The developments halted as the doors opened and the old telegraphist came hurrying towards Yancey, still wearing his green eyeshade and cuff protectors. He held a yellow telegraph form in his scrawny hand.
“Mr. Bannerman, sir?” he called, stopping a few feet from the railing where the Creole was toying with Yancey’s long brown hair where it curled over one ear. The woman flashed a look of annoyance at the oldster but the man waved the paper at Yancey. “From Austin, sir. Marked urgent.”
Cato looked up from nuzzling the negress’ neck and pushed her hand away irritably as she tried to pull his head back. He watched Yancey disentangle himself from the slit-eyed Creole and take the form from the operator.
Yancey read swiftly and snapped his head up, frowning at Cato as he held out the message.
“Forget the wingding: we got to get back to Austin.” Cato started to swear and then began to read the brief message, his face straightening as he did so.
GOVERNOR GRAVELY ILL FROM HEART ATTACK STOP RETURN AUSTIN AT ONCE.
KATE
The small Enforcer sighed, casting a regretful glance towards the negress and the Creole. He tipped his hat slightly and then flicked each woman a golden double eagle.
“Sorry, ladies. Duty calls. Adios.”
The gold put the smiles back on their faces and they called erotic promises after the two Enforcers as the men hurried out of the dim room.
Minutes later, they raced their mounts down the street towards the railroad depot, hoping there would be a train pulling out for Austin that afternoon.
It sounded as if the Governor wasn’t expected to live.
Two – Ultimatum
Dr. Boles stepped back from the bed and took the stethoscope from his ears. He held the instrument tightly as he looked at Governor Dukes’ head on the pillow.
The Governor’s face was gray and etched with deep lines of pain. His eyes were closed and he breathed shallowly, the nostrils of the axe blade nose flaring and contracting in his struggle to get air into his lungs.
His daughter, Kate, stood beside the doctor, her pale, oval face worried as she looked down at her father. She tore her gaze away to stare at Boles.
“Well, Doctor?” she whispered.
“No need for that,” Boles said loudly. “He’s awake. Old scoundrel’s only pretending not to be. Hopes he’ll hear somethin’ special that way.” Boles leaned forward and spoke in the Governor’s ear. “But them that eavesdrop, never hear anything good about themselves. This is no exception.”
The Governor’s left eye opened and he swiveled it in the deep socket to glare up at Boles as the medic straightened. Then he slowly opened his other eye and flicked his gaze to his daughter’s worried face. He tried the faintest of smiles.
“Don’t know why I ever appointed him as my personal physician,” croaked the Governor. “Bullies me no end.”
“Only language you savvy, you ornery old mule,” Boles growled. He turned to Kate. “In answer to your question, Kate, your father’s health is—not very good, to say the least. I won’t say ‘delicate’ because he’d likely drag out a gun and shoot me if I do, but it’s a more adequate term nonetheless. Aw! Hush up, Governor. Growl all you like when I’ve finished, but you listen good: you’ve survived the worst heart attack you’ve ever had. You’ve sustained some permanent damage that’s going to make any subsequent attacks an even greater danger to your life. You understand me?”
Dukes managed to get a glare into his eyes.
“Sure. You’re sayin’ the next attack could finish me.”
Kate gave a little gasp but Boles merely nodded.
“Exactly—unless ...”
“Unless what, Doctor?” Kate asked swiftly.
Boles studied the girl’s worried face a spell and then looked at Dukes. He leaned against the wall and folded his stethoscope, placing it in a pocket of his Prince Albert coat.
“Unless you give up your duties for at least six months. Go into semi-retirement if you like, in fact, full retirement would be better, much better. Forget politics and the stress of running the state for a couple of years. That way you might survive.”
Dukes’ nostrils flared.
“I’m Governor of Texas, Boles. I took the oath to run that office until either the people removed me—or death did. So far, I’ve seen no sign that the people of Texas want me out. Mebbe death’s tryin’ hard, giving me a nudge, but—so be it. If I’m likely to die during the next six months or a year, I aim to die as the Governor of Texas. And all the talkin’ and reasonin’ you can come up with from now until Doomsday won’t make me think any different.”
Boles sighed, glancing appealingly at Kate. But she shook her head slowly. She knew that even if she could persuade her father to retire, the inactivity would kill him anyway. And it would be a slower and much more painful kind of death.
It was as he said: he wanted to die for Texas. His gunfighting days were long gone, and the only way he could fight for the state was through politics—as Governor.
No. The office was his. Until the day he died.
She drew herself up and clasped her hands tightly in front of her as she faced Boles.
“I felt sure you would back me, Kate,” he said with a frown.
“I’m sorry, Doctor. I want to, but I know Dad’s wishes. And I respect them. But I agree with you, he should ease up for six months and delegate at least some of his duties.” She took one of her father’s thin hands in hers and looked into the old gray eyes. “Dad—won’t you ease up? Move out of Austin for, say, six months, somewhere quieter. Somewhere you can still keep tabs on things but are out of the hustle and bustle of Capitol Hill.”
“You’ve been talkin’ about buyin’ a retirement ranch for ages,” Dr. Boles said quietly. “Now would seem to be an ideal time. It would be somewhere for you to rest; somewhere close enough to keep in touch in case of emergencies. Why, in six months, I reckon I might even be telling you you can look forward to years of tolerable health—if you do it now. And don’t put it off again, as you have done at least a dozen times in the past.”
Dukes shifted his gaze to his daughter’s face and Kate smiled.
“Please, Dad. Six months, semi-retirement. You’ll still be Governor of Texas and “
“Three,” cut in Dukes harshly and she stopped abruptly.
“What?”
“Three months—and I’ll think it over,” Dukes rasped.
“Damn it, I said six,” Boles snapped crustily. “Three isn’t long enough after the massive attack you’ve just had ...”
“Three or nothin’,” growled Dukes stubbornly.
Kate sighed as she glanced at him.
“I’m afraid it’s the best we’ll do, Dr. Boles.”
“Well, it’s not good enough, not by a damn sight.” He glared at Dukes and his leathery old lips clamped tightly. Then he sighed. “But I guess it’s about the best I can expect from you. I should’ve been smarter and insisted on a whole damn year and then you might’ve settled for six months.”
Dukes smiled very faintly.
“I likely would’ve.”
“I’ll know better next time. If there is a next time, you stubborn old galoot.”
Dukes cackled briefly. “Careful now or I’ll fire you.”
“Go ahead and fire me,” stormed Boles slamming his medicines and instruments into his bag. “Won’t do you a scrap of good. No other medic this side of Philadelphia would be loco enough to put up with your tantrums for a minute.”
“You’re a dedicated man, Boles,” Dukes said flatly.
The doctor paused in his packing, shot Dukes a look and then glanced at the girl. “Remarkable. He should be thinking about what kind of coffin he’s going to be buried in. Instead he’s fighting me every inch of the way. The man’s truly remarkable. But a stubborn old fool just the same. I don’t want to see him or speak to him again until he’s found somewhere to rest away from Austin for the next three months. Call me when he’s done that. In the meantime,
I bid you adios, Kate.”
Boles bowed slightly towards the girl, gathered his bag and, without looking at the Governor again, strode stiffly towards the door. Kate held it open for him and he went out swiftly. She closed the door and shook an admonishing finger at her father as she approached the bed.
“Why are you two always fighting? Why do you always provoke him, Dad?”
The Governor smiled wanly and she saw that he wasn’t as well as he was trying to make out.
“Keeps him on his toes, don’t it?”
~*~
“I reckon this is the place,” Yancey Bannerman said, hauling rein on the top of the rise and gazing down at the big ranch spread out across Shadow Mesa. “Has to be, don’t it?”
Cato folded his hands on the saddlehorn and thumbed back his hat.
“It’s the Bighorn spread all right. You ask me, the Governor’s got himself a bargain—if he can clinch the deal with Kennaway. Mighty big ranch house, and we could protect him from an army here—if we had to.”
“The day might come,” Yancey said grimly. “Yep, it’s an ideal place for Dukes. But the price seems low. Let’s go take a look.”
“Hear tell Kennaway’s been runnin’ at a loss for years. They say he’ll be glad to get out.”
