Bannerman the Enforcer 14 Page 7

  “I sure hope so!” the Ranger said feelingly, rubbing gently at his neck.

  “Throw him back in the cells,” Maguire said and as Yancey was hustled out at gunpoint by Kibbe, he whistled happily and gently rubbed the red patch on the knuckles of his right hand.

  ~*~

  “But why’d he hit you?” insisted Kennedy as Yancey sat on the edge of his bunk, head thrown back, a wet kerchief pressed tightly against his nostrils.

  “Just ornery, the son of a bitch,” Yancey growled.

  “Must’ve had some reason,” Kennedy said, not satisfied.

  Yancey lowered his head so he could look levelly at Kennedy. He stared for a long moment in silence. “Last place I held up, I took over ten thousand in gold and hard cash ... I ain’t had time to spend it all.”

  Kennedy nodded slowly. “I get it; the Rangers want to know where you hid it, right?”

  “Near enough,” Yancey said, voice muffled behind the kerchief. He ripped out a string of oaths. “I’ll get that mangy polecat of a sergeant some day!”

  “Not much chance now,” Kennedy said. “You’re like me: headed for a hemp necktie.”

  “Not me, mister,” Yancey said confidently. “I don’t aim to stick around long enough for that.”

  Kennedy sneered. “What the hell you gonna do? Tear the door off and walk out?”

  Yancey stared at him thoughtfully. “Why not?”

  Kennedy blinked. “You’re loco!”

  “Hell, I don’t mean tear the door off, I mean why not walk out?”

  Kennedy scoffed, “That ain’t even worth answerin’!”

  “No? Well, if it could be managed, would you come?”

  “Damn right I would! But we ain’t got a chance.”

  “We’ll see. By the way, heard Maguire talking to one of the other Rangers. Seems the word’s out about you. Catlin’s comin’ after you.”

  Kennedy’s jaw sagged and he moved back slowly, groping for the edge of his bunk. He dropped onto it, face ashen.

  “Might be safer for you to stay behind, huh?” Yancey said.

  “Hell, no! I’m a sittin’ duck in here! If I’m out, Catlin’s got to look for me and I reckon I can find somewheres to hole-up …”

  Yancey shrugged. “Your play. Anyway, when the door’s open, you can decide.”

  “How the hell you gonna open that door?” Kennedy demanded.

  Yancey didn’t reply. He tossed his head back and pressed the kerchief against his nostrils, cussing Sergeant Maguire again.

  Six – Bodyguard

  The last check on the cells at night was around eleven-thirty and it was normally carried out by a single Ranger who had drawn night duty. This particular night it was Kibbe.

  He strolled across the moonlit yard from the main Ranger post where two others had just come in from town patrol. They would stay at the post for another hour and then go out and walk the streets again. They would be relieved about two o’clock by a fresh patrol.

  As Kibbe approached the jailhouse he heard sounds coming from inside the building. There was a crash, a yell, scuffling sounds; a string of curses, the thud of a fist against flesh. Kibbe swore and hurriedly unlocked the door into the building. He ran into the lantern-lit passage and saw the two fighting figures locked in combat in the confines of the cell.

  Yancey and Kennedy were hammering at each other, slamming off the walls, snarling, gouging, in what seemed a really savage fight.

  “Hey!” Kibbe yelled as he rattled the barred door. “Come on! Cut it out!”

  They didn’t hear, they were concentrating too much on maiming each other. Kibbe shook the bars again.

  “Break it up, I said!”

  They fought on, unaware of him, slugging, kicking, grappling, bouncing all round the cell. The Ranger pulled out his Colt and slammed the butt against the bars but the noise didn’t get through to the fighting men. Swearing, he took the keys from his belt, opened the door and stepped in, gun at the ready. He moved around to dodge the grappling bodies, waiting for an opportunity to slug one of them with the Colt.

  Then, abruptly, the men broke apart and they came at him, one from each side. Kibbe knew he had made a mistake entering the cell, that this was what they had wanted. He tried to leap up onto a bunk but they bore him back into a corner and hard fists raked his body, slammed the Colt from his grip, rattled his teeth in his head. The breath jolted out of him and the back of his head rammed against the stone wall. His eyes rolled up and his knees buckled. He started to fold and slip to the floor. Kennedy kept hammering at him and, when the Ranger was lying curled up, he drew back his foot, teeth baring in a snarl, aiming a kick at his head.

