Bannerman the Enforcer 9

by Kirk Hamilton

  Mel Huckabee was to get a stone marker, with a loving message from his wife and children chiseled beneath his name as well as full information about his life. The town was shocked to learn that he had been involved in some slick-dealing with land but he had not taken their money: the people he had duped were strangers. It seemed to Waco folk that he had respected them enough not to steal their money by sly dealing.

  Lang Huckabee had no illusions about his brother; he had been weak and greedy, and though his wife promised to make what restitution she could, Lang would never think of Mel without remembering his double-dealing and how it had eventually got him killed.

  He itched to get after that special rifle. It was his duty, he felt, to see Mel’s wife and kids through the ordeal of the funeral, but, once that was over, he aimed to do what he could towards recovering that special Winchester ... despite having given Yancey Bannerman his word not to get involved.

  Lang felt that that didn’t really count; he had been wounded—slight though it was—and he had been stunned by the nearness of death when Lindeen had made him break and run. He reckoned that Bannerman had extracted his word from him when he was under stress and he figured that he couldn’t really be held to it.

  Besides, time was dragging on. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep the news about the missing rifle from getting back to the Winchester Company. True, it might make things a shade easier if he had the official backing of such a powerful company, with the authority to offer a special reward, but he would rather expend some personal effort and recover the weapon himself.

  Then, if ever word did get back to Winchester Arms, it would go in his favor that he had acted responsibly by going after the thieves. He was in the Enforcers’ debt, so he wanted to help.

  They were somewhere out in the hill country, trying to find a way into whatever hideout Hallam and his bunch were using. Listening only vaguely to the preacher’s words, Huckabee stirred uneasily, restlessly. He wanted to be out there with them.

  And, as soon as he could decently leave, that’s just where he was headed: into the hills. He knew how to reach the area where he and Cato had lost Lindeen. He would make that his starting point.

  He was suddenly aware that the people were singing around him and Mel’s wife nudged him, a look of reproach on her face. He stirred, cleared his throat noisily—earning a frown from the sour-faced preacher—then lifted his voice to the strains of ‘Rock Of Ages.’

  Two men with shovels were already beginning to fill in the grave.

  ~*~

  The Enforcers were lost.

  Yancey hated to admit it and Cato swore vehemently that he could find his way out of the tangled canyons, given time. But the fact remained—they were lost.

  “It’s all this twisting and turning,” Yancey said irritably, tilting his head to look at the high, narrow walls where only a sliver of blue-gray sky showed. “Can’t see the sun long enough to hold your direction. This is the third time we’ve gotten ourselves bushed in this one box canyon—We keep doing this and we’ll be a week getting out.”

  Cato sighed heavily; he had to admit that he had figured he would clear this particular canyon on the third try. But he wasn’t about to give up.

  “Likely we went wrong at the needle rock. We should’ve gone at a tangent into what looked like just a draw; it was likely the narrow end of a pass leading out of here.”

  Yancey smiled faintly.

  “Well, I guess you could be right—seeing as it was the only direction left to go, from the needle rock.”

  Cato shrugged. “I’m like that: pick directions unerringly.” He grinned and spat, then washed out his mouth with tepid water from the saddle canteen. “No wonder no one could track Hallam down. He could be watching us right now.”

  “Could be,” Yancey agreed. “If he is, he’ll be laughing. But we better get back and try that draw, Johnny. I don’t fancy spending a night here.”

  They turned their skittish mounts—the animals seemed to sense the foreboding that hung over the spooky area—and worked their way back out of the canyon. For a time, it looked as though they weren’t going to be able to locate the trail back to the needle rock, but Cato found it by a fluke, though he acted casual about it. Yancey smiled faintly: his pard didn’t fool him any.

  This time they were lucky. The draw was the narrow end of a pass and it led them out of the tangled canyons and into a mess of hills that had scrub and sparse timber growing on them. The sun was dropping towards the west and they had something on which to base actual direction again.

  Yancey pulled out a map and he and Cato pored over it for twenty minutes before they agreed on the area where they were.

