Bannerman the Enforcer 1 Read online

  “I think I shall have to cancel all those dinner invitations I sent out for Friday night’s welcome to Senator Magnus, Father.”

  “Yes ... I think we can safely say that our association is at an end. But this business with Charles, Mattie ... ? I’m not a fool. I know he gambles against my wishes. Glad to see he has a little spirit if you want the truth. But six thousand dollars!”

  Mattie sighed, gauging her father’s mood, then, deciding she had to be honest, plunged in. “Father, it could explain a lot of things.”

  He snapped his head up, already looking belligerent, but she continued.

  “For one, it could explain that beating ... The real reason behind it, I mean, not that other affair with the saloon girl. Landis could have been squeezing Charles for payment.”

  Mouth pulled into a tight line, C.B. nodded curtly. “I’ll allow that’s possible,” he acknowledged shortly.

  “It could also explain Charles’ apparent sudden eagerness to go to Texas to buy land ... I know it’s a sound proposition, buying now while it’s cheap because of the drought, but I also know it was something Charles brought up on the spur of the moment.”

  “Some of the best deals I’ve ever pulled off have started that way.”

  “Yes, of course ... But you didn’t see Chuck last night when he was getting ready to catch the train. He was ... well, nervous and jumpy. I guess he was acting guilty.”

  C.B. snapped, “I think you should show a little more loyalty, Matilda! Charles is your elder brother!”

  The girl sighed. “And Yancey is my younger brother,” she said quietly. “If I show any kind of loyalty to him, you’re always down on me.”

  C.B. flushed angrily. “Enough! You know as well as I do that I don’t condone Yancey’s way of life. He could have had a very good position right here with our bank, but he chose to ride the roughneck trail and I told him then when he left as I am telling you now: I do not wish to hear about his exploits or any trouble he may find himself in. He had his chance and he threw it away.”

  “You’d believe the accusations by Magnus if they were made against Yancey, wouldn’t you, Father?” Mattie said bitingly. “You’ve always favored Charles over him, have always been ready to believe the worst of Yancey. Yet, if you look at him honestly, I’m sure you’ll find that he’s very much like you were in your younger days.”

  “Damn you, woman, I said that’s enough!” C.B. roared and he saw Mattie wince, flinching at his tone. He added, a little less roughly, “You’d better order my carriage brought around. I’ll have to get down to the bank and see what can be done about this—this alleged robbery.”

  “Yes, Father,” Mattie said quietly as he turned and strode from the room. Her face softened as she looked after him. “You stubborn old man!”

  ~*~

  The Rio was behind them now and they were riding across Texan land at last. For the past few days they had been dogged not only by the banditos from Los Morros, but by others who had joined in along the way. But Yancey knew the border country, both above and below the Rio Grande, and he was able to shake the pursuers by going through rugged canyon country that was honeycombed with draws and passes and arroyos. It would be days before the Mexicans had figured out which way they had gone and by then Yancey and Cato would be deep into Texas.

  Yancey and Cato had exchanged names at the first stop outside Los Morros, while they rested their horses.

  “Bannerman?” echoed Cato. “Now that’s a name known all over the country ... Banks, cattle, land, riverboats. Any relation to Curtis Bannerman?”

  “Are you any kin to Eileen Cato?” countered Yancey. Johnny Cato blinked. “Who’s she?”

  “An actress. Famous on the Barbary Coast.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “Lots of folks never heard of so-called famous people.”

  “Hmm. Ain’t sure whether that’s any kind of answer or not. You could be just dodgin’ the question ... ”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Well, from what I’ve heard of the Bannermans, they don’t all trail-drive cattle down into Durango or get into shootin’ scrapes in cantina towns like Los Morros.”

  “Guess they don’t. And they don’t have a monopoly on the name.”

  Cato sighed. “Okay, let’s drop it.”

  “Sure,” agreed Yancey easily. “Let’s talk about the dead man you cut loose from his horse before I climbed into the saddle.”

  It was pitch black and Yancey couldn’t see Cato’s face but he felt the man’s eyes on him. Cato was silent for a while.

  “He was a gringo,” he said finally. “I killed him and was taking him back to Texas. There was supposed to be a bounty on him there.”

  “You a bounty hunter?”

