Bannerman the Enforcer 45 Read online

  It was difficult to tell how many men were there right off, but Yancey guessed there were about a dozen. Some women were cooking by the fires, others were in the shacks. He thought he heard a baby crying. Yancey recalled hearing a rumor that the Satterlees often brought women along on some of their operations.

  Amongst the line of armed men greeting them one stood out. He was shorter than most of the men, but his clothes were neater and he was clean-shaven. His hair was slicked down, the part in it gun barrel-straight through the center, showing a white line of scalp. His hair met in a widow’s peak low down on his forehead, giving him a frowning look. Dark, bushy eyebrows shaded small, glistening eyes. His thumbs were hooked into a narrow tooled leather belt that held up brown whipcord trousers. His slanting gun belt was also decorated with saddle-stamping, a rising sun pattern interspersed with rose leaves. The holster itself had a basketweave pattern stamped into it, and the Colt had ivory butt plates.

  He was Morgan Satterlee, the eldest brother and reputedly the brains behind the Satterlee campaigns of blood, slaughter and treachery. First he looked at Rick Satterlee with his bleached hair and eyebrows and straggly moustache. No greeting, not even recognition flickered in his deep-set dark eyes. Suddenly he flicked his gaze to the girl. He looked at her briefly and then moved his gaze on to Yancey.

  Morgan Satterlee took his time examining the big Enforcer, guessing that here was a deadly killer, but a man with integrity and loyalty and all the other garbage they went on with in newspapers and yellow dime novels.

  Only after he had studied every inch of Yancey’s six-foot-three-inch frame did he look at Cotton. “The boy’s got himself some deadly company, I reckon,” Morgan said, his voice almost as deep as Cotton’s.

  “More than you know, brother,” Cotton said, jerking a thumb in Yancey’s direction. “That’s Yancey Bannerman.”

  Morgan continued to bore his gaze at Cotton for a long, uncomfortable minute, then he slowly turned his body and regarded Yancey again. Without warning his ivory-butted Colt was in his hand, rock-steady, the hammer cocked, the barrel angled up slightly.

  “Climb down,” Morgan said quietly.

  Yancey dismounted. He was standing only five or six feet from Morgan Satterlee now. He lifted his hands slowly, wondering if he was going to be shot. He figured not. If Morgan Satterlee had had that in mind, he would have blown him out of the saddle. It was one of the fastest draws Yancey had ever seen. He doubted if he could shade Morgan himself ...

  “Rick, start talkin’,” Morgan commanded.

  “Can’t I tell you over some grub, Morg?” complained the young outlaw. “We ain’t et in a couple of days.”

  “Talk!” barked Morgan and Rick flinched.

  It was clear that Rick was afraid of Morgan. The rest of the outlaws gathered closer, their guns covering Yancey and Tina as Rick spoke.

  “I was in a cell for over a week, Morg, waitin’ for the goddamn judge to get back to Austin from his circuit. It was only pure bad luck that they caught me, Morg. I fixed that damn whore easy enough but then when I ran out of the place I banged my head in a real low doorway and fell down the damn steps. Knocked myself clean out. Somebody came to see what the racket was all about and found her dead and then he called the sheriff. It was just plain bad—”

  “You were stupid,” Morgan cut in coldly. “We heard about it and that’s why we decided to leave you there.”

  Rick nodded. “Sure. I ain’t sore. But I’ll tell you, Morg, they never recognized me.”

  “Now that’s somethin’ I’d like to be sure about,” Morgan said, his eyes boring into Rick’s.

  The young outlaw glanced away. “They never did, Morg, and that’s gospel. I’m down in the law record as Will Slocum, cow-puncher. They figure I killed the whore in an argument over money. Anyways, like I say, I was in that damn cell for nigh on a week. Then I began hearin’ rumors about a top Enforcer who went loco, beat the hell out of a bunch of cowpokes in a saloon, shot a gambler, killed a Ranger and wounded another. Then he was drug into my cell, gun-whipped out cold.”

  Morgan’s eyes flickered to Yancey momentarily. “Why, Rick?”

  “Huh?”

  “Why your cell?”

  “Well, all the others were filled with a bunch of hombres that slaughtered a senator and his whole family. There were two bunks in my cell.”

  “Keep talkin’, Rick. I want to know all of it.”