  “We ain’t been in this deep before,” Cato said. “See here to the north? Lots of caves marked and there’s a notation on the map.”

  Yancey tilted the map more into the light.

  ‘“Caves of various sizes—Beware. Depth and interiors unknown.’ ... Well, that sounds like a good spot for outlaws to hole up, but I can’t believe that they haven’t been checked out.”

  “Depends on how many caves there are, Yance—I mean, it could take a troop of soldiers six months to check out a hundred caves thoroughly.”

  Yancey nodded slowly.

  “Well, it looks like we’re going to camp out tonight so we’ll ride north in the morning and have a look at some of these caves. Notice there’s a subterranean stream that surfaces through one of the canyons that has caves in it. Might be worth starting there: wherever Hallam goes, he’ll need permanent water.”

  Cato grunted: “Some of these rock caves have pools in ’em.”

  They started to ride for the slope when, abruptly, Yancey held up his hand. Cato reined down immediately.

  There was a crash of distant gunfire.

  The Enforcers exchanged glances and then spurred their mounts up the slope. It seemed to come from over the ridge in front of them though it was hard to tell because of the echoes. The horses were weary from the hard days of trailing among the rocks and their feet were sore. They protested at the way they were being urged on but the men kept kicking their heels into their flanks and the animals responded, heaving and pawing their way up the steep slope.

  The Enforcers could hear the gunshots plainly and it was certain that they were coming from beyond the ridge. There seemed to be a single rifle against several other guns; a mixture of rifles and six-guns. They were ragged volleys followed by several fast shots from the single rifle.

  Almost at the top, Yancey’s mount stumbled and he stepped out of the saddle as the animal started to fall and slide. Cato wrenched his mount aside but pulled back too hard on the reins and succeeded in bringing his own mount down. He rolled out of the saddle, snatching his rifle from the scabbard, and threw himself aside as hoofs kicked and thrashed only inches from his face.

  Both horses were rolling and sliding back down the slope, unable to stop themselves.

  Cursing and covered in dust, the Enforcers picked themselves up and continued to scramble their way to the top of the ridge. Panting, they skidded in the loose earth and went to ground as they neared the crest. Yancey leading, they squirmed their way onto the ridge as there came a crash of gunfire from below on the far side. It was followed swiftly by the shrill whickering of a horse in agony and a human cry of someone in pain.

  There was a furious volley, a mixture of rifle and handgun fire and Yancey and Cato instinctively ducked as stray bullets ricocheted from rocks and went slashing and whining overhead. They were in some sparse brush and Yancey used his gun barrel to push it aside and look down.

  In the fold between the ridges, a string of horsemen rode fast, shooting on the run, their guns angled upwards. One horse and one man lay on the trail behind them.

  Turning their gazes towards the riders’ target, the Enforcers saw a lone man stretched out on a flat rock, maybe a hundred feet below, his horse standing with trailing reins, ten yards from him. He was lying on his belly, shooting at the m
en below. Yancey knew at once who it was.

  “Huckabee,” he breathed incredulously.

  “And the Hallam bunch.”

  Cato started shooting and Yancey thumbed back his Colt’s hammer and got off a couple of fast shots. The outlaws glanced up, startled, and Hallam rammed home his spurs. The others followed suit and they thundered away down the trail, weaving and raising a dust cloud that was painted gold and crimson by the rapidly setting sun.

  By the time they had reached the end of the pass, the floor was in deep shadow and it was difficult to make out the body of the dead man. Yancey and Cato stood, holding their fire, as the outlaws cleared the pass. Then Lang Huckabee waved and came clambering up the slope towards them.

  “That was the Hallam bunch,” he panted, looking pleased with himself. “I came upon ’em down in the pass and figured I could stop ’em. But my damn’ bronc ran off with the rifle I’d geared up with the fast-action lever-and-toggle. Only left me with an ordinary Winchester and I couldn’t get the shots off fast enough.”

  “What the hell’re you doing here, Huckabee?” asked Yancey wearily. “Judas Priest! I seem to be asking you that same question every time I turn around. But tell me: what are you doing here?”

