Bannerman the Enforcer 1

by Kirk Hamilton

  “You didn’t tell me your Texas gals were so handsome, Yancey, old pard. Now why would you keep somethin’ as interestin’ as that from me?”

  “Figured you’d enjoy the surprise,” Yancey told him, yawning. “But I’d better warn you that Texans don’t take kindly to strangers trying to move in on their women. And picking a married woman would certainly mean a gunfight.”

  Cato looked innocent. “Well, reckon married women are sort of out of my line. That one in Los Morros was a mistake, one I don’t aim to make again. Where’re we stayin’?”

  Yancey pointed to a two-storeyed clapboard building on a corner with long verandah running down two sides. The sign’s paint was faded and peeling but easily enough read: Trail House. The rest of the building was newly painted and clean-looking and several obvious trail men lounged on the ground-floor porch.

  “Clean, quiet and they serve good food. All for fifty cents a night.”

  Cato scrubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling the rasp of stubble. “Baths, too?”

  “Cost you ten cents extra.”

  “Sounds kinda unexcitin’ ... ”

  Yancey grinned amiably and pointed further down the street to a slab-sided oblong structure that fronted directly onto the boardwalk. “Alamo Saloon can provide all the excitement a man wants ... Costs a little more than fifty cents a night, though.”

  “Figures,” Cato said, interested. “Looks like they got rooms upstairs. Why don’t we stay there?”

  “You can if you like. But most of those upstairs rooms aren’t used for sleeping in. Not for long, leastways. A man can’t get much rest in the Alamo.”

  Cato looked more interested than ever. “Well, guess I’ll take a look-see later ... After I get cleaned up in the Trail House.”

  The big man nodded and motioned to Cato to turn his horse across the street towards a solid-looking adobe building with iron bars on all the street front windows. Cato saw the signs then. BANNERMAN FIRST NATIONAL BANK. TEXAS BRANCH. T. RANDALL, PRESIDENT. ASSETS OVER $1 MILLION.

  Cato whistled. “And you rode away from that kind of money?” he asked.

  “That kind of money meant working in an office, losing myself in ledgers. I prefer to be outdoors and meeting people.”

  “And raisin’ a mite of hell occasionally,” Cato added, nodding. “Yeah. Savvy what you mean, but guess your old man wasn’t too pleased when you told him you wanted no part of his financial empire.”

  Yancey looked sober as he stopped his horse at the hitch rail and dismounted. “No,” he said briefly, looping the reins over the hickory bar. “You coming in?”

  Johnny Cato pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. Not so much about whether to enter the bank with Yancey or not, but rather at the way the big man had closed him out on the subject of his father. That had happened several times along the trail up from the border ... Guess it was about time he got the message and shied away from the subject.

  “Bein’ around a lot of money always makes me nervous,” Cato said. “Guess that’s why I never made much. No, I’ll go back to the Trail House, check in and soak some of this trail dust off me in a tub of hot water ... ”

  Yancey nodded, taking his leather bags of gold out of the saddlebags. “Tell the clerk you’re with me and I’ll square-up with him when I get there ... And, Johnny, obliged for the escort.” He indicated the bags of gold.

  Cato flipped his hand nonchalantly and turned his mount, slowly riding back up the street towards the Trail House. Yancey watched him for a moment and then went through the doors of the Bannerman Bank.

  He saw the guards around the wall, carrying shotguns. There were four of them, in uniform. And two more either side of the short passage that led to the vaults. Likely there would be another stationed right outside the vault itself. The increase in guards from the normal two told Yancey that the bank vaults were holding more than usual amounts and he wondered just what had happened in his absence. He nodded to the clerks and a couple of the guards he knew and walked towards the rear of the bank where Tom Randall, the local president and resident manager, sat at a desk behind a rail with a swing gate in it. Randall was a middle-aged Texan, flabby, courteous and a wizard at figures. He looked up as Yancey came through the gate and stood smiling at the big man, thrusting out his right hand.

  “Well, howdy, Yancey! We were getting kind of worried about you. Most of your crew drifted back a couple of weeks ago.”

  Yancey nodded, placing the bags of gold on Randall’s desk. “Came home the back trails but ran into a little trouble. And there’s the Association’s money. You’re their banker and treasurer or whatever you like to call it. I’ll leave it to you to work out who gets what. Tell you the truth, Tom, I’m glad to get rid of it.”