  “Well, seems they wanted to give him some medical treatment. An old head wound or somethin’ was playin’ up. This doctor, the governor’s own sawbones, named Boles, came in with a couple of Rangers to take him away.” He jerked a thumb at the silent Yancey. “They went to put the manacles on him and then all hell busted loose. I still ain’t sure what happened, but he shot one hombre dead on the spot, gun-whipped the other and then he shot his way out of there. He grabbed the girl as a hostage outside.”

  Morgan’s upper lip curled. “And he just happened to take you along, huh?”

  “Well, no. No, Morg, he didn’t. Fact is, he kept tellin’ me to stay away from him. Said he didn’t want to be held back by me.” Morgan grimaced, looking from Yancey to Rick and then back to Yancey.

  Rick continued. “He grabbed a couple of horses and made his run, shootin’ up a storm. I got me two mounts and went after him. He tried to get rid of me and was close to shootin’ me cold when I made a deal. I said I’d bring him here with the girl. Figured she’d be a good hostage, Morg. Well, I’m here now and I don’t care what you do with him or the girl.”

  Yancey’s eyes blazed at Rick. “I knew I should’ve put a bullet through your back.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Morgan asked, sounding genuinely interested.

  Yancey shrugged. “He told me who he was, a Satterlee. Said you had a hole-in-the-wall in the Texas Breaks. Well, I knew you were seen around here—that much came through when I was with the Enforcers.”

  “You mean you ain’t with ’em now?” Cotton said.

  Yancey looked disgusted. “What the hell do you think? After killin’ a couple of Rangers and the rest of it?”

  “How come you cut loose?” Morgan asked.

  Yancey rubbed at his forehead. “Dunno for sure. The damn headaches started and next thing I knew I was in the cells. Doc Boles says there’s bone pressure on my brain that’s driving me loco. I dunno. All I know is I’m through with Dukes and the Enforcers and everyone else back there. I have to be—I’m gallows-bound if they ever catch me.”

  He was studied in silence for what seemed a long time.

  “It doesn’t bother you?” Morgan asked finally.

  “What?” Yancey asked blankly.

  “If you don’t know what I mean, I guess it doesn’t bother you. But what was your idea in comin’ here, Bannerman? You know the kind of rep me and my brothers’ve got.”

  “Sure. Anarchists. Revolutionaries. Rebels. Killers. So what? None of that bothers me. I just want to lay low a while till things die down, then I’ll light out.”

  Morgan looked at him sharply. “Where to?”

  “The border. Or Red River maybe. Plenty of places I can go to dodge the law.” Yancey grinned mirthlessly. “I ought to know—I trailed plenty of owlhoots over the years.”

  “Yeah, and that’s what bothers me. How come a bigshot Enforcer like you suddenly starts goin’ loco?”

  Yancey shook his head. “What’s it matter?”

  “I told you, Morg,” Rick said. “Boles reckons it’s—”

  “Yeah. I heard you.” He turned to Lefty Marsh and a red-haired man beside him. “Lock up Bannerman and the girl in the root cellar. We’ll talk more about this and make a decision come mornin’.”

  Yancey started to protest. Suddenly Morgan’s gun whipped out like a striking snake and caught the Enforcer across the temple. His knees sagged and he folded.

  Tina Gunn screamed as Yancey tumbled into oblivion.

  Seven – Killer on the Loose

  John Cato figured he might as well
go back to Austin. He had been on the trail for two days and hadn’t found any sign that amounted to a damn. He dismounted by a small pool in a corner of a vast canyon that backed into rugged hills topped by a peak with a broken side.

  There had been a rock or two overturned, a bit of thread from what might have been a dress on a buckthorn bush, a gouge in soft dirt that was a shade darker than other marks. But there was no indication that any of the sign had been left by Yancey and the two with him.

  The fact was, the Texas Breaks amounted to wild country where plenty of owlhoots hid out. There were always men on the dodge in the hills, and the small sign Cato had picked up might have come from them.

  There was no way to find out if Yancey and the other two were still together. It had been Yancey who’d grabbed the girl. That was another queer thing: a senator’s daughter helping out Boles as a nurse. Then there was Slocum. Yancey wouldn’t bother with a punk like him.