  Huckabee blinked at Yancey’s tone then glanced at Cato but there was only a hard look for him there. The Winchester man awkwardly shifted his boots on the slope.

  “Well—I—I knew you fellers were looking for the tracks of the Hallam bunch in the hills. Soon as the funeral was over and I could decently leave Mel’s family, I came out here, too. I knew I could find my way back to where we lost Lindeen the other day—”

  “Where you lost Lindeen,” Cato corrected him bitterly. “I had him in fine sight till you spooked him.”

  Huckabee shrugged, though he looked contrite.

  “Okay. Anyway, I found my way back, all right, and started lookin’ around. I got myself lost a little in a draw but left my horse and climbed up the walls. I—er—fell off a boulder I was standing on and almost rolled over a ledge that had been hidden by some thick brush. And down below was a canyon with a small creek and lots of caves. There was a bunch of men riding out of it and I took a rough bearing by the sun and figured where they had to show and rode like hell.” He paused and looked uneasy again. “I got lost again, but, just as I was getting ready to spend the night in the hills, I heard horses. And they came riding along through that narrow pass. I figured I’d never get a better chance at ’em so—I opened up.”

  The Enforcers stared at him, envious of his dumb luck, but angry that, once again, he had spooked the outlaw bunch.

  “Well, we’ve lost ’em now,” Yancey said. “Leastways, for tonight.” He gestured to the sky that was a writhing mass of color. “We might pick up their trail in the morning, but, knowing these hills the way they do, they’ll likely ride all night and be miles away come dawn.”

  “You’'ve done it again, Huckabee,” Cato told him, grimfaced.

  “Well, damn it, I’m no gypsy,” the Winchester man said sharply. “I don’t have a crystal ball. I can’t read your minds, or know what’s happening. Anyway, you wouldn’t’ve found ’em at all if I hadn’t started shooting.”

  “We’d have come up over this ridge and down into that pass and we’d have found the fresh tracks,” Yancey explained wearily. “They wouldn’t have known we were so close behind them and they’d have camped in the hills tonight. We might even have spotted their fire. By morning, we’d have been within gunshot for sure. Now—we won’t even see their dust.”

  Yancey took off his hat and slapped savagely at his clothing, raising a cloud of dust that made Cato and Huckabee cough.

  “Well—I just thought I could help,” the Winchester man said. “Didn’t want to leave it all up to you fellers. I was responsible for the rifle. Anyway—I want to help. You can’t legally stop me.”

  “How about physically?” asked Cato hefting his rifle threateningly as if he would crash the butt against Huckabee’s head.

  The man stepped back in alarm.

  “Hey, take it easy,” he breathed.

  Cato made a disgusted gesture and looked down the slope to where the mounts were standing, dusty from their slide, and with a little hide missing in places.

  “Well—might as well make camp, Yance,” he said. “We’re going to have a long, hard trail tomorrow.”

  Yancey nodded and began gathering twigs for a camp fire, while Cato started slowly down the slope towards the horses. Huckabee stood there uncertainly.

  “Uh—Bannerman?”

  Yancey glanced up with an armload of dead twigs.

  “All right if I—uh—camp with you fellers tonight?”

  “Why not?” the Enforcer said. “The safest place for you is where we can keep an eye on you.”

  When he saw Huckabee’s face light up at that, Yancey wished he hadn’t said it.

  “Yes, well, that’s true—and, as I intend to try to recover that rifle myself, I’d best ride along with you and Cato, right? That way, there’ll be no misunderstandings.”

  Yancey dropped his load of firewood and, in somewhat of a daze, wondering just how this had got turned around on him the way it had, squatted and felt in his pocket for a vesta.

  Lang Huckabee went back over the ridge to get his horse, whistling happily.

  As Yancey built up the fire, he thought that Cato would probably kill him.

  Eight – The Train

  Cato merely glared at Yancey when he told him that Huckabee wanted to tag along. He shook his head sorrowfully and commenced to unsaddle the mounts while Yancey set the coffee pot over the flames.

