Bannerman the Enforcer 41 Read online

  She compressed her thick lips and swore briefly. “Figured you would. Well, you know I’ve always had a kinda soft spot for you, Yance-dear, and that runt of a sidekick of yours. What’s his name? Catlin?”

  “Johnny Cato. He’s in town.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, guessed as much. Well, I wouldn’t want nothin’ to happen to you two fellers. You’ve always treated me right, even that time when I got caught with some stolen government papers a slick-talkin’ dude left with me to look after. You gave me a break then. I figure it’s up to me to give you one now.”

  “I could use it, Momma,” Yancey confessed. “We ain’t getting anyplace much with this deal. And my main aim is to get Dukes off the hook with Dysart.”

  “Ah! So that’s where the blackmail comes in! I wondered. Well, not too long back I—uh—took in a gal that turned up out of the night at my door. Half-breed French gal, originally from Canada. We call her Frenchy, and she’s made me a small fortune ’cause the men who visit my cat parlor down there in the District keep askin’ for her. Guess she knows a few tricks that makes ’em happy ...”

  “Get on with it, Momma!” growled Yancey impatiently.

  “Yeah. Well, I never ask my gals much about their pasts. Better all round that way. But I sure as hell wondered where she’d come from. She was a mess when she showed up; filthy, beat-up, dressed in an Injun buckskin dress.”

  Yancey stiffened and his eyes narrowed expectantly. Momma nodded. “Yeah. I got it out of her. She’d been Morg Purdy’s gal. She was with a trapper down from Canada, a real Frenchy, LaRue or somethin’. He joined the Buckskinners. Morg killed him in a knife fight and took her for his own woman. But—well, you know Morg Purdy’s reputation. Meanest bastard this side of the Rockies. One day Frenchy reckoned she’d had enough and she just walked out of the camp and kept on walkin’. Finally, she come to the Houston trail and ended up on my doorstep.”

  “How come your stoop?”

  Momma shrugged modestly. “Some of Purdy’s men talked about my places and my gals. They—uh—they’ve been in from time to time. Now, you can’t blame me for not sayin’ nothin’ about it, Yance-dear! You know they’d have slit my throat and burnt my place down round my ears if I had.”

  Yancey nodded, tightlipped. “This Frenchy—can she find her way back to the Buckskinners’ hangout?”

  “No. She didn’t know where she was, didn’t worry much about landmarks, just kept goin’ and it was only fool luck that got her out of there in one piece. She’d lived with Injuns so she kept alive on roots and lizards. Took a lot of guts.”

  “What’s the point of all this, Momma?”

  “This. She recollects a canyon with needle rocks all round the rim, the biggest one lookin’ like a mushroom. Sandstone, ribbon sandstone, all rainbow-colored. She knows she came into that from the east ’cause she was blinded by the settin’ sun and almost fell over the edge. That was only two days’ walk from the Buckskinners’ camp. Now, if you could locate that canyon ...”

  Yancey smiled. “I can do just that, Big Momma.” He threw his arms around her and kissed her on the meaty cheek. “Muchas gracias.”

  He opened the door to go out and Momma smiled, calling after him:

  “Tell that Cato to come over and see me sometime. He can pay me back for helpin’ you out!”

  Yancey waved casually and closed the door.

  “Hell, man, we could spend thirty years in those Anvils and never find a canyon like that!” Cato said in the Mission House hotel room after Yancey had told him about Big Momma and the half-breed French-Canadian girl.

  Yancey grinned and held up a parcel, stripping it of the brown paper wrapping and revealing a folded map. He spread it out on the table.

  “Bought it at the Land Office. Geological map, done when they did a survey for minerals, gold and silver, and so on, ten years back. Lucky they had a copy still around.”

  “Ten years!”

  “Sure. What’s it matter? Geology don’t change in that time. And nothin’s happened in the Anvils to change their contours or anything.”

  Cato pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “By Godfrey, Yance, you might have somethin’. What do we look for?”

