Bannerman the Enforcer 4

by Kirk Hamilton

  “But you will, this once,” Dekker said confidently. “You will, Cato! Because you were bored before when you were only making a little money, but here you stand to make five thousand dollars in a single week!”

  “I already told you, I can’t build a hand-made gun in a week.”

  “But suppose it was already half done?” Dekker asked and he smiled at the surprise that was reflected on Cato’s and Yancey’s faces. “Suppose I could give you the frame and barrel already rifled and most of the parts of the action in the rough? Could you do it then?”

  Cato scratched at an ear. “Sounds better. But I’d have to see the gun first ... What’s so special about it? Why the time limit?”

  Dekker’s face sobered. “It is a—gift. I need to have it in about a week.”

  “About a week!”

  “One week as far as you’re concerned!” the rancher snapped. “But I want you to prove it, shoot it in, make sure it is the most accurate weapon you’ve ever produced. And I want special loading for the cartridges, which, by the way, will have copper-jacketed bullets.”

  “How’d you come by them?”Cato asked in genuine surprise. “Smith and Wesson are still experimenting with them. I didn’t know any were on sale out here yet.”

  “I have my ways and means of getting exactly what I want, Cato,” Dekker said. He straightened and fumbled out his key chain again. “But you will see the weapon and you will tell me if you can complete it.” He moved over to a locked cupboard with a heavy door and iron hinges.

  “Who’s worked on it so far? You?”Cato asked.

  Dekker turned with the key in the padlock on the cupboard door. “No. A man named Burrell ... perhaps you know him. He was highly thought of in the gunsmithing trade.”

  “Jason Burrell?”

  “Yes. He worked for me for a few weeks, built up this shop as it stands, as a matter of fact. But before he could complete the special order, he—died.”

  Dekker opened the cupboard door, reached in and brought out a cedar box covered with an oiled cloth. He carried it back to the bench and uncovered the contents. Yancey and Cato crowded closer. Dekker gestured for Cato to examine the metal parts in the box.

  The Enforcer lifted out the body of the gun first, just the octagonal barrel of almost nine inches in length, screwed into the open frame. The metal was still in its ‘white’ state and had not yet been blued or browned, but there wasn’t a file-mark on it, not a scratch, and the bore was highly polished, the rifling positive and fine. Cato snapped his head up and looked sharply at Dekker.

  “Must be ten grooves and lands in that rifling. Usually there is three.”

  “Burrell’s idea. Multi-rifling, he termed it. His theory was that it would give more spin to a jacketed bullet, the copper being slightly harder than straight lead. He said it would be far more accurate.”

  “Likely right, too,” Cato mused, examining the rest of the frame. It had not yet been finished completely, the overstrap too heavy and ungrooved for a sighting channel. Then he noticed the two grooves, one either side, cut along the bottom of the strapping and again he glanced sharply at Dekker. “This is grooved for somethin’ ... A telescope sight?” he asked.

  Dekker nodded slowly. “The very best available, imported from Germany. Many of the big-game hunters, including foreign royalty, use them. It’s a Bausch, Schultz-Larsen. I have it in the house. You’ll see it later. For now, continue your examination. I must have your answer right away.”

  Cato set down the barrel and frame assembly, took out a bundle of parts wrapped in oiled rag and spread them out. They were partially-tempered springs, as yet unshaped to the action; a gleaming pawl that had obviously been painstakingly fashioned by hand and finished with a jeweler’s file; the trigger, smooth, curved excessively to give better finger grip, but with the sear as yet untouched; tiny screws; a rough casting of the hammer and firing pin that would take a deal of handwork to finish; brass handle frame, still rough from casting, and the walnut blocks for the butts, their shape already roughed-out. Cato examined this carefully, seeing two slots marked in pencil, one on the back curve of each butt plate.

  “This to be slotted for a stock?” he asked.

  “Yeah. The stock’s to be made. Burrell left the blank, but the metal tongue assembly to hold it to the butt has yet to be made and the notch cut in the brass handle frame.”

