Bannerman the Enforcer 5

by Kirk Hamilton

  Adams hadn’t liked that but Yancey hadn’t given him much chance to protest. He announced that he was going after Merkes to get to the truth of the matter and had ridden out.

  Wilce had told Yancey that Merkes wouldn’t hang out in San Antone because there were too many folks friendly towards Adams there. But there was a small settlement up in the Medicine Hills where men on the dodge or those who rode the tightrope between law and lawlessness sometimes hung out. Merkes had friends there, Wilce warned.

  But Yancey didn’t care, He felt he was on the right trail, had a hunch riding him, and he wanted it to be correct so he could get this chore over and done with. Cato was still on his mind and he stubbornly refused to accept that his old pard had just suddenly busted loose the way folks would have it. There was more to it than that, Yancey reckoned, and he aimed to get to the bottom of it.

  But first, Tate Merkes.

  The settlement was known locally as The Hole and Yancey could see why. It was built in a narrow, deep valley in the hills, a place of harsh shadows and gloom and thick vegetation. A place outlaws and near-outlaws would favor.

  No one challenged him on his ride in, but he heard slight movements in the deep shadows of the trees beside the trail and he saw something move swiftly up in the rocks, like a man dropping back out of sight, after taking a quick look to see who was riding along the trail. The place was guarded well enough and the fact that they let him ride in unchallenged warned Yancey that it might not be such a simple matter to ride out again. A lot of outlaw hangouts worked on that principle.

  There were no more than twenty buildings, counting the tumbledown shacks and the sprawling building that served as store and saloon, on the hillside, running back into the edge of the heavy timber. Anyone with sufficient reason to do so could swiftly disappear into the trees at the first sign of law or trouble. He felt the hard stares on him as he walked his mount over to the store and dismounted at the sagging hitch rack. One awning post had been cracked and splinted with saplings wired into place to hold it up. But it wasn’t quite strong enough and so the shingle roof drooped and gave the whole place a lopsided appearance.

  Two bleak-eyed men, hands on gun butts, watched him step up onto the porch and go into the store. It was gloomy and he stopped to allow his eyes to adjust to the wan light, resting his hand on his own gun butt, flicking his gaze around the big, smelly room. It was musty and there was a rank odor of sour cheese and stale perspiration mixing with the other smells of a frontier store that wouldn’t win any awards for cleanliness.

  There was movement in the shadows around the walls and he walked to the counter where the storekeeper waited, arms tensed and rigid as he leaned on them, muscles bulging, cold eyes watching Yancey’s every move. He gave no sign that he saw the Enforcer’s nod of greeting.

  “Looking for Tate Merkes,” Yancey said.

  The man stared back, not answering.

  Yancey thumbed back his hat. “Look, mister, I ain’t got a hell of a lot of time. I don’t want to hang around here any longer than you want me hangin’ around. Just tell me where Merkes is and I’ll give him his money and then vamoose. Okay?”

  There was interest in the storekeeper’s eyes now at the mention of money. “You got some money for Tate?”

  Yancey nodded. “Hiram Adams had a change of heart. Figured he was bein’ kinda mean not payin’ Merkes what he owed him. So he sent me up here to find him and give him what he was due, plus a few extra dollars for any inconvenience it might’ve caused him.”

  The storekeeper studied Yancey closely. “And who might you be?”

  “Just call me Yancey. I’m one of the guns Adams hired when Merkes started threatenin’ his life.” He laughed shortly. “Those couple of bullets comin’ so close and the train derailment sort of shook him up some.”

  “And he just naturally figured it had to be Tate Merkes who was behind it, huh?”

  “Took him a spell, and my help. I happened to be lookin’ through the pay-book and noticed Merkes’ signature was in the same writing as was on the warnin’ notes.” He shook his head slowly. “Kind of a stupid move writin’ those notes, but I hear tell Merkes ain’t exactly long on brains. I pointed out to Adams that it’d be a helluva lot cheaper for him to pay off Merkes than to risk his neck or have to keep all us gunfighters on his payroll.”

  “Why would you talk yourself out of a job?” the big man asked, squinting suspiciously at Yancey.

  Yancey grinned. “Who says I did? Adams figures I’m a smart hombre and he’s put me on permanent payroll now. Easiest job I’ve ever had and the best payin’. No, sir, I know which side to mount a hoss from.”

