Bannerman the Enforcer 37 Page 2

  It had been just a little too much for Chuck. By sundown, he was in the game—and winning. By midnight, luck had taken a down-turn and he was on the familiar losing streak. By sunup, he had used the first hundred dollars of the money remaining for buying the beef cattle ...

  The game had broken-up for a spell, to allow the red-eyed players to snatch a couple of hours’ sleep and wash-up, ready for another evening of poker.

  Chuck hadn’t rested much. He had acted on impulse, breaking into his father’s money, and now he was eaten away by doubts and fear. True, he had won that last hand, but it hadn’t amounted to much. Maybe it was a good sign; maybe his luck was turning again. He hoped so. He sure as hell hoped so!

  Chuck had opened the locked valise where he kept the money, having ignored his father’s advice to carry only bank drafts. He guessed he had had something like this planned in the back of his mind all along. He stared at the money for a long time before finally counting it. It totaled up to seventeen thousand dollars.

  There were a few odd dollars over, but seventeen thousand seemed a nice round figure. He piled it up and split it up and stacked it, finally tossing it all back in the valise.

  Grim-faced, keeping out only two hundred dollars, Chuck locked the valise, carried it over to the local branch of the Bannerman First National and requested the manager, Burton Crisp, to lock it away in the bank vault until he called for it. Crisp was happy to do so and issued Chuck with a receipt.

  He breathed easier as he went back to his room and stretched out on the bed, preparing to snatch an hour’s rest before the game was due to start again. With the money out of reach, he would be all right. Even if he lost the two hundred, it would only make three hundred, total, and he was sure he could fix his cattle buying books to hide that loss.

  Temptation was removed from his reach.

  He built that two hundred dollars into five hundred, during the first two hours of the new game.

  By the time another hour had passed, he had lost that five hundred and Bodie had taken an IOU for a hundred more. When Chuck lost another hundred and thirty on top of that, Bodie shook his head when he asked if he would accept another IOU on the sweating Bannerman.

  “Nope, Chuck. Not till you show the color of your money and settle up this here debt for one hundred, and clear the hundred and thirty you just lost,” Bodie told him in his calm, smooth voice. The other players murmured agreement.

  “Only fair,” a man named Conlon said. “We been playin’ cards with you since yestd’y but you’re still a stranger to us, Bannerman.”

  The others agreed and Chuck flushed, wiped the sweat from his face.

  “But I’m good for it! There’s plenty over in the bank vaults that belongs to me!”

  Bodie smiled crookedly, his thin lips twisting into a razor slash. “Then you go get it and show us the color of it, man. Or you’re out until mornin’ when the banks open.”

  Chuck knew he should agree to that. They were giving him that much of a break, anyway, though he figured there would be someone to see he didn’t try to quit town during the night.

  “Well? What’s it gonna be?” demanded Bodie, his voice still smooth and casual, hands expertly manipulating the cards as he puffed on a thin cheroot. “You wanna play more poker tonight, you gotta settle up. If not, we’ll take an IOU—just till bank time in the mornin’.”

  Chuck looked around at the hard faces. All had piles of chips in front of them, wallets stuffed with cash—except him. They were hardened poker players: debts were settled promptly or there was trouble. Looking at Bodie and Regan and one or two of the others, he knew he couldn’t face up to the kind of trouble they would likely make for him.

  Still, he said, in a croaking voice, “I reckon I’ll go roust out Burton Crisp and get my cash.”

  Bodie’s smile widened. “Right sportin’ of you, Chuck. I like a man who settles-up pronto and ain’t afraid to try to get square.”

  Chuck was vaguely aware that there was some kind of a challenge in there, a challenge that would not allow him to back out graciously simply by paying his debts. He knew he had to pay up, and then sit in on another hand—and another—and another …

  Crisp resented having to open the bank at that time of night and threatened to complain personally to old Curtis Bannerman, but he fell silent when Chuck said he would put in an adverse report to his father if Crisp didn’t get the cash out.

  Once he got hold of the valise, Chuck hesitated. Maybe if he just took enough to cover his debts and a couple of hundred more besides ...?

  He saw Crisp staring at him in disapproval and snapped the valise shut, cursing silently as he felt his face flushing.