  Yancey reached for the cheesecloth bag of sowbelly and began hacking off pieces of meat as darkness began to crawl up the slope from the depths of the valley.

  Suddenly, both men jumped up and slapped their hands to their gun butts as there came the sound of a shot from over the ridge.

  They exchanged glances then moved to a point where they could see down into the pass. They could just make out the figure of Huckabee and his mount standing near the dead outlaw.

  “What now, Huckabee?” bawled Cato irritably.

  “This hombre’s still alive,” called up the Winchester man. “Not much life left in him but some.”

  “Better take a look. Might be able to question him,” Yancey said.

  “I’ll do it,” Cato volunteered. “You’re not only a better cook than me, but I won't let Huckabee pull any fancy switches and get himself invited along with us.”

  “Who invited him!” protested Yancey as Cato waved and started making his way down the dark slope, slipping and sliding.

  Yancey shrugged and returned to the campfire within the ring of rocks and set about cooking supper ...

  In the pass, Huckabee was kneeling beside the downed man. Cato stumbled up, dirty and with some of his clothes ripped. He knelt beside the man, struck a vesta and peered at the features of the wounded outlaw.

  “Montana,” Cato grunted. “Mean bastard.” He held the vesta closer to search for the wound and found it just under the man’s breastbone. He pursed his lips, and shook his head in reply to Huckabee’s enquiring glance. “Nothin’ we can do.”

  Montana’s eyes slowly opened and he stared at them through the slitted lids.

  “’M—I—done—for?” he gasped.

  “’Fraid so, Montana. We can make you comfortable, is all.”

  “Th—that you—C—Cato?”

  “It’s me. Been a long time since we traded lead. Hear you’re Hallam’s segundo now.”

  Montana coughed and tried to grin feebly.

  “W—was—G—guess I’m—n—nothin’—now.”

  Cato and Huckabee said nothing. Then the Enforcer leaned closer.

  “Montana—you ain’t got much longer. You want to tell me where Hallam was headed? What his plans are?”

  The wounded outlaw merely stared up at the Enforcer, breathing harshly, raggedly, and coughing a little.

  “
It ain’t gonna do you any good to take it with you. And you know Hallam: he wouldn’t hold out if he was in your position. He’s all for himself.”

  Montana grabbed at Cato’s shirt sleeve and his eyes opened wide. He was afraid.

  “C—Cato—Can’t you do ... ?” His voice trailed off and Cato slowly shook his head. “H—Hallam’s gonna—rob a—train—From Hillsboro—g—got Express car on it—g-gold …”

  He tried several times to continue but coughing cut the words short and convulsed him. He thrashed around and Cato and Huckabee both held him down. Two minutes later he was dead.

  Cato stood. He could just make out a thick branch lying beside a pile of rocks. He walked across silently, picked it up and began scraping a hole in the ground.

  “Hell, it’ll take all night to dig a grave in that stuff,” Huckabee said.

  Cato looked at him, pausing in his digging for a second or two. “But I’ll do it, just the same. It’ll be shallow and I’ll have to cover him with some of those rocks, but he’s earned it, Huckabee.”

  He couldn’t see the Winchester man flush in the dim light but he knew by the way the man moved his feet that he felt uncomfortable. Then Huckabee started piling small rocks up beside the place where Cato was digging and the Enforcer smiled to himself.

  Huckabee was all right, he thought. A goddamn nuisance and, as Yancey said, an accident going someplace to happen, but basically, he was all right.

  ~*~

  The train hooted as it slogged its way up the steep grade and approached the bend as the tracks swung around the mountain, clinging precariously to the slopes.

  The engineer was deliberately going slow. He knew the danger of that bend and he was driving a locomotive that had been designed for use mainly on passengers cars, not a mixture of them and freight vans. Neither the engineer nor his fireman was happy about it. There was just too much weight behind and not enough on the rails under their feet as they moved around the bucking footplate.

  Once around the mountain, they would hit the down-slope and they both had fears about that part of the journey. The brakes on the small loco might not be efficient enough to stop all that weight behind them pushing so hard that there could be danger of a jack-knife and a subsequent pile-up.