  “Any areas marked ‘ribbon sandstone’. Big Momma was smart enough to know that that don’t occur just anywhere around the ranges and the odds of finding more than one canyon of that type of stone with needle rocks all round the rim are a million to one. We already know it has to be deeper into the Anvils than any posse’s penetrated in recent years looking for the Buckskinners. But the mineral survey team went way deeper and mapped more of the area than anyone else. So we’ve got a good chance of pinpointin’ that canyon. After that, we ought to find some sign of Asa Purdy’s wolf pack.”

  Cato glanced at him soberly.

  “Or they’ll find us, which is more’n likely, and put a coupla bullets in our backs.”

  “Well, I didn’t say it was gonna be easy. Only that we’ve got a chance of pulling it off.”

  “Yeah. A chance. One in a million.”

  Yancey shook his head. “No. One in a hundred thousand, Johnny.”

  Cato nodded slowly as he bent over the complicated map and began looking for the mysterious canyon of ribbon sandstone.

  Three days into the Anvil Ranges, the Enforcers found the strange canyon.

  It was late afternoon and the westering sun slanted golden rays down between the towering needle rocks on the rim. The sunlight struck multi-colors from the walls of ribbon sandstone, varying shades of pink and amber and white and deep red, rust streaked with black. Crystals on the cliff face glittered and reflected light down into the canyon itself.

  This was on the eastern wall and the Enforcers figured that Frenchy must have come out of the mountains into the canyon somewhere close by this crystal cliff. Later, they were to learn that the place was known as Crystal Canyon because of this cliff-face of quartz and mica.

  But now, they were content to have located the place. They had ridden hard trails, with only brief pauses for sleep, since finding the canyon on the mineral survey maps. At this time of the month it was full moon and so they had been able to push on during the night in many places. It had only been in sections where the tangled rocks and heavy timber prevented a clear sight that they had dismounted and waited till sunup. The horses were powerful-chested animals, and at night plodded along at their own pace. The riders figured this was better than forcing them and they were able to catnap in the saddle.

  Time was running out for the collection of the ransom, it now being nine days since Dolores Dysart had been kidnapped. Maybe Dysart would be able to stall a shade longer but Yancey wondered how he would get a message to the kidnappers. So far there had been no word about how the payment was to be made. This in itself seemed strange to the Enforcers, but there were many queer aspects to this case.

  Riding now into the Crystal Canyon they hauled rein on the edge of the waterhole under an overhang of rock and looked around at the rim. The needle rocks were throwing long, writhing shadows down into the canyon, giving it the look of a maw with jagged teeth around the edge. Yancey had a thought that it could resemble the jaws of a gigantic trap and hoped it wasn’t in any way prophetic ...

  “This has to be it, Yance,” Cato said, dismounting. He scratched at the stubble of beard along his jowls. “We’ll never find any trails under that cliff face before the sun drops too low to throw any light in here. Best we camp here, I reckon.”

  “Not right here,” Yancey said as he dismounted. “We’ll go through all the motions and set up a campfire and our bedrolls near the waterhole, but I reckon we better move back amongst the rocks and nurse our guns all night.”

  Cato nodded slowly. “Makes sense. Gonna be damn cold.”

  “Not as cold as bein’ dead in your bedroll,” Yancey pointed out.

  So they set up the false camp after eating their supper and went through the motions of turning into their blankets, letting the fire burn down to embers and
then, outside the circle of light, slid out of their bedrolls and stuffed the blankets with rolled clothes and leafy branches snapped from the nearby brush.

  They crept back to the rocks, moving into the deep shadows of the overhang, crouching uncomfortably with their rifles in their hands, six-guns loosened in their holsters.

  It was a long, cold and uncomfortable night, but it eventually passed and they clambered stiffly out into the warmth of the early sunlight, straightening slowly, easing the kinks from cramped muscles. Cato built up the fire while Yancey sliced sowbelly and ground some fresh coffee beans between two stones, throwing two handfuls into the battered pot.

  They ate with their guns within easy reach, tensing at every sound made by animals or lizards in the canyon. Birds wheeled overhead. The horses stomped irritably and swished tails at the insects. Nothing seemed out of place. It was a peaceful, sunny morning and the blue, cloudless sky above was reflected in the still surface of the waterhole.

  After breakfast, they packed their gear and loaded it onto their horses, mounting up and riding over to the crystal-studded cliff face. This was in shadow now as the sun rose and they rode slowly around the base looking for some sort of a break but failing to locate any.

