Bannerman the Enforcer 14

by Kirk Hamilton

  “My brother’s shot through both legs and is likely to be a cripple for the rest of his life,” Yancey gritted. “My father ain’t expected to live, and could be dead by now ... So I’m in no mood for messin’ about, Kennedy. You’re useful at the moment, but I don’t really need you. You said last night we weren’t far from the rendezvous. I reckon I could locate it myself eventually but I don’t aim to waste time if I can avoid it. So you’re gonna tell me where it is or, I promise you, you’ll be begging me to kill you and get it over with!”

  Kennedy was nodding vigorously, shaking. Now that he knew who Yancey was, there was more fear in him than he had ever known. He had seen this man’s deadly efficiency, his coldness, his implacable will. Maybe the escape had been rigged, but his speed with a gun hadn’t, nor had the way he had taken care of the drygulchers ...

  “Okay,” he breathed. “Don’t kill me, Bannerman! The rendezvous is ten miles south ...”

  “South!” Yancey echoed.

  Kennedy nodded. “I figured to try and mix you up some, wanted to keep an ace in the hole. It’s in a place called the Buffalo Horn, a big canyon shaped like that, with a river runnin’ through the narrow end.”

  “Draw me a map,” Yancey ordered. “And it better be a good one. Because you’ll be riding with me and the first time I figure you’ve pulled a fast one, you’re dead. Savvy?”

  Kennedy stared at him with wide eyes, nodded slowly, swallowing his fear.

  ~*~

  Lew Kennedy had had the fright of his life. He knew he was riding with death alongside him. Yancey still forked the stolen gray but Kennedy was riding Monk’s black now, his hands tied to the saddlehorn with rope.

  He glanced frequently at the tall man riding at his side but there was no softening of the Enforcer’s hard features and Kennedy knew he could expect no mercy. He had known all along that he only had to make one mistake and Yancey would carry out his threat to kill him. So he had drawn an accurate map of the trail down to the Buffalo Horn and they must be within a mile or two of the place by now. He started as Yancey suddenly reached across and grabbed the reins on the black, pulling it up to a stop. Kennedy snapped his head around, wondering what was coming next.

  Yancey fumbled the crude map out of his shirt pocket, spread it out on his thigh so Kennedy could see it. He pointed to an area marked simply as ‘rocks’. “They the ones we can see over yonder now?” Yancey asked, jerking his head towards a massive natural tower that poked up into the sky a few hundred yards off to the left.

  “That’s them,” Kennedy said eagerly. “I put in all the landmarks, Bannerman ... I swear it. When you round that butte ahead there, you’re on the approach to the Buffalo Horn entrance.”

  “Guarded?”

  Kennedy licked his lips, hesitated a moment, then nodded. “One man. Rifle. On a ledge above the needle rock, on your right goin’ in.”

  Yancey gave him a cold look. “You kinda neglected to mention that before!”

  “I forgot! Honest Injun! I—uh—I didn’t even think about it!”

  Yancey held his gaze a moment longer then tapped the map again. “Caves in there?”

  Kennedy looked surprised. “Yeah—a few. This is mountain lion country.”

  Yancey smiled coldly. “Then you won’t be lonely!”

  Kennedy paled. “What—what you gonna do?”

  Yancey didn’t answer. He kicked the black in the flank to get it moving, yanking the reins and turning it towards the big tower, following on his smoky gray mount. Kennedy looked fearfully at him over his shoulder ...

  ~*~

  There was a stench of animals in the cave but Yancey figured it wasn’t fresh and that the cave hadn’t been used as a lair by cougar or grizzly for quite a spell. Kennedy wasn’t convinced and was shaking badly when Yancey produced a pair of manacles from inside the front of his trousers where they had rested in a special pocket, and chained him to a stone pillar that over the ages had joined floor and ceiling of the cave. It was limestone, and stalactites and stalagmites gave the place an eerie appearance. Water dripped from a hundred sources and the place was damp and chill. Yancey left some hardtack and a water canteen where Kennedy could reach them by stretching the short manacle chain to the limit. He left Monk’s warbag with him after checking it out first to make sure there were no weapons handy.

  “Hell, what if a cougar comes in? Or a grizzly?” Kennedy asked, sweating.

  “They won’t,” Yancey said confidently, preparing to leave.