  The big storekeeper nodded slowly, as he mulled it over, giving Yancey the once-over again. “You sure carry your gun like a gunfighter, but then so do a lot of lawmen.”

  “Lawman?” Yancey echoed, laughing. “

  He leaned on the counter confidentially. “If Adams looks too close into my background, I’ll not only be out of a job, I’ll be behind bars. He’s willing to give me some protection, but there’re a couple of things he might not want to cover for. You gonna tell me where Merkes is?”

  The storekeeper studied him closely for another long minute then said without any expression at all, “Second last shack up the hill.”

  “Obliged,” Yancey said and turned to go.

  There was a shuffling in the deeper shadows of the store and he could make out the forms of one or two men way back behind some harness, but they made no move to stop him going. He saw no one leave the store and yet, when he reached the second last shack, Tate Merkes was waiting for him and knew why he was here—why he said he was here, leastways.

  Merkes was bigger than Yancey expected, a massive bear of a man with matted hair showing at the throat of his torn shirt. He was bearded and his hair was lank and greasy. His eyes were red-rimmed, bleary and a stone whisky jug dangled from the little finger of his left hand. The right hand he used to wipe dribbled liquor from his beard as he leaned in the doorway and looked Yancey over.

  “How much did Adams send?” Merkes growled, his voice sounding as if it came from deep down a well.

  “Your wages and fifty bucks,” Yancey answered, looking around but seeing no one else backing the big man.

  Merkes spat at the Enforcer’s feet. “He don’t figure his life’s worth much, does he?”

  “You admit you’re the one who threatened him?”

  Merkes squinted at Yancey, lifted the stone jug against his lips and swallowed deeply. He shook the jug then swore when it was obviously empty. He tossed it casually aside and wiped the back of a hand across his mouth. He was thinking hard but it was a slow process for Merkes.

  “Thought you had that figured,” he slurred.

  “Sure. Just wanted to hear you say it.”

  “Well, I’m sayin’ it. Not that it’s gonna do you any good. Let me have the cash.” He held out a massive hand.

  “Whoa, there. It ain’t that easy. I got to make sure you ain’t gonna take the money and then keep on after Adams.”

  “Aw, yeah?” Merkes thought about it, frowning, and then he shook his head as he started to lumber forward. “To hell with you, just gimme the dinero. You’re in my neck of the woods, mister, and you ain’t got much say in what goes on here. I’ll take the money and maybe later I’ll decide if I’ll leave Adams alone or not. Don’t seem like he sent much. Reckon I could scare a heap more out of him if I tried a little harder.”

  Yancey scratched at his head, watching the big man’s shuffling movements. “Nope. That ain’t it, Merkes. I’m here to see you don’t try it again. You can make it easy or hard.”

  Merkes stopped, blinking, and then his lips peeled back to reveal black and yellow teeth, broken stumps and vacant places in the pink gums. Then, almost casually and, afterwards Yancey couldn’t explain how come he wasn’t able to get out of the way—he reached out and grabbed the front of Yancey’s shirt and hauled the big Enforcer clear off his feet, pulling him i
n close against his gross body.

  Yancey felt the huge knee start to lift and twisted his body so that he took the blow on the outside of his thigh. There was so much force behind the uplifting leg that his own leg went immediately numb and his whole body was jerked three feet into the air. His shirt ripped and Merkes grabbed for his throat, just missing, his horny nails raking lines of flesh from Yancey, as he jerked his head back out of reach.

  Yancey came down with a thump and his leg collapsed under him. He had a worm’s eye view of one of the huge work boots lifting up to stomp at his face and then he rolled, bounding to one knee, but once again that numbed leg failed him and he sprawled to the side. Merkes towered over him and reached down and lifted him bodily above his head and, from a height of nearly nine feet, Yancey was hurled through the air. He twisted his body in mid-air and tried to throw himself aside from the trunk of the tree that rushed at him. He couldn’t dodge it altogether but he took the main impact feet first and kind of ricocheted off to one side. He dropped into some thick bushes which cushioned his fall some, but he was already dazed and knew his leg wouldn’t yet support him.

  Then Merkes came charging into the brush like a maddened buffalo, roaring, tearing the brush up with his bare hands, tossing it aside, smashing low branches off the tree as if they were matchwood. Yancey rolled away and figured it was time he got his gun out and working against this man-mountain. Far as he could see it was the only way he was going to get out of here alive.

  Managing to stay upright on one knee, he dragged at the Peacemaker as Merkes appeared before him. As the gun came up, one of the mighty hands closed around it like a toy and clutched the cylinder, preventing it from turning and cocking as Yancey tried to thumb the hammer back. Merkes slammed a pile-driving blow down with the other hand and Yancey thought he was being driven three feet into the ground. His eyes seemed to explode in brilliant light and his head rang and something went ‘crack!’ in his neck, sounding like a pistol shot in his roaring ears. He went down and realized that he had his six-gun in his hand. Merkes had released his hold on it when he had slammed him.

  But it did him no good. A giant boot caught him in the chest and he thought the mountain had fallen on him. His breath went in a great gust and his organs seemed to clog his throat as he spun away. By sheer willpower he retained his grip on his gun and then another hammer blow nearly snapped his spine and he was spinning even further away. He tried to turn his head to see where Merkes was, surprised that such a massive man could move so fast, and found that he was already underneath a down-driving boot. He whipped his head aside and lost some skin off one cheek, the jawbone and an ear.

  Merkes roared and leaned down with both great hands reaching for him, fingers clawed. Yancey, dazed, winded, feeling sick and wanting to vomit, rolled away and brought the gun up and around as Merkes snarled an obscenity and charged in when he saw the gun. Yancey fired and the big man grunted but didn’t even slow down though the bullet had taken him somewhere in that barrel chest. Yancey triggered again, shuffling backwards, away from those bone-breaking, reaching fingers. Merkes yelled in pain this time and snatched back one hand to claw at a blood-spurting shoulder.

  Yancey used the respite to somersault backwards and come up onto his feet, praying that both legs were working again. The numbed one sagged under him but he managed to stay generally upright and he hobbled away to the side as Tate Merkes jerked at a low-slung tree branch and tore it away from the trunk, the green bark coming off in a long, snake-like strip.

  He swung it blindly and Yancey ducked, triggering twice, the echoes of the two shots almost blending into one long sound. Merkes jerked and staggered but he stumbled on and Yancey, incredulously, grabbed his six-gun in both hands and laid the foresight in the center of the man’s contorted face as he snarled while lifting the tree branch for a final, killing blow.

  But he didn’t have to shoot. Suddenly, blood gushed out of Merke’s open mouth and he stopped dead, blinking and frowning deeply.

  “What the—!” he gasped and then he dropped to his knees, coughing more blood, the branch falling from his hands. He stayed on all fours for a full minute then he gave one massive, ragged sigh and simply lay down, drawing up his knees, as if he was going to sleep. There wasn’t another sound—or movement—out of him.

  Yancey stood up fully, automatically shucking the used shells from his Peacemaker and replacing them with fresh loads from his belt. He was breathing raggedly, and there was a painful wheezing in his chest that made him wonder if his breastbone was busted, or maybe some ribs had come adrift from one of those mule-like kicks.

  Others were running up now and Yancey knew he couldn’t afford to hang around; there were the guards at the valley entrance to get by yet.

  “Don’t let him get away!” the storekeeper roared from his sagging porch, pointing to Yancey’s staggering figure. “He’s totin’ a heap of money! I want it!”

  Yancey cursed. His lie about the money was coming home to roost it seemed. Running at a stumbling pace, he snapped a shot at the storekeeper and the man dodged back inside quickly. The two men who had been on the porch when Yancey arrived, had guns in their hands and they blazed a couple of shots at him as he skidded behind a rain-barrel. Yancey downed one, kicked over the barrel and hurled himself bodily up onto the end of the sagging porch as the second man was distracted by the cascading water. The man heard his body thud onto the boards as Yancey’s bullet took him under the armpit and lifted him to his toes before slamming him back against the wall. He slid down slowly, gun falling from his hand.

  A shotgun blasted from the store’s doorway and Yancey threw himself off the porch again as the boards splintered and erupted with the charge of buckshot. Squirming in the dust he blazed three swift shots into the doorway and then leapt for his tethered mount at the rails. It had already torn the rein ends free and was spinning, wild-eyed, ready to bolt. Yancey hit one stirrup with his left boot and fumbled to get it through the iron, clinging desperately to the saddle horn with his gun hand as the animal raced down the crooked street. The shotgun blasted again and he heard the whistle of the shot overhead and then he was hanging belly down across the saddle, yelling at the horse to keep going, fighting to get his leg across the rump so he could settle into leather properly.

  He made it but didn’t sit up. He lay over the horse’s arched back, panting, seeing men appearing at the doors of the tumbledown shacks, some with guns in their hands. Bullets sang overhead and he emptied his gun wildly, using his knees to direct the horse along the trail, that would lead him out of the valley. The trail that would take him past the shadowy men who had been guarding the entrance when he arrived.

  He sat up enough now to reload his Colt and he rammed it back into leather when the chambers held six .45 caliber cartridges. Then he slid the big long-barreled Winchester ’76 from the saddle scabbard and levered a shell into the chamber. Holding the reins between his teeth now, Yancey nudged the horse to the left, off the trail, and into the trees. He dodged expertly from side to side, biting down hard on the leather at the pain it cost him in his upper chest. As soon as he saw the first movement up there in the deep shadows, Yancey fired and the big rifle’s thunder slapped through the timber. A man yelled and a horse whinnied. Three guns answered him. He spotted their flashes instantly and knew where the guards were.

  He moved the racing horse left again, then sharp right and heard lead ricocheting from the trees nearby. Some boulders came up and he saw one of the startled guards leap up and try to get out of the way but the horse was already lifting and the man screamed as it came down on top of him. Yancey hipped in the saddle, beaded another man and blew him clear out of the saddle of the horse he had just mounted.

  One of the other guards ducked as Yancey fired at his position and the lead screamed off the rock, spurting dust. Then the man lifted up again to snapshoot at Yancey’s back but the Enforcer had anticipated that move and was already hipping, aiming.

  They fired together and Ya
ncey lost his hat and a little hair from the top of his head. The guard lost his face as the big slug took him through the bridge of his nose. The remaining man was crouching, making a run through the timber, only intent on getting away now; he had no stomach for standing against the one-man army that was Yancey. The Enforcer rode down on him through the trees and the man saw him coming, threw away his rifle and shoved his hands up in the air, showing he didn’t want to fight. Yancey reined down the panting horse and aimed the Winchester at the man one-handed.

  “You’re gonna lead me out of here, mister!” Yancey said. “I found my way in, but with all this ridin’ and dodgin’, I dunno which way is which. You lead me out and maybe I won’t blow your head off. Try to be smart ... !”

  He didn’t bother finishing the threat. The man knew what would happen and, anyway, he was nodding his agreement to show Yancey the trail out. ‘I’ll—I’ll do it!” he panted. “Just—just don’t shoot me, Bannerman.”

  Yancey stiffened and dismounted fast, leading his horse by the reins, marching the guard ahead of him, poking him with the rifle barrel. “How come you know my name? Let’s see your face.”

  The man didn’t turn. “You don’t know me. I thought it was you when you rode in but couldn’t be sure. Seen you in Austin a couple of times with Cato, then a week or so back in San Antone. Figured you might be here lookin’ for Cato.”

  “How so?” Yancey asked and then motioned with the rifle for the man to keep moving. “Keep goin’, keep goin’!” Yancey snapped, looking around in case there was any pursuit. But there didn’t seem to be anyone after them now. Looked like his gun blazing, violent exit from the town had made the others hunt cover and stay there. He jabbed the guard again with the rifle. “How come you know Cato?”

  “Him and me tangled a couple of times. Back in Laramie.”

  “You knew him up there? When he had gamblin’ trouble?” The man stopped and this time Yancey didn’t urge him to continue. He was frowning at Yancey, a hawk-faced man with only one eye. “Gamblin’? Cato?” He shook his head slowly. “I never knew he gambled. Ran a gunshop. He caught me tryin’ to swipe a couple of rifles one night. Whaled the tar outa me and made me crawl down Main on my hands and knees, then sent me up along the high trail, buck naked. Tried to square away with him for it but he shot me and left me for dead. I managed to pull through though. I’ve only seen him a couple of times since but I’ve sure kept out of his way.” He pointed to the empty eye socket. “His bullet did this.”