Bannerman the Enforcer 5

by Kirk Hamilton

  “No place till daylight,” Wyatt answered readily enough, alert as Cato moved slowly around, gun following his movements. “Then we’re goin’ to see Steve Blayne. And enjoy the ride, Cato. It could be your last!”

  ~*~

  Senator Hiram Adams’ ranch was about twelve miles outside of San Antone and Yancey found armed guards on the gate. Even after he had identified himself, one of the men, carrying a loaded shotgun, accompanied him up to the main house, a sprawling adobe and log affair with a big slab stone fireplace taking up almost one complete end wall.

  Adams met Yancey on the porch and dismissed the guard with a polite, “Thanks, Lance.” He was a tall, slim man in his early thirties, a natty dresser and with a beaming smile full of warmth, a real asset to an ambitious politician like Adams. He shook Yancey’s hand and ushered him into the house, taking him down a paneled hall and into a den at one side. He poured drinks, offered cigars, and then they sat down in easy chairs, facing each other.

  “Sorry for the warlike appearance of the place,” the senator said. “Has to be, though, I’m afraid. I’ve had two shots fired at me and there was an attempt to derail the train I was travelling on last week. Seems someone’s out to get me, Yancey, and I’m afraid you’ve landed the job of finding out who.”

  “And why,” Yancey added, savoring the fine tobacco of the cigar and the smoothness of the brandy.

  “Well, it’s political, obviously. I’ve stood on someone’s toes and they don’t like it. If you’ve read anything at all about me, you know that I’ve been instrumental in cleaning up this neck of the woods considerably. Crooked lawmen, and judges, men on the take in public positions. Yes, I suppose I’ve trodden on quite a few toes when you get right down to it.”

  “The governor said you’d had some threatening notes.”

  “Yes. They’re on my desk there in that folder. Thought you’d probably like to see them.”

  Yancey stood and crossed to the desk. He opened the folder, glanced swiftly at the three notes. He looked up, lips pursed. “Looks like he can just about write. Spelling’s terrible. I don’t know that there is politics behind this, Senator. These notes aren’t from an educated man.”

  “Perhaps we’re meant to think just that.”

  “Could be, but it’s hard to fake writing like this. I think your man can barely read and write, Senator. I’d be inclined to think, in that case, that maybe it’s someone you’ve done a personal, rather than a political, harm.”

  Adams frowned. “I’m not sure that I understand.”

  “You’ve trodden on a lot of political toes, but how about the toes of the ordinary folk you’ve had dealings with? Say your own ranch hands. Had any trouble with them?”

  Adams shrugged. “I leave the running of the ranch to my foreman. He handles all the hiring and firing.”

  “Could still be worth looking into,” Yancey said. “You might only be a figurehead to the men working for you, but you’re still the owner and the foreman’s only following your orders. You’re the one making the rules. To someone of pretty low intelligence like the hombre who wrote these notes, you’d be the one to blame for any hurt.”

  Adams seemed to think about it and then nodded slowly. “By Godfrey, there just might be something in what you say, Yancey! Which could explain why other investigations have gotten nowhere. We were looking for something more subtle, something deeper. You’d better have a talk with my foreman, Shorty Wilce. He’s a good man, but a demanding one. If the ranch hands don’t measure up, he fires them pronto.”

  “Refer any of ’em to you?”

  “No, not really. Maybe I’ll make a final decision sometimes. Mostly he handles it himself.”

  “But he’s still enforcing your rules and regulations.”

  “Sure. You might’ve noticed the list of rules I have posted by the bunkhouse door as you rode in.”

  “I did,” Yancey said. “It was what set me thinking. But I didn’t read them. Are there any real tough restrictions?”

  “What would you call ‘real tough’?”

  Yancey shrugged. “Some fellers might find it hard if the boss prohibits them from keeping a small bottle of medicinal whisky amongst their personal belongings.”

  “Well, yes, that is one of the prohibitions. I don’t mind a man getting drunk Saturday night in town, as long as he keeps his liquor off my spread and is fit to work Sunday if he’s required.”

  Yancey frowned puzzledly. “Do you always work the ranch on Sundays?”

  Adams flushed a little. “Sunday is the Lord’s day, Yancey.”

  “Sometimes it’s the Lord’s day of rest,” Yancey corrected him and Adams looked angry.

  “Well, that’s true, I suppose,” he snapped. “It’s only a day of rest if I want it that way.”

  “Could confuse a simple mind like the one that wrote those notes,” Yancey pointed out. “What’s good one week doesn’t hold for the next week. Might find it hard to figure out what the hell he’s done wrong.”

  “Well, it’s possible, but that’s your job to find out.”

  Adams stood and the old beaming smile was on his face again but there was little warmth in his eyes. Yancey saw that he could be a hard man when he wanted, despite the front he put up in public. And a man who filled his house with fine liquor but prohibited his men from having whisky on the ranch, was a little too hypocritical for Yancey’s liking.

  He left the big house and went in search of Shorty Wilce.

  ~*~

  Steve Blayne had set up headquarters on a small ranch outside the town of Vernon, about seventy miles north of the Rio in a remote area of Texas. Vernon was also Blayne’s town. There was a sheriff of sorts there and he was Blayne’s man; Blayne owned most of the town and folks were grateful to him for providing work for the district with his cattle ranch.

  But Cato knew none of this when he first arrived with Waco Wyatt at the Blayne spread, called the Circle B. He was impressed with the size of the place and the number of riders he saw but when he slowed the pace of his horse, Wyatt became impatient and prodded him with his rifle barrel until they reached the yard outside the big ranch house. Six gun hung men stood in the shadows, covering Cato. His hands were tied to the saddle horn and when Blayne appeared on the porch, he ordered Wyatt to cut Cato’s bonds at once. Wyatt did so, and while he was putting his knife in its sheath, Cato got a boot free of the stirrup and kicked the gunfighter hard in the head. Wyatt went down, dazed, and with blood dribbling from his nostrils. The armed men stepped out of cover, their guns coming up and aiming at Cato. The small man swung down easily from the saddle and stood over the dazed Wyatt as the man shook his head and struggled to his feet.

  “I owed you that,” Cato said flatly.

  Wyatt straightened and wiped blood from his nostrils, then swore savagely and started for Cato, reaching for his gun.

  “Enough!” roared Blayne and Wyatt stopped dead, not taking his hot eyes from Cato’s face, breathing hard and fast. “Simmer down, Waco. I can see the welt on Cato’s head. I guess you slugged him and now he’s gotten his own back. Okay. Let it go at that!”

  Wyatt slowly forced the tension out of his body. He released his hold on his gun butt and whipped his kerchief from around his neck, dabbing at his nose.

  “I’ll remember, mister!” he growled, the words muffled.

  “Fine with me,” Cato said and turned to Blayne. “Now, what’s your beef, Blayne? I aimed on bein’ a long ways from this neck of the woods by now.”

  Blayne chuckled. “No doubt.” He looked at Wyatt and nodded, turning back towards the house. “Bring him into my office, Waco.”

  The gun whispered out of leather and Cato grunted as the barrel rammed into his side. He moved into the house after Blayne.

  Inside the ranch office Blayne went behind his desk and began rummaging in the drawers as Wyatt shoved Cato roughly through the doorway. Cato straightened, glared at the gunfighter, then saw the decanters and bottles on a sideboard. He ran his tongue
over his lips and crossed the room swiftly. He uncorked a whisky bottle, splashed liquid into a glass and tossed it down.

  “Why, you ornery!” began Wyatt, striding after him, gun coming up.

  “It’s all right, Waco!” Blayne said swiftly. A crooked smile touched his thick lips. “We know how Cato likes his likker and I guess he feels the need for a drink real bad just now. Let him have one. Go on, Cato. Have another. But make it the last.”

  Cato filled the glass this time and savored it as he swallowed. He smacked his lips, leaned back against the sideboard, looking from one man to the other.

  “Now, that’s better. And what the hell do you want with me, Blayne?”

  Blayne opened the thick envelope he had taken from the desk drawer and spilled a pile of papers out onto the desk. He fanned them out with his free hand, looking at Cato all the time.

  “A lot of money represented by those pieces of paper, Cato. Well over a thousand dollars.”

  Cato stared at him blankly.

  “I think you know what they are. Your notes to various gamblers around Austin; your unpaid feed bill at the Austin Livery; the room account you are two months behind with at the McRae Hotel. I’ve paid all those accounts in your name and now I have the notes, with your signature, your promise to pay.”

  He stared at Cato with a cold look, expectant. The small man shrugged his shoulders.

  “I got no more chance of payin’ you than I had of payin’ the other hombres, Blayne. You wasted your time and a couple of men bringin’ me here.”

  Blayne’s face was no longer half-amused; he was very sober as he sat down and gestured curtly to a chair near Cato. Wyatt looked as if he hoped Cato would give some trouble but the small man shrugged and dropped into the chair with a sigh. He looked at Blayne who had his hands locked together on the desk, his eyes cold as they studied Cato. He continued to stare at him for a long minute.

  “Yeah, Cato, over a thousand dollars, that’s what you owe me. And you say you can’t pay.”

  “Turn me upside down and shake me, but you won’t get two red cents out of my pockets,” Cato said.

  “Then how did you plan to live after running out like you did?” snapped Blayne. “You ran out on your bride, your friends, the governor, and all your debts. What were you aimin’ to do?”

  “I aimed to head into the Brasada or turn south and cross the Rio,” Cato said. “I’ve still a few friends in Mexico. They’d have seen me right. In any case, a man can always make a buck south of the border.”

  Blayne leaned forward. “A man fast with a gun, you mean?”

  Cato nodded. “Guess so.”

  “Like you?” Blayne insisted.

  “Yeah, like me,” growled Cato irritably. “There’s always trouble down there. If it ain’t a revolution, it’s some small-scale war against the bandidos or Federales and some of these villages can rake up a surprising amount of gold when they have to. I’d have made out.”

  “Of that I have no doubt,” Blayne agreed, sitting back in his chair, hands still locked together, but resting across his midriff now. “And, of course, once you made some money down there you’d either come back and square your debts or send the amount required?”

  Cato smiled faintly. “Like hell. I’d have had me a wing-ding of a time and to hell with what I left behind me in Texas!”

  “Now that doesn’t show much sense of responsibility, Cato. No principles, no ... code. Fact is, it’d be a mean and miserable thing to do.”

  Cato grimaced. “Mebbe I’ve done worse.”

  “I hear that’s possible,” Blayne allowed. He leaned forward again, forearms on the edge of the desk now. He smiled faintly as he added, “And I hope it is.”

  Cato frowned, glanced at the stiff-faced Wyatt and then back to the rancher. “What’s that mean?”

  Blayne didn’t answer for a spell. Then, “How’d you like a chance to square away all these debts? And maybe make yourself a few thousand into the bargain?”

  Cato stared at him blankly, letting it sink in. “Let’s get this straight,” he said slowly. “You’re offerin’ me a job of some sort. In return, you’ll wipe out all my notes, and pay me a few thousand for myself?”

  “That’s it.”

  Cato shook his head slowly. “Must be a hell of a job. What you got in mind?”

  Blayne’s eyes hardened, chilled down even more. “You don’t need to know just yet. All you got to do is say you’ll do it.”

  “Not me. I don’t go into anythin’ like this blind.”

  “Then I take you out and put a bullet through your head!” growled Wyatt, sounding pleased at the prospect.

  “Easy, Waco, don’t jump the gun,” Blayne said, holding up a placating hand. Then fixing Cato with a steely stare he went on, “Cato, you’ve got all the details I aim to give you right, now. You can have the job and wipe out everything you owe, and come out of this with a pocket full of dollars so you can ride out and really whoop it up or do whatever you like, or ...” His voice hardened. “I won’t let Waco put a bullet through your head. But he and some of the boys will take you out and give you a workin’ over that’ll leave you just this side of bein’ crippled. You will be fit enough to work at something, maybe mucking-out stables or such, and it’ll take you years to work off your debt that way, but you’ll do it. Unless you die in the meantime. You savvy me?”

  Cato nodded slowly, his face impassive. “I savvy. You’ve kind of got me over a barrel, Blayne. Do I get a chance to think about it?”

  “What’s there to think about?” Blayne demanded.

  Cato shrugged. “I might just decide to take my chances on the beatin’. Mebbe I could get away. Mebbe I could kill you. Lots of things to think about.”

  “You’ve got twenty seconds,” Blayne told him coldly and pulled out his heavy gold pocket watch, flicking open the cover and staring at the watch face.

  Cato lifted his hands out from his sides. “Then I guess I got no choice but to take the job, whatever it is.”

  Blayne closed the watch carefully and slipped it back into his vest pocket. He nodded curtly. “That’s about the size of it. Glad you could see sense.”

  “When do we start?” Cato asked.

  “Soon,” replied Blayne enigmatically and he made a sign to Wyatt. “Waco’ll show you where to stay for a spell, till we’re ready to move.”

  “Do I get my Manstopper back?”

  “That cannon you tote around on your hip? I guess we’ll hold it for now. When we move out, you’ll get it.”

  And Cato had to be satisfied with that. Not that it mattered much to him at present; until they moved out on this mysterious job, he would have somewhere to sleep and eat regular. He might even be able to lay his hands on a bottle of whisky and he figured there would be a few men amongst those that Blayne employed who would enjoy a hand or two of poker ...

  He nodded easily to Steve Blayne and then went out of the office, followed closely by the sour-looking Waco Wyatt.

  Blayne watched the door close behind the men and then picked up the pile of I.O.U.s and various bills. He glanced at them briefly before stuffing them back into the envelope. A slow smile lifted his thick lips.

  Another one into the fold. It was a damn good way of recruiting gunfighters and he wished he had thought of it long ago.

  Chapter Five – Stubborn

  Shorty Wilce had given the name ‘Tate Merkes’ to Yancey. Merkes had worked for Hiram Adams and he was a barely literate man, a roughneck, who settled most of his problems with his fists and big boots. Uneducated, low on intelligence, he had been a man who had to have exact instructions given to him, one step at a time, for any job to be completed satisfactorily.

  He was a plodder, slow to reason, but quick to anger. And he had been angry the day Wilce had given him his marching orders. Merkes had made too many mistakes, fouled up too many chores, caused too many fights, and he was a man who didn’t just beat a man into submission; he had to cripple that man, hurt him so he didn’t work
again for a long time; it was some sort of latent sadism in him that just had to be satisfied, it seemed. The last time he had tried it on a ranch hand on Adams’ spread, it had taken six men to haul him off and then he had only desisted when Shorty Wilce had placed a shotgun barrel against his head.

  To make matters worse, he had been drunk and a quick search had unearthed a near-empty stone jug of whisky stashed away beneath a loose board near his bunk. He would have been fired anyway, after the brawl, for he had had all the warnings Wilce aimed to give, but the jug of liquor was the clincher. He was tossed off the spread with none of the money due to him; it had been withheld on Adams’ orders as part compensation for the furniture in the bunkhouse that had been damaged during the brawls and also some of it would go to the man who had taken the vicious beating.

  Neither Wilce nor Adams had considered Tate Merkes as a possibility in the threats against the senator’s life. Adams figured he wouldn’t have the intelligence or the subtlety, that the man, if he held a grudge, would come charging in like a bull, smashing, and shooting and cussing. He didn’t think he would have the patience to wage a reign of terror, nor the brains either.

  Wilce simply said that Merkes had gone quietly enough, complaining he had money due to him, sure, but he hadn’t made any threats.

  Yancey, after studying Merke’s crude signature on the pay-book and comparing it to the writing on the threatening notes figured there was enough similarity to warrant further investigation. Adams insisted there were political motives behind the threats and that the crudely-written notes had been done that way deliberately to throw him off the scent of the real culprits. He could not conceive that a man of the low intelligence of a Tate Merkes could generate such fear in him, cause him to spend so much time and money on his security.

  “It has to be bigger than that, Yancey!” he insisted.

  “Maybe your ego’d feel better if it was, Senator,” Yancey told him uncompromisingly, “but a bullet fired by Merkes can make you just as dead as one fired by a paid assassin of your political enemies. And it wouldn’t make you feel any better, I’ll allow, knowing you’d been killed by someone with more brains than Merkes.”