  There were still so many things that Cato didn’t understand. The killing spree of Yancey’s, for instance. Sure, he knew Yancey had killed many men over the years, but only in the performance of his duty as an Enforcer. He had never killed because he liked it, only if it was absolutely necessary. The sudden streak of viciousness just simply didn’t go with the Yancey Cato had known. But of course that was the whole thing. Yancey, because of the bone pressure on his brain, wasn’t the man Cato had known for so many years.

  Cato, waiting for his horse to drink its fill at the rock pool, squatted in the shade of a sandstone boulder and built up a cigarette slowly. He tensed at a faint noise behind and slightly above him. Only for a moment did his fingers hesitate before he spread tobacco flakes over the creased rice paper. He continued to build the cigarette, but as he ran his tongue along the edge of the paper he moved his head slightly.

  His peripheral vision had always been excellent. He rolled his eyes slightly upwards now. There was movement on a narrow ledge some ten yards to his right, maybe ten or twelve feet up. As he twisted the end of the paper cylinder, Cato saw a man ease himself around a rock and bring a rifle butt to his shoulder.

  In a flash the cigarette flew from Cato’s hand. He whirled around and threw himself flat, belly-down, his right hand scooping the big Manstopper out of his specially designed fast draw holster. His quick eye told him the man was neither Yancey nor Slocum. The stranger, startled by Cato’s blurring speed, straightened to draw a bead on the moving Enforcer.

  The Manstopper, held in both of Cato’s hands now, bucked and roared in a flat, echoing shot.

  The man on the ledge was smashed back by the strike of lead. He slammed into the rocks behind him, bounced forward as if kicked by a mule, and fell off the ledge. He slid and rolled down to the canyon floor, one arm flopping into the rock pool.

  Cato rolled over and over, fast enough to kick up a cloud of sand. He stopped himself behind a rock, the Manstopper at the ready, his eyes raking the rock walls and then the floor of the canyon, where there were many pools of dark shadow cast by huge boulders.

  There was no further shooting and no sign of more men. The echoes of Cato’s single shot slowly died away across the huge canyon. Cato stayed behind his rock and looked at the man he had shot. The man’s arm dangled lifelessly in the water and there was a spreading patch of bright blood on his shirtfront. The Enforcer took his time, his eyes still scanning the sandy floor, the rock walls, the canyon rim, even the distant peak with the piece chewed out near the top. For a moment the peak looked like a sharp-nosed face in profile.

  Finally satisfied there was no further danger near at hand, Cato stood up slowly. Then, still covering the man by the pool, he walked over, knelt and held the Manstopper’s twin barrels against the man’s head. Cato knocked his hat off and saw his dirty, beard-shaggy face for the first time. Suddenly he recognized him—Pete Riviera, a half breed killer from El Paso who had been on the run for many months and was high on the Enforcers’ and Rangers’ wanted lists.

  Riviera was still alive—but not for long, Cato reckoned. The Enforcer dragged Riviera away from the pool and sprinkled water into his face. Riviera moaned but didn’t move. Cato scooped up a handful of water and dashed it into Riviera’s stubbled face. This time the outlaw’s eyes flickered open. The Enforcer shook him by the shoulder. “Pete! It’s me, Johnny Cato. I nailed you dead center. You’re on your way to hell, man.”

  Riviera coughed and tried to speak, his hand clawing feebly at Cato’s shirt sleeve.

  “Take it easy,” Cato said. “You ain’t got much time and there’s no hope. I can’t get you to a sawbones and you’re too bad-hit for me to try anything. You savvy what I’m sayin?”

  Riviera nodded, his mouth still working.

  Cato placed a hand on the outlaw’s shoulder. “What’re you doin’ here, Pete? Are you guardin’ the canyon for someone?” Riviera slowly rocked his head from one side to the other. “You’re on your own then?”

  The dying man nodded and made gurgling sounds in his throat. Blood bubbled on his lips as he spoke, his breath wheezing. “Spotted you. Figured you was ... likely after me ... Thought I’d get in first and na-nail you …”

  Cato thumbed back his hat, nodding. “Still a loner, Pete?” Riviera nodded.

  “Been holed-up here long?”

  “W-week or so.”

  Cato’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’d know if anyone else was hangin’ out here. Maybe you saw a rider or two come in durin’ the past few days. It’s two men and a girl I’m interested in. Or maybe only one man and a girl. The man is Yancey Bannerman.”

