“I dunno what kinda money it is,” the man was saying, “and I don’t care, as long as it buys me what I want. It’s silver and gold, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s legal tender.”
“I’ll accept it any time, Mesquite,” the barkeep said and Yancey stiffened slightly at the mention of the name.
His eyes narrowed as he looked into the fly-specked mirror and the man called Mesquite turned so that Yancey could see him full face in reflection for the first time. He knew him, all right. He was a border ’breed on the dodge from murder and robbery charges. Yancey hadn’t seen him in over a year but they had tangled on a couple of occasions and Mesquite would remember Yancey, too. He had cause to; he was still carrying one of Yancey’s slugs somewhere under his left shoulder blade. And now Mesquite was talking about silver and gold ... Yancey would bet he hadn’t come by it honestly and he tried to look inconspicuous, moving slowly back into the crowd, but standing close enough to hear what was being said.
“Look like old Spanish reàls to me,” someone said, examining the coins. “Leastways this one does ... It’s a lot older than the others.”
“Gimme that back, Cross!” Mesquite snapped and Yancey saw him snatch a silver coin from the hands of a man dressed in claw hammer coat and black string tie. The man looked angry at the ’breed’s action and his bleak gray eyes were icy as he glared. His face was narrow, like an axe blade, and there was a mean twist to his mouth.
“Cross,” mused Yancey. He had seen a sign on a building across the street bearing that name: NATHAN CROSS, LAND AND CATTLE AGENT.
“I’m interested in old coins, Mesquite,” Cross said, his struggle to keep control of his voice evident to Yancey. “Like that gold piece there ... Looks like an escudo to me, what they used to call a doubloon down along the Coast. That reàl coin was known as a piece-of-eight, and later got to be what we now know as the Mexican peso. But damned if one of those coins isn’t a hundred years old! And the piece-of-eight is much older.”
“Still good hard cash, ain’t it?” Mesquite demanded, rebelliously.
“Sure, sure. There’s a full ounce of silver there and maybe a half ounce of gold ... Where’d you pick ’em up, Mesquite?”
It seemed to Yancey, glancing past the shoulder of an onlooker, that Mesquite’s scarred, mean face took on a crafty look. He pocketed the coins. “I just happened on ’em.”
He locked glances with Cross and the agent forced a bleak smile. “Sure, and good luck to you. I might buy them off you, if you want to sell. Let’s go over to my office and talk about it.”
Mesquite hesitated, then tossed down a glass of redeye and nodded shortly. “Suits me,” he said and shoved away from the bar.
As the two men started down the barroom, the batwings were pushed open and a clerk from the hotel where Yancey had been staying stopped just inside, let his eyes rove around the room until he found the tall Enforcer.
“Say, there you are, Mr. Bannerman,” he called out. “You asked me to let you know when the captain of the Jacksonville Riverboat came back. Well, he’s in his room now ...”
“Bannerman!”
Mesquite’s surprised voice snapping out the single name slashed through the big barroom like a pistol shot. He spun towards Yancey and recognized him instantly. Nathan Cross saw this was something he couldn’t hope to head off and dived headlong out of the way, taking three or four other men down with him as Mesquite ripped out a violent oath and snatched at the gun on his hip.
Yancey made no effort to prevent the gunfight. There wouldn’t have been time, anyway. He found himself instantly in a cleared space and his right hand dipped and came up with a blazing Colt. The gun’s roar drowned the blast from Mesquite’s gun and the ’breed staggered as lead struck him in the body. He stumbled backwards, legs moving fast in an effort to keep his balance, his face contorted with pain and the effort of trying to bring up his gun for another shot at Yancey.
The Enforcer’s Peacemaker thundered a second time and Mesquite jerked like a rag doll, boots lifting off the sawdust-covered floor. The stunned clerk near the batwings dived outside as Mesquite’s body crashed through and thudded to the boardwalk, rolling across to dangle over the edge. The ’breed’s head and right arm hung down into the dust of the street and his legs jerked convulsively a few times. Then he was still and a slow stain of blood crawled from under his body.
