say, Johnny?”

  Cato smiled crookedly as he shook hands with Early, his small fist almost being swallowed by the sheriff’s. “With a build-up and reputation like that, all I’m gonna say, is, ‘Pleased to meet you, Big Bad John’!”

  They laughed and Early stepped back to look at Yancey.

  “I’d say you’ve come aways. And fast and hard. Likely through the badlands.”

  “You’d be right. Started across the saltpans a week back. Had a little trouble in the hills, which accounts for the bullet burn.”

  Early was sober now and nodded. “Yeah. I heard you was workin’ for the Governor of Texas. That right?”

  “Enforcer; Johnny, too.”

  Early nodded, looking from one man to the other. “Guess you didn’t just happen on Del Rio then. You on someone’s trail?”

  “Burdin brothers, Steve and Slim.”

  The sheriff arched his eyebrows. “Them sonuvers. What they done now?”

  “Stole a payroll, which didn’t amount to too much, but they killed four Texas troopers doing it and that puts them on Governor Dukes’ wanted list.”

  “Well, ain’t seen ’em here or I’d’ve run ’em out. I been here six months now, got the place kinda tidy and aim to keep it that way.”

  Cato exchanged glances with Yancey.

  “Uh—seemed like there could be some sort of trouble brewin’ with them ranchers,” Cato allowed. “We picked up enough to get the gist of it. Mex beef bein’ sold cheaper than local, right?”

  Early sighed. “Yeah. Locals, under Brad Venters and Beau Hunnicutt got kinda greedy. Now it’s backfired and I gotta head things off before they explode. But to hell with business right now. Stable your broncs and let’s go over to the saloon. We can talk at a corner table over a drink
.”

  Yancey and Cato stalled their horses at the livery and washed some of the dust and dirt off at the rain butt out back of the stables. They then accompanied the big sheriff across the plaza to the Border Palace saloon.

  Just as they were about to enter, there came a wild yell, some catcalls, and then two Mexicans came running out of an alley, eyes wide, teeth bared, legs pounding. A series of gunshots and bullets kicked puffs of dust around the Mexicans’ boots. Two lurching cowpokes came staggering out of the alley with smoking guns in their hands. They aimed drunkenly and fired a shot apiece. One ricocheted from a horse trough and smashed in a store window. The second ripped the hat off a man on the opposite boardwalk. The woman on his arm fainted.

  Big John Early lunged forward with a roar and the cowpokes turned towards him, startled, then, recovering, began to bring up their guns as he loomed before them. He hit one in the belly with the barrel of the carbine and, as the man doubled over, clubbed him to the dust with the steel butt. The second stood frozen, mouth hanging slackly as he stared down at his unconscious companion, knowing it was his turn next. He seemed to have forgotten the smoking gun at his side.

  The sheriff clubbed a fist and slammed it down on top of his head as if he was trying to drive the man into the ground like a fence post. The man crumpled without a sound and fell across his pard’s legs.

  “I warned you hombres to leave them Mexes be,” growled Early. He turned and tossed his carbine towards Yancey who caught it deftly. “You an’ Johnny go ahead an’ order a bottle. Join you in a minute.”

  There was a bunch of cowboys and ranchers gathered outside the batwings now. Venters and Hunnicutt were to the fore, holding drinks in their hands. They watched, narrow-eyed and grim-jawed as Big John picked up the two unconscious cowpokes, one under each arm, and walked briskly back across the plaza towards the law offices and jail.