  “Damn well runs clear across the east side of the canyon. Has to be some sort of break!” Cato growled.

  “Well, if there was a tunnel or cleft, I think Frenchy likely would have mentioned it. She said the sun was in her eyes, the setting sun. It means she came out of the east, all right, but not necessarily directly east. Could’ve been to one side or the other and she’d still have gotten that glare blasting into her face.”

  Cato suddenly straightened in his saddle and snapped his fingers. “Maybe it wasn’t the sun that blinded her, Yance! Maybe it was the glare from this here wall with the sun strikin’ it! If it was, it means she came out of the west and thought she was walking into the sunset. And she kept goin’ that night so she wouldn’t have known about this crystal wall in the mornin’!”

  “You could have something there, Johnny!” Yancey hipped in his saddle and looked back across the canyon at the western wall. There were several breaks in the rocks over there, signs of trails that they had thought were only animal pads, leading back into brush and boulder-choked gorges. “Let’s go check it out.”

  It took less than fifteen minutes. After checking some of the obvious animal pads, they rode around behind a thick hackberry bush that jutted from a circle of sandstone boulders and there it was: an obvious trail that even showed several hoofmarks.

  Cato dismounted swiftly and examined the sign. He smiled thinly as he looked up at Yancey.

  “Unshod bronc. Old tracks, but they’ve settled down into the hardpan so I’d say they was made after rain and since then the top part has blown away as dust in the winds. Hasn’t rained in the Anvils for months. Before we went down into Mexico after El Solo. But it’s been used by riders and the marks are leading into the gorges so I reckon that’s the way we have to go.”

  Before they moved on any further into the gorge, they checked their weapons, making sure they were fully loaded and that the rifles had cartridges in the chambers so that only the hammers needed to be cocked to get them into firing condition. They rode single file with their rifles balanced on their knees, eyes scanning the rugged country about them.

  Heat began to blast down from the rock walls as the sun climbed higher. Animals coughed and purred and snarled and padded through the brush, keeping their nerves on edge. A mountain lion crouched on a rock overlooking the trail and snarled, causing Cato’s bay to rear up, whickering loudly. He cursed as he fought the animal down and only just stopped his instinctive reaction of bringing up the rifle to shoot the cougar.

  He glanced back at Yancey. “Hope that whicker didn’t carry too far.”

  Yancey shrugged, watching the cougar carefully. “Hard to tell in rock country. It can bounce off the walls for miles.”

  “Son of a bitch!” cursed Cato.

  “Done now,” Yancey replied philosophically.

  Then they were past the mountain lion which made a false start at leaping but changed its mind at the last moment, turned and jumped down on the far side of the rock. They didn’t see it again, though both watched carefully, alert now.

  There was only the suggestion of a trail. A faint ghost of hardpan earth winding through the rock studded gorge and climbing up towards the far end, the exit. They found no more hoof-marks but once Yancey came across a heap of powdery dung and they knew that horses had been this far along at some time, anyway.

  At the far end of the gorge they saw the exit ahead, through a narrow, steep-walled ravine. Beyond, there were glimpses of tree-clad hills, purple saw-toothed ranges in the distance. Cato gestured with his rifle barrel.

  “Looks promisin’, Yance.”

  “Don’t like that ravine. Too narrow.”

  But there was no other way out. The gorge had narrowed down to this slash of a pass and, though they scouted around, they could find no other exit.

  “We got no choice,” Cato said. It’s go through or turn back.”

  “Which we can’t do. So, here we go, pard!”

  Yancey jammed in the spurs and let out a yell, startling his dusty, weary mount, but causing it to leap forward. He raked its flanks and the animal whinnied a protest, galloping wildly into the ravine. Cato was close behind, lashing at his own mount with his split rein ends.

  They almost made it. In fact, they were so close to the end of the ravine, that Yancey was just starting to relax, figuring that his fears of ambush had been for nothing.

  Then two swift shots rang out, so close together they sounded almost as one and they had to come from two separate guns. Big guns that boomed and thundered through the ravine and back into the gorge, the noise of the explosions slamming around the rock walls.

  Both horses went down, shot through their heads, blood spurting.