  Riviera’s eyes showed surprise. Then he tugged at Cato’s sleeve. “Y-yeah. Seen ’em yest’y. Didn’t know it was Ba-Bannerman then. Thought he looked ... familiar. He got jumped by the—the Satterlees.”

  Cato sucked in his breath. “The Satterlees! You mean Morg and Cotton and Rick? Them Satterlees?”

  Riviera moved his head in the affirmative. He lifted a limp hand and gestured vaguely in the direction of the distant peak with the broken top. “Near Injun Head Rock.”

  Cato looked in that direction.

  “Th-they got their ... own bunch. Rest of us ... hidin’ out here keep ... well away. We b-been t-told to ...”

  “The Satterlees took Yancey and the girl with ’em?”

  “And a feller. Think it was R-Rick S-Satterlee. Seen him once in Laramie ...”

  Cato frowned, shook his head. “No, can’t be. The feller with Yancey was someone named Slocum. White hair, no eyebrows ...”

  Riviera nodded. “That’s him—Rick Satterlee. Dye job on his hair.”

  Cato’s brain whirled with this information. “They jumped Yancey and the girl? Took ’em prisoner?”

  “Morg pistol-whipped Bannerman. Saw it from hidin’ ... right near their camp. I didn’t hang about. The Satterlees want only ... their own bunch around ... camp. I was movin’ to ... another part of the Breaks when I ... seen you ...” His voice faded and his words became unintelligible, although he rolled his head about and muttered for several minutes more. Then he convulsed suddenly. Soon his head rolled to the side and a wheezing rattle came out of him.

  Cato buried the outlaw under a caved-in bank. No one would miss the breed killer. He had always worked alone, hiring his gun to whoever would pay his fee. Sometimes he just bought into a range war or a feud for the sheer hell of killing. The world was a better place without Riviera.

  But Riviera had done one service, anyway, before dying. He had explained a lot of things to Cato. Now the Enforcer figured he had the answers to what had been perplexing questions.

  If he was wrong, then things were no worse than they’d been for the last ten days or so. If he was right—well, he’d find out about that after he slipped into the outlaw camp and had a word with Yancey.

  All he had to do was keep from getting himself killed.

  Yancey Bannerman rubbed gingerly at the throbbing lump on his temple left by Morgan Satterlee’s gun barrel. His eyes had a deadly light in them. Tina Gunn, disheveled
and pale, backed away as the door of the cabin opened and two men with guns entered.

  One was Cotton Satterlee. The other was Lefty Marsh.

  “Come out, Bannerman,” Cotton ordered in his deep voice as the Enforcer squinted against the sun’s glare. “Time to pow-wow.”

  Yancey made a growling sound deep in his throat. Tina Gunn gasped as he suddenly hurled himself at the two men. They hadn’t expected him to be crazy enough to go against a pair of guns, so Cotton and Marsh were taken by surprise.

  Yancey’s big body plowed into Satterlee and his weight carried both of them back into Marsh. Lefty flew out into the yard and scrabbled wildly to get out from under as the two thrashing bodies landed on top of him. The Enforcer hooked an elbow into Cotton’s throat and wrenched the gun from his hand. But then, as he brought the gun around, Lefty swung his rifle and the barrel knocked the Colt from Yancey’s grasp.

  Yancey’s reflexes were lightning-swift. He snatched at the rifle barrel and pulled hard. Lefty hung onto the rifle and it exploded. Yancey only winced as the powder flash burned the side of his face. Then he kneed Marsh in the belly and threw him at Cotton Satterlee as the big outlaw tried to sit up.

  They floundered around and Yancey was aware that other outlaws were coming on the run, yelling. He picked up the fallen rifle by the barrel and swung it like a club. It cracked against Cotton’s jaw, laying the man out. Marsh threw himself onto Yancey’s shoulders. The big Enforcer got to his feet and spun, trying to whip off the outlaw. But Marsh hung on grimly and Yancey cursed as he had to stagger back in order to keep his balance. Then he realized the cabin’s log wall was behind him. He threw himself backwards hard and Marsh grunted, the breath gusting out of him as he was wedged hard between the Enforcer’s big body and the cabin.