  “What if you don’t come back? What if Catlin nails you?” Kennedy screamed.

  Yancey gave him a blank look as he swung up into saddle and then turned the mount and slowly rode out of the big cathedral-like cave. Kennedy’s terror-edged voice boomed and roared through the passage as he made his way out into the sunlight again. He had unsaddled Monk’s black and turned it loose. Kennedy would keep. Despite what he had said, he needed the man as a witness, for Yancey sure didn’t aim to take in Stewart or Catlin alive.

  By the time he had reached the trail that would lead him around the butte to the Buffalo Horn approaches, he could not hear the outlaw’s terrified yells anymore.

  He spotted the guard on the ledge by the needle rock without appearing to pay any particular attention to that area. The man changed his position when he saw Yancey and settled down on the edge that overlooked the trail, rifle in hands. Yancey figured as soon as he got close enough to be seen clearly, and wasn’t recognized, the guard would shoot, and shoot to kill at that.

  When there was a quarter of a million at stake, there was no sense in taking unnecessary chances ...

  Yancey didn’t aim to be a sitting target and he judged that when he reached a sandstone outcrop that had a gnarled, brown bush growing out of the wall just above it, the guard would be able to see his face. So when the smoky gray approached that outcrop, Yancey suddenly came to life and was no longer the casual rider he had tried to appear. He yanked the smoke’s head around abruptly to the left, kicking with his right heel and making the animal jump that way, all four feet off the ground, turning halfway about. As the horse moved, Yancey’s right hand swept up with a blazing Peacemaker in it and he saw his first bullet blow away a section of the ridge just in front of the guard’s face, and that set the man rearing back and upright. His second shot took the man in the chest and the body slid forward over the edge, hit the sloping wall about ten feet down and then bounced and rolled the rest of the way down into the canyon entrance.

  The gunfire slapped back at Yancey as it echoed and re-echoed amongst the rocky walls. He looked down at the dead man and reloaded his Colt swiftly, riding on slowly. He didn’t figure on making it far into the canyon before another member of the gang stopped him. And he was right. But he was surprised that the man who stepped out from behind the boulders, about a half mile down the twisting canyon, was Catlin himself.

  There was no mistaking the gunfighter with his brilliant red hair. He stepped out swiftly and confidently, rifle held in his hands, hammer back at full cock, trigger depressed. All he had to do was lift his thumb a fraction and the rifle would discharge. He didn’t say anything and Yancey slowed the gray and slowly lifted his hands shoulder high. This suited him, being captured like this, taken by surprise. He didn’t have to simulate it.

  “Lew Kennedy sent me,” Yancey said as he thrust his arms up. “Too bad about your guard, but he was about to nail me.”

  Catlin squinted at him, gestured for him to ride on ahead, his gun barrel unwavering. He stepped back and the rifle barrel followed Yancey as the Enforcer walked the horse slowly by, hands still raised. His back muscles itched, but he figured Catlin wouldn’t back shoot him: if he had wanted to kill Yancey, the man had had him cold-decked.

  He rode on up the slope to where four more men waited, all with rifles. He recognized Brad Stewart from the wanted dodgers: that jagged scar on his cheek was a dead giveaway. When he was about four yards from the group, Stewart jammed his cheroot between his teeth and jerked hi
s rifle barrel slightly.

  “Far enough.”

  Yancey stopped the smoky gray horse.

  “Climb down,” Stewart ordered.

  “Slow and easy!” warned Catlin.

  Yancey climbed down slow and easy and did not protest as one of the man took his Peacemaker. They moved him away from his horse and he took the opportunity to look around. There were two or three cabins in the canyon. He could only see part of the structure and he figured it could be a lean-to. There was a crude corral for the horses and that was about all. He figured it wasn’t used as a permanent camp, only as a meeting place, like now.

  “He’s Shannon,” Catlin said. “Reckons Kennedy sent him.”

  Stewart arched his eyebrows, blew out a plume of smoke. “Yeah? Where is Lew?”

  “Dead,” lied Yancey. “Nailed by a couple hombres trying to collect the bounty on him. Monk someone or other and his sidekick.”

  Stewart and Catlin exchanged glances. One of the other men whistled softly.

  “Hell, they were no slouches!”

  “What happened?” Stewart demanded.

  Yancey shrugged. “Bushwhack. They got Kennedy and I got them. He drew me a map how to get here before he died. It’s in my shirt pocket.”

