Bannerman the Enforcer 1

by Kirk Hamilton

  He had been lucky to get down off the butte in the darkness and escape with his life. He had run into only one of the banditos, a man crazy enough to try climbing the rocks in the dark, hoping to sneak up on Yancey and cut his throat. But it had been the bandit whose throat had been slit, and with his own knife, too. Yancey had left him threshing out the last moments of his life among the rocks and had managed to slide down to the desert floor. He had ridden off in the velvet darkness after leading the pony for a mile, but instead of heading due north, he had swung towards the east, climbing over a lava flat where he left few tracks. He had ridden all day without sighting a cloud of dust anywhere along his back trail. Topping the saw tooth range that hid Los Morros from his approach, Yancey had made out a dark smudge far out on the desert to the north and figured this might well be the remainder of the bandits. But he had to eat.

  Stiffly, wearily, Yancey Bannerman dismounted outside the cantina, left the pony slaking its thirst at the stone trough, and went into the adobe building, nodding to a Mexican who was lighting the lantern on the arched porch.

  “Buenos noches, senor,” the man said civilly enough, but his black eyes took in the dust of hard travel on Yancey’s clothes, the tell-tale six-gun and the way the Americano held onto two small leather pouches with his left hand, his right resting on the butt of the Peacemaker. From long practice in such matters, the man figured Yancey carried something mighty heavy in those bags.

  Looking thoughtful, the Mexican lowered the glass over the lantern wick, shook out the taper flame and followed Yancey into the cantina. Somewhere down the street a guitar began to strum a mournful Spanish love song. A dog barked, then yelped suddenly and a hunting owl hooted as it winged off into the dusk.

  Los Morros seemed at peace with the world. Before midnight, that peace would be blown apart by the thunder of blazing guns.

  ~*~

  In the late 1870s the Barbary Coast and San Francisco in particular, were beginning to flex their muscles. The fortunes that had been made during the Gold Rush of ’49 had found their way to the coast and were looking for company. Investors only wanted schemes that would give them a fast profit; few were interested in long-term dividends. Yet it was these men who used their foresight and pinned their faith in the growth of San Francisco who had prospered most. They built their stores and their gambling clubs and saloons, their banks and business houses, and they built them to last, solidly, utilizing the Californian clay pans to make their own bricks and building materials, thus laying the foundations of yet another industry. Investment in the timber from the forests of California and Oregon was another good way to make money. Land boomed, especially along the Embarcadero waterfront where the tall-masted schooners and windjammers plied their trade and brought immigrants to the Promised Land.

  The Barbary Coast may have been full of ‘barbarians’ but they were rich ones. Much of the money was made without dignity but that was a fast-dying word and one that was used little in the brawling, lusty streets and business houses. A man was respected if he had money: how he made it was his affair. And the affairs of many of the men on the Barbary Coast would not stand close scrutiny. Even in the fledgling police force graft and corruption were rife and ‘sin’ made the fastest buck. For a small consideration a policeman would turn a blind eye to many breaches of the laws laid down by the City Fathers and, in many cases, he knew that the consideration came from one of the ‘Fathers’ themselves. It was well known that the men who made the laws and bylaws and supposedly watched over ’Frisco, had fingers in many pies, mostly along the notorious Front Street, hub of the Red Light district.

  Here, flourished whorehouses and gaming ‘clubs’ which were meeting places for the town’s criminal element, the conferences often held openly while the policeman on the beat had a drink at the bar or spent a short time with one of the ‘ladies of the night’ in an upstairs room. Here, businesses operated twenty-four hours a day and the whores worked in shifts and the money overflowed the cash drawers.

  This money eventually found its way into the vaults and private safety deposit boxes of the town’s banks and the bank which offered the widest and most secure services in this regard was the Bannerman First National, on the corner of Union and Alameda Streets, boasting twenty shotgun-guards and a section for private safety deposit boxes in a room with walls of concrete over a foot thick. Because of this facility, the Bannerman Bank had most of the business custom in town. It was the brainwave of old Curtis Bannerman himself, a man who didn’t let any grass grow beneath his feet when a dollar was to be made.

