Bannerman the Enforcer 16

by Kirk Hamilton

  The trail Yancey Bannerman followed, led to Santa Rosa, a ramshackle settlement deep in the heart of the brasada country and built on a bank of the winding Nueces River. It was part adobe, but mainly clapboard and tarpaper, a town that looked mean and miserable, reflecting the country around it and, he had no doubt, the temperament of its citizens, as well.

  For he hadn’t heard a friendly word since leaving Vance Ranger headquarters. A stranger who asked questions in the brasada was regarded with suspicion and, if his enquiries were answered at all, they would more than likely be with lies and deliberately misleading information. Somehow, he had managed to survive the wrong directions he had been given on at least two occasions, and he had figured it out the third time for himself before he had ridden off a cliff in the dark. But he had managed to get a positive lead, a sighting of two men and a red-haired woman, the descriptions of the men fitting Storm and Cato, and the information led him to Santa Rosa.

  When he saw the town and felt the hard-eyed stares of the folk on the streets boring into his back as he rode along, Yancey figured he might well have trouble getting any more of a lead beyond this place. There was only one way that he could, perhaps allay the suspicions of the townsfolk. He stomped into the lone saloon, which was a part of the general store, ready to play a part.

  There were men in the barroom and he saw hands drop beneath the tables and hover near gun butts as he made his way towards the bar. The barkeep was big and craggy-faced and he watched Yancey’s approach with hard eyes. As he made his way down the room, Yancey’s gaze swept around and he moved so that he was close to one wall. He kept his hand on his gun butt and nodded briefly to the deadpan barman.

  “Redeye.”

  The man made no move and Yancey frowned, realized he wanted to see some money first. He dug out a dollar piece and slapped it on the bar. The barkeep reached down and brought up a whisky bottle and shot glass, slopping some liquid into it and scooping up the money. Yancey downed it fast, slapped another dollar on the counter. The glass was refilled and he tossed down half the drink, smacked his lips. He was half-turned so he could watch the room.

  “Sure needed that,” he said. “Damn Rangers ain’t given me time to hardly draw breath these past three weeks, let alone stop for a drink.” He looked around worriedly. “This town’s okay, ain’t it? No Rangers around? I heard tell it was safe for a man here, that he could find his way into the brasada and shake anyone along his back trail.”

  “No Rangers here, mister,” the barkeep said and began to move away.

  Yancey started to nod and lifted his glass to finish his drink, then suddenly checked, eyes narrowing. “Like hell there ain’t!” he said in gravel voice, bringing the barkeep up short. He was staring at a mean-eyed, gaunt man with a black spade beard and an old bullet scar on the left ear. Yancey recognized him as a wanted man by the name of Cotter, a Ranger-killer who had been on the wanted list a long time. Cotter was a loner, a vicious, gun-slick hombre who had slipped through the fingers of the law in three States.

  The barkeep frowned, seeing Yancey staring at Cotter who was sitting alone at a table, back to the wall, playing solitaire one-handed. The other hand was beneath the table out of sight and Yancey knew it would be close to his gun, or maybe he would already have the gun in his hand.

  “That hombre’s a Ranger,” he told the barkeep quietly. “How long’s he been here?”

  Still frowning, the barkeep said, “Drifts in and out. But he ain’t no Ranger. He killed one, which is why he don’t go far from here.”

  “What’s he call himself?”

  The barkeep looked at Yancey suspiciously. “Lew Overbee.”

  Yancey shook his head slowly. “That’s not his tag. Name’s Cotter. Undercover Ranger. He’s put some of us boys in Boothill and more behind the walls of the Territorial prison.” He swore viciously. “Bastard knows me, too! Likely workin’ on my case!”

  “And who’re you?”

  “Jim Banner. You’ll hear of me in a couple of weeks ... when the wanted dodgers start driftin’ in.” He scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, downed his drink in a jerky toss and set the shot glass down on the counter, not taking his eyes off Cotter. He knew the man was watching, although he appeared to be concentrating on his cards. “Well, I’m sure bushed and I don’t feel like ridin’ on yet a spell. So I guess there’s only one thing to do.”

