Until he came to the place called Snake Bend. Then he had no time to worry about hunches or anything else except how to dodge an assassin’s bullets ...
He slowed the bay gelding he was riding as it came to the stretch of sand and gravel that spread in a glaring white sheet towards the green-and-amber river. The horse’s hoof beats were immediately muffled and he heard the drone of an insect close by in the brush. Yancey glanced around in idle curiosity as the horse picked its way across and he spotted one of the most colorful dragonflies he had ever seen. Its wings were a kind of glowing metallic blue with black edges and shot through with yellows and a dot of red in the exact center of each side. On an impulse, Yancey swept off his hat and leaned swiftly to one side, trying to capture the dragonfly. He missed and almost lost his balance. And, at that instant, there was the buzz of something far more deadly than any insect droning past his left ear. Hard on the heels of the sound came the crack of the rifle.
Yancey, instead of pulling himself upright in the saddle again, leaned way down, along the side of the bay, yelling, hooking an arm around the saddle horn and riding like a bat out of hell whilst hanging on and pressing flat against the horse’s arched neck. The rifle roared again and again, three more bullets seeking to bring down the bay, but he saw the gravel-spurt kicked up by each one. The gun was at a low angle, he could tell that much.
Yancey flung a look back and saw gun smoke hanging in the air and then the muzzle-flash as the rifle sought to bring him down a fourth time. The man was no marksman, that was for sure, and it decided Yancey on his course of action. Instead of wheeling away and hunting cover, he made a split-second decision to ride in and bring the man down.
Yancey yelled at the horse again, slid his Peacemaker into his hand and ran the horse straight for the brush and the rocks. He snapped off two shots and heard his bullets ricochet and he turned a shoulder to protect his face as the horse crashed through the first of the brush. He saw the gunman break and run then, a big, thick-chested man with long legs and massive hands. The rifle seemed very slim in his grip as Yancey bore down on him. He caught a glimpse of a scarred and battered face turned briefly towards’ him, as the man tried to bring the rifle up and around, and then Yancey bared his teeth, swung the six-gun and felt his arm jar as the barrel knocked the man’s hat off and sent him cartwheeling, rifle flying from his hands.
Yancey straightened in the saddle and hauled rein, bringing the bay to a shuddering, skidding halt. He spun it about and saw the killer was on his feet and bringing up his six-gun. Yancey could have shot him but he wanted the drygulcher alive. He kicked the bay forward and the horse hit the big man full-chested, sending him hurtling across the deadfall, behind which he had taken cover, his gun flying. The Enforcer, eyes watching the man constantly, quit leather with a rush and ran across to leap atop the deadfall, six-gun pointed down at the breathless man. But the drygulcher was Lang Brodie, tough and rugged and in his element when it came to fists, rather than guns.
The big brawler was lying on his back, shaking his bullet shaped head when Yancey leapt on top of the deadfall. He didn’t hesitate. He swung his boots at Yancey’s legs and though the Enforcer tried to dodge, the heels raked across his shins and he lost balance. He fell, towards Brodie. The big man scrambled to his feet and immediately stomped down hard towards Yancey’s gun-hand. The heel missed the hand, but on reflex Yancey released the Peacemaker and then Brodie swung his other boot into his side. Yancey spun away, breath catching, his ribs feeling as if an anvil had been dropped on them. Brodie was after him in a flash, kicking again. The boot skidded off Yancey’s head and drove him hurtling backwards, flat on his back.
He whipped his head aside as Brodie stomped at his face, rolled and was halfway to his feet when the boot caught him in the upper chest. He hurtled backwards, arms flailing, hit the deadfall and somersaulted over the log. Stunned and dizzy, Yancey still had enough sense left to continue his somersault and he went over backwards, landing on hands and knees. Brodie launched himself bodily from the top of the deadfall and Yancey threw himself aside, rolled and bounced to his feet, breath catching under his injured ribs. He coughed as he stumbled forward and Brodie bared his teeth in a savage grin as he climbed upright, crouched, big fists bunched and ready. Yancey was clumsy because of the hurt in his side and his left arm lacked power. He feinted with it and drove his right forward with all his weight behind it, turning his shoulder into the blow.