  “There’s a mighty good chance I can pick up the biggest and best herd of beeves tonight,” Chuck said lamely. “Over at the saloon. Feller there’s starting to talk business. Reckon I can get a good price if I show him the color of my money.”

  “You’d be very foolish to show that money in any of San Antonio’s saloons,” Crisp told him. “But, if you’ll sign this, releasing me from all responsibility ...”

  Chuck signed and was back playing poker within fifteen minutes. Bodie and his shill, Regan, glimpsed the money in that valise and their eyes sparkled as they pasted on false smiles and boisterously called for the barkeep to bring a fresh deck of cards and a bottle of the best bourbon.

  They played all through the night. Chuck’s fortunes seemed to seesaw back and forth. The bottle of bourbon was emptied and two more brought over. The card deck was changed several times. Nothing made any difference. Chuck’s winnings were far behind his losses.

  Then, just as the sun was breaking through the early cloud cover and the swampers were wearily going around blowing out the wall lamps, Chuck, gaunt and haggard and trembling, knew he had worked himself into a corner and there was no way out.

  He lost on two pairs of kings and aces to three deuces in Bodie’s hand. The fog of alcohol and the weariness were making him dizzy. He flung down his cards, muttering:

  “How could he have three deuces?” Chuck slurred. “I discarded one and so did Regan. How could he ...?”

  He was suddenly aware that there was a deathly silence at the table and he looked up, focusing with difficulty, seeing the gun barrel eyes of Slip Bodie boring into him steadily.

  “You hintin’ there was some four-flushin’ goin’ on?” Bodie asked in that same deceptively calm voice.

  Chuck ran his tongue over dry lips, glanced around at the others. He shook his head swiftly.

  “Uh—’course not. Just—puzzled—is all.” He put a hand to his pounding head.

  “Well, that’s all right then, I guess,” Bodie said, deadpan. “Now if you’ll just settle-up, we’ll deal again and ...” He looked around the table at the others. “Or would you fellers like to break so’s to freshen-up some?”

  There were murmurings and it seemed the decision was to break and the stiff-jointed, yawning, red-eyed players began to move away.

  All except Chuck, Regan and Bodie.

  “Pay me my five thousand two hundred and we’ll see you when the game gets goin’ again,” Bodie said.

  Dazed, sobering quickly now he was more certain than ever that he had been cheated, Chuck merely nodded, stalling for time. But Regan handed him up the valise and, though he fumbled at the fastening for a few minutes, he knew he couldn’t do anything but open up and reveal—an empty bag. He gave a ghastly grin.

  “Sorry, gents. Looks like I’m fresh outa dinero!”

  His smile froze at the look on Bodie’s face. Regan ripped the valise from him, made sure there was nothing and nodded to the gambler.

  “He’s cleaned out, Slip.”

  Bodie sat back in his chair and lit a cheroot slowly, not taking his eyes off Chuck’s haggard face for an instant.

  “Well, now, that’s kind of tough luck—for someone.”

  Chuck forced a brief laugh. “Looks like I’ll have to write you another IOU. Same as before.”

&nbsp
; Bodie smoked silently, shook his head gently.

  Chuck frowned. “Why not? You took my note before.”

  “Difference between a hundred and some bucks and five thousand, Chuck, old pard. I don’t take notes for that much.”

  Chuck was visibly shaking now.

  “Hell, no problem! I mean, it’ll be just till the bank opens.”

  Bodie flicked his gaze to Regan who threw the empty valise roughly into Chuck’s lap. Chuck stared from one stony face to the other.

  “My—my father owns the bank!” he said desperately. “Hell, I’m good for a lot more’n five thousand.”

  Bodie smoked silently, drew deeply on the cheroot and when the end glowed for a full half inch, suddenly stabbed downwards at Chuck’s hand on the edge of the table. At the same time, Regan grabbed that hand so that Chuck could not withdraw it. The burning tobacco sputtered against the flesh and there was the smell of singed hair and charred meat.

  Chuck screamed, startling the swampers, but the barkeep barely glanced up from stacking glasses. Bodie crushed the cheroot out against Chuck’s hand as the young man bucked and struggled to get free. When Bodie sat back in his chair, Regan released Chuck’s hand and he brushed the tobacco flakes off, sucked at the raw wound, his eyes filled with pain and fear.

  “I’ll wait till Burton Crisp opens the bank,” Bodie said quietly. “And ten minutes more. But no longer.”

  Chuck wrapped a handkerchief around his wound and nodded jerkily.

  “That—that’ll be fine. Ten minutes is all I need.”

  Bodie nodded slowly. “Marty’ll stay with you.” He stood slowly. “Me—I’m gonna get cleaned-up and have some shut-eye. So I’ll see you in a coupla hours, Chuck. With the cash. Right?”

  “Right, Slip,” Chuck said, trying to look unconcerned. “You’ll get your money, don’t worry.”

  Bodie straightened his derby hat and smiled faintly. “I ain’t worried, Chuck. I get my money—or your hide. Either way, you’re the loser. Not me.”

  He tapped his hat on the dome and walked towards the stairs that led to the upper floor of the saloon. Marty Regan stood beside Chuck, a hand on the butt of the gun that he wore on his belt, the holster tilted for a cross draw.

  “All right, sweetheart,” the shill said, “let’s go sit on the bank’s porch till Crisp shows.”

  Chuck nodded and smiled. But his legs would hardly carry him as Regan took his arm and led him towards the batwing doors of the Rebel Gal Saloon.

  Two – Sun, Blood and Bullets

  So far, Yancey had had a tolerably good run up towards the border, but he figured his luck couldn’t hold for much longer.

  Johnny Deuce was still roped but was sitting in the saddle. He wasn’t looking any too chipper. Yancey figured he must have hit him harder than he had meant to back at that cantina. But that was Deuce’s worry. As long as he did what he was told, he wouldn’t be in too much trouble.

  But Yancey had seen signs of pursuit just after sunup that morning. Dust had risen against the morning glow, swinging a vaporous trail up from the south and moving east—in the same direction as he was going now. It was time to swing north again and he kept checking his backtrail so that, within two hours, he was certain sure the pursuit was now turned in his direction.

  “Friends of yours, I guess,” the Enforcer said to Deuce, gesturing to the distant dust cloud.

  The sick gambler twisted a little in leather and squinted. He nodded slowly, a faint suggestion of a smile touching his thin lips.

  “You ain’t gonna make it, Bannerman.”

  “If I don’t, you don’t,” Yancey told him easily, cold eyes boring into the gambler’s gaunt face.

  Deuce looked a little startled at that. “You can’t get away with puttin’ a bullet in me just like that!”

  Yancey shrugged. “If your pards move in and there’s no chance of me slipping through, you’re dead. You just ride with that thought in mind, Deuce.”

  Yancey yanked the reins and both horses started forward again through the godforsaken barrenness of northern Mexico.

  “They won’t let you cross the Rio with me, Bannerman!” There was a note of desperation in Deuce’s voice. “They’ll pick you off from a distance!”

  Yancey didn’t say anything or look around. He watched the trail and country ahead.

  “You turn me loose and you can ride on back alone and with a whole hide!” Deuce tried again. “Long as I’m safe they won’t bother you.”

  “You ain’t that important to ’em.”

  “I am.”

  Yancey reined down suddenly and put his mount back alongside the prisoner’s, leaning from the saddle and thrusting his hard, trail-weary face close to Deuce’s. “Was that shootin’ a set-up then?”

  Deuce frowned, then shook his head swiftly. “Gospel, Bannerman! It just blew up out of nowhere. He was drunk and mean—”

  “Then why would you be important to those fellers?” The Enforcer gestured towards the distant dust cloud.

  Deuce smiled faintly. “That’s for me to know.”

  Yancey held his gaze a moment longer but frowned and then turned his mount and started forward again, leading Deuce’s horse.

  There had been something in the man’s tone that had made his insistence somehow ring true ...

  Then, glancing up, Yancey felt the coldness knot up in his belly like a clenched fist.

  Coming out of the shadow of the sierras ahead, was a tight band of riders and sun glinted from the guns in their hands.

  He heard Johnny Deuce laugh briefly.

