Bannerman the Enforcer 16

by Kirk Hamilton

  The gunfighters were impressed and there were low whistles of appreciation and some brief, animated discussion. Cato was as impressed by the figure as the others but he frowned. A gun-smuggling operation of that magnitude would require vast organization, and someone on the inside of an official armory. Suddenly, this had taken on the elements of an official assignment, something that would not only affect relations between Mexico and Texas, but the whole United States.

  Early let them have a brief discussion about it and then slapped the flat of his hand on the table for silence.

  “I am glad you are impressed, gentlemen. The Mexicans, of course, have to rob a train to get that much gold, an official Mexican Government train. But—think of it! Twenty thousand dollars in gold! We would all be foolish to pass up the chance to share in that amount of money, don’t you think?”

  “Depends on how big our share is,” Cato said flatly and all eyes turned to him.

  “A good, practical approach, Cato. I like it. I plan on taking a hundred thousand and I will undertake to pay my own men out of this. You will share the remaining hundred thousand between you. I believe that works out at twenty thousand dollars each.”

  There was silence around the table—a silence that dragged on for a long minute. George Rainey was the first to speak.

  “That’s a heap of money, Duke. More than a man would normally get for smuggling a few guns across the Rio.”

  Duke Early smiled. “You’re right, Rainey. But of course, the Mexicans want more than just a few guns.”

  “A few? How many?” Cato asked.

  Early looked directly at him. “It doesn’t matter,” he said flatly, raking his odd gaze around the table at the assembled gunfighters. “Because I don’t have the guns to deliver.”

  He was pleased with the shocked reaction that he got.

  “Hell almighty, you don’t figure on attackin’ a U.S. armory to get ’em!” exclaimed Red Sloane. “If you do, count me out!” The others demurred, too, and Early let them all say their piece.

  “All right, gentlemen, all right. You’ve had your say and now allow me to explain further. You see, the rumor that I smuggle guns across the Rio is only that: a rumor. Maybe I am guilty of many things but the main reason I have never smuggled guns is simply because I have never had a reliable contact who could guarantee a continuing supply and no one will deal with a man who can’t be certain of filling his orders. But when I was approached by this senior Mexican official, and told that the payment was to be two hundred thousand in gold, I felt it was too good an opportunity to pass up.” He shrugged and smiled. “So I said I would supply all the guns he required. At a certain place on a certain date, when he will have the gold waiting. I have received word that the massive raid on the gold train has been successful and the bullion will be waiting at the rendezvous for me. All we have to do, gentlemen, is go in and pick it up.”

  “Without handin’ over any guns?” asked Monk Chater in his quiet voice. “Sounds too easy!”

  “No, it won’t be easy, Chater,” Early snapped. “That is precisely why I am willing to pay you so well. For we are going to take that two hundred thousand dollars in gold bullion by force of arms!” He smiled around at them mirthlessly. “And that, gentlemen, is the reason I have brought you here! You will earn your twenty thousand, believe me!”

  Seven – Capture

  To get to Early’s kingdom, Yancey Bannerman used an old Indian trick. After mounting his own horse back at the ambush site, he caught up O’Hara’s horse and stripped the saddle and bridle from it. He then slapped it across the rump with his hat and yelled at it to get on home.

  The horse ran off, glad to be free of the weight of the saddle rig, and Yancey followed ... not too closely. He had figured that Early wouldn’t have an armed guard planted out in the middle of nowhere. The ranch had to be fairly close by.

  Yancey rode warily, rifle cocked, butt resting on one knee, eyes alert. There were no more guards and he had some impatient times while he waited for O’Hara’s mount to do some grazing along the way when they reached a grassy stretch. The ground seemed to be rising, lifting away from the swamps, and it sure felt firmer underfoot. There came a time when O’Hara’s horse refused to move on. It had found a patch of succulent grass and, with no rider to haze it, merely ran off a few yards.