  The Bannerman house was in the elite Nob Hill district, a huge gray stone mausoleum of a place, sporting imported Venetian glass windows and Florentine mosaic tiles in the cold halls. Here were to be found Italian marble, Danish silverware, Spanish drapes, German wrought-iron rails, English crystal and French maids. It was a showplace for the Bannerman wealth, a monument to Curtis Bannerman’s drive and foresight and business versatility. For the Bannerman name was not only known in the banking business ... it was known throughout the country as the basis of an empire that old ‘C.B.’ aimed to see a reality before he died, or he’d know the reason why. It was said around ’Frisco that not even God would fool around with C.B.’s plans ...

  The Bannerman banks operated throughout the country, in most states, and there were Bannerman land offices which were Chuck’s responsibility in the main, though the final decision to buy or not always came from C.B. himself. There were Bannerman cattle and Bannerman riverboats, and C.B. kept a hold of the strings that operated all these things from his Nob Hill home in San Francisco. But, occasionally, business deals took him away from the coast and, when he returned, no matter what time of the night or day, he expected a hot meal to be ready for him. This was one of the many household responsibilities of his only daughter, Mattie.

  But this night, although C.B. was expected back sometime before morning, Mattie was busy with other things in the huge tiled kitchen of the house on Nob Hill.

  Chuck was sprawled in a chair, legs straight out, his head hanging over the back as he held a damp cloth against his bleeding nostrils. Blood also seeped from a deep cut above his left eye and his right eye was swollen almost closed. His clothes were in tatters and he breathed through his open mouth and smashed lips, one hand holding his ribs. Mattie, a compact woman in neat housekeeper-black gown, with her fair hair in a coil at the nape of her neck, moved efficiently around the kitchen, dissolving salt in a basin of warm water, taking fresh strips of clean rags from the linen cupboard, finally coming back to the big table and setting all these things down.

  “Has the bleeding stopped yet?” she asked her brother.

  Chuck took the cloth away from his nostrils and gingerly eased his head forward, the cloth held ready to catch any rush of blood. But none came and he nodded slowly. Mattie wet another cloth in the salt solution and began to dab carefully at the deep cut above his eye. He winced and smothered a curse, hands gripping the arms of the chair as she worked on him.

  “I may get you patched up before Father returns from San Jacinto, Chuck,” she said quietly, “but I won’t be able to cover up the injuries. You’re going to have to give him some explanation ... Even if you won’t tell me what really happened and why you’ve been missing for a full twenty-four hours.”

  Chuck didn’t say anything, avoiding her gaze. Mattie would not fuss to know the truth, he knew that. Funny thing was, she would likely help him out if she could, if he did tell her about Landis and the beating Hank Boden had given him. But Mattie couldn’t lay her hands on six thousand dollars any more than he could. Old C.B. had seen to that. It was not his way to give any of his children easy access to what he considered his own hard-earned dollars. When they had proved themselves to his satisfaction, then maybe he would consider endowing them with some money of their own. Meantime, they had to go to him for every dollar and, if he demanded it, give an explanation of why it was required and how it would be used. He was convinced that this
way he would give his family an appreciation of the wealth that would be theirs some day when he was dead and gone. Like so many cool-headed businessmen, Curtis Bannerman made errors of judgment where his own family was concerned, whereas he rarely made mistakes when pulling off a deal that involved thousands of dollars ...

  Chuck knew Mattie was right. He would have to convince his father somehow that these injuries weren’t important. No matter what he told C.B. the old man would likely want to call in the police. He had deliberately stayed away from the house for a full twenty-four hours, hoping the injuries would at least heal enough to be camouflaged with salves and unguents, but the hell of it was that the very woman he had chosen to spend the time with had been one of Landis’ girls and Boden had come round for his percentage. When he had found Chuck there, he knew Chuck was unable to pay for the girl’s favors and he had beaten them both on the spot: the girl for giving her services free and Chuck for taking advantage of her. So Chuck had arrived home with fresh injuries after all.