  He thrust off the bar, planting his boots solidly, turning to face Cotter’s table. Others in the bar saw the signs right off and began edging out of the line of fire.

  “Cotter!” snapped Yancey and the man jerked his head up with a snap, not expecting to be called by his real name.

  But his reflexes were good and there was barely any hesitation before he heaved the table aside, cards flying wild, and brought his Colt up from where he had been holding it in his lap. Yancey hadn’t even commenced his draw when he saw the gun barrel snapping up into line and his right hand moved in a swift, blurring action as he slid to one side. Only a very sharp ear could have detected the hair’s-breadth of time between the two shots: they sounded almost as one and splinters flew from the edge of the bar on Yancey’s left. Cotter was lifted off the floor as the impact of the lead took him squarely in the center of the chest. His body hit the wall and his gun fell from nerveless fingers. He was dead before he crashed to the floor, knocking over another table with a clatter.

  Through the gunsmoke, Yancey stared at the others, turning his gun barrel to cover them as he walked forward and knelt beside Cotter’s body. The man had needed killing and would be no loss to anyone. But he could still be useful to Yancey. The big governor’s man knelt beside the still body, his left hand swiftly and expertly turning out Cotter’s pockets while he kept his gun pointed at the silent men in the big room. No one moved but all eyes watched him through the drifting gunsmoke. Then Yancey looked at the things he had taken from Cotter: the usual assortment of junk—clasp knife, money, dirty kerchief, folded wanted dodger concerning a man named Sam Mears who had two thousand dollars’ reward on his head, a pencil stub, a broken poker chip. Yancey palmed a square of paper from his own pocket as he used the gun barrel to poke through the stuff on the floor, reached inside the dead man’s shirt and showed the square of paper as he brought his hand out. He unfolded it, nodded in satisfaction and stood up. He took this paper and the wanted dodger to the bar and slapped them down in front of the barkeep.

  “Told you he was a Ranger,” Yancey said pointing first to the dodger. “Looks like he was after that hombre ...”

  The barman glanced at the dodger and wasn’t quite fast enough to keep the surprise from showing on his face, but he covered swiftly. “Word was that Overbee, or Cotter or whatever his name was, did some bounty-huntin’. That’s why he rode off for a spell and then came back.”

  Yancey made a derisive gesture. “Sure! He got a lead on his man and went after him. Either killed him or turned him in at the nearest Ranger outpost. And that’s what that second paper is. A list of the Ranger outposts.”

  He pointed to the creased and grubby square of paper that the Ranger captain in Vance had given him and the barkeep frowned as he picked it up slowly and read it, moving his lips as he spelled out the words. He glanced at Yancey and then at the tensed men in the bar.

  “I reckon that’s right. Looks like this feller here ... you say your name’s Banner? ... Yeah. Well, looks like Banner done us a favor, boys. He gunned down an undercover Ranger!” There was still some reserve, but, in the main, Yancey was accepted after that. There was a lot of discussion amongst the others about an undercover Ranger slipping into their ranks and now Yancey had the stature of having killed that Ranger his own job was made that much easier. Men bought him drinks and a couple tentatively clapped him on the back, men who had good reasons to be grateful that a Ranger agent had been discovered in their midst and eliminated before he could move against them. Yancey figured to strike while the iron was hot, before someone started wondering why an undercover
agent would be loco enough to carry a list of Ranger outposts with him, or why he would even need to.

  “Lookin’ for a pard of mine,” he said to the small group that had gathered round him at the bar. “Name of Storm. He was ridin’ this way, with a red-haired gal and another hombre. Smallish feller, black hair, about thirty-five. Heard he was headed into Santa Rosa.”

  There was silence for a spell, then the barkeep asked, “Why d’you want Storm?”

  Yancey’s face hardened. “My business, mister.”

  The barkeep held up a placatory hand. “Sure, sure ... Just wondered, is all.”

  “Well?” Yancey asked impatiently. “Has he been through here or not?”

  “He was through,” the barkeep told him. “But he headed out of town again, almost right away.”

  “Where to? Broken-T?”

  The barkeep looked sharply at the others, surprise showing on his craggy face again. “You know about Broken-T?”