  Yancey grabbed his shoulder and sent him staggering away. “Don’t waste time on him! He’s out to it!” he snarled and looked around for the gun. They saw it at the same time and dived for it where it had skidded under Yancey’s bunk. The Enforcer shouldered Kennedy aside but the blocky man cursed and shoved back. They dropped flat and reached in underneath, straining to touch the Colt. Yancey had to get that gun first!

  He dug his boot toes into a crack between the stone blocks on the floor and was able to heave forward that last extra vital inch. His fingers brushed the walnut butt of the gun, curled around it and he yanked it back just as Kennedy snatched at the barrel. The blocky outlaw held on, refusing to let go. They twisted and strained as they backed out from under the bunk and then they were facing each other, holding the gun between them. But the barrel was pointing towards Kennedy’s chest.

  Yancey looked coldly into his face and notched back the hammer slowly.

  Kennedy released his grip instantly and shoved his hands shoulder high, eyes bulging. “Okay, okay!” he rasped. “It’s yours! Now take it easy, Shannon! We’re pards, ain’t we?”

  Yancey glared at him for a moment longer before he slowly eased down the hammer and stood up. “Pards for now ... Come on.”

  They leapt over the still form of Kibbe and ran down the passage into the yard. There was no way out except through the main post building. Ten foot high smooth stone walls topped with broken glass and barbed wire surrounded the yard space. Behind was the jail itself. They had to go through the post building.

  “Gonna be some shooting,” Yancey said, Colt in hand. “Bound to be a couple of Rangers inside there.”

  “Well ...” Kennedy swallowed and rubbed the palms of his hands together. “Ready when you are!”

  Yancey nodded and eased open the rear door into the post, his Colt cocked and ready. They slipped into the passage and could hear the voices of the two Rangers just in from patrol, talking. They were discussing incidents they had witnessed while walking through the town and Yancey recognized Sergeant Maguire’s voice. He turned as Kennedy’s hand touched him on the shoulder. The outlaw gestured to the open office door they were going to have to pass before reaching the street entrance. Yancey merely nodded and moved on.

  He was almost to the door, sliding along the wall, with Kennedy close behind, when a shadow moved across the doorway and they heard Maguire say:

  “Better go see what’s keeping Kibbe ...”

  Then the sergeant stepped out into the passage and saw the two prisoners and he swore and went for his gun. Yancey fired without hesitation and Maguire hurtled back into the office, his partly-drawn Colt falling from its holster. He crashed over a chair and hit the floor flat on his face and lay still. Yancey went through the door in a headlong dive and the Colt blasted twice more as the other Ranger, who had been writing his report at the desk, lunged to his feet, hand whipping out his gun. Yancey rolled up onto one knee and triggered again. The Ranger threw his arms up in the air and smashed back into the wall, bouncing off to spill face down across the desk, arms hanging limply.

  Yancey leapt up through the gunsmoke, heaving the man’s body off the desk, throwing Kibbe’s smoking Colt down beside him. He wrenched open the drawer, hurriedly looking for his own gunrig as the outlaw stood looking down at the sprawled Rangers. His lips were pu
rsed in a silent whistle of admiration and then he leapt to catch his cartridge belt and holstered Colt as Yancey threw it to him across the room.

  Yancey swiftly buckled on his own gunbelt and hoped his Peacemaker was loaded with real bullets ... and not blanks like Kibbe’s gun had been. Then he jumped as a gun blasted only a few feet away and his right hand palmed up the Peacemaker in a move so fast that the startled Kennedy stepped back. The outlaw was holding a smoking gun and Yancey frowned. Kennedy gestured with the gun to the Ranger beside the desk.

  “He moved, so I finished him,” Kennedy said and Yancey grimaced when he saw the hole in the man’s head.

  Well, that was one casualty they hadn’t figured on when he had made arrangements for this ‘escape’ with Maguire. But it was a risk they had had to take. Like Yancey getting to Kibbe’s gun first in the cells. If Kennedy had gotten the Colt and realized it was loaded with blank shells, the whole deal would have blown up ...

  “Come on!” Yancey snarled, grabbing Kennedy’s shoulder and shoving him roughly towards the passage door.

  They stepped over the still body of Sergeant Maguire and ran out into the street. There was only a single horse at the hitch rack across the street, outside a store. Likely it belonged to some drunken cowpoke who had forgotten where he had left it ... Leastways, Yancey hoped that was the way it would seem to Kennedy. He had agreed with Maguire that it would be too convenient to have the two Ranger horses outside, saddled and waiting, when the routine called for them to be unsaddled and stalled first before going into the post to write up reports. It had to look as natural as possible. They had agreed it would have to be one of those things left to chance: there was bound to be some sort of mount available.

  And there it was, across the street. It was a lone cow-pony and Yancey swung into the saddle and felt the little animal’s back creak when Kennedy leapt up behind. He spurred the horse down the street and folk were coming out of buildings now, attracted by the shooting that had taken place only a matter of seconds earlier. Someone spotted them and yelled. Someone else started shooting but they didn’t even hear where the bullets went.

  Yancey raced the long-stepping cowpony out of town. “Hey, border’s that way!” yelled Kennedy in his ear, pointing off to the left as Yancey swung right.

  “They’ll have the bridge blocked by now and, anyway, that’s right where they’ll start looking for us!” Yancey bellowed back in reply. “I figure to go up into the hills, and stick around Texas! Last thing they’ll be expecting.”

  Kennedy didn’t say anything, only held on as the cow-pony thundered on into the night and left El Paso behind. It was just past sunup when Yancey hauled rein on the lathered, near-jaded horse, on a ridge overlooking a brush-choked canyon that ran off into really wild country that stretched away to the horizon.

  Both men were aching and sweating and climbed down from the exhausted horse. Yancey led the animal to the spring he had spotted and let it drink. He and Kennedy slaked their own thirsts and sat back against a tree, watching the daylight crawl across the land, driving the shadows out of the canyon below.

  “Reckon we shook ’em?” Kennedy asked.

  “Like as not,” Yancey replied briefly.

  Kennedy looked at Yancey steadily. “You’re one hell of a tough hombre, mister.”

  Yancey didn’t say anything.

  “I ain’t sure that Catlin himself is any tougher,” Kennedy added.

  Yancey stood up, rummaged in the saddlebags that had been on the horse and found some leather-hard jerky. He tossed a strip to Kennedy and they chewed in silence. Yancey found some old shirts in the bottom of one saddlebag and used them to rub the lather off the horse. He led it to a patch of grass and ground-hitched it so it could feed. He stood by the tree where Kennedy sat, gazing out across the ranges in all directions.

  “Any sign of a posse?” the outlaw asked, still chewing at the tough jerked beef.

  “Nope. Reckon we lost ’em.”

  They ate in silence for a spell, then washed down the beef with more water from the spring, Yancey wiped the back of a hand across his lips and walked across to the horse, lifting the reins. He swung easily up into the saddle and started to turn the horse. Kennedy came hurrying across.

  “Hold up till I climb on!”

  Yancey brought his right hand across his body and Kennedy stiffened when he saw the cocked Peacemaker pointing at him.

  “What the hell—!”

  “You don’t climb on,” Yancey told him. “We split up here.”

  “Hey, wait a minute, Shannon!” Kennedy started running after the horse as Yancey heeled it forward. “Judas man, don’t leave me here!”

  Yancey didn’t look around, just kept riding. He moved the horse slowly and Kennedy came panting alongside, grabbing a stirrup, looking up as he jogged.

  “Shannon! Hold up, damn you! I got a proposition for you!”

  Yancey let the horse run a few more yards, then slowed and finally stopped. He hipped in leather, Colt in hand, looking down coldly at Kennedy who stood with head hanging, panting in an effort to steady his breathing.

  “Hurry it up, mister!” Yancey snapped. “I don’t need you.”

  Kennedy lifted his head, face distressed from his exertions. “Maybe I need—you.”

  Yancey shook his head immediately and made to lift the reins again. “I’m a loner. Like it that way.”

  “Wait! Please. Wait just a minute ...” He nodded his thanks as Yancey reined down with bad grace, obviously itching to be on his way. “Shannon, I can sure use you, man! I mean, you told me you heard Catlin was after me. You know why. I kept some of that gold from the big ’Frisco robbery.”

