Bannerman the Enforcer 4 Page 8

  Holding his boots, Cato moved silently down the long building in his stockinged feet. He paused a few times when men grunted and tossed uneasily in their bunks. But no one woke up and he reached the door safely. Cautiously, he lifted the latch with both hands, placing his boots on the floor to do so. He got it up with barely a scrape and then eased the door back towards him, sliding his feet back over the floorboards. When he had the door far enough open to slip out, he bent down, picked up his boots, and eased himself out into the night.

  Closing the door softly behind him, he stood on one leg as he pulled his first boot on. Next thing he was sprawled on his face in the gravel of the yard, head ringing, and lights dancing behind his eyes. Groaning, Cato rolled onto his side and looked up at the tall silhouette of a man standing over him with a rifle in his hands. The man’s teeth flashed briefly.

  “Goddamn, the boss was right! He figured you might try to slip out to help Bannerman, mister. I was just about due for relief, but I’m sure glad I’m the one who caught you!” He drove a boot hard into Cato’s ribs and stepped back swiftly like a true professional. “Fargo was a pard of mine!” He laughed briefly. “Dekker said you was to be taught a lesson ... and I’m the teacher!”

  Cato was doubled up from the kick in the ribs and started to unwind his small, muscular body at the man’s words, but the rifle barrel cracked across his forehead and knocked him back dizzily. He started to sit up and the butt clipped him on the temple: expert blows, hurting, swift, but not enough to knock him unconscious. Another boot drove into his chest, one in the stomach. As if down a long well, he heard the guard’s voice saying: “Dekker said as long as we didn’t hurt your hands we could do anythin’ we liked to you!”

  As he struggled to sit up, a boot caught him in the mouth and Cato had one thought through the pain: Yancey wasn’t going to get out of that shaft tonight, that was for sure ...

  ~*~

  Yancey was surprised to find himself still alive after the dust settled and the noise of the cave-in died away in the bowels of the earth. He still didn’t know what was pinning his legs but for hours now he had been straining in the pitch darkness, dragging his legs out slowly, inch by inch, scraping off his skin, but managing to move a little each time if he really tried. Four times he had passed out and he knew it was through lack of oxygen. Then the breeze or whatever it was came blowing down the drive to fan his face and chill the sweat on it, reviving him.

  He was dizzy most of the time and his ears sang constantly, chest heaving, lungs laboring, heart pounding. He had no idea how long he had been there but figured it must have been hours. There had been no other sound except the blood roaring in his ears and the occasional trickle of stones. He had no idea if Dekker’s guards had lowered any food or water down the shaft to him. In fact, they hadn’t. Dekker had decreed that Yancey should go hungry until morning as part of his punishment and so they still figured him to be curled up in the bottom of the shaft.

  But Yancey’s immediate worry was to get his legs free without bringing down the roof. And he needed light so he could see what damage he had done by yanking that plank free. His greatest fear was that he had caved in the roof behind him and cut off his retreat. What lay ahead was an unknown quantity: if anything was ahead, except another pile of rubble. At least he hadn’t entirely entombed himself: that faint occasional blast of air against his face told him there was a small hole someplace that was letting it in. And a small hole could be made bigger.

  At last his foot pulled out of the left boot where it was pinned and he was free of the crushing weight. He pulled his legs back from under the final layer of dirt and the bruised muscles creaked stiffly. After hugging the legs for a spell, to ease the cramps, he then began to grope around for the candle stub, buried under dirt. He hadn’t moved much from his original position and the candle had been to his right and a little behind. He plunged his hand cautiously into the loose soil, groping, breaking nails, glad that at least the tin of vestas was in his pocket. Hell, what was he thinking of. He needed light, didn’t he?

  He fumbled out the tin and carefully opened it in the darkness. It had been partially crushed in the fall and the lid was jammed, but he tore it up, cutting his thumb and forefinger, but ignoring the pain. Fingers slippery with blood, he took out one of the few remaining vestas—they had only given him ten—and snapped it into flame. He squinted against the bright flare and by the time his eyes had adjusted to the light the flame had burned low enough to scorch his thumb and finger. He instinctively shook it out and cursed himself for a fool. The next one he was prepared for, squinting his eyes first. In the small, flickering light, he groped around for the candle rather than observing his situation. He almost shouted aloud when his fingers contacted the candle and he wrenched it from under a small mound of rocks and earth just as the vesta went out. The next one he struck he applied the flame immediately to the candle wick. The candle was broken off to a short stub of a few inches but the flame showed he was free enough behind and could crawl back to the original shaft bottom, where Burrell’s body was, if he wanted to.

  Ahead, it was a different matter. There was a mound of heavy rocks and earth almost to the top of the drive shaft. There was a gap up there that allowed the vagrant breeze to blow through from time to time. Moving cautiously, he climbed up this rock fall, the original one that had been written about on the planks, and worked an arm through the small gap at the top. As far as he could stretch his fingers there was nothing but dank, empty blackness. He thrust the candle through but could see nothing. Maybe there was just this fall with the remainder of the drive clear beyond ... It was a chance, one that he was willing to take. The hour meant nothing to him. He had no idea what time it was, nor did he care. Night and day were the same down here.