  Yancey sailed over his mount’s head, somersaulted and saw the sandy, stone-studded earth rushing up at him. He held onto his rifle but despite his tight grip it jarred from his hand when he hit the ground and the breath slammed out of him. Lights burst in front of his eyes. His ears rang. Pain engulfed his body. Pure instinct drove his right hand towards the butt of his six-gun, his body upwards. His legs were rubbery but he managed to get as far as his knees and his gun clear of leather. He couldn’t even see Cato.

  There was an impression of a pale blur in front of him and he smelled rancid fat. Then something swished and there was a thudding jar across the side of his head and the world exploded in a sheet of flame.

  Yancey didn’t even feel any pain when he collapsed face-first into a bed of small stones, already unconscious.

  Five – Men of the Mountains

  Yancey Bannerman had never seen Asa Purdy, but when he opened his eyes, suppressing the groan that rose to his lips, he instinctively knew that the man who stood before him was indeed the outlaw leader.

  Purdy was somewhere around six feet, maybe a shade under, and he was rawboned, leathery-skinned, without a spare ounce of flesh on him. His hair was bone white, as was his beard.

  Both were clean.

  This thought struck home to Yancey almost subconsciously, and then he began to notice the buckskin outfit the man wore, complete with fringing and even a buffalo powderhorn slung across his chest on a plaited and beaded rawhide thong. The buckskins were golden yellow, smoke-mellowed in the old traditional Indian way after being chewed for long periods by the squaws and rubbed with deer brains to soften the tissues. His belt was no more than a soft buckskin tie around his waist, shirttails hanging out in the old mountain man way. There was a wide, rivet-studded knife sheath and the Green River Forge blade—Yancey somehow felt sure it would be the traditional mountain knife favored by the old-timers—had a wolf-jaw hilt, complete with teeth. Moccasins encased Purdy’s feet and there was a beaver tail cap on his head. He leaned on a long-barreled Hawken percussion rifle, the cherry-walnut wood oile
d to a deep polish, the brassware gleaming like gold.

  Asa Purdy looked like an oil-painting from the past and the only smell coming from him was the slightly rancid odor from the processing employed in making the buckskins.

  Yancey looked around and saw Cato lying a few feet away, hands and ankles tied as were his own, and a whole bunch of men in buckskins, all tolerably clean, though not as fine as those of Purdy’s. But none was caked with animal blood or stiff with grease and fat, permanently marked with powder burns, as the witnesses had described those worn by the raiders in Houston.

  Even before Asa Purdy spoke, Yancey knew the Buckskinners had not pulled that raid.

  “You’d be—which one?” Purdy asked in a deep, slow voice. “Bannerman or Cato?”

  Yancey smiled a little, his face stiff and swollen from his fall and the rifle butt that had knocked him unconscious.

  “If you know our names, you know which one’s which, Purdy.”

  The outlaw leader’s expression didn’t change. He regarded Yancey soberly with clear green eyes. “All right, Bannerman. Makes little difference. You’re damn lucky to be alive and don’t forget it.”

  “I won’t. But I can’t figure why you didn’t kill us. You had us cold-decked in that pass.”

  “Contrary to legend, the Buckskinners don’t kill for the love of killing. If we figure it’s necessary ...” He paused and shrugged. “In your case, I didn’t think it was.”

  A man with thick shoulders bulging his buckskin shirt, a bull neck and round face almost hidden under sprouting black whiskers stepped up beside Purdy. He was dressed similarly but carried a Remington Rolling Block breech-loader rifle. He looked tough and he spat on the ground without taking dark eyes off the Enforcers.

  “That was pa’s idea,” he said and Yancey knew it was Asa’s wild son, Morgan. “Me, I’d as lief have blowed your heads off and saved the hoss-flesh.”

  “No one asked you, Morg,” Asa said quietly. “I’ve killed lawmen before, or my men have, but I haven’t yet notched up an Enforcer’s hide. Dunno how Dukes would react to that. Could send in the army to sweep the whole damn Anvils until we was flushed out. We’ve built ourselves a good community here, live our own lives, and don’t bother no one too much. I didn’t reckon it was worth riskin’ all that just to kill two Enforcers.”