Yancey lifted the reins and started his horse down the hill.
“We’ll see. Take a mighty ignorant man to let a place like this run down to where it was barely showin’ a profit. It’s up to us to check things out thoroughly—in case someone’s tryin’ to pull a fast one.”
Cato nodded slowly. Yancey was right, he thought, and he was willing to bow to his superior knowledge about such matters. After all, Yancey was a trained lawyer. He could have been a top financial attorney in his father’s huge business interests that had their headquarters in San Francisco. The choice had been Yancey’s; and it had forever estranged him from old Curtis Bannerman. For his father had had visions of Yancey one day picking up the reins of the huge Bannerman empire that encompassed banking companies, cattle ranches, lumber holdings, shipping lines, even overseas interests. But Yancey had opted for the frontier life and his father had never forgiven him for it ...
The ranch known as Bighorn was at the head of the list of properties being considered by Dukes. It was good cattle country, good for the tough Texas longhorn, leastways, and the ranch should have showed more profit than it had. At this stage, it wasn’t even paying its way and Abe Kennaway, the owner, didn’t seem interested enough to look for reasons: he merely put it on the market at a ridiculously low price. Kennaway was a rich man, with holdings all over that part of Texas, but at present he seemed more interested in plowing his money into a riverboat business.
He seemed to be genuine, had a sound enough background, and wasn’t all that interested in politics—but it was the Enforcers’ job to make sure of that.
Close up, the ranch buildings showed signs of neglect and some of the fences weren’t as sound as they had first appeared. Generally, the ranch seemed a mite run down, but there was nothing that couldn’t be put right with a little sweat. On the surface, the ranch hands didn’t seem particularly interested in the two Enforcers, but they were watching their every move.
The ramrod of the Bighorn, Curt Callaghan, stood on the porch of the main house, glaring at the Enforcers.
He didn’t move when they approached the porch and stopped their horses a few feet away from the steps, nodding civilly. He made no acknowledgement of the greeting.
“Reckon you’re the Governor’s men,” he said in a deep voice. “Kennaway said to expect you. I’m Callaghan. I run the place.”
“Bannerman and Cato,” Yancey said easily. “How come the place is run down like it is.”
Callaghan’s eyes searched Yancey’s face for a minute before he answered.
“I don’t call it run down.”
“Then you must be blind,” Cato said. “Fences need repairin’, barn boards are loose, paint peelin’ off the house, shingles loose, an’ the stables smell to high heaven. That’s run down in my book.”
Callaghan flicked his cold gaze to Cato’s face.
“No one asked for your opinion, mister.”
Cato returned the gaze.
“That’s true. But you got it just the same.”
“Mine’s the same,” Yancey added.
Callaghan shrugged. “Guess you’ll tell that to Dukes. Well, it won’t take much to get things back to top order. We been busy out on the range, which is why things round the yard have gotten a mite neglected. I’ll make sure it’s all put right soon after Dukes moves in—if he decides to buy.”
Yancey bored his gaze levelly into Callaghan’s.
“You won’t be workin’ here,” he said quietly.
The ramrod stiffened and his face was cold and hard. “No?”
Yancey shook his head.
“We’re acting on the Governor’s behalf. I can tell you now, we’ll recommend that he buy at Kennaway’s price. But I won’t recommend you to stay on as ramrod. Any man who lets a place like this run down with the excuse that he’s got too many chores out on the range don’t know his job.”
Callaghan unfolded his arms and scrubbed a hand around his jaw. He was a man about thirty, and tough; his gun was slung low, slanting across a flat belly and hanging on narrow hips. He looked like a man who could handle himself in just about any situation.
“You’re comin’ on kinda hard, ain’t you, Bannerman?”
Yancey merely stared back levelly.
“You don’t know your facts,” Callaghan said.
“They speak for themselves,” Yancey told him, gesturing around the yard.
Callaghan’s eyes slitted.
“Dukes ain’t bought yet.”
“He will on my recommendation. Soon as I get back to San Antone.”
“An’ he’ll fire me on your say so—right?” he asked tightly.