  Yancey shrugged. “Not much. Run by Duke Early, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah,” the barman said slowly. “S’posed to be.”

  Yancey frowned. “What’s that mean?”

  “We-ell, it’s this way, Banner. Early’s got a spread somewheres in the brasada, but no one knows exactly where. Except the fellers who work for him, and they don’t talk much about it. Or about Early, neither.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard,” Yancey said. “Heard, too, that a man can hide out there, long as he can pay his way.” The barkeep looked uneasy. “Wouldn’t know about that.” There was an edge of anxiety in his voice and Yancey figured Duke Early had this town hogtied. Not even the fact that he had shot down Cotter, the supposed Ranger agent, could make these men talk freely about Duke Early. It was some indication of the power the man held over Santa Rosa.

  A man on the edge of the group said suddenly, “They say around these parts, mister, that you don’t count the miles to Broken-T, you count the graves. Pays to remember that.”

  “Reckon it would,” Yancey agreed, looking impressed. “Well, how’m I gonna get to see Storm, if I can’t find my way to Broken-T? He owes me a favor and right now I could sure use one ... a big one, if you know what I mean.”

  Being men on the run themselves, they knew exactly what he meant. There was silence for a spell and then the barkeep dragged down a deep breath and turned the wanted dodger around on the bar. He placed a finger on the portrait of the outlaw above the name ‘Sam Mears’.

  “See this hombre? He works for Broken-T. Uses the name Simm O’Hara around here. But he’s in town right now, havin’ some horseshoes made at the blacksmith’s. Got a room across from the forge. Could be he’ll take a message to Storm for you. ’Specially if you show him this dodger and tell him where you got it. He could be grateful you put a bullet into Lee Overbee ... or Cotter ... before he tried to collect that reward.”

  Yancey nodded his thanks and folded up the dodger, placing it in his shirt pocket. “This Early a tough hombre, huh?”

  They were reluctant to talk about the man but they couldn’t resist telling him of the rumors about him. He was supposed to run guns down to Mexico and bring back slaves in return. He would give sanctuary to outlaws as long as they could pay. He rarely left the Broken-T and that could also be said about a lot of men who went out there. But the brasada was like that: it swallowed men in various ways.

  Yancey got cleaned up but only trimmed his four-day stubble, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to hide the lines of his face some in this area. It was possible he could run into some outlaw he had tangled with as an Enforcer for Governor Dukes sometime in the past. After putting on clean shirt and trousers, he went looking for Sam Mears and found him in his room opposite the blacksmith’s forge. Mears, or O’Hara as he called himself, met him with a gun in his hand and hard suspicion in his cold eyes. He listened silently while Yancey told him his story and showed him the wanted dodger.

  The man looked at Yancey sharply after glancing at the dodger. “So?”

  “Well, hell, I figured you might take me out to Broken-T so’s I can see Storm.”

  O’Hara shook his head briefly and made to close his door, tossing the wanted dodger to the floor. Yancey put a smile on his face and jammed a boot in the door, leaning a shoulder against it.

  “Might be worth somethin’ to you.”

  “Like what?” O’Hara was a shade more interested now at the hint of money.

  “Like maybe a hundred bucks. And could be Duke Early’ll give you a pat on the back.”

  O’Hara’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean?”

  Yancey looked around him. “Can’t talk here.”

  “Here or nowhere, mister,” O’Hara said.

  Yancey shrugged. “You want to talk about guns out here?”

  “What you mean ‘guns’?” asked O’Hara, but he had lowered his voice.

  “I might be able to put Early in line for some guns. I hear he pushes a few across the Rio now and again.”

  O’Hara’s eyes ran over Yancey as he thought about it. He wanted that hundred but he didn’t know whether to risk taking Yancey out to Broken-T or not.