  Again that pause. Then he heard Cato wheeling his mount and the smaller man said, “We’d better get moving.”

  Yancey shrugged and followed.

  Now the tension of the chase was over and they could relax, with each other, too. They made camp by a stream and ate jack-rabbit stew and stale soda dodgers. Afterwards, Yancey broke his last cheroot in two and gave half to Cato. They fired up, lay back against their saddles, smoking.

  “Curtis Bannerman is my father,” Yancey said abruptly. He added wryly, “But I guess he’d rather I didn’t spread that about.”

  Cato chuckled, blowing out a plume of smoke. “There’s a whole blame story in there somewhere. Maybe you’ll tell it to me sometime.”

  “Maybe.”

  Cato nodded. “I ain’t no bounty hunter. That hombre needed killin’.”

  “There’s a whole blame story in there, too,” Yancey pointed out.

  Cato lifted his hat from over his eyes and looked at the big man beside him for a long minute. Finally, he nodded, lowered the hat again. “I’m from Laramie, Wyoming Territory. Had me a gunshop there ... ”

  Yancey suddenly sat up straight, staring at the smaller man. “Not ‘Colt’ Cato?”

  Johnny Cato lifted his hat again to look at Yancey. “That’s me. Name kind of stuck to me because of all the Colts I converted from percussion, cap-and-ball, to cartridge pistols. Got a name for it, the way I converted ’em. But I didn’t figure it was known all the way down here in Texas.”

  “I drove a herd up to the Red Cloud Indian Agency ... Six months on the trail. Stopped by at Laramie on the way back. And Cheyenne. And Denver and Hays and Dodge City. Took me about another six months to get back to El Paso.”

  “Yeah. Well, like I said, I had me this gunshop but some hombre wasn’t happy with a gun I built for him. Leastways, he wasn’t happy with the price, though we’d agreed on it beforehand. We kind of argued and then one night my shop caught fire and burned down. I lost everything except a bag of hand tools. Everything I owned in the world.” He shrugged. “So there was nothin’ to keep me around Laramie any more, and I heard that the hombre who hadn’t liked the gun I’d made him had headed south. I caught up with him down around Los Morros.”

  “What was the bounty on him for?”

  “Runnin’ wetbacks across the Rio, I guess.”

  Yancey nodded. “Lot of that goes on. Cheap labor. For some it’s a one-way trip. No wages, and when they complain, all they get is a shallow grave on some remote ranch.”

  Cato looked at him narrowly. “Dunno that I’m gonna take much of a shine to Texas, if that’s the way things are.”

  “There are plenty of decent folks here, Johnny. And we’ve got a good governor right now, Lester Dukes. He’s something of a crusader but he’s gradually cleaning up the state and bringing law and order. Makes things easier for everyone.”

  “Notice you say ‘we’ ... You kind of adopted Texas, have you? I mean, you don’t talk like a Texan. Fact you don’t talk much like a westerner at all ... ”

  Yancey smiled. “Eastern education. Blame that on my old man, too. Yeah. Guess I have sort of adopted Texas as my home state. I like it here. Like the people, like the frontier. I’m not a man who takes ki
ndly to small spaces.”

  “Like a bank office?”

  Yancey nodded again. “That’s it. Now I know you’re a gunsmith, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at that pocket cannon you tote around. Never seen anything like that before.”

  Cato grinned and pulled his big gun out of its holster. He handed it to Yancey who examined it closely.

  It was a huge gun, somewhat resembling the old Colt Dragoon cap-and-ball pistol and just as heavy, maybe heavier. The original Dragoons weighed almost five pounds, loaded with their 200-grain bullets, and Yancey figured this gun weighed every bit as much. The fat barrel beneath the top was smooth bore and there was a kind of toggle arrangement on the curved hammer. He handed the gun back to Cato.

  “No wonder you call it the ‘Manstopper’. Guess you built it yourself, huh?”

  “Yeah. Based it on Colt’s Dragoon frame but took the idea from an old French revolver the Johnny Rebs used early in the Civil War. The Le Mat Ten-shot. Know it?”

  Yancey shook his head.

