Bannerman the Enforcer 1

by Kirk Hamilton

  “Time to go!” Yancey yelled, downed one more shot of redeye and made a lunge for the rear door. The next moment they were fighting shoulder to shoulder and Yancey was laughing like crazy as the fists flew. Then four deputies charged in, batons raised, and the two made their escape in the confusion.

  Panting, disheveled, bruised and bloody, they found their way to the rear of the Palace. “Just as well you’re going in the back way,” Yancey gasped, pointing to Chuck’s torn clothes. “The clerk would have a fit if you went through the lobby.”

  “Then I reckon that’s just what I’ll do!” Chuck announced and started around to the front of the hotel. Yancey, amused, followed him.

  Chuck said, “God knows I needed a night like this, Yancey. It’s gotten a lot of ... well, a lot out of my system. Haven’t had such a ball in years. Childish, I guess, but just the kind of thing I needed. Been a great night, Yancey. Muchas gracias.”

  “Hey! You’re learning to talk like a Texan. Yeah, it’s been a barrel of fun, Chuck. Here’s the lobby. Be seein’ you.”

  Chuck gave him a ponderous bow and entered the quiet, stuffy lobby of the hotel, exaggerating his wavering gait, beginning to sing in a slurred, off-key voice:

  “OH! Buff’lo gals ain’t you comin’ out t’night ... COMIN’ out t’night, COMIN’ out t’night …”

  The stiff-faced clerk behind the desk almost fainted when he saw who the drunken, disheveled carouser was and Yancey chuckled as he went off down the street to the Trail House ...

  But he would not have laughed had he seen his brother stumbling around his suite, a lamp swaying dangerously in his hand. Chuck at that moment, was laughing too. Then he quit laughing and froze.

  Hank Boden was sitting in a chair against the wall and there was a cocked six-gun in his hand. “Howdy, Chuck,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice. “We been lookin’ all over for you.”

  Chuck stared at him, suddenly as sober as the grave, with the taste of ashes in his mouth.

  Five – Gunsmoke and Blood

  YANCEY HAD a mild hangover when he awoke the next morning. But after a pitcher of icy water poured over his head and three cups of hot black coffee, he felt more ready to face the world ... providing the world wasn’t going to be too demanding of him. He dressed after shaving carefully. And when he reached for his gunbelt, he discovered that his gun was missing.

  He stared at the empty holster, not at first believing his eyes, then looked in the corner where he had placed his new Winchester. The rifle was not there. His headache started up again.

  Frowning, he buckled the empty gun rig about his waist, grabbed his hat and went out into the passage to knock on the door of Cato’s room. At the man’s invitation to come on in, Yancey entered and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that Cato was working on the missing guns. At least, the Winchester rested on the table, the action open, but the Colt Peacemaker was in pieces on a square of cloth. Cato looked fresh and fit.

  “Is that my Colt?” Yancey asked, sitting down.

  “Yep. You won’t know it when I get it together again.”

  “I don’t know it now. It’s unrecognizable. You sure you can put all those pieces back in the right places, Johnny?”

  “Not only that, but the gun’ll be better than ever.” Cato fumbled amongst his tools, picked up a small screwdriver and worked at the trigger mechanism. “You don’t look any too bright this mornin’.”

  Yancey looked rueful. “Chuck and me kind of got caught up in a little uproar last night. Plenty of fun.”

  Cato nodded, smiling faintly. “Chuck looks a hell of a lot worse than you do. Offered to help him up to his room just as the sun was comin’ up, but he wouldn’t let me. Stubborn cuss. Tried to hide his face from me, but I could see he was bleedin’ plenty.” Cato shook his head slowly. “You Bannermans call gettin’ beat-up fun?”

  Yancey frowned. “Chuck wasn’t beat-up bad. In fact, he didn’t stop as many punches as I did. Might’ve been a little blood, but not much ... Wait a minute! Did you say you saw him when the sun was rising?”

  Cato stopped work on the gun and looked up, surprised. “Yeah, sure. I was just gettin’ back from my—uh—lady friend at the Gilded Cage. Saw Chuck staggering along the street making for the rear entrance of the Palace. Something wrong?”

