“You all right, Pa?” Yancey asked, putting the paint in close.
Curtis Bannerman opened his eyes slowly and stared up at his son. He nodded curtly.
Yancey glanced at Mattie who shrugged slightly.
“Feel up to talking a little?”
“We don’t have much to say to each other,” C.B. rasped, adjusting his blanket.
“It’s about the robbery,” Yancey said, an irritable edge to his voice: couldn’t his father let it drop for a second?
“What about it? It was professional. Cold-blooded. They reacted violently, as to be expected.”
“Mattie tell you how much was taken?”
C.B. frowned and shook his head slightly. Yancey told him and the old man’s eyebrows flew up, his jaw jutted.
“What the hell was Barnett doing keeping so much cash on hand?”
“Says it was for the cattle-buyers, but they won’t be operating for weeks yet. You find the books all right?”
Curtis Bannerman tried to raise himself on one elbow. “The books? The ones I examined before those bandits came in seemed to balance correctly. But they’re all part of the whole. I would have to go through the lot to be sure.” He shifted uncomfortably, wincing a little, then turned crankily to Mattie. “Damn it, woman, can’t you dodge some of them blasted holes?”
“Sorry, father,” Mattie muttered, slowing the team a little.
“Funny you should mention the books, Yancey,” C.B. said in the warmest tone he had used yet in addressing his son. “I’d had some suspicions about the Dallas branch’s returns even before I left ’Frisco. It’s why I chose to go there, so I could do an audit.” His eyes flashed. “If there was a discrepancy, I guess that ‘robbery’ of the alleged forty-seven thousand has now covered it effectively. I say if there was any discrepancy, Yancey.”
“Now you’ll never know?”
“It could possibly still be detected but it would take a lot of work. Damn! It was a smart move of Barnett’s if he has been embezzling. Those bandits could’ve actually only taken five thousand dollars, but if he’d embezzled forty-two thousand over the years, he simply claims forty-seven thousand was stolen and he’s covered. But he would’ve had to make some entries to fake expenditure of that embezzled money over the years. They should be detectable.”
Yancey looked dubious. “Maybe not, Pa. I suspect Samuels might’ve been involved at some stage. His conscience started to bother him, I think. They shot him dead during the robbery so he won’t talk now.”
“This could well explain all the attempts on your life, Papa,” Mattie said and the wounded man turned to stare at her back. “Forty-odd thousand dollars is a lot of money. Barnett may have panicked when he had word you were coming and tried to prevent you getting here.”
C.B. said nothing. He settled back on his rough bed and closed his eyes. Yancey and Mattie exchanged glances and the Enforcer shrugged, wheeled his paint away and rode on ahead a short distance.
By mid-morning, they were within sight of the ranch and drove into the big yard soon afterwards. Todd Loomis came hurrying down from the house, calling for servants to come lend a hand. But irascible old Curtis Bannerman cussed them all and pushed Yancey away when he tried to carry him. The wounded man stepped down himself, the color draining from his face and the blanket falling around his feet. Mattie picked it up and took his elbow, refusing to have her hand shaken off, although C.B. tried to dislodge her grip.
He was breathing raggedly and the bandages around his chest showed beneath his open shirt.
“We have rooms ready for you, C.B.,” Loomis told him. He snapped his fingers at the two menservants. “Get that baggage up to the house! And tell Mrs. Gomez she’s to check first with Miss Bannerman before cooking any meals for C.B. He’s to have whatever he fancies, even if she has to send in to Dallas for it, savvy?”
“Hell with that kind of expense,” growled Curtis Bannerman. “I’ll eat whatever you’ve got here. Right now, I want to rest, so get me to my bedroom.”
He allowed Mattie and Loomis to help him towards the house and the manager looked over his shoulder at Yancey.
“You’ll be bunkin’ with the cowhands again, I take it?”
“If I decide to stick around, I will,” Yancey answered enigmatically. “I might ride out to complete that round-up tally. I guess Enderby’s still in charge?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t he be?” Loomis called as he went up the house steps with C.B.