  “Well, it was an ugly bitch of a thing, maybe the ugliest gun ever made, and it was granted a U.S. Patent in 1858, though Le Mat had patented it in France in 1856. The cylinder was drilled to take nine shots and it was originally made in .36 and .42 calibers. The other barrel underneath was .60 caliber and could be loaded with buckshot. To fire it, you worked a queer arrangement on the hammer which Le Mat later changed to a toggle, somethin’ like the one I’ve got on here.” He indicated the big gun’s hammer. “It lasted well past the Civil War and some were made to take the metallic cartridges, the last model being in .45 caliber and taking a 12-gauge shotgun shell in the second barrel. I had one traded to me one time and the idea appealed to me. So I built up this one to my own specifications, though it only fires eight .45 slugs but takes a 12-gauge shell in the shotgun barrel.”

  “It’s sure a mean piece,” Yancey allowed. “Why only eight instead of nine shots in the cylinder?”

  “Well, .45 caliber is mighty big and the cartridges are getting’ more powerful. Drillin’ out the cylinder to take nine didn’t leave much metal between the chambers. I’d rather have one less shot and know the gun’s not going to blow apart than take a chance just to squeeze in an extra bullet. With the shotgun barrel underneath, it kind of weighs the odds in my favor.”

  “I reckon it does,” agreed Yancey. “Hell of a weight to lug around, though. I reckon I’ll stick with my own hogleg.”

  He touched the holstered Peacemaker, its chambers now full of cartridges supplied by Cato. The smaller man held out his hand and Yancey hesitated a moment, then handed over the gun. Cato smiled faintly.

  “See you ain’t a man who likes handin’ his gun over when it kind of leaves him naked. Guess it’s a good habit. Hell, man, this thing pulls like a twenty-mule team! Trigger’s full of creep, got a let-off around ... maybe seven pounds, I’d guess. I could get off six shots to your one.”

  Yancey showed his surprise. “That’s brand new! Bought it in Austin before I started south with the trail herd!”

  “Sure. It’s about normal for a factory piece ... I could tune it, though, have it shootin’ smoother, faster and more accurately in a couple of hours.” He handed the gun back to Yancey. “Remind me sometime when I ain’t doin’ anythin’ else ... Guess you left your rifle on your horse back in Los Morros. What were you usin’?”

  “Old army Spencer.”

  Cato raised his eyebrows. “Good gun, but you’re way behind the times, Yancey. And it’s good practice to carry a sidearm and rifle that takes the same caliber ammunition. Winchester and Colt make about the ideal combination.”

  “Know that. But I liked the big .58 caliber of the Spencer.”

  “Sure, it’s a grizzly-stopper, but it’s got too much against it. The hammer doesn’t cock on the same action as the lever, for one thing. That butt-loading magazine takes a week to feed and the whole shebang weighs enough to make your horse lop-sided. Get yourself one of the Winchester Centennial models, the ’76. But not the carbine. Get the rifle with the full 24-inch octagonal barrel and in .45-70 caliber. You’ll be able to blow the pip out of an ace of spades at a hundred yards after I get through with the action and the sights.”

  Yancey cocked his head as he looked at Cato. “You sure are a modest man, Johnny Cato!”

  “Only about two things: guns and women. Though I guess I savvy guns the best.”

  Yancey laughed. “Seems like you didn’t savvy enough to look for a wedding ring on that senora’s finger down in Los Morros.”

  “That’s because I wasn’t lookin’ at her hands,” Cato retorted with a wink. “Guess I’d have gotten around to it sooner or later. I owe you plenty for startin’ the shootin’ when you did.”

  “You owe me nothing after getting me out of the cantina. Reckon I owe you. But we won’t argue about it if you tag along with me to Austin. I want to get this Cattlemen’s Association gold into the Bannerman Bank there.”

  Cato looked thoughtful. “Well, I guess I ain’t got anythin’ else much to do and I want a chance to work on that Peacemaker of yours. Bothers me to see a man who gets into as much trouble as you do, totin’ a sidearm in that condition.”