  Yancey was looking thoughtful. “Seems so. I left Chuck singing ‘Buffalo Gals’ in the Palace lobby not long after midnight. He was laughing his head off.”

  Cato shrugged. “Well, he must’ve gone out again and had himself some more fun ... I’m tellin’ you, Yancey, he was beat-up bad. I was gonna insist that I help him to his room or get a sawbones, but he was kinda proddy and told me to get. He’d make out, he said.”

  Yancey pursed his lips. “Seems mighty strange. Maybe I better have a talk with him. You going to be long with my Colt?”

  “About an hour. But I won’t be doing anything on your Winchester for a while.”

  Yancey nodded, picked up the rifle and went to an open carton of cartridges, pushing seven into the magazine and working the lever to cycle one into the breech, then lowering the hammer gently. Cato watched him soberly.

  “You expectin’ trouble, maybe?”

  Yancey hesitated before replying. “Got a hunch, Johnny. Nothing I can pin down. Just a feeling. By the way, how did you get into my room?”

  “Door was unlocked. Guess you didn’t take time to lock it last night.”

  “You’re looking spry enough after being out all night.”

  Cato grinned and so did Yancey, but his smile had vanished before he reached the street door. He couldn’t shake the hunch that something was wrong and Chuck was in some kind of trouble ...

  He was even more certain of it after talking with his brother. Chuck was lying, Yancey was sure of that. He pressed his brother.

  “Goddamn it, Yancey, you aren’t my keeper!” Chuck snapped, walking to the bureau and splashing whisky carelessly into a shot glass. He did not offer Yancey a drink but downed the spirits fast and poured another, his hand shaking. Looking closely, Yancey was more sure than ever that his brother had been beaten up.

  “What happened after I left you in the lobby last night, Chuck?” Yancey asked.

  Chuck sighed exasperatedly. “I went out again, that’s all. Couple of jaspers jumped me in an alley. Now quit riding herd on me.”

  Yancey looked at Chuck levelly, but Chuck wouldn’t meet his gaze. “You report the attack to the town marshal?”

  “No ... Hell, they only got a couple of bucks!”

  “They beat you up pretty roughly. Next time they might kill their victim.”

  Chuck looked uneasy. “Not my worry. I’ll be quitting town in a couple of days.”

  Yancey frowned. “Kind of sudden, isn’t it? You figured on being here for a few weeks, you told me last night.”

  “Well, I been thinking. This drought relief’s going to help out a lot of ranchers. They aren’t going to sell at my prices ... I might as well move on to Colorado. Maybe I’ll come back if the drought doesn’t show any sign of breaking ... ”

  Yancey sighed and got slowly to his feet, lifting his rifle.

  “Chuck,” he said quietly, “you’re lying to me.”

  Chuck bristled, eyes blazing, fists clenched up at his sides, but he couldn’t stare down his younger brother. “Why should I lie?” he muttered.

  “I don’t know.” Yancey admitted slowly. “Maybe I’ll make it my business to find out.”

  “Butt out, can’t you? I live my own life.”

  Yancey nodded slowly. Then he said, “I’ll be around town a while. Don’t leave without saying adios.”

  Chuck grinned and winced immediately, as his lips were cut. “Be seeing you, Yancey.”

  Yancey nodded and left. Chuck’s false smile faded swiftly and he looked a very worried man as he hurried across to the bureau and poured himself another whisky. He downed it like a man who needed it badly ...

  Going down the stairs, Yancey passed Hawke Ve
nters. The tall gunfighter with the eye patch, ran his single eye over Yancey as he approached, moved to one side, right hand casually dropping near his gun butt when he saw the rifle Yancey was carrying. Yancey nodded briefly, keeping his face blank. “Howdy, Venters,” he said quietly.

  Venters didn’t reply. He merely nodded very slightly and watched Yancey descend the stairs. Then he turned and continued on up the stairs, his face grim.

  In the lobby, Yancey paused a moment then went up to the desk. The clerk watched him apprehensively as Yancey laid the big Winchester down on the counter and jerked a thumb towards the stairs. “J. J. Magnus staying in town?” he asked.