  Yancey yelled or slapped at it but it kept returning to that grass patch. Cursing the animal for time already lost, Yancey followed the general line the horse had been following, topped the rise, but could see nothing but trees and thickets. The direction was northwest and, from what little he knew of the country, the Nueces should lie that way. He pushed on, found some sign that other riders had been that way, and, in mid-afternoon, he spotted the gateway. He swore when he saw that O’Hara’s horse was there ahead of him, cropping grass outside the locked gate.

  He was very cautious now. Here was the logical place to have an armed guard. He found the man but luck was still with him. The man was a Mexican and he had apparently been chewing peyote for he was in the grip of some hallucinatory nightmare, writhing on the ground behind a rock, clawing at some unseen horror, when Yancey found him, attracted by his squeals. Yancey crept up on him, but had no need to use force. The Mexican was slumped over, doped to the eyeballs and unconscious. Yancey searched him, found a key that fitted the gate-lock. He unlocked the gate, let O’Hara’s mount run through, figuring it would find its way to home pastures and mingle with other Broken-T horses, then led his own mount through. He locked the gate again and threw the key through the rails in the direction of the sleeping Mexican.

  There were thickets and clumps of brush to traverse and a heavy stand of lumber prevented him from seeing what lay beyond. He hipped fast in leather at the sound of gunshots, crouching low, reins lifted, heels poised to slam into the gray’s flanks. But whoever was doing the shooting wasn’t using Yancey as a target. They were measured, deliberate shots, and he figured they came from the far side of a saddleback that lifted up beyond the lodgepole. He rode through the timber warily, rifle ready, then set the gray up the saddleback ridge through brush that tore at his clothing.

  He dismounted before he reached the top and the brush was clearer here, less dense. Tethering the mount to a branch, he went on, crouched double, gripping the rifle. He went to ground as he topped the rise so he didn’t skyline himself and tensed when he heard more gunfire, closer now, but not directed at him.

  Squirming along the ground, hoping there were no snakes around, Yancey stared in astonishment at the sight below him.

  There were eight men down there, two with double-barreled shotguns. One of the men he recognized right off as Storm and, a second later, when a big, red-haired ranny moved, he spotted Johnny Cato. His breath hissed out in relief at finding his pard alive and well. But what in hell was going on? There were a lot of six-guns on a flat rock beside Storm, and the ramrod was loading one at a time and handing each to one of the men who would shoot at targets farther down range. Target practice! Puzzled, he got his field glasses from his saddlebag and went back to his vantage point on the ridge top.

  Yancey soon figured it out, when he recognized a couple of the gunfighters down there with Cato. They were all prisoners of a sort, having a certain amount of freedom, but watched over by those men with the shotguns. He couldn’t figure out the details but realized he had arrived as they were nearing the end of their practice session.

  Storm was already packing away the guns in a sack and the shotgun guards were herding Cato and the others back towards a second ridge that was clothed in brush. Yancey watched them go over this ridge before he started forward, long shadows setting a chill on this creepy land as the sun sank lower in the west. From the top of the second ridge, he saw the big house and whistled softly to himself at its size. He saw a tall, lean man in dark trousers and white shirt pacing the long porch. This man spoke briefly with the group before gesturing towards the side of the building. The group went around that way and Yancey had to work hi
s way along the ridge and then through more brush before he found a place where he could see where they were going.

  It was a large square building and there was an armed guard on the door. Even as he watched, Storm opened the door and stood aside, gesturing for the others to go in. Then, just as Cato was about to enter, he paused and looked back towards the main house. Storm and the guards were looking in the same direction and Yancey saw Jeannie Devon crossing the yard.

  He pursed his lips as Storm closed the door and went towards the woman, obviously remonstrating with her. But she was apparently adamant that she wanted to speak with Cato and with Storm walking behind, hand on gun, she took Cato’s arm and moved towards a big tree close to the base of the rise where Yancey lay. Yancey couldn’t see any more without skylining himself and figured that would be a loco thing to do. He would wait until dark. Meantime, he would move around warily, examining that square building, looking for the best approach.