  Kennedy didn’t notice the tightening of Yancey’s mouth, or the knotting of his jaw muscles.

  “I crossed Brad Stewart, like a fool. Just couldn’t resist it when that sack busted apart and no one was lookin’ … Shannon, I need a bodyguard!”

  Yancey shook his head. “Not me.”

  “Yeah, you! It’s gotta be you! You’re the only hombre I’ve ever met who could come close to takin’ Catlin.”

  “I could take him,” Yancey said quietly. “Don’t mean I want to. Not for you, leastways.”

  “I can pay you well.”

  Yancey curled a lip. “What with?”

  Kennedy hesitated, then licked his lips. “Look, when I stopped over in El Paso for a little gamblin’, I was on my way to a meetin’ place with Stewart and the rest of the bunch. We was gonna divvy-up the gold.”

  “How come it wasn’t shared out long before this?” Yancey asked.

  “Well, it’s got some kinda special mint-mark, like I said earlier. Too risky to get rid of in the States. Stewart shipped it to El Paso in an ordinary case and one of his men picked it up and took it across the bridge into Mexico. It was to be changed for cash we could use. Guess they’ll melt down the special gold pieces. Anyway, Stewart’s s’posed to be bringing the cash to the rendezvous and we’ll share it. My share’s pretty hefty, Shannon.”

  Yancey made an impatient gesture. “Quit wasting my time, Kennedy! You ain’t got a hope in hell of collecting your share, not after crossin’ Stewart the way you did.”

  Kennedy grabbed swiftly at the reins as Yancey started to lift them. He looked desperately up at the big Enforcer.

  “Mebbe I ain’t got a chance, but you have! You could collect the whole quarter-million! And we’d divvy-up right down the middle! How’s that sound?”

  Yancey thought about it for what seemed a long time. “I do all the work, take all the risks and you want half the dinero ...?”

  “Well, hell, I’m the one who knows where the rendezvous is at! I know the trails most of the others’ll be takin’ to reach it. We can lay for ’em, bushwhack ’em so that when we do move in, we only got Stewart and Catlin to go up against.”

  “Only!”

  “Well, yeah, I admit it’s a kinda tough combination, but I reckon you could take ’em both ... together if you have to. One hundre
d, twenty-five thousand ain’t bad pay for that kinda work, Shannon!”

  Yancey thought about it some more, or seemed to. Twice he started to speak, then changed his mind. Finally, he kicked a boot free of the stirrup on Kennedy’s side and reached down a hand to help the outlaw climb up behind him.

  “Okay, we got a deal. Climb on up. We’ll get us a fresh mount apiece soon as we can.”

  Kennedy grinned and swung aboard the cowpony.

  “By Harry, I reckon it was my lucky day after all when that Ranger slugged me and tossed me in that cell, Shannon!”

  “It was someone’s,” Yancey said curtly and urged the horse on into the broken wild country. “Are we headed in the right direction for this rendezvous?”

  Kennedy sobered and his face took on a cunning look. “Just keep ridin’ like we are for a spell. I’ll tell you when to change direction.”

  Yancey nodded, his face grim. Kennedy was playing it close to his chest. After all, it was the only ace the outlaw held and he knew that once Yancey learned the rendezvous, he would be no more use.

  Yancey felt the same way; after all, this was one of the men who had helped shoot down Chuck and C.B. And, for all he knew, his father might be dead by now.

  ~*~

  The jagged scar on Brad Stewart’s swarthy cheek stood out like a white centipede against his dark skin. His glittering eyes were narrowed and deadly as he smashed a fist down onto the deal table in the shabby adobe room. Catlin, tall, stone-faced, his flaming red hair touched with a shaft of sunlight and looking like a helmet of fire, waited for Stewart to finish cussing.

  “How the hell did they escape?” the outlaw leader demanded. “No one’s ever gotten away from that Ranger jail in El Paso! No one!”

  “Well, Kennedy did, and with this Wes Shannon hombre.” Catlin pushed the torn ‘Wanted’ dodger he had brought with him across the table towards Stewart. “Seems he killed two Rangers, left another beat-up in the cell ... They’re gone, Brad, so ain’t no use cussin’. They’re lost in the hills north of El Paso or miles into Mexico by now.”