  The clerk shook his head. “No, sir. His reserved suite hasn’t been occupied for some time. He’s been away in San Francisco. But he’s back at his ranch right now.”

  Yancey showed interest in this piece of news. “Venters going up to the suite?”

  The clerk licked his lips and fiddled with a pencil. “It’s not my place to say anything about our guests, Mr. Bannerman.”

  “Don’t get sassy with me, Amber. I know your background and it’s not one you’d like folk to know about. Now, has Venters gone up to see my brother?”

  The clerk fiddled some more with his pencil, then nodded. “He asked the way to his suite ... ”

  “Has he ever been to see him before?”

  “Not—not that I know of.”

  Yancey picked up the rifle and started to turn away from the counter, but swung back, making the clerk jump. “Did you see my brother go out again last night? After he sang ‘Buffalo Gals’ down here?”

  The clerk’s prissy lips tightened at the recollection. “Yes, I did see him again, as a matter of fact. I was going off-duty and walking home when he rode by with another man.”

  Yancey stiffened. “Rode by?”

  The clerk nodded. “Heading out of town.”

  “Who was the other man? Did you recognize him?”

  “No. But he was big, very heavily built.” The clerk frowned, opened his mouth to say something else, then changed his mind.

  “Come on, Amber!” Yancey snapped. “Give!”

  Amber was very nervous. “Well ... I can’t be sure, but I think … it was only an impression, really, just a flash of light from metal ... but I think the big man was holding a pistol.”

  ~*~

  The sound of gunfire rolled out across the barren hills and the whining of two ricochets joined the fading echoes.

  “What the hell did you do to it?” Yancey Bannerman asked Cato, looking down in surprise at the Colt Peacemaker in his hand.

  “Two or three things. How does it seem different?”

  “The balance for one thing. Trigger lets off a damn sight more smoothly and crisply and takes only about a third of the pull it did before. Gun doesn’t seem to jar so much when the hammer falls and I know damn well you’ve filed down the foresight.”

  “Deepened the sighting groove in the top strap too,” Cato answered, taking the smoking Colt from Yancey. “See here? Drilled a couple of holes in the hammer body, what we call ‘skeletonizing’. Cuts down on the weight and doesn’t jar the hell out of your gun hand when it strikes the cartridge. You might notice too, I’ve installed new grips and you’ve got a brass trigger guard now. It’s from an old 1860 Army model, fits the frame neatly, but the grips are about a half-inch longer than standard, change the point of balance just a shade and, with the softened hammer-fall, you can stay on target better. Got a good feel to it now, huh?”

  Yancey took the gun back and hefted it, nodded his head admiringly. “You did all that in your room out of the travel-kit?”

  “You’d be surprised what I can do with the tools in that kit. Could open a safe with ’em if I’d a mind to. Of course I did a few other things to tune it, internally. Replaced the bolt with one of a better fit; sloppy-fitting bolts are one of the faults with factory Colts. Just takes a little patient filing for a snug fit and makes all the difference. Filed down the cylinder pawl and reshaped both the mainspring and the bolt-and-trigger spring. No mystery about it. It’s only standard procedure for tuning-up a single-action Colt. Just one word of warnin’, Yancey. Don’t get into the habit of fannin’ the hammer. It looks flashy, but it’s not only inaccurate, it beats hell out of the cylinder hand and the trigger sear ... Which I kind of changed the angle of, by the way ... ”

  “No wonder they nicknamed you ‘Colt’,” Yancey opined, reloading the tuned-up Peacemaker. He dropped it into his holster, took up a gunfighter’s stance, and faced the line of pebbles Cato had set up on top of a block of granite some thirty yards away. Suddenly, the Colt was in his hand and blasting, held firm against the recoil, the muzzle not jumping anywhere as much as it used to. Five of the six pebbles disappeared from the granite block. Yancey held the gun in both hands, sighted carefully at the sixth pebble and fired. The pebble disintegrated in a puff of rock dust.