  Cato frowned. “Some gun ... Nine-inch barrel; multi-rifling which can handle jacketed and high-power slugs, a telescope sight, and a stock that fits on the butt to turn it into a miniature rifle ...”

  “That’s the over-all picture,” Dekker admitted, very tense now. “My question still stands, Cato: can you complete it and have it shooting accurately in a week?”

  “Yeah, I can,” Cato said quietly and the tension went out of Dekker as he smiled. Cato glanced at Yancey and said slowly, “I can finish it all right, but I’m wonderin’ whether I should.” Dekker was gathering up the parts and locking them back into the cupboard and didn’t seem interested in the Enforcers’ conversation.

  “How come?” Yancey asked, already knowing the answer.

  Cato’s face was grim as he said, “It’s an assassin’s gun.”

  ~*~

  There were twenty bunks in the long bunkhouse and a silence fell over the big building as Yancey and Cato came, in with Dekker. The rancher wasted little time on introductions. He merely gestured to the two newcomers and said:

  “Cato and Bannerman. See you in the mornin’, boys.”

  He went out and the hard-eyed, tough-jawed men in the bunkhouse stared at the Enforcers. One or two gave a nod but most ignored them. They looked down the long narrow building through the smoke haze and saw some vacant bunks at the far end. Together, shouldering warbags, they walked down, the others’ eyes watching. Yancey saw Bendix—or ‘Fargo’ as he called himself now—looking at him narrowly. Pausing by two bunks, one atop the other, Yancey faced the men, ghost-like through the haze of tobacco smoke.

  “These taken?”

  No one answered at first and he asked again, more harshly, and a skinny youth with a prominent Adam’s apple said the bunks were free. Yancey chose the top one and he and Cato began arranging their things. They had about finished when the murmuring that had started up again faded abruptly and Yancey turned at the sound of solid footsteps coming towards him. Cato looked up, too, threw Yancey a sharp look, as he saw Bendix coming down the aisle, shoulders set aggressively.

  The man paused a few feet away, leaned against a bunk upright, cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth, thumbs hooked in slanting gunbelt, as he squinted at Yancey.

  “Bannerman?” he queried. “Or Banner?”

  “You heard Dekker,” Yancey said, figuring to play this tough.

  “I heard him ... And I figure I know you from someplace, mister.”

  Yancey gave him a hard, searching look. “Well, I sure wouldn’t bother rememberin’ you.”

  He turned back to his bunk and went on rearranging his gear. He heard Bendix’s quick step behind him and he turned swiftly, chopping down with his elbow as he caught the man’s position out of the corner of his eye. His elbow drove into Bendix, just where his neck joined his shoulders and the man sat down with a grunt, started up but froze as he felt the muzzle of Yancey’s Peacemaker against his temple. His eyes were fear-ridden.

  “You can’t want to remember that bad, Bendix!” As soon as he spoke, Yancey cursed himself: he had used the man’s real name not the one he had assumed here. Cato was aware of the slip and Bendix frowned, his eyes narrowing as he got up slowly, backing off, hands half-raised, showing he didn’t want this to reach the shooting stage. But he was very wary of Yancey now and he ran a tongue over his lips and said hoarsely:

  “Must’ve made a mistake ... You, too. My name’s Fargo, Steve Fargo.”

  “Makes no never-mind to me what any man calls himself,” Yancey said. “Fargo it is. But it’ll be the ‘late’ Steve Fargo if you try anything like that again, mist
er.”

  Bendix held up a placating hand. “Like I said, my mistake, feller ... no hard feelings, huh?”

  Yancey merely looked at him and then put his gun away in its holster, turning back towards his bunk. As he did so, he caught Cato’s eye and the smaller man frowned, pursing his lips, shaking his head briefly. Yancey shrugged: it couldn’t be helped now. Trouble was, Bendix might start figuring harder than ever where it was he saw Yancey and how come the big man knew him by his real name.

  It was possible the man could yet blow the whole deal wide open.

  Chapter Five – Pressure Point

  By next morning, after they had managed to grab some time together in private, Yancey and Cato had figured it would be best not to risk Bendix recalling that he and Yancey had had a run-in in Rondo several months back. If he remembered him only as Jim Banner, gunfighter, that would be fine. But if he should recall that Yancey’s cover had been blown and his true identity had been known, then this could backfire on them.

  So, after breakfast, Yancey and Cato approached Dekker as the man walked towards the bunkhouse to issue orders for the day. He left the management of the Mexican riders and ranch-hands to his segundo, a black-eyed, slash-mouthed hard case named Carney, who had Irish and Spanish blood in his veins.

  “Ah, Cato, Bannerman,” Dekker greeted the Enforcers affably. “Ready to start work on your commission?”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Dekker,” Cato answered.

  “You got anything special you want me to do?” Yancey asked.

  Dekker looked narrowly at him. “They’ll find somethin’ for you over at the bunkhouse,” he said shortly, turned to Cato and started to speak, but Yancey interrupted him before he could get the words out.

  “Like what?” he asked. “I don’t aim to sit around twiddling my fingers, Dekker.”

  The rancher snapped his head around fast. “Mr. Dekker! And you remember it, Bannerman!” He dragged down a deep breath as Yancey said nothing. “What the hell do you care whether you sit around or not, long as you get paid?”

  “Well, what do I get paid?”

  Dekker looked puzzled. “The deal now is for five thousand ... provided the gun’s finished in a week.”

  Yancey shook his head. “That’s the deal you got with Cato. I’m not cut in on that! It’s his. I dunno anything about building guns.”

  Dekker frowned. “I thought you two would share it.”

  “Not the way we work. You got us out here under false pretences, Mr. Dekker! You offered us both three thousand bounty on rustlers. That’s what I’m interested in.”

  Dekker waved that away. “Hell, I’ve got more than enough men to take care of any rustlers loco enough to throw a wide loop over Circle D beef. Like you say, that bounty talk was only a come-on.”

  Yancey’s face hardened. “Dangerous game you play, mister. I don’t like wastin’ my time. And I don’t aim to fill in a week ridin’ line for you.” He looked at Cato and nodded. “I’ll head back to town and wait for you in the back parlor of one of the gal-houses.” He looked back at the tight-faced Dekker. “Adios, mister. And thanks for nothing.”

  Yancey started to swing away.

  “Hey, Yance,” Cato said. “I’ll split three thousand with you like it was supposed to be, but I’ll take the other two off the top ... I won’t see you lose out altogether.”

  Yancey paused and nodded to Cato. “Gracias, Johnny. But I’ll still wait for you in town. Make sure our other money comes through okay.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you in a week then.”

  “Hold up, Bannerman!” snapped Dekker as the big Enforcer started to move off again. He took a step forward as Yancey halted again and turned to face the rancher. “You ain’t quite got the picture. I want you to stay here.”

  “Too dull, man. I aim to pass the week a lot more pleasantly in town.”

  “You don’t seem to savvy,” Dekker repeated, very tight faced now. “I said I want you to stay here! In other words, feller, you stay!”

  Yancey stiffened and Cato straightened.

  “I told you my word is law out here,” Dekker said coldly. “When I say you stay, that’s what you do.”

  “I don’t want to stay,” Yancey told him softly.

  “Makes no never-mind, Bannerman. I want you to stay on so that’s what you do.”

  Yancey gave him a faint crooked smile and shook his head as he turned slowly to walk away. But he stopped dead in his tracks and Cato spun, freezing with his hand sweeping towards the butt of his Manstopper. Four men, one of whom was Chuck Bendix, stood just outside the bunkhouse with leveled rifles. They cocked the hammers at a signal from Dekker and the rancher gave Yancey a faint smile.

  “Savvy me now, Bannerman? Or Banner, whatever your name is?”

  Yancey’s eyes narrowed as they swiveled towards Bendix. So the man had informed Dekker of his altercation with Yancey. Things could get dangerous if he pushed them now and he and Cato had agreed that Cato should push on with the weapon, following through to see what Dekker had in mind. It looked like it could only be meant for Governor Dukes on his forthcoming visit to Rifle Ridge and the surrounding area, but it was no use nipping it in the bud at this stage. They needed more details and wanted to spread their net wide and catch everybody involved. If Yancey fouled it at this stage by digging in his heels, they might miss half the people involved and, if they got away, they could come back for some future attempt on Dukes’ life ...

  Yancey sighed and shrugged. “I think I savvy you now, Mr. Dekker,” he said more reasonably. “But, hell, I didn’t come here to play toy soldier. And I know I could pass the time a helluva lot more pleasantly in town.”

  “You can pass it here,” Dekker said shortly. “Any way you wish. But here. On Circle D. Set one foot outside my boundaries without my say-so and you’re a dead man, Bannerman. That’s the orders I’ve issued.”

  Yancey made a helpless gesture. “Okay. You’ve made your point. Reckon I’ll go catch up on my letter-writing and reading.”

  He turned towards the door of the bunkhouse, walking past the menacing guns and giving Bendix a bleak look. He went inside swiftly and Dekker gestured to one of the men, the lean youth with the prominent Adam’s apple. “You stay around here today. The rest of you can get about your usual duties.” He smiled at Cato. “Your friend’ll be all right, John ... Now, you ready to start work?”

  “Sure thing,” Cato said, but there was an intonation in Dekker’s voice that worried him. He felt that what the rancher had really meant to say was that Yancey would be all right ... as long as Cato worked well on the gun.

  Dekker was using Yancey as an oblique point of pressure on Cato. And Cato didn’t like it. It mean that, sooner or later, when he started stalling as he would have to, someone would hold a gun against Yancey’s head and say it straight out: finish that gun the way it was meant to be, or Yancey gets his head blown off.

  ~*~

  Cato started to enjoy himself once he got to work on the special gun. Whoever had conceived it, and he assumed it had been Jason Burrell, a top gunsmith in his field of custom-built guns, had covered every detail. Such a gun, with high-powered bullets that would give more recoil and make the barrel ride up, needed a heavy barrel, thick at the muzzle for this very reason. And when Cato examined the octagonal barrel more closely he saw that Burrell had taken this into consideration, made a grooved slide underneath the muzzle that went back for three inches. Rummaging through the box of parts he found four tiny iron weights that had been slotted to slip into this groove: all four could be fixed on at once, or only three, two or one, depending on the degree of recoil the shooter found he could control best. It was an ingenious idea and would make for an extremely steady hold to point-of-aim. This, coupled with the multi-rifling grooves, the walnut butts that were marked out for fingers and thumb grip, the telescopic sight and the removable stock, would make for an extremely accurate weapon. Cato found himself anxious to try it out.

  His first thought had b
een that he would file the lands at the muzzle, mutilating the rifling without it being apparent to a layman, so that the bullets would be thrown all over the countryside, no matter how many telescopic sights were employed. But Dekker had soon taken care of that idea by announcing that he would personally supervise the shooting-in of the pistol and he was prepared to accept nothing less than five shots going into a circle no larger than a half-dollar at fifty yards. He would prefer it even tighter but that was his upper limit of acceptance.

  He hinted that if Cato couldn’t manage to make the gun that accurate then he had best say so, pronto.

  But Cato knew he could do it; in fact, wanted to do it now. It was a challenge. He could, with the right combination of powder charge and bullet weight, he knew, put ten shots through the same target hole at fifty yards if he worked at it long enough. Of course, this didn’t necessarily mean that the gun would be a good field weapon, or even a dependable one for assassination. For, to get accuracy, he would likely have to cut back, way back, on the powder and drill out some of the lead inside the copper bullet jacket, so that it would really be a slow-moving lightweight missile. Now a slow-moving heavyweight bullet, like the .30.30 or .44.40 calibers used by deer hunters to this day, is a very different matter: it will bull its way through brush, smashing aside smaller branches without losing much accuracy or knock-down power at all. But without the weight, it could easily be deflected, even drop short of its target. And a lightweight high velocity slug could just as easily be deflected by branches, could even disintegrate through striking a twig. So, for this gun to do the job it was intended for—and that was to kill—the bullets needed to be heavy, the powder charge likewise, though it would still take a deal of experimentation to get the right combination.