  He stiffened as he heard the big main doors open and close, looked swiftly at Mattie, paling. “It’s him,” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Don’t be so scared of him, Chuck!” Mattie snapped. “He’s our father, not some—some monster!”

  She broke off and looked up as the kitchen door opened and C.B. entered, one of the maids trotting behind to take his cloak and hat. He dismissed her impatiently, closed the door and stood just inside, glaring at his children, as he still thought of them. He was a commanding figure, over six feet tall, solidly built, with a clipped gray moustache, side-whiskers and steady blue eyes. His jaw jutted strongly and aggressively.

  “I am not off the train three minutes before I am told about my eldest son being involved in some brawl over a whore! What have you to say for yourself, Charles?”

  Chuck ran a tongue over his split lips. Part of him trembled at having to face the angry patriarch, but part of him was also relieved. One of C.B.’s many spies had told him Chuck had been involved in a fight over a woman of easy virtue, so that had already explained his injuries, a chore he no longer had to worry about. He could expect to be chewed out by C.B. for fighting over the girl, but that would be an end to it. If his father ran true to form, he would refuse to discuss the matter after saying his piece and berating Chuck for unseemly behavior, so there would be little danger of C.B. learning the truth. Chuck swallowed and stood up and prepared to take his medicine, his knees weak with relief ...

  “I’m sorry, Father ... I’d—I’d had a little too much to drink.” He stammered deliberately, sounding contrite, lowering his gaze. “And, after all, the girl did offer me her ... favors ... for nothing ... ”

  “Enough!” C.B. roared, glancing at the silent Mattie. “You will not talk of such things in the presence of your sister. You have at least admitted that you were drunk, which is nothing to be proud of, but at least you are being honest.”

  Chuck kept his eyes averted, afraid that his father might see the glint of relief and elation in them. He closed his ears as C.B. berated him for a fool, and accused Chuck of cutting loose the moment his back was turned. Chuck took it all quietly, head hanging, shuffling awkwardly and finally it was over and his father turned his attention to Mattie for the first time.

  “No doubt you would not have told me about this had I not had my own sources of information,” C.B. accused.

  “No doubt you’re right, Father,” Mattie told him, meeting his gaze squarely.

  He glared at her. “As I thought. Well, where’s my hot supper?”

  “In the oven. I’ll get it now. Will you have it in here?”

  “What? Amongst this carnage?” He indicated the bloody rags and red-tinged water on the table. “Serve it in my den ... Oh, and by the way, Matilda, I’ll be giving a dinner party on Friday night. There’ll be twenty guests. See me first thing in the morning for the guest-list and make the necessary arrangements with your house staff.”

  “The house staff, rather than mine, Father, I think,” Mattie said easily. “May I ask what is the occasion of the party?”

  Curtis Bannerman paused as he made to walk towards the kitchen door. “It’s in honor of a Texan politician who is visiting our fair city at the moment ... Senator J. J. Magnus of Austin, Texas.”

  “Magnus!” exclaimed Chuck before he could stop himself and he saw his father look at him sharply, frowning.

  “You’ve heard of him?” C.B. asked.

  “Why—yes—I’ve heard of him, of course.”

  C.B. nodded. “He’s a rising power in the Lone Star State and has powerful friends on the Coast here. He has many irons in the fire and I’ve done business with him in the past. Some of his deals are a little dubious to say the least, but it’s our job to look after his finances, not his morals.”

  Chuck frowned. “He banks with us?”

  “Certainly. He has quite a large operating account in ’Frisco as well as a brace of safety deposit boxes. It’s in our own interests to fete the man while he’s here. There’s talk he has his sights set on the governorship in Texas. Befriending such a man can only be to our advantage, Charles.”

  “Eh? Oh, yes, of course, Father. I’ll look forward to meeting him. I’ve heard that millions of acres in Texas are going cheaply now because of the big drought. Perhaps he can tell us if this is true or just rumor. If it’s true, perhaps we can turn it to our advantage by buying now and selling again when the drought breaks, as it surely must, at a good profit ... ”

  C.B. smiled. “Glad to see you haven’t been spending all your time wenching and carousing while I’ve been away. Come into my den and we’ll talk some more over a brandy.” He looked at the patient Mattie. “What’s holding up that meal?”