  He aimed to bust Cato out of there tonight, come hell or high water.

  Cato and the woman sat down on a crude seat under the tree, watched by the hard-eyed Storm who stood several yards away, six-gun drawn. Cato could see that Jeannie was scared. She twisted her hands together in her lap.

  “John, I—I’d like to explain a few things …” she began nervously.

  “Forget it,” Cato said shortly. “I ain’t always as dumb as I was in Austin. Sometimes I can figure things out for myself.”

  She put a hand on his knee. “Don’t, John! Please! You don’t understand! I have to do as Duke wants! He’s—he’s crazy, thinks he’s some kind of king ...”

  “Look, Jeannie, I ain’t interested. I fell for your tricks and you got me here. I’m kinda glad you did, if you want the truth. A man don’t get a chance at twenty thousand bucks every day.”

  She frowned, studying him closely. “You—you’re going to do whatever it is he wants? But I thought, well, I hoped you were more interested in getting out of here.” She was whispering now, casting nervous glances towards Storm. “I thought that, maybe, together, with me to show you the way, we might ...”

  Cato shook his head, and rose to his feet. “Nope. I came here along a hard trail and I’m within spittin’ distance of more money than I could ever hope to see any other way. I’ll do my part and I ain’t interested in quittin’.”

  He nodded to her and started back towards the square house. She jumped up and grabbed at his arm but he shook her hand free and continued on past Storm who nodded curtly, eyes still hard and cold.

  “Smart move, Cato,” he said quietly but the small Enforcer didn’t answer, just kept walking.

  Hell, he couldn’t quit now, he told himself. Early would call the whole deal off and they’d never get to know where that stolen gold was. And Cato had figured that the only way the U.S. could square this up was to hand back the bullion to the Mexican Government on a plate. If it got out that a bunch of gringo gunfighters had stolen the gold and taken it out of Mexico, all hell would break loose in political circles and it could spark off another war. He would sure like to get some sort of message out to the Rangers and maybe he could work on Jeannie later to do that, but, right now, he wasn’t sure that she wasn’t just testing him on Early’s orders and he had to play it safe.

  The guard let him back into the square building and as the white-faced woman started slowly back towards the main house, Duke Early appeared on the rear porch, slapping his left leg lightly with the shot-loaded quirt. His eyes were glittering as he looked at Jeannie. She saw him and her legs felt like rubber. She swallowed and then turned to run. Early lifted the quirt a little.

  “Storm!” he snapped.

  The ramrod lunged forward and caught up with the woman, grabbing her left arm in a hard grip. She struggled but couldn’t break his hold. Relentlessly, he dragged her towards the porch where Early waited, smiling coldly, the quirt slapping monotonously against the porch rail now, faster and faster.

  Even by night, the brasada was filled with menace, as most of the predators never slept.

  The guard wasn’t expecting any sort of attack and so he was relaxed, his rifle propped up against the wall of the square building as he hitched one leg onto the porch rail and commenced to roll a cigarette.

  The noises of the night, and the pitch darkness, effectively covered Yancey’s approach and he came up by the porch rail where the guard was perched, without the man suspecting anything. He may have heard the whisper of Yancey’s Peacemaker leaving leather, for he paused in rolling his cigarette and started to turn his head. But he was too late. The gun butt slammed down brutally and Yancey caught the man as he grunted and fell back off the rail. He lowered him to the ground, rolling him under the porch staging. He took the rifle and threw it out into the darkness, hearing it fall into the brush beside the building. The door was locked and he had to search the unconscious guard by sense of touch until he found the key.