  Randall nodded. “Responsibility for other people’s money can be burdensome. I’ll give you a general receipt right now, to show you delivered the gold to me, and I’ll have a clerk tally it up later and give me a breakdown of the figures. That suitable?”

  “Sure. Whatever you say.”

  Randall wrote swiftly and spoke as he made out the receipt. “Seen Chuck yet?”

  Yancey looked surprised. “Chuck? Here in Austin?”

  Randall glanced up. “Why, yes. Been here a week now. He’s working some sort of land deal. Buying up while folks are willing to sell cheap. Or he would be, except that Lester Dukes has delayed things a mite.”

  “How come?” asked Yancey, thinking how typical it was of Chuck and C.B. to take advantage of folks’ misfortunes.

  “Dukes has pushed a bill through the senate to help the ranchers hardest hit by the drought. He’s made something like two hundred thousand dollars available to those who qualify. It’s a blessing to some of the ranchers whose cattle are dying like flies and they have to shoot them because there’s no feed. Some would be starving themselves if it wasn’t for the governor’s money. Those who’d have sold at a dime an acre now are trying to hold on a little longer, and I guess that’s kind of put a spoke in Chuck’s wheel.”

  “Well, that won’t hurt any,” Yancey said. “I reckon the Bannerman name’s on enough land as it is ... Old C.B. never knows when to quit. This special grant of the governor’s—you holding it in the vaults?”

  Randall sighed and nodded slowly as he handed Yancey the receipt for the bags of gold. “Yes, unfortunately. What I mean is, it’s a hell of a lot of money, a lot more than we normally hold and I haven’t been sleeping since it came in. I’ll be glad when it’s all distributed.”

  “You got on extra guards,” Yancey pointed out.

  “Sure, but all that cash must be a mighty big temptation to some of those hard case boys out on the Panhandle and down in the Big Bend, knowing it’s just sitting here in our vaults. Quite a few of them would be willing to take a chance of getting their hands on it, I reckon.” He picked up the gold bags. “But that’s my worry and what I’m being paid for ... You’d better come and witness me depositing this in the vaults, Yancey.”

  The big man nodded and followed Randall down the short passage to the barred door of the vault. He had been right: there was another guard there, armed with a double-barreled shotgun. But he was stationed inside the vault, not outside. And there was a rack with three more double-barreled shotguns near him. Yancey figured they would all be loaded. The man stood stiffly inside the door as Randall and Yancey came down the short passageway and he held the shotgun through the bars, hammers cocked.

  “Just move to one side, Mr. Randall,” the rangy guard said quietly. “Want to make sure that big feller’s not holding a gun on you.”

  Randall smiled faintly as he stepped to one side in the narrow passage and Yancey held his hands out from his sides so the guard could see they were empty.

  “You’re doing a fine job, Slim,” Randall said, pausing outside the barred door and fumbling at a key he wore on a chain on his belt. “But there’s no danger of this man robbing the bank. He’s a Bannerman.”

  The guard squinted as he set down his shotgun
and took a key from his own belt. He and Randall used their keys, simultaneously, to open the barred grille. The guard picked up his shotgun and pushed the door open, still squinting at Yancey. “He’s a Bannerman, all right. Got old C.B.’s eyes and jaw.”

  Yancey looked closely as the man stepped out into the light and then grinned. “Slim Morgan! Well, I’ll be ... ! Thought you were working for the old man on the Barbary Coast?”

  Morgan and Yancey shook hands. “I was. But Mr. Randall sent word about all that state money comin’ in and he didn’t want to hire extra guards locally, not being sure just who he could trust and who he couldn’t. So old C.B. sent a bunch of us out from ’Frisco, put me in charge. I sure need the extra money—debts pile up when you’ve a family like mine.”

  “Long time since I’ve seen you, Slim. How’s your wife? And the kids? Lottie and ... Dave, right?”

  Morgan grinned. He was a man about Cato’s age, hard-eyed, lantern-jawed. “You got a good memory, Yancey. But you wouldn’t know the kids now. Lottie’s well out of pigtails, a young lady. And Dave ... Well, he’s workin’ in one of the Bannerman banks, a small branch on the outskirts of ’Frisco.”