  “You are, Father,” she said wearily and C.B. grunted, took Chuck’s arm and led him towards the kitchen door.

  Chuck glanced over his shoulder at his sister and winked slightly with his good eye. She smiled in return, knowing how relieved he must be, yet worried in herself, knowing that the fight over the girl was not the main issue in whatever had happened to Chuck.

  ~*~

  Yancey knew he was in trouble. He had suspected it ten minutes ago when the first Mexican had slipped silently through the cantina doors while he had wolfed down some chili. He had just caught a glimpse of the man’s dusty clothes and the crossed ammunition belts on his chest. Right then, Yancey had tensed, but forced himself to look around casually, noting the windows, and doors, looking for more of the man’s companions. But they were playing this shrewdly. No one else had come in during those ten minutes.

  Now two more men entered by the front door and another two by the side door. They had two of the three entrances covered and he figured one of them would saunter up towards the rear door before long. The cantina man obviously recognized them: he looked gray and nervous, rattling coffee mugs.

  Yancey kept on forking his food slowly, watching covertly, keeping one hand on the leather bags that contained the gold. He had slipped up badly somewhere along the way. Obviously that smudge of dust to the northeast that he had seen had not been the banditos. They had been out there somewhere along his back trail all the time and had managed to screen themselves well enough to fool him into thinking that he had thrown them off. Served him right. He should have known you didn’t shake Mex bandits that easy, not with the glint of gold in the offing.

  It was time to act.

  He yelled abruptly, heaving up from his stool and hurling his chili bowl at a man who was making for the rear door. It smashed against the bandit’s head and the man staggered, dazed. Yancey grabbed his saddlebags with one hand, his Peacemaker with the other, kicking the stool towards the two men by the side entrance, backing slowly towards the front. One man already had his long-barreled, full-stocked Snider rifle trained on him and the others were closing in. He fired into the floor: a warning shot; then cursed himself for a fool. The way his ammunition was, he should have made that slug count and planted it in the belly of one of these
hombres ...

  They must have known he was low on ammunition. They flinched at the shot but didn’t break for cover. They moved in remorselessly, trying to get between him and the door. Two men pulled long knives. Yancey glanced behind him. A man with a rifle was between him and the door. He had to change direction and that put his back to the counter. Slowly, he stepped back as they closed in, picking his targets, gun ready, wondering how many of them he could manage to kill before they nailed him.

  ~*~

  Yancey Bannerman wasn’t the only gringo in Los Morros. And the other Americano, a smallish man named Johnny Cato, was also in danger of getting his throat cut. Not for gold. But because he had not taken the time and trouble to find out that the full-bodied senorita he had taken to his room in the town’s only other cantina was really a senora.

  Now Cato was finding out just how hard it is to pull your trousers on while trying to climb out a window. Somehow he managed it and dropped the short distance to the ground where the girl was just straightening from her own jump, getting a little dazedly to her feet. In the room above, he could hear the door splintering and he grabbed the girl’s arm, shoved her down the alley one way while he started off in the other direction. But she ran back, seized his arm and the back of his head and planted a wet, passionate, though necessarily brief, kiss full on his mouth.

  “Adios, querida,” she breathed, fingernails lightly raking down his cheek. “Hasta la vista!”

  “Adios!” Cato said emphatically and raced off down the alley as he heard the door in the room finally splinter open and the sound was swiftly followed by a stream of Spanish curses. Cato’s short legs pumped like pistons as he ran. There was a shot and his legs pumped even faster and then he was around the corner and running along what passed for the main street. Behind him, above the curses and yells, he thought he heard a trill of fading laughter and he shook his head even as he pounded along, admiring the coolness of such a hot-blooded senorita—or rather, senora. Well, it had been a pleasant little interlude, even though laced with danger. Maybe that added spice to things. A touch of excitement never hurt anyone, but, just the same, he would be eternally grateful to the unknown person who had fired that gun a minute or so earlier, somewhere in town.