  Stewart nodded to one of the men who went forward and, careful not to get between Yancey and the menacing guns, took the creased paper with the crude map from Yancey’s shirt. Stewart glanced at it briefly.

  “Why would Kennedy come here? He knew I’d kill him for keepin’ out those gold coins.”

  “I made him bring me,” Yancey said casually. “We busted out of El Paso together and he’d been talking about all this gold you hombres took in ’Frisco. I figured you likely had other jobs like that lined-up, and maybe you could use a man like me.”

  “Gunfighters are cheap. We pick our own,” Catlin said.

  “I don’t come cheap,” Yancey told him flatly. “And I’ve got a reputation to back me up. I’m no two-bit gunny.” He set his cold gaze on Catlin. “I could take you.”

  Catlin returned the gaze, not a muscle moving in his face, but there was an expression in his amber eyes that Yancey figured could have been surprise.

  “Nothin’ like confidence!” Brad Stewart said. He walked up close to Yancey and looked up into the big Enforcer’s face. “You’ve had some luck, Shannon. Don’t push it.”

  “Luck, hell! I make my own luck! I said I could take Catlin and I will. Give me my gun. You got nothing to lose, Stewart. If I down him, you’ve got a better gun than you’ve got now. If I don’t ...” He shrugged. “You’re no worse off.”

  “Suits me,” Catlin said, his voice little more than a whisper. “It’d pleasure me considerable to put a slug into a hombre as froggy as you, mister. You’re just buckin’ to die.”

  Yancey looked slowly back at Stewart. “Well? Do I get my gun?”

  Stewart mulled it over, shook his head. “Nope ... Maybe you’re as good as you say, or nearly so. Either way, you could be useful. Way I see it, if you are somewhere near as fast as you think you are, then I can use you. You and Catlin. No sense in pittin’ topnotch gunmen against each other. Real good ones are too hard to come by.”

  Catlin said nothing but his face was hard, a sneer twisting up his mouth as his jaw muscles knotted up. He didn’t like to think anyone came even close to matching his speed and it didn’t sit easy to have Stewart halfway believe Yancey’s cocky boasting. Yancey filed the knowledge away: it could come in useful, he figured.

  Brad Stewart scrubbed a hand across his jaw, nodding to the men to put up their guns now. He squinted at Yancey. “We’re waiting for a couple more hombres to show up before we have the share-out. ’Course you ain’t in on this, but could be you’ll be in on the next job. It’s bigger.”

  Yancey looked impressed. “What you gonna do? Rob the federal mint?”

  Stewart smiled faintly. “You’ll get the details later. But we got to make sure you qualify first, Shannon.”

  “Well, what the hell else you want me to do? I killed a couple Rangers bustin’ out of El Paso. You’ve likely seen the wanted dodgers on me. I nailed both those bushwhackers, stole the horses Kennedy and me used to get into this neck of the woods. If you want me to show you how fast I am ...”

  Stewart shook his head. “Not yet. But we’ll hang onto your guns till Catlin gets back.”

  Yancey frowned. “From where?”

  “El Paso ... and maybe before that. We don’t seem to’ve heard of you down here before then, Shannon.”

  “Not surprisin’. I operated to the north; Colorado, then around Socorro, New Mexico. Last stop was the Territorial prison ...”

  “We’ll check,” Stewart said flatly and nodded to the others. They took Yancey’s arms and led him and his horse over towards the cabins while Stewart spoke to Catlin.

  “Check him out as far back as it takes ...”

  “Hell, what’s it matter?” Catlin said. “We ain’t really pullin’ another job. You said it was just a gun trap to wipe out the others so we didn’t have to share with ’em. Who cares whether Shannon measures up or not?”

  “I damn well do!” Stewart snapped, not liking his authority questioned. “You’re s’posed to be the toughest man in Texas, Cat, but you won’t last forever. I aim to have backup. This Shannon might be it. Apart from that, he could be some kinda damn undercover Ranger or U.S. Marshal that’s been planted on us. I want to be sure which.”

  Catlin nodded slowly, holding Stewart’s gaze. “Okay. Just don’t get any ideas about runnin’ out with my share, too.”

  Stewart grinned. “I ain’t that stupid! You get goin’. Backtrack this Shannon and see what you can find out about him. Meanwhile, we’ll keep him here where we can keep an eye on him.”