  “You got that hundred on you?” he asked suddenly. Yancey nodded and he saw O’Hara make his decision and as the gun barrel came farther out through the opening, Yancey slammed his shoulder into the door hard, right hand driving down towards his gun butt. O’Hara went staggering back across the room as the door smashed into him and Yancey followed through fast, slamming down at the man’s gun hand with his Peacemaker barrel. O’Hara yelled as the metal jarred against his wrist bone and his gun clattered to the floor. But he was a long way from being finished. He dropped to a crouch and his left hand slapped against the top of his half boot and came up with a knife. Yancey leapt back as the flashing steel slashed at his belly and he lashed out with his gun barrel, missed, and lurched awkwardly aside as O’Hara swung the blade back and up. The knife caught Yancey’s brass belt buckle and gouged a bright scar across the yellow metal. Yancey slammed his left hand down, caught the knife arm and twisted it viciously aside, bringing around his gun. He rammed the barrel into O’Hara’s belly then slammed the man across the side of the head with it. His legs buckled as Yancey brought the Peacemaker barrel over and smashed the knife from his grasp.

  The outlaw started to fall and Yancey hit him again across the side of the head. O’Hara dropped to his knees, hands groping at the floor for support. Yancey kicked his hands out from under him and O’Hara spread out on his face on the dirty floor, moaning. Yancey knelt swiftly, rolled the man over onto his back and saw that he was half out to it. He looked around, saw a chipped enamel water jug and dashed its contents into O’Hara’s face.

  The outlaw gasped and shook his head as he blinked things back into focus. Yancey hurled the jug aside, knelt beside him, and rammed the gun muzzle hard between his eyes. O’Hara’s eyes widened as Yancey snapped the hammer back to full cock, his face iron-hard.

  “Now, about this trail out to Broken-T …”

  O’Hara swallowed, nodding, fear, for the moment, masking the hate in his eyes. “Okay, I’ll take you, seein’ as you want to get there so bad.”

  Yancey glared down at him, slowly lowered the hammer, but he kept the muzzle pressed against O’Hara’s forehead.

  “Savvy one thing, O’Hara or Mears or whatever your name is, you try to pull anythin’, and I’ll blow you apart. Got it?”

  The man swallowed as he nodded and Yancey slowly stood up, reached down and yanked him to his feet. He shoved him violently into the wall, keeping him covered with his Peacemaker.

  “I need to hide out bad, mister ... You get your things and we’ll ride out of here pronto.”

  O’Hara shook his head. “No good. That’ll mean campin’ in the thickets tonight, and that ain’t anythin’ to look forward to, mister.”

  “Maybe not, but that’s what we’re gonna do. I ain’t stickin’ around here overnight. You’re likely to have too many friends who could come callin’.”


  O’Hara’s face showed real fear as he started to gather his things. But Yancey knew it wasn’t fear of him this time. It was the thought of spending a night out in the open in the brasada with its snakes and predators. But, though he didn’t much fancy the idea himself, Yancey figured he would be safer there than if he stayed here in Santa Rosa.

  There were all kinds of snakes. And some of them had legs—and guns.

  Six – Broken-T

  Cato was living the good life, but he knew he was a prisoner just the same, here at Broken-T.

  They had arrived three days ago and, still having no idea of what kind of reception to expect at that time, Cato had watched the tall man in corduroy trousers and white shirt step down from the porch of the long building that had a plank with the Broken-T burned into it nailed above the steps. They had passed through a heavy timber gate earlier and the plank above it, slung by rusted chains from a lodgepole arch, was inscribed ‘Early’s Kingdom’. Another sign, lower down, painted on shingles said, briefly: ‘Come In And Be Shot’. A man as direct as that just had to be an egomaniac, Cato figured, and when he was introduced to Early by Storm he knew he was right. The man grinned, not even glancing at the woman who was his wife, and thrust out his hand to Cato as Storm freed his wrists from the rawhide bonds.

  “Welcome to my kingdom, Cato. You’ll be here for a spell. You call me ‘Duke’. Anything you need, ask my servants. Don’t try to look around unless you’re escorted. I’ll talk with you again at supper. Or sometime over the next day or two.” He flicked his eyes towards Storm. “Put him with the others.”

  As Storm nudged Cato in the back with his six-gun and marched him across the yard towards the side of the main house, Cato heard Jeannie say:

  “I think you’ll find him suitable, Duke.”

  “He better be or you’ll know it,” Early snapped. “You can go to your quarters. Your part’s finished.”

  “Is that all you’ve got to say?”