“Nothing personal, Callaghan. You just don’t seem to know your job. Either that, or you’re too goddamn lazy to do it.” Callaghan stepped out of the porch’s shadow into the harsh sunlight.
“For now, I’m still runnin’ this spread. An’ I’m runnin’ you off, Bannerman. You and your sidekick.”
His hand streaked for his gun butt. It was a mighty fast draw but the gun barrel wasn’t clear of leather when he abruptly froze and stared down the twin barrels of Cato’s Manstopper. Yancey hadn’t moved. Callaghan flushed and slowly released his hold on his gun butt. It dropped back into the holster silently. Ranch hands working around the yard looked up and stood staring at the trio in front of the big house.
“That was a fool play,” Yancey said easily and dismounted. He stood in front of the ramrod. “Now—if you don’t mind—we’ll inspect the house.”
“Go to hell,” Callaghan growled. “If I’m about to lose my job, I’m gonna make it as hard for you as I can. You come back with a bill of sale or with Abe Kennaway to tell me, then you can look through the house. Otherwise, climb back on that hoss and vamoose.”
“I could get to hate your guts without even straining myself, Callaghan,” Yancey told the man.
“Mutual,” the ramrod growled.
“However—Kennaway gave us permission to look over all of the ranch, house included. Now step aside.”
Callaghan set his boot firmer in the dust and Yancey heard Cato sigh as the Enforcer put up his gun. The ramrod was going to push it to the limit, it seemed.
“You gotta get past me first,” Callaghan challenged. Yancey nodded, lifted a hand to adjust his hat brim, and turned to glance at Cato with a shrug as if to say: ‘He leaves me no choice.’
That was Yancey’s mistake.
Callaghan didn’t hesitate; he saw his advantage and took it. As Cato opened his mouth to call a warning, the ramrod slammed his fist into Yancey’s kidneys. Yancey staggered and one leg folded under him as he dropped to one knee. Callaghan stepped in fast, snapping a knee into Yancey’s face. The Enforcer went over backwards and fell under t
he legs of his startled mount. The horse whinnied and stomped and reared and Cato hastily grabbed the flying reins and pulled the animal’s body around just in time to prevent the hoofs from crushing Yancey’s head. The Enforcer rolled with the kick that Callaghan drove into his ribs and saw ranch hands running across the yard for a closer view.
He bounded up as the ramrod rushed in, his fists sledging. Yancey ducked and weaved, got under the man’s guard and ripped a fist into Callaghan’s midriff. He stopped dead, as if he had run into a brick wall, doubling over Yancey’s fist. The Enforcer snapped a knee up into his face and sent him flying backwards. Callaghan brought up hard against an awning post and Yancey stepped in, ripped two hard blows into his stomach and hooked the man on the jaw as he doubled. Callaghan went to one knee, and dazedly reached to grab Yancey’s legs for support.
The Enforcer kneed him away, twisted his fingers in Callahan’s long red hair and yanked the man’s head back. He drove a fist down but the foreman twisted and hooked a sharp elbow into Yancey’s stomach. The Enforcer gagged and his blow skidded off Callaghan’s jaw. He lost his grip on the man’s hair and Callaghan roared to his feet, coming up as if released from a spring. The top of his head caught Yancey on the jaw and sent the Enforcer reeling.
The ramrod charged after him in a headlong dive, his arms going about Yancey’s hips and carrying him to the dust. They rolled and bounced and gouged and kicked and Callaghan thumped a knee deep into Yancey’s stomach. The Enforcer gagged and Callaghan locked his fingers around Yancey’s throat, smashing his head up and down in the dust. The roar and yells of the crowd of cowhands faded and the scene took on a reddish, hazy appearance to Yancey. He tried to prise the fingers loose but couldn’t, then grabbed one of Callaghan’s little fingers and savagely bent it back.
He heard the finger snap.
Callaghan screamed as he staggered upright, clutching his injured hand. Yancey scrambled unsteadily to his feet then lurched forward and hooked a feeble blow into the other’s face. Callaghan’s head jerked back and he snarled through blood and dirt then swung a backhanded blow. It caught Yancey in the chest and stopped him dead in his tracks.
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