Yancey didn’t reply. He began to unsaddle the paint and, when he had the rig thrown over the top rail of the corral, turned the animal loose with the others in the big pens.
He walked over to the cook shack and found only the Mexican house cook there. She told him that Peggy had taken the chuck wagon out to the round-up camp, but would be back tonight, with some of the crew who would be relieved by those who had been working in the vicinity of the ranch house.
Yancey hung around the bunkhouse for most of the afternoon and walked up to the main house to see his father. Mattie told him C.B. had been sleeping and she had just given him some of his cough linctus. Through the door, Yancey could hear his father coughing.
“You sure that damn stuff’s doing him any good?” he asked.
Mattie looked at him sharply and then said, “Well, to tell you the truth, Yancey, I have thought for some time that it only seems to make him worse. Doctor Carmody said it’s to loosen the congestion, but he has such terrible, wracking spasms ...” She shook her head slowly. “I’ve been tempted more than once not to adhere to the dose times and try him without it, but I’m—afraid it might not help and his condition could deteriorate.”
“Well, we’ll soon see. I sent a wire for Doc Boles, the governor’s personal physician. There’s no better man in Texas, maybe the whole country. If anyone can help pa, I reckon Boles can.”
Mattie frowned. “I don’t know if he’ll see him, Yancey. He hates fuss, as you well know.”
“He can fuss all he likes. When Boles gets here, he’ll see him. I guarantee it. Johnny Cato’s coming, too. Leastways, I hope he is. There’s something queer about this whole deal, Mattie, and Johnny and I can get to the bottom of it, I reckon. I’ve got to have someone I can trust. Outside of old Peggy and Sheriff Buckmann, I haven’t seen anyone else in this neck of the woods I could depend on.”
“I’ve suspected for some time, of course, Yancey, as you know, that someone has been trying to prevent pa from coming here. But I must confess I hadn’t thought of the trouble, whatever it is, being centered around Dallas. I must agree with you, though: it looks that way.”
“Yeah. Well, I’ll be guarding him tonight no matter how much he fusses. And if I’m not here, I reckon I can leave old Peggy the cook to set outside the room with a shotgun. He seems straight enough.”
“Not Todd Loomis?” Mattie asked quietly.
Yancey shook his head. “No,” he said and, without further elaboration went back down into the yard.
The men came back just on sundown, the old rickety chuck wagon rolling in a half hour later. Yancey arranged with Peggy to guard C.B.’s room when he wasn’t there and promised to fix it with Loomis so there would be no argument.
“You leave it to me, Yancey,” the old trail cook said. “I got me a Greener loaded with double-0 buckshot. No one’ll get past me.”
“Thanks, old-timer,” Yancey said and went to see Todd Loomis.
The manager protested about the old smelly cook coming into the house but Yancey was insistent and refused to give ground. Loomis had no option but to agree in the long run and, as Yancey turned away from the porch, they both looked up at the sound of galloping hoofs.
A rider came skidding into the yard and in the half-dark Yancey couldn’t make out his identity at first. But the sound of the running horse had brought Virg Enderby out of the bunkhouse and he called:
“What in hell’s your hurry, Lang? You’re s’posed to be ridin’ nighthawk!”
Lang, the top hand, leapt from the sad
dle and hesitated, deciding which way to move as Yancey and Loomis came hurrying down from the direction of the house. Enderby scowled as Lang walked towards Yancey and hurried across the yard.
“What’s wrong, Lang?” demanded Loomis.
“Rustlers,” Lang panted, looking at Yancey. “All them mavericks we gathered have gone.”
“Hell, mavericks take a heap of holdin’, you oughta know that,” Enderby growled, coming up. “They’ve just likely broke loose.”
Lang was already shaking his head vehemently before Enderby had finished speaking.
“No. I went out to check the camp down by the creek before going on nighthawk. Found Charlie and Birch shot dead. Holdin’ pens had been pulled down and the mavericks driven off. We’ve lost over a hundred, hundred-twenty head, Mr. Loomis.”
The ranch manager frowned. “Judas, we’ve had our share of rustlin’ this year!”
Yancey snapped his head up. “That so?”
“Yep. Been losin’ steers regularly. Small bunches, though. We’ve traded lead once or twice but they just disappear into the hills. This is the first time they’ve killed anyone, though.” Loomis snapped his gaze to Enderby. “You were s’posed to be down at the maverick camp this afternoon.”
“So I was. No trouble when I left.” Enderby sounded a mite defensive.
Yancey looked at Lang. “How old you reckon the tracks were?”
Lang looked uncomfortable. “Well, I—I’d’ve said a few hours. But that would make it this afternoon when they was rustled. And that couldn’t be if Virg was down there ...”
All eyes turned to the ramrod and his face darkened angrily.
“Damn it! Don’t look at me! I know nothin’ about it!”
Yancey drilled his cold gaze into the man a spell and then turned to Lang.
“Get yourself a fresh bronc and you can show me the place.”
Lang nodded and hurried towards the corrals again. Enderby turned away towards the bunkhouse.
“I’ll get some men.”
“No.”
He stopped dead and spun around at Yancey’s flat tone.
“Huh?
“You stay here,” Yancey ordered.
Enderby’s face hardened and his fists knotted up at his sides. He looked at Loomis.
“Todd?”
“Yeah, listen, Yancey, I’m manager here and Virg’s ramrod—”
“And I’m taking over on this,” Yancey cut in harshly. He flicked his hard eyes from one man to the other. “Any objections?”
Neither Loomis nor Enderby said anything.
Eleven – Bloody Range
Even by moonlight it was obvious that the camp had suffered a raid. Not only were the two nighthawks’ bodies sprawled on the ground, but the holding pens had been wrecked and the campsite itself had suffered: the camp oven was smashed, the secondary chuck wagon and sleeping wagon had been overturned.
“Ought to be tracks in plenty,” Yancey said, sitting his saddle and looking at the site.
“May not be once we cross the crick,” Lang said. “I seen enough to know they drove the mavericks that way, but that’s all. We won’t be able to do much before daylight.”
“We can bury those fellers, I guess,” Yancey said, dismounting. “Why’d you ride out here, anyway?”
“Well, tell the truth I dunno, Yancey,” Lang told him slowly. “I wasn’t s’posed to. Charlie and Birch had taken over durin’ the afternoon and were due to ride herd here till relieved at midnight. I was in charge of the nighthawks at the main camp and they were all fellers I could trust. These two here were fairly new arrivals at the spread. I thought I’d check that they were doin’ their jobs properly.” He swept a hand about him. “This is what I found.”
“Enderby seemed riled ’cause you’d ridden over here.”
Lang shrugged. “He’s touchy about anyone not followin’ his orders right to the letter. Hard hombre, is Virg.”
“Good cowman?”
Lang looked sharply at Yancey and was silent for a spell, then asked, “Off the record?”
Yancey frowned, surprised at Lang’s reaction. “Sure.”
“Well, it might sound like jealousy, Yancey, but I swear it ain’t. Virg Enderby don’t know much about cattle at all. I dunno how he come to be made ramrod. He fought with the other foreman, feller named Sharman, and crippled him. Loomis paid Sharman off and boosted Virg to ramrod. He’s a mean sonuver and he gets things done. I guess that’s all that counts with your—with Loomis.”
Yancey smiled faintly. “Reckon you were going to say with my father. You’d be right, Lang. Results tend to count most with him. How long’s this rustling been going on?”
“Few months.”
“How long’s Enderby been ramrod?”
Lang stiffened, “What?”
“How long?”
He took his time answering. “Come to think of it, just before the rustling started. But you don’t think he had anythin’ to do with it ...?”
Yancey thumbed back his hat. “Let’s get these fellers planted and catch some shuteye. I want to be on the trail at first light.”
There had been some attempt to cover the tracks left by the rustlers, but not as much as Yancey would have expected.
Kneeling beside the trail that led deep into the hills beyond Buckhorn Creek, Yancey shook his head slowly.
“Wonder these fellers have gotten away with rustling Big-B beef for so long if they don’t cover their tracks better than this.”