  Burton Crisp’s eyebrows flew up as if they would meet his hairline as he stared at Chuck Bannerman.

  “You want the bank to—pay your—gambling debts!” Crisp shook his head violently. “No, sir! Absolutely unheard of! You have the effrontery to ask that I—a manager of your father’s bank—guarantee a debt you incurred to a man like Slip Bodie?”

  “Never mind the personalities, banker,” Marty Regan told Crisp coldly. “You gonna back this dude’s IOU or ain’t you?”

  “Most certainly not!”

  Regan set his agate eyes on Chuck’s pale, taut face. “Over to you, Bannerman!”

  Chuck was shaking violently and sweating. He knew this was the worst trouble he had ever been in. What was more, he could see no way out.

  “Look, I’ll have to send a wire ...” he began lamely but stopped when Regan shook his head. Chuck frowned. “Why not?”

  “You’re stallin’, is why not,” Regan snapped, his patience gone now. “You know damn well you can’t tell your old man you lost his cattle money and another five grand besides! You know he won’t meet that debt. He’ll drop you like you were red hot, mister.”

  “No, you don’t understand! I have a sister and—and a brother. Yes, he’s right here in Texas and ...”

  Regan looked quizzically at Crisp, who shook his head slightly, his lips pursed in complete disapproval of the whole thing. Regan took Chuck’s arm and began to steer him out of the bank manager’s office. Chuck fought to break the grip but Regan put his left hand in his jacket pocket and stepped close. Chuck stiffened as he felt the hardness of a gun muzzle pressed against his side.

  “Let’s go see Slip Bodie,” invited Regan quietly. “He’ll be waitin’ in his rooms. And he’s gonna be a mighty disappointed man, Bannerman, mighty disappointed ...”

  Chuck stumbled out of the office, looking appealingly at Crisp who stood stiffly by his chair, refusing to get involved further.

  Slip Bodie was freshened-up and eating breakfast in his suite of rooms when Regan brought Chuck in and explained that the young man could not meet his debt. Chewing on a piece of thick beefsteak, Bodie paused and swiveled his frosty gaze to Chuck Bannerman.

  “That so?” he asked quietly and continued to chew again.

  “Well, it ain’t quite right, Slip!” Chuck said desperately. “Regan here wouldn’t let me send a wire. I was explaining to him I got a sister back in ’Frisco, and a brother right her
e in Texas. They’d likely be good for the money ...”

  “We know about your sister Mattie,” Bodie said quietly and Chuck felt even more of a chill in his belly as he realized the whole thing had been set up right from the start. They had known he was carrying all that money and why, and they knew he liked to gamble and ... He swayed as he picked up what Bodie was saying: “… and we know he works for some law enforcement agency so he ain’t likely to have five grand to spare just to pull you out of a hole. Nope, Chuck ... you can’t stall me any longer. But I’m a patient man and I’ll give you your chance to send your telegraphs.”

  Chuck looked relieved. “Mighty good of you, Slip! I reckon I’ll ...” He broke off as Bodie held up a hand and spoke only after he had drained his coffee cup and dabbed at this lips with a napkin.

  “But not right now.”

  Chuck blinked. “Huh? Sooner I send them wires the ...”

  Bodie stood and came around to confront Chuck, stopping a bare foot in front of him. He picked at his teeth with a sliver of matchwood.

  “Chuck—I told you earlier, you would be the only one to lost, that if I didn’t get my cash, I’d have your hide.”

  Chuck tried to control his quaking knees. He forced a smile. “But—you kill me and you’ll never get your money, Slip!”

  Bodie’s mouth twisted crookedly. “Didn’t say anythin’ about killin’.”

  He backhanded Chuck suddenly, violently, sending the man staggering across the room to slam into the wall. Chuck looked up, dazed, lips smashed and bleeding, one side of his face red.

  Bodie stood there and gestured for Chuck to come over to him. He hesitated but when Regan moved towards him, held up a placating hand, pushed off the wall and staggered back to stand in front of Bodie. The gambler stared coldly at him.

  “You miserable bastard. Did you really think you could get away with walkin’ out on me and leavin’ me holdin’ your IOU?”

  Chuck swallowed, said nothing.