Brodie dodged almost casually, refusing to fall for the feint, and he took one step forward, his right fist moving only a foot and hitting Yancey in the midriff like a pile driver. Yancey’s breath gusted out of him and he jack-knifed. He felt the thick fingers twist in his hair and saw the denim-clad knee driving up towards his face but there was nothing he could do about it. He seemed to be watching slow motion action as the knee came up and slammed into his forehead, missing the bridge of his nose but exploding lights behind his eyes and sending him flying back, his feet clear off the ground. His senses were reeling but before he finished rolling he was fighting for control of his body. He twisted, muscles wrenching, so that his feet came down squarely and he drove the toes of his boots into the ground for purchase, found it, tensed his leg muscles and thrust with his palms against the gouging gravel and dirt. He sprang upright as Brodie came lunging forward and took the big man by surprise. Yancey ducked and turned the point of a shoulder into Brodie’s belly, driving hard with his legs at the same time. The man’s weight carried him back four or five feet but Yancey’s legs did not buckle. Instead, he heaved upwards, wrapping his arms about Brodie’s thighs. He straightened and heaved and Brodie yelled as he flew up and over Yancey’s head. While the man was still in mid-air, Yancey turned and was ready when Brodie hit the ground with a bone-jarring crash. Yancey lashed out with two swift kicks that caught the man in the left side and, as he rolled, the Enforcer drove a third into the kidney area. Brodie groaned sickly as he rolled away.
He was very slow and groggy getting to his feet and Yancey dragged down a steadying breath, wincing at the pain in his ribs, then ran to meet him, fists cocked. Brodie parried the first blow, countered the second with a hook that turned Yancey’s head on his neck, and surged forward, aiming to use his greater weight to drive Yancey back. The Enforcer had never, in all his action-packed, brawling career, come up against any man as tough as this Brodie. Fists seemed to bounce off his iron jaw and bullet head with no effect ... except to pop Yancey’s knuckles and split the skin over them. He could absorb punishment the way a sponge took in water. A blow might stop him momentarily, but he was back in an instant with a shake of his head, sledging away, maiming, crippling, implacable.
Then, with a sudden roar and a move that caught Yancey completely off-guard, Lang Brodie leapt forward but, instead of lashing out with his fists, he threw his arms around Yancey, pinning him, crushing him in close, working his locked hands down Yancey’s back to the kidney area and then applying terrible pressure. Yancey’s spine creaked and he felt the blood congesting in his temples. His injured ribs were near cracking and Brodie shoved the top of his bullet-head under Yancey’s chin and heaved back. It was plain he intended to break Yancey’s neck or back or both.
He was aiming to kill his man with his bare hands.
And then, out of nowhere, through all the roaring pain that wracked him, Yancey heard a droning sound and opened his eyes and saw Brodie jerking his head from side to side, frantically trying to dodge a dancing, whirling object. It was the multicolored dragonfly, it flew right into Brodie’s face and he growled and momentarily relaxed his pressure on Yancey, allowing the Enforcer to slip down in his grip. Yancey swiftly whipped down his hands and drove them deep into Brodie’s groin, twisting savagely. Brodie screamed and released his hold on Yancey, pummeling at his head and shoulders. Yancey screwed and mauled a moment longer and then drove a punch into Brodie’s gut for good measure. Brodie fell forward, retching, knees drawn up to his chin, face yellow. Yancey, staggering on rubbery legs, gaspin
g, the world spinning, fell to his knees and put out one hand to steady himself. His hand rested on a fallen branch and he snatched it up, spun and swung it all in one motion. It broke across Brodie’s skull and the big man stretched out, still groaning and not yet completely unconscious.
But he was out of action for a spell, his hands clawed into his groin, big body rolling in agony.