Lang frowned at him from where he sat his horse.
“Well, I dunno, but we’ve never found as many tracks before, Yancey. First I figured you must be a better tracker than anyone we’ve got at the ranch, but, hell, I can see most of the ones you’ve found without even dismountin’. They’ve never been clear as this, I swear.”
Yancey frowned and stood up, walking on slowly, leading his paint by the reins.
“This the usual direction the rustlers disappear?” he asked.
“Well, we’ve lost ’em way back before this. But in the foothills. We always suspected they must have a hideout up here. Likely drive the steers through a hidden pass and down onto the plains beyond. Lots of outlets for stolen beeves there: ranches, towns, railroads. We don’t lose much branded stock.”
“No. Easier to burn a fake brand into clean skins like those mavericks than to alter a registered brand like Big-B.”
Yancey mounted suddenly and pulled out his rifle, checking it swiftly. He did the same to his Colt and glanced at the frowning Lang.
“Better check your guns, amigo. I think we were meant to find those tracks this time and follow them. Which means someone’s preparing an ambush somewhere up ahead.”
Lang paled, then swore and immediately began to check his six-gun.
Yancey rode on slowly ahead, rifle butt resting on his knee now, eyes alert ...
Four miles on they were climbing a ridge when Yancey held up a hand and hauled rein. Lang stopped a few yards behind the Enforcer and listened as he saw Yancey cocking his head to one side.
Then the top hand heard it, too: bawling cattle.
The Enforcer turned in the saddle. “Beyond this ridge, Lang. Go easy. They’ll likely have a guard on watch.”
“Then we must’ve been spotted already.”
“Yeah.”
Yancey dismounted and Lang followed suit. Leading their mounts they angled across the face of the slope, climbing in a slow zigzag towards the top. When they came to an overhanging flat rock that jutted out from the side of the hill, Yancey signed to Lang to hold the mounts there while he went on ahead.
The top hand opened his mouth to protest but Yancey was already moving up the slope, crouching, holding his rifle with the oversized lever and trigger guard in both hands. He dodged from rock to rock and then crawled for several yards across the face of the slope before making his final run to the top of the ridge.
Just before he reached the top, he dropped flat and squirmed up the last few feet on his be
lly. He pushed his hat back and let it hang down his back by the tie-thong and then crawled over behind a long, low rock and lifted his head slowly.
Below was a small, hidden valley. The mavericks were penned in a natural corner with a crude lodge pole fence across the front to hold them in. To the left of the pen was a log and clapboard shack with a sod roof and smoke curling lazily up from the crude flatiron chimney.
There was no doubt it was the rustlers’ hangout, but it bothered Yancey that the trail had been so easy to follow. One other thing that puzzled him was that they had taken care to make sure the actual riders’ tracks were obliterated so that he had been unable to tell how many there were. Driving a bunch of over a hundred mavericks through country like he had just come through would need at least five, likely six riders. That shack could hold as many at a pinch, but it looked more like a two or three man set-up.
Which could mean that some extra men were hired for the raid.
But where the hell were they? He couldn’t even see their horses down below. Likely they were tethered behind the shack but he would have liked to have some idea how many they were up against ...
He spun violently, bringing his rifle around and levering as a shot crashed behind him.
Yancey held his fire as he saw a man only three yards from him on top of a rock, reared up onto his toes, clawing a hand up his back between his shoulders, face contorted with pain. A gun clattered to the rock and then the man crashed backwards and, down-slope, Yancey saw Lang kneeling, lowering his rifle and levering in a fresh load.
“He was beadin’ you!” Lang called.
Yancey nodded, grim-faced. “We’ve likely spooked ’em now. Might as well bring the mounts and we’ll ride in. No chance we can sneak up now.”
Already there were rifle barrels at the windows of the shack. He counted two but he figured there would be more guns inside.
Lang struggled up the ridge with the horses and they mounted below the skyline and then rode for several yards before making the crossing through a clump of rocks. It would break up the skylining effect but now that the men below were watching, Yancey figured they would be spotted anyway.
Bannerman the Enforcer 43 Page 9