  Catlin hesitated. “Reckon you can handle the others? They don’t like this stallin’ in the divvyin’-up of the dinero, Brad.”

  “I can handle em,” Stewart told him grimly. ‘You just handle your end of the deal and make sure you find out all you can about Shannon.”

  “Right. And when I get back, he either gets a handshake ... or a bullet.”

  Eight – Catlin

  Kennedy had long since stopped yelling and cursing after Yancey Bannerman. He had kept it up until he was hoarse and then had sagged down against the slim stone pillar that was holding him, weak and shaking. His forehead lay against the wet limestone and he looked up. The pillar was no more than four inches thick. The manacle ring had only just made it around it. It looked so slim and weak ...

  But he had near exhausted himself by placing both legs against the base and straining back with all his weight on the manacles. There was no way he could break it: it might look like nothing more than an overgrown broomstick, but it sure seemed to have an iron core. His wrist was bleeding where the manacle had cut into his flesh and it hurt him to stretch way out to try to reach the water canteen. But he had brought it in closer and had eaten some of the hardtack. The sun was going down outside and there was a chill creeping into the cave that set his teeth chattering.

  Or maybe it was merely the thought of what the night might bring. He had heard animals outside there in the brush; twice he had heard the cough of a mountain lion and, far off, the deep belly-growl of a grizzly. He was pretty sure this was no bear’s den but there was nothing to stop such an animal picking up the man-scent and coming in to investigate. Maybe a cougar might come in for a drink at the pool farther back in the cave. He could hear a constant dripping sound back there, the ‘plop-plop-plop’ of water falling from the peaked end of a growing stalactite that might be another inch longer in a thousand years.

  Then he froze: there was a sound at the cave entrance and the stench of animal was strong. He saw a shadow cross the entrance. Two rocks rattled together. Kennedy was shaking, jaws clamped together, eyes straining in the dim light. He swallowed and the sound seemed loud. He could hear his heart pounding.

  He saw something move down there and ... Judas! Light caught
a pair of yellow, feline eyes! Hell almighty, it was a cougar! On the prowl. It must have picked up his scent or else this cave was its lair or, at least, one of its haunts. He eased back around the pillar but it gave him no cover; it was too slim. He tried to control his breathing for it sounded loud to him and he didn’t want to attract the big cat’s attention.

  The cougar padded slowly about the cave entrance, stopping to look around slowly, nostrils distending, yellow eyes blank as it searched the shadows. It was smelling, not man, but horse ... The sweat from Yancey’s horse and the one he had turned loose. There was one of the old horse blankets not far into the cave and the cougar homed in on it now. It growled deep in its chest and pawed the blanket. Kennedy watched with the sweat drenching him and, as the cat moved, he tried to ease around the pillar slowly. The manacle iron ground against the limestone, grating and chewing some of the soft stone. The cat froze, only its eyes swiveling around. Kennedy held his breath, not moving a muscle as the cougar’s eyes probed the deep shadow where he cowered.

  He felt he wanted to be sick; his guts quaked at the thought of that big cat coming towards him and moving in for the kill ...

  The cougar padded forward a few steps, then lowered its belly to the rocky floor of the cave. It eased along, merging with the shadows, the soft rasp of its fur and hide over the rocks coming to Kennedy as he inched around into deeper shadow. He cursed the gritty sound the manacles made as they turned around the pillar. The cat moved in: several feet in a blurred lunge. It knew something was there and was preparing for the attack. Kennedy opened his mouth to scream, unable to contain his terror any longer, and, at that instant, there was a shrill whinny from the cave entrance and he snapped his gaze around in time to see Monk’s black horse standing there.

  Man-trained, it had sought out the company of men again by returning to the cave at sundown, expecting, no doubt, its nightly feed from its master. Instead, it walked into a death trap. The big cat whirled at the sound of the horse—this was what had drawn it to the cave in the first place. It slid back across the cave floor, belly down and as the horse turned to walk back out the entrance, it shot across the cave with a speed that Kennedy couldn’t follow. He caught a glimpse of what looked like a piece of shadow detaching itself from the deeper shadows and then the cougar was on the terrified horse’s back, digging in with its claws, jaws clamping around the arched neck as the black reared, shrilling, and ran off into the brush, blood streaming down its hide ...