  “Time sure flies,” Yancey said. “Glad to hear things are going well for you, Slim ... I’m going to be in town for a couple of weeks. How about we get together for some supper and a few drinks?”

  “Suits me. Where you stayin’, Yancey?”

  “Trail House, as usual.” Yancey turned to Randall. “Where is Chuck lodging, Tom?”

  “The Palace, where else?” Randall had a slightly bitter turn to his mouth. “Already raised hell a couple of times because the food is not to his liking and one of the maids complained he—well—made advances. Don’t aim to tell tales out of school, Yancey, but he’s not really doing much good for the Bannerman name.”

  Yancey shrugged. “That’s between Chuck and C.B. Well, I’ve witnessed you depositing the Association’s gold in the vault so I reckon I’ll head back to the Trail House and a hot tub. You want to come around about seven, Slim?”

  “Sure. But I’ll have to cut out around ten, Yancey. I check the guards we have on all night about then, and I go on shift myself at midnight.”

  “Adios for now, Slim. Good to see you again.”

  Randall and Morgan used their keys to lock the barred grille together and Yancey collected his horse outside and walked it back to the Trail House. He put it in the stables in back, seeing Cato’s bay already there. The clerk told him Cato had a double room on the front corner, at the small man’s request, and Yancey was in the room next door. Yancey wondered why Cato had wanted a double room ... until he had gone up, knocked on the door and received no reply. But he had heard the sounds of feminine laughter through the woodwork and then he understood. Shaking his head and smiling faintly, Yancey went into his own room and soaked in a tin tub of hot water for half an hour. He scrubbed the trail-dirt from his skin, sent a clerk out to buy him a new set of denim work-clothes and some .45 ammunition, then dressed and went out into the passage. He knocked on Cato’s door again but there was still no reply.

  Yancey went downstairs, had himself a meal in the kitchen, working his charm on the old Irishwoman cook for an extra helping of apple pie and then went shopping for a rifle. He found what he wanted in a gunshop on Stagecoach Street—a Winchester ’76 with the full-length octagonal barrel that Cato had recommended, and in .45-70 caliber. Carrying the gleaming new rifle in his left hand, slanting it casually over one shoulder, Yancey walked back to Freemont Road and the Palace Hotel. It was little more than a saloon and had a winding staircase with polished banisters leading up to the second floor where he was told his brother was in a street front suite of rooms.

  Yancey found the suite and was announced to Chuck by a servile little man wearing a green eyeshade and celluloid cuff protectors. His fingers were stained with ink and he looked as if he had all the worries of the world on his shoulders. Chuck dismissed him with a wave and, as the man hurried out and closed the door after him, came towards Yancey with outstretched hand and a wide grin. The brothers gripped hard.

  “You look tougher than ever, my wandering brother,” Chuck said, punching Yancey lightly on the shoulder. “And carrying that naked rifle does nothing to improve the impression.”

  “Something I need,” Yancey said by way of explanation, resting the Winchester against the wall. They sat down facing each other and Chuck offered Yancey a cigar. He took it and they both lit up. Yancey looked at the cigar critically. “Pa still importing them from Cuba, I see.”

  “He can afford to,” Chuck said airily. “Well ... It’s been a long time, Yancey. How long? A year? Eighteen months?”

  “About that ... I’ve written to Mattie a few times.”

  “And she keeps C.B. posted on what you’re doing. He pretends he’s not interested but he doesn’t miss a word.”

  Yancey nodded. “Reckon he’ll never forgive me for not taking that post in the bank.” He added, “I hear you’re in town to extend the family acres. As cheaply as possible.”

  Chuck glanced at his brother sharply, then shrugged. “That’s what business is all about, Yancey. Damn governor’s held things up, with that grant of his. Men I had lined up to sell are having second thoughts about it, hoping the extra grant will see them through until the drought breaks. Crazy! I’d hoped to make a quick killing in land deals here and then move on to check our holdings in Colorado.”

  Yancey frowned slightly at Chuck. His brother seemed a little nervous and there was tension in his voice when he spoke about the delay in his business deals. Yancey had the impression that Chuck would rather not be in Austin any longer than he had to be. He wondered why.

  “You know Slim Morgan’s a guard at the bank?” he asked.

  “Slim? Oh, yeah. Randall panicked when Dukes decided to have our bank hold the drought relief money. Sent for extra men.”

  “I figure that was a good idea. Anyway, Slim and I are having supper and a few drinks tonight with a pard of mine. We’ve just ridden in from Mexico together and he’s a stranger in Austin, like you ... You want to tag along? Could be fun.”

  Chuck frowned and stood up, walking to the bureau and pouring two drinks. He took a glass back to Yancey and they drank. Then Chuck said, “Why not? Things have been pretty dull so far. All work and no play.”

  “Not all, from what I hear, Chuck.”

  Chuck frowned.

  “You’ve got to know some of the belles, I’m told ... ”

  Chuck smiled. “Don’t miss a damn thing, do you, little brother? Yeah, well, a man needs some diversion from cold hard cash and land areas. I tried my luck.” A trifle ruefully, he added, “As usual, it was none too good. But maybe things will be better tonight, huh?”

  ~*~

  It turned out to be a wilder night than Yancey had figured on. All were in the mood for some ‘fun’ and this mood strengthened with each whisky they downed. They ate first at the Trail House and got rid of a bottle of whisky during the meal, one that Chuck had brought along all the way from San Francisco. It had been just what Cato had needed: he had admitted to feeling a ‘mite weary’ and Yancey had noted that two waitresses had fluttered around Cato’s chair, giving him the choicest steak, the most vegetables and so on. When Cato said something in a low voice and one girl laughed, Yancey looked up swiftly, knowing it was the same laugh he had heard that afternoon through the locked door of Cato’s room. He smiled and silently admired the small man’s taste, for the girl was a good looker ...

  From the Trail House, they had gone to one of the better saloons but had soon tired of the stuffy atmosphere and Yancey had led the way to Longhorn Street and a whole line of cattlemen’s saloon bars. They worked their way through them all and by that time were feeling the effects of the liquor they had consumed. Chuck was more relaxed than Yancey had ever remembered seeing him and regaled them with humorous stories about the Barbary Coast and its night haunts. Yancey also picked up a few indiscreet bits of information tha
t he was sure Chuck hadn’t meant to drop. For instance, Chuck had started to say he had more debts to worry about than Slim Morgan, with his family commitments. But Chuck had then clammed up.

  Slim Morgan left them soon after that and went back to the bank to check on his guards and to get some sleep before he was due to take over himself at midnight. Chuck, Cato and Yancey continued on their rounds and they lost Cato soon after they entered a saloon-theatre calling itself the Gilded Cage, where ‘Colt’ found himself a buxom girl.

  Chuck wanted to play the gaming tables and Yancey took him to a gambling house on Front Street that had everything from faro to straight poker. They sat in at the roulette table but Yancey quit after losing ten dollars. Chuck didn’t want to give up, though he had lost almost forty dollars and Yancey frowned when he saw the desperate way his brother bet in an effort to recoup his losses. When Yancey tried to get Chuck away before he lost too much, Chuck reared up in his chair and took a swing at the bigger man. Yancey dodged, and got Chuck’s arm up his back. He marched the protesting man out of the room to the laughter of the other gamblers. Outside, Yancey ducked Chuck’s, head in a horse trough. Chuck came up spluttering.

  Yancey swayed a little, not entirely sober either. “Cool off. Chuck. I don’t mind a fight to wind up the night, but I don’t want it with you.”

  “Should have let me try to win my money back!” Chuck muttered, slurring his words a little. “Damn it, I was down something like seventy dollars! Should’ve let me try ... ”

  “You’d have been down a hundred and seventy bucks if I hadn’t dragged you out. Don’t recall you having the gambling bug as bad as that.”

  Chuck sobered a little and looked sharply at Yancey. “Well ... I like a bet on the wheel now and then.”

  Suddenly there was a crashing of glass and a chorus of wild yells from along the street and two men followed by a yelling crowd, rolled across the boardwalk outside a saloon, kicking and punching and gouging The Bannermans ran down to watch for a time, then Yancey grabbed Chuck’s arm and hustled him into the deserted bar. “Let’s have a drink for the road,” said Yancey and grabbed up an abandoned bottle at one of the tables. Chuck looked startled, then grabbed two glasses. They were cheerfully sampling the liquor when the fight ended and the drinkers came streaming back. There was a bellow of rage from one of the customers and in a concerted rush a bunch came at the Bannerman brothers, led by the barkeep.