Yancey stayed on his hands and knees, head hanging, panting for breath. But he gradually got his breathing under control and looked around for his Peacemaker, saw it lying on the other side of the deadfall and staggered to his feet. He stumbled across towards the log and was surprised when Brodie reached out through his agony with a groping hand and grabbed his right ankle. It was a weak grip, an instinctive movement, but it told him just what sort of a fighting, killing machine he had been up against. He kicked the hand savagely aside, reached over the log and got his Peacemaker. He sat down on the log and held the gun in both hands, watching Brodie slowly straighten out. The man’s eyes had hate in them, mingled with the extreme pain he must be feeling, as he lay on his side, glaring up at Yancey.
Finally, when he could speak, he gasped, “You better finish it, mister! Or I swear—I’ll—kill you!”
Yancey stared at him just as coldly, then raised the Peacemaker, sighted carefully and squeezed the trigger. Brodie hadn’t been expecting Yancey to shoot and his face went white as lead whipped past his ear. He blinked and dropped flat on his belly, thick fingers clawing into the earth.
“What the hell!” he gasped.
Yancey slowly cocked back the hammer again, sighted, and fired. The lead punched into the ground not two inches from Brodie’s face. He jerked back, body rolling to one side, face stung and bleeding. He clawed at his eyes, looked at Yancey through spread fingers. There was a hint of fear in those eyes now and he stiffened as Yancey notched back the hammer a third time and fired. The Peacemaker bucked in his fist and Brodie yelled, clapping both hands to his left ear as blood sprayed through his fingers. He was really scared now and his body tensed but Yancey knew it would be a long time yet before Brodie would be going any place under his own leg power.
The Enforcer looked down at his smoking gun. “Now, that’s three and I’m not sure whether I got off two or three at you when you tried to dry gulch me. So you’re gonna be the one taking the chance, mister.” He raised the gun, sighted squarely on Brodie’s thick chest and notched back the hammer. Yancey’s face was cold and merciless. “You’ve only got one chance. If I drop this hammer and the chamber’s empty, then you got a few more seconds till I load up. If it’s already loaded …”
He shrugged.
“Hold it!” Brodie yelled, panting now, eyes bulging. “God in heaven! You’re supposed to be a lawman! This is murder!”
“What the hell were you trying to do to me? Play pat-a-cake?”
“I’m—I’m broke ... Thought you looked like you might have a few bucks ...” Brodie stammered.
“Take off your shirt and pants,” Yancey said abruptly and Brodie stared in surprise. But Yancey’s face was still deadly and he gestured impatiently with the Colt’s barrel.
Brodie swallowed, glared at the Enforcer, then, with painful movements, removed his shirt and trousers. He was left wearing dirty, patched long underwear and his hatred for Yancey was naked in his face as he obeyed the Enforcer’s order to toss the clothes across. Yancey draped the torn and sweat-stained garments over the log and searched through them one-handed. When he had finished emptying the pockets, he looked at the items spread out on the log beside him. There was a clasp knife, two balled-up kerchiefs, a length of cord, two empty .45 cartridge shells ... and twenty-seven dollar bills and some odd change. Yancey picked up the money in his hand and threw it hard into Brodie’s face. The man tried to dodge but a coin hit him hard enough to make him wince.
Yancey didn’t say anything as he opened a leather billfold that was in the hip pocket of the trousers. There was no more money inside but there were a couple of old letters and a feed bill, made out to Nathan Cross, signed on his behalf by Lang Brodie. Yancey glanced at the letters.
“You’re Lang Brodie.” It was a flat statement.
The big man glared. Yancey hadn’t expected an answer.
“And you work for Nathan Cross.”
“I work for myself,” Brodie growled. “Just happened to do an odd job for him when I ran up that feed bill. He squared it as part payment for what he owed me.”
“Mesquite did odd jobs for Cross, too,” Yancey said flatly but Brodie merely looked at him with a carefully blank face. Yancey stood slowly, emptying the used shells from his Colt’s cylinder, catching the one live cartridge. He held it up between fingertip and thumb for Brodie to see. “You were lucky.” He thumbed it back in, reloaded the other five chambers with shells taken from his belt. He held the Peacemaker casually, looking down at the apprehensive Brodie. “I killed Mesquite. And I got a damn sight more reason to want you dead.”
“Get it over with then,” Brodie growled. “If you don’t, I’ll catch up with you sometime!”