  Yancey grinned, stubbed out his cheroot. “We got a deal.” They stood up together and began breaking camp, preparing for the long trail north to Austin. They were an ill-assorted pair. Yancey topped the six foot mark by a good couple of inches, was lean and rawboned, long-muscled, a typical westerner in appearance. Johnny Cato was barely five-nine, muscular, but because of his fine bone structure didn’t appear so. His fair hair looked bleached against his leather-dark skin and it was short, his sideburns neatly trimmed. Yancey, on the other hand, wore his brown hair trail-long, thick about the ears and neck and, though clean-shaven as a rule, his jaw was stubbled with a three-day growth of whiskers right now. Yancey wore the clothes of the range-rider, denim shirt, levis, Plainsman hat, while Cato favored a peaked Montana hat and his clothes were neat and of fine quality, and there was a black string tie at his throat. He was in his mid-thirties while Yancey was no more than twenty-six, and Cato walked with the precise, springy motions of a machine. It looked a lot faster than Yancey’s easy-going amble, though Bannerman’s long strides ate up the distance.

  Both men had the same intent, far-seeing look in their eyes. But neither Yancey Bannerman nor Johnny Cato could see into the future, see a partnership between them cemented in blood.

  Four – All Trails Lead To Austin

  ALTHOUGH AUSTIN liked to think of itself as a city, it was really no more than an overgrown cow town at that time. There were some solid brick and adobe buildings, some double-storeyed, and no one doubted that here was one capital that was here to stay, but the term ‘City of Austin’ often brought a smile to the lips of visitors from New York or San Francisco or New Orleans.

  But the site had been chosen for the state capital and there was an air of permanence about it that larger cattle towns did not possess. It was a bustling, crowded place, with good-class hotels and neat houses and cottages radiating out from the business center.

  Governor Lester Dukes lived in the red-brick and white stucco two-storeyed mansion in spacious grounds on top of Capitol Hill, overlooking the fast-growing city while, only a half-mile away, the Capitol building itself rose against the hot Texas sky. Austin was an impressive place, with church spires rising above the business houses and there was even paving on the roads.

  Lester Dukes was a popular governor in the main, though there was a faction that would like to see him put out of office. He had the name for being a crusader; he was a man whose ancestry could be traced back beyond the Alamo, his forebears being some of the original tejanos who had laid the foundations of the Lone Star State and led the struggle for independence and the severing of ties with Mexico. Dukes had a powerful Texas heritage, and pride in his office. These things had driven him to commence his campaign of ‘cleaning-up’ the state. He knew that some of the huge ranches made their own laws, t
hat cattle barons tended to run towns in their counties, if not the whole counties themselves. They bought or elected their own sheriffs and town marshals and this laid the way open for graft and corruption, favoritism, a bending of the law towards the cattle kings. Someone had to suffer and usually it was the small homesteaders or the townsfolk. Dukes identified well with the ordinary man and his family. He was one of fourteen children himself and had come up through poverty and hardship, so he well understood the plight of people who had nowhere to turn when they figured they were being abused. If the law was corrupt, where else could they go?

  Dukes personally took a hand in the affairs of the Texas Rangers, making sure the men who wore the circled star badge were beyond reproach. They had powers far above any local law and they roved the state: there was always a Ranger within a few days’ ride. So the big land-greedy cattle barons were not in favor of Dukes’ administration, especially when he intensified the campaign to prevent wetback slave labor being used on the huge border spreads. The range men, combined, made a powerful force, but Dukes had so far stood against them and his Rangers acted without fear or favor.

  And Dukes manipulated the strings from his paneled office in the governor’s mansion. He didn’t travel these days: a heart attack some months ago had put a curb on his movements. He walked a daily tightrope, under the concerned care of his doctor and his only unmarried daughter Kate. But in spite of all the restrictions, Dukes kept his finger on the pulse of Texas and gradually law and order was spreading across the frontier.

  Such was the position of the Lone Star State when Yancey Bannerman and Johnny Cato rode into Austin on a blistering afternoon that mid-summer ...

  They rode slowly along Houston Street, Yancey dozing a little in the saddle but Cato wide awake despite his fatigue from the long trail north. He removed his hat and slapped at the dust on his trousers, brushed down his shirt, his blue eyes roving the boardwalks, taking in the Texas belles strolling along. More than one maiden, and matron too, looked covertly at him as he smiled and touched a hand briefly to his hat brim in salute. He put his mount close alongside Yancey and nudged the big man gently. Yancey straightened in the saddle, frowning slightly as he turned to look down at Cato.