The room was silent, awe-struck, as Yancey walked down slowly, palmed open the batwings and stood looking down at the dead man. The crowd moved then and surged forward behind Yancey. The hotel clerk, pale as a baker’s apron, and shaking, stared at the big Enforcer, slack-jawed. Yancey dropped the two empty shells from his Colt’s cylinder and replaced them with fresh loads. The crowd jostled around him, talking animatedly about his gun speed.
“Hell almighty! Did you see it? Beat Mesquite when the ’breed had him cold-decked!”
Yancey frowned as Nathan Cross came and knelt beside Mesquite, rolling the man over onto his back, feeling in the man’s blood-soaked shirt pocket.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Yancey asked quietly.
Cross looked up, frowning a little. “He did odd jobs for me. I figure that gives me claim on those old coins he had. I was going to buy them from him, anyway.”
Yancey held out his left hand, right hand still wrapped around the butt of his Peacemaker. “Let me see ’em.”
Nathan Cross’ eyes narrowed as he stood slowly jingling the old Spanish coins in his hand. “I got prior claim, mister!”
Yancey didn’t say anything. He looked coldly at Cross and continued to hold out his left hand, palm up. Cross dropped his gaze to Yancey’s right hand resting on his gun, looked again to the dead man at his feet. Slowly, mouth in a tight, bitter line, he dropped several coins into Yancey’s palm. The Enforcer nodded and looked down at the coins. A couple were perfectly round, a little worn, but generally in good condition. Two or three others were crudely struck, irregularly shaped, split at the edges, mostly undated, and with only part of the die’s impression in the silver. He knew them to be ‘cobs’, struck by hand after being chiseled from the end of a silver bar that had been rolled and hammered. As Cross had said in the saloon, they were a lot older than a hundred years and dated back to the time of the Conquistadores.
“No one knows where he got ’em, huh?” Yancey asked, his eyes boring into Cross’ taut face.
“He didn’t say,” Cross snapped. “Now, can I have ’em back?”
Yancey looked thoughtful but before he made any decision, there was a slight commotion down the street and the crowd’s attention went to a small cavalcade of men riding in, leading a horse with a dead man roped across the saddle. They pulled in by the hitch rail outside the saloon and a grim-faced, bearded cowpoke in the lead raked his hard eyes over the men gathered on the saloon porch. He jerked a thumb towards the dead man behind him.
“That’s Abe Summers across that horse,” he said flatly. “And that’s Abe’s sorrel tied to the end of the hitch rail yonder. Who’s forkin’ it?”
“Mesquite rode it in,” someone said and the crowd moved back so the cowboys could see the dead man sprawled on the walk.
The bearded cowpoke stared down at Mesquite and nodded slowly. “I’m obliged to whoever did it ... Abe went out trailin’ some missin’ steers. We got worried when he didn’t come back and went lookin’. Found him dead in the river with a dead rustler close by and a running-iron in a fire. Found the steers, too, with brands changed. I’d say he caught some rustlers red-handed and they had a shoot-out ...”
“Looks that way,” Cross said slowly. “Guess you’re sayin’ Mesquite was one of the rustlers ...”
The bearded cowboy set his gaze on the cattle agent. “Would you say different, Cross?” he rasped. “He came in on Abe’s horse!”
Cross shrugged. “Mebbe you’re right. Makes no never mind to me, though I’m sure sorry old Abe caught it.”
“I’ll bet!” growled the cowpoke sourly. “But
you still won’t get your hands on the Bar S Bar, Cross! Abe left a daughter, you know. School teacher or something, over in Dallas.” He spat at Cross’ feet. “The ranch’ll go to her.”
Cross kept his face carefully blank but Yancey could see an angry nerve twitching in his cheek. “That so? Well, maybe she’ll be interested in selling out. I’ll make her an offer, I daresay. After a suitable interval, of course.” Cross turned stiffly towards Yancey and went on, “Can I have those coins now?”
Before Yancey could speak, the bearded man stepped down and got between the big Enforcer and Cross, seeing the old coins in Yancey’s hand for the first time. He didn’t touch them but looked levelly into Yancey’s face.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“He’s the man who gunned down Mesquite, Ike!” someone in the crowd said, and the cowboy looked at Yancey even more closely. He nodded slowly.
“We’re obliged, mister ...” He dug into his shirt pocket and brought out one of the old coins that matched the crude split-edged ones in Yancey’s hand. “When we dragged Abe out of the river, I found this under him in the shallows. Dunno if it fell from his pocket or whether it was in the river already and he collapsed on it ... But it sure seems to match your lot.”
Yancey nodded, not even needing to examine the coin closely to see that it was a good match. He switched his gaze to the tensed Cross. “I reckon I’ll hang onto these for a spell.”
“What the hell right d’you have to ’em?” Cross demanded, fists clenching at his sides. “Just because you gunned him down—”
“I’m the governor’s man,” Yancey broke in coldly. “That’s what gives me the right. Looks to me like Mesquite stole these coins from Summers after killing him. Or if he found them in the river, they were on Summers’ land and should go to his daughter.”
“Ah, the hell with that!” snapped Cross, breathing fast. “Look, I’m an expert. I collect old coins! What possible interest could they be to some ... some schoolmarm, a hundred miles away in Dallas!”
“What makes ’em so interesting to you?” Yancey said.
“I told you! I’m a collector!”
Yancey shook his head. “Well, maybe these are valuable, from a collector’s point of view. I don’t know. But I’ll hold onto them and see Summers’ daughter gets them.” He put the coins in his shirt pocket and nodded as Ike handed him his, too. The cowboy glared at Cross, smiling crookedly. Cross flushed.
“What sort of governor’s man are you?” Cross demanded. “You could be a clerk in his back office for all the proof we’ve seen of your authority!”
Yancey tapped his right hand against the butt of the Peacemaker. “This is all the authority I need right now, Cross. You want to argue about it, go right ahead.”
Cross’ lips compressed as he glared at Yancey. Then he turned and shoved his way roughly through the crowd, hurrying across the street towards his office.
Yancey watched him go, his face hard.
Chapter Three – The Dallas Trail
As an Enforcer Yancey always had the choice of carrying out his assignments undercover or making his identity known. If he chose the latter course, then he carried papers of identification in a secret pocket in back of his belt, a pocket which also acted as a scabbard for the razor-keen blade attached to his belt buckle and held in place by a lock stud passing through double thicknesses of harness leather. The two-inch wide belt merely looked like a fine example of Mexican leather tooling and the heavy buckle complemented the design. But the buckle-knife, a modification of the ivory-handled ‘push-knives’ sometimes favored by Mississippi riverboat gamblers, had gotten him out of trouble on more than one occasion. It was virtually the only hidden weapon he had, though the governor had made others available. Sometime on future assignments he might have use for them, but so far, the buckle-blade had been sufficient.
In this case, Yancey had made no special secret of the fact that he was virtually checking-out Tyler’s Landing prior to Lester Dukes’ arrival, and he had seen no reason to hide his identity when it became clear that he was likely the only representative of the law within a hundred miles. But the thing that people in Tyler’s Landing would remember most about Yancey Bannerman was his gun speed, the way he had downed the half-breed, Mesquite ... and the way he had squared-up to Nathan Cross. For not many folk hereabouts did that and managed to walk away unscathed.
And Nathan Cross wouldn’t forget what Yancey had done to him in front of the crowd. He wasn’t a man who took any kind of setback easily, for he was rarely defeated. He had been used to winning and did not aim to change now ...
So when he stormed into his office across the street from the Big River saloon, he cussed his clerks for petty reasons, yelled at the pimply-faced message boy to go find Lang Brodie, and stomped into his own private office. He slammed the door so hard the glass in the upper panel cracked. This did not help his mood, but he controlled his anger, dropped into his desk chair and began to pack his pipe. He had it fired up and going when Lang Brodie came in, without knocking, but Cross didn’t even chide him for the oversight.
Brodie was a thick-chested, bullet-headed man with a face that looked like it had survived a stampede of bison, but only just. He was stamped with all the marks of a brawler: broken, twisted nose; scar tissue over both eyes; a piece bitten out of the top of one ear; a knife scar on one cheek, and a row of yellowed, uneven teeth that had been broken off in some forgotten brawl.
He was big all over with long legs like tree-trunks, yet he moved with an easy grace that told of a disciplined body. He wore a six-gun but there was nothing special about the rig, or gun, or how it sat on his narrow hip. It was the man himself that people noticed. There was no doubt that Lang Brodie was a man who liked to settle things with fists and boots. The gun might come later, but he would prefer it the other way.
“What happened?” he asked, glancing back at the cracked door-panel. His voice was surprisingly soft.
“Forget it. You took your time getting here.”
Brodie shrugged as he turned a straight-backed chair around and straddled it, folding his arms across the back and resting his bristly chin on them. “Just got in from up-river, roustin’ them homesteaders on that passel of land you want ... Ernie was tellin’ me there was a little excitement over at the saloon.”
Cross nodded curtly, puffing on his pipe, filling the office with aromatic smoke. “Take a look out the window ... Go on!”
Brodie shrugged and stood languidly, walking across to the window that overlooked Main. “I’m lookin’.”
“See a big hombre there, in front of the saloon, wearin’ gray whipcord trousers, denim shirt with a calfhide vest over it?”
Brodie stared, moved one of the drapes aside a little. “See someone like that ... Buff-colored hat with a braided leather band? Totin’ a Peacemaker in a plain gunslinger’s rig, and got a big brass buckle on his belt? Looks to be about twenty-seven or thereabouts.”
“That’s him. Yancey Bannerman by name ... Outgunned Mesquite when that ’breed had his hammer already fallin’.”
Brodie snapped his head around, frowning. “Never!”
Cross got up and walked across, looking out into the street. “I saw it myself. Deadliest man with a gun I’ve ever seen ... To top it off, he’s one of Lester Dukes’ Enforcers.”
Brodie took another look at Yancey as the big man swung aboard a long-legged bay at the hitch rack. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle, then looked sharply back at Cross.
“Oh-oh ... You figure Dukes has heard about your land-grabbin’ deals and sent him in ... ?”
“Don’t think so. Dukes is in Dallas and supposed to be coming here to wait for some paddle-wheeler from New Orleans from what I can gather. I think Bannerman was here just to check the place out.”
“But you ain’t sure and you want me to arrange an ‘accident’ for him, just in case, right?”
Cross looked at him coldly. “You’re away ahead of me. But you’ll have to make it outsid
e of town, somewhere along the trail. It don’t have to look so much like an accident as—well, say, robbery. Which brings me to the fact that he’s carrying some old coins I’m interested in. Seems Mesquite found them on Summers’ land but Bannerman gunned him down before I could find out just where.”
“Old coins? What sort?”
Cross looked at him levelly. “Spanish. Some very, very old.”
Brodie studied the agent’s face for a long time. “You figure they’re part of—?”
“Could well be,” Cross broke in sharply. “I want to examine them closely. And then I want Ike McCabe worked over. He found a coin under Abe Summers’ body. Or maybe it was in Summers’ pocket and it fell out when Mesquite killed, him, I dunno ... But I want to find out, and I want to know just where Abe was gunned down. Bannerman should be leavin’ for Dallas right soon, so you go get me those coins, Lang ... And finish off Bannerman.” His voice hardened. “It’s to our mutual benefit that you do. Get me?”
Brodie nodded slowly. “Sure. Leave it to me, Nate. You’ll have those coins on your desk by sundown.”
“See that I do,” Cross growled and Brodie threw him a mocking salute as he sauntered out.
Nathan Cross sat down at his desk again and tapped his pipe bowl into an ashtray. He stirred the tobacco coals with a match, pushing them aside so that he could see the medallion set into the base of the ashtray.
It was an old Spanish piece-of-eight with the words ‘Philipus IV De Gratia 1665’ just discernible. He ran his finger over the crude stamping on the silver cob, and his breath seemed to quicken.
~*~
It was a dragonfly that saved Yancey’s life.
He quit Tyler’s Landing at mid-morning and started back along the trail to Dallas, riding at a smart walk-trot. There was some sort of trouble brewing back there on the river, he figured. Nathan Cross had shown too much interest in those old coins that now rested in his shirt pocket. And it seemed that Mesquite, and a pard now dead, had rustled some of Abe Summers’ cattle and then killed the old rancher when he tried to stop them. By his own admission, Cross had employed Mesquite for ‘odd jobs’. Yancey sensed something deeper than that. His hunch that real trouble was brewing nagged at him all the way out along the river trail.
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