“I’ll lose a lot of sleep worrying about that,” Yancey told him, suddenly holstering his six-gun. He walked over and picked up Brodie’s boots which the big man had removed when taking off his trousers. “Tell Cross I’ll maybe see him again. And next time we meet, Brodie, you won’t be able to watch me walk away.”
Brodie lay there, tensed, swearing silently, eyes hating Yancey as the big Enforcer lifted the clothes from the log, then walked to where his bay stood and climbed into the saddle, still carrying the boots. Yancey didn’t glance towards him again, but put the horse along the trail to Dallas, taking Brodie’s boots and outer clothing with him.
The big man pounded a fist savagely into the ground and got to his feet. At the first step he took he was dancing on the sharp gravel, his tender feet protesting. He hobbled over to the log and dropped onto it, cursing a blue streak, lifting first one foot, then the other, seeing the impressions of the gravel in the flesh already. He looked around for something he could use to make temporary footwear, some bark, maybe, that he could tie into place. He frowned as he saw something in the grass that had been flattened during the brawl. He stooped and picked up the object.
It was one of the old Spanish coins. It must have fallen from Yancey’s pocket during the fight. Brodie nodded slowly. At least he would have something that Cross wanted ... But he wouldn’t rest until he had pummeled the life out of that big sidewinding son of a bitch, Yancey Bannerman!
No one made a fool of Lang Brodie and lived to brag about it.
Chapter Four – Pieces of History
Both Governor Lester Dukes and Johnny Cato listened with close attention as Yancey related his story. He concluded by saying:
“Tyler’s Landing itself seems to check out okay, but there’s some kind of trouble brewing there, Governor, so maybe it would be best if you went downriver somewhere, like Jacksonville, and pick up the boat there.”
Lester Dukes shook his leonine head, the long, fine silver hair falling forward a little over his right eye. “Can’t do that now, Yancey. I’ve made arrangements for Rupe Harwood to come all the way up to Tyler’s Landing and he wants to see if the river’s navigable for his paddle-wheeler that far up, anyway. He aims to start a cattle run from there if he can and, if it’s successful, he’s bound to get the Dallas market as well.”
Yancey’s eyes had hardened a little at the mention of Rupe Harwood. He was a cousin of some sort to Kate Dukes, the governor’s daughter in whom Yancey had more than a passing interest. And Kate showed interest in Yancey, too, though nothing could ever come of the relationship so long as the governor lived. Dukes walked a daily tightrope, with a heart condition likely to strike him down without warning, and Kate had made a promise to her mother on her deathbed, that she would care for her father as long as either of them lived. But, though they were discreet lovers, it was a kind of open secret and Dukes himself was all for a marriage sometime in the future. But
Rupe Harwood hailed from New Orleans, was rich, handsome, a gentleman adventurer and, there was no denying it, he had a charm about him that attracted women like flies to a honey pot. On one of his visits to Austin he had monopolized Kate and Yancey had detected signs in her that she was far more interested in Rupe than she allowed to show.
For the past couple of months she had been deputizing for the governor at a meeting of the Southern States Political League in New Orleans. After the congress was over, she had stayed on as Rupe’s guest and was now accompanying him back to Texas on board one of Harwood’s paddle-wheelers, working its ponderous way across the Gulf and up the Sabine. Yancey told himself he wasn’t so much jealous as ... well, he didn’t know just what label to put on it, but he knew he would feel a lot easier once Kate was back in the governor’s mansion on Capitol Hill in Austin and Harwood was back in New Orleans.
But the way things were going, Harwood would be around Texas for quite a spell, drumming up river cattle trade, carrying beef down the rivers in his boat and saving the grueling trail-drives to railheads that were hard on man and beast. It was a good scheme and would likely make Harwood a lot of money. He was already rich and seemed to be one of those men who had the knack of attracting more money without making much of an effort to do it. Not that money would influence Kate in any way ...
Yancey stirred when he realized that the governor was speaking to him. Johnny Cato, lounging in a chair across the room, sipped his brandy and smiled crookedly at his friend over his glass rim.
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