  “That ain’t all the gun’s doin’,” Cato pointed out. “You’re a natural good shot and fast draw to start with. You can give yourself another slight edge by takin’ that holster rig, soaking it in water and then rammin’ the Peacemaker hard into it. Mould the leather into the shape of the gun and let it dry in the sun for a couple of hours. When the leather’s properly dry and hard, it’ll fit that gun like a glove, shaped around the cylinder and barrel and ejection rod. Makes it come out easier. A hell of a lot easier, yet grips it firm. ’Course you’ve got to take the gun apart pronto and dry it and oil it, but that ain’t much of a chore if it’s goin’ to give you that little extra edge you need.”

  “You’re full of surprises, Johnny. What’ll you do to my rifle?”

  “Not a lot. Tighten up the action some. Winchesters are usually a mite sloppy when they leave the factory, except for the ‘one-in-a-thousand’ kind. Yours’ll shoot better than the best ’73 when I’m through. Got to locate a tang sight for you. Then you’ll be knockin’ the eyes out of a rattlesnake at two hundred yards.”

  Yancey looked dubious and Cato shrugged.

  “You wait and see,” was all he said.

  “I’m obliged to you, Johnny,” Yancey said soberly. “Could be I’ll be needing all the edge I can get with my guns.”

  Cato looked puzzled.

  “Let’s start back to town and I’ll tell you about it,” Yancey said, face grim as he walked towards his horse. “I don’t know how, but Chuck seems to have gotten himself into trouble. And if he’s dealing with a killer like Hawke Venters, it has to be big trouble.”

  Cato pursed his lips in a silent whistle as he mounted and they rode away from the target area, stirrup to stirrup.

  ~*~

  By the time they had reached Houston Street, Yancey had decided to see Chuck again. And this time he would take Cato with him. If they both offered to help him, maybe he would tell them what had really happened.

  “Maybe he’s already tellin’ the truth,” Cato said. “Could be your hunch is for nothin’.”

  They spotted Slim Morgan, who was just crossing the street on his way to the bank. Yancey called a greeting and the bank guard stopped.

  “Figured you hombres might be just a little under the weather this mornin’,” Slim said, grinning. “Heard there was a little hell-raisin’ in town last night.”

  “Some,” smiled Yancey, then added, “Goin’ on duty?”

  Morgan nodded, pulled out a battered turnip watch and glanced at it. “See you tonight. And this time the drinks and the grub are on me.”

  He turned and mounted the bank steps. Yancey was about to turn away when he stiffened in the saddle, nerves already keyed-up. Outside the bank, right at the corner of the building, was a big, beefy ranny with a craggy face that showed signs of fresh sunburn rather than the leathery tan sported by most cow-punchers. He was looking down the side street, stepping off the boardwalk to get a better view, and then he moved around to look along Houston Street itself. His cold eyes passed over Yancey and Cato without pause and then he walked past the front of the
bank and looked down the other side of the street. He seemed satisfied with what he saw, nodded to a nondescript waddy leaning on an awning post and, together, they went into the bank.

  “What’s wrong?” Cato asked.

  “Not sure ... That big hombre looked like he’s not used to our Texas sun ... C’mon, Johnny. Let’s move.”

  In the hotel lobby Amber, the clerk, told Yancey that Chuck was not in his suite, that he had gone out not long ago with Hawke Venters. Though they had parted at the door, Venters riding out of town, Chuck had walked slowly along Freemont.

  “Towards Houston Street?” Yancey demanded. “As if he was going to the bank?”

  Amber shrugged. “I couldn’t tell ... ”

  “Listen good. See if this description reminds you of anyone, Amber,” Yancey said crisply, and gave a brief description of the big man he had seen entering the Bannerman Bank a few minutes earlier

  The clerk frowned, thinking hard for a long minute. Then he said slowly, “He sure sounds like the big man I saw with your brother when I went off duty last night.”

  “The one you thought was holding a gun on him,” Yancey said, nodding. “That’s all I wanted to know. Let’s go, Johnny.”

  They ran across the lobby, leaving the surprised clerk staring after them. They mounted quickly and clattered down to the corner, skidded the horses around and angled across Houston towards the bank. But Yancey veered away when he saw a man down one of the side streets, lounging against a wall, smoking. They tied up their horses outside a saloon.

  “Looks like they’ve got a guard down that side street,” Yancey said, pretending to loosen the cinch strap on his saddle. “So let’s go and see what it’s all about,” said Cato.