  Inside the building, he was surprised to find that it was laid out like a normal house. He was in a short hallway that led to a parlor and, up the short stairs, were several rooms, all opening from a common passage. There was enough light coming through the windows to show him the way but he was faced with the problem of finding which room was Cato’s. He didn’t fancy opening the doors one by one, knowing there were gunfighters sleeping behind them. They may not have their weapons, but these men were hair-trigger sleepers and were used to danger and the unexpected. All hell would break loose if he woke one of them.

  But the problem was solved for him. Outside each door were the boots of the occupant, having been left there for one of Early’s Mexican servants to clean and polish. Out at the target range, Yancey had noticed that they were all wearing polished half boots. It must be another quirk of Early’s. He had no trouble recognizing Cato’s tooled-leather boots and he tried the door gently.

  It was secured by a peg-through-chain arrangement that could only be opened from the passage side. Yancey slipped the chain loose and opened the door silently, slipping into the room and leaning back against the woodwork while he allowed his eyes to get used to the darkness. He groped his way towards the bed and the dark hump of the bedclothes. Yancey reached out to shake the clothes gently and then a strong arm was wrapped around his neck, a hard knee slammed into his kidneys and he felt his spine creak as he was arched backwards, the air cutting off in his throat. Another hand groped for the gun in his holster and Yancey grabbed that wrist, held it, rammed backwards with the elbow of his left arm and heard a grunt as it drove home. The grip relaxed a little around his neck and the knee eased off the pressure on his spine. He broke loose and spun, still holding the wrist, twisting the arm, ready to snap it.

  “Yance!”

  He stopped in mid-motion at the gasping sound of Cato’s voice and could now make out the smaller Enforcer’s shape in the dim light. He released his grip and Cato rubbed his arm, blowing out a long breath.

  “Knew it had to be you, usin’ those counter grips,” Cato said breathlessly. “Just pillows under my blankets. I don’t trust the crew here.”

  “And they don’t trust you,” Yancey said. “Judging by the locked doors and those shotgun guards.”

  “You’ve been around! Hey, Yance, great to see you, pard! I’ve been worryin’ that they’d killed you back at Austin.”

  “Scalp crease.” They gripped hands briefly and Yancey motioned to the passage door. “We better vamoose while the guard’s still out to it.”

  Cato pulled Yancey up short. “Can’t, Yancey! This is a big deal and, if Governor Dukes knew about it, he’d want us to see it through. Sit down on the bed. Long as we keep our voices down we should be okay.”

  Yancey sat but he was dubious. “Dunno how long that guard’ll be out and if someone comes down the passage to check the chains, he’ll see yours hangin’ loose.”

  “There’s no check,” Cato told him. “Bars on the window, locked doors, armed guard outside. No one can get out of here.”

  “Okay. But we
better be quick. What in hell’s going on?”

  Cato told him as briefly as he could but sparing no important details.

  “The place is Uvalde, over the border, near Matamoros,” Cato concluded. “That’s where he’s gonna double-cross the Mexes for the gold. They’re expectin’ a delivery of guns that never even existed. Early told us he sent a man down there to seed in a few hints that he had access to the latest U.S. Army weapons. Yance, if that gold comes across the border into the U.S., we’re all in trouble.”

  Yancey nodded. “Yeah, I see that. All right, Johnny, looks like you’ll have to go along with things for a spell. I’ll try to find my way out of here and get to the Ranger outpost at Laredo. That’ll be nearest.” He stopped speaking abruptly and swore softly.

  “What is it?” Cato asked, alert, listening for sounds of approaching footsteps outside in the passage.

  “The Rangers,” Yancey said quietly. “The governor’s had an official protest from the Mexican Government about the Rangers steppin’ outside their jurisdiction and chasing fugitives across the Rio, then finishing them off on Mexican soil. They’ve been bellyaching about it for some time, but seems it’s coming to a head now. Governor’s orders are that no Ranger, under any circumstances, is to cross the Rio into Mexico.”

  “That’s loco! They can’t expect a lawman to give up just because his man’s on the other side of a muddy damn river that ain’t even ankle deep in some parts!”