  Warily, he set down the candle and grasped the top rock on the pile. He moved it slowly, eased it out of its resting place and let it roll down his side of the pile. It bounced and thudded its way to the bottom. Dust rose to rasp his nostrils, but nothing else trembled. His hands were bleeding after he had moved six more rocks. He thrust the candle through and saw that there was another wall of rubble beyond after all, just beyond the reach of his arm. But it only half-filled the drive. If he could get through this first barrier, likely he wouldn’t have to even move any of the second pile. There would be plenty of room for him to crawl past it.

  But he needed to protect his hands. They were already cut and bleeding and, more importantly, they hurt when he used them. With another half hour’s work, they would be raw meat unless he got some protection for them. Sliding, he worked his way to the bottom of the pile and looked around for his left boot. He pulled it free, poured out dirt and stones and rammed his foot into it. Then he grabbed the candle and worked his way back into the bottom of the shaft where he had been originally imprisoned and went over to the dead man. Yancey glanced up. Stars burned in a black sky. He set down the candle and wrested the boots from Burrell’s feet. They would protect his hands ...

  Crawling, coughing in the dust, he went back to the rubble and clambered carefully to the top, freezing as soon as he felt loose scree sliding away under his boots. He didn’t want to bring down another cave-in at this stage. He reached the top, secured the candle in a small crack in the rock face, and then slid his hands inside Burrell’s boots. With these as protection, he began punching and hammering at the rocks and packed earth, trying to make the gap large enough for his body to squeeze through.

  The rubble was a wall almost six feet thick and he seemed to be moving half the mountain without making any real headway. But he was breathing easier, despite his exertions, and he could feel the breeze almost constantly chilling the sweat on his skin when he paused for a break. The rest periods became more frequent and the boulders seemed to be getting bigger and heavier.

  Yancey sprawled across the rubble, arms outstretched, head down, gasping. Hell, it seemed as if he would never get through. His muscles ached and his nerve-ends screamed at the thought of hea
ving away more rocks, scratching at the rubble. Inside the boots, his hands were still slippery with blood and raw from his earlier efforts, but while they protected his skin, the jarring of his punches still bruised his knuckles and tendons.

  He continued on, heaving himself up by sheer will-power, scrabbling with his own boots for purchase, aware that the candle was burning lower and lower. He came to a large, stubborn rock and he had to dig deep around the base, sliding back down his side of the pile, working the boots on his hands right under the rock, trying to find its point of balance so he could heave it down and backwards, out of the way.

  He was choking in the dust and the light from the candle barely penetrated the cloud. Yancey froze as He felt the big rock begin to move, only slightly, but it tilted towards him and for a few heart-stopping moments he thought it was going to roll out on top of him. He flung himself aside, the boots flying off his hands and landing way back up the drive. The rock stopped as abruptly as it had started and Yancey gingerly eased himself across in front of it, watching it closely, ready to throw himself down the small slope at the first sign of movement.

  The Enforcer managed to get around to the side and he crawled back up to the same level as the boulder. He glanced at Burrell’s boots lying far back up the drive, on the very edge of the circle of light, and decided to leave them there. He should be able to complete this now with his bare hands.

  Yancey squirmed around, settled himself so that his boots were planted solidly against the rock of the drive wall, then got his hands against the boulder and gingerly strained. The rock began to move. He figured once this rock had been toppled down the slope, there would be sufficient space for him to crawl through. Gathering himself, dragging down a deep breath of dust-laden air, he pushed with his boots, leg muscles knotting, shoulders bunching and arms straining. He yelled with the mighty effort and felt the rock beginning to go and abruptly it went out from under him and he sprawled forward onto his face, turning his head as the base of the boulder spewed up rocks and dirt from its resting place.

  In the dim, hazy candle glow he saw the great egg-shaped rock bounce and roll down the slope, gathering speed and he bared his teeth, wincing, as it struck another firmly-embedded rock, was thrown off its straight course down the drive and headed directly for the rotted pole supporting the roof of the drive.

  “Hell, no!” Yancey yelled and then the boulder smashed into the upright, splintering it, jarring into the wall.

  He snatched at his candle stub and threw himself through the gap left by the boulder as the walls and roof of the drive trembled, poured dirt streams from a score of places, and rained stones. Then there was a massive rumbling and the roof came down with a crashing, grinding thud and boiling dust rasped his skin and snuffed out the candle flame. Compressed air hammered at his ears, drove the breath from his lungs. His eyes started in their sockets. His mouth worked frantically, as he tried to gulp down even a cupful of clear air. The pile trembled under him and he slid and rolled and flailed down into dank darkness.

  The whole drive shaft had caved-in and sealed off the original prison shaft. For Yancey Bannerman, there was only one way he could go: forward. Into pitch blackness and the unknown.

  But, for now, he figured he would rest a spell, just exactly where he lay. He could barely find enough energy to ease his hip into a more comfortable position, and then he lowered his head down onto his forearm and tried to forget about his aching body and the empty feeling in his belly.

  ~*~

  Cayuse Dekker stood at the edge of the shaft, looking down into the darkness, his face grim in the early sunlight. He turned and picked up a fist-sized rock and hurled it down into the blackness with all his strength. He heard it bang and clatter against the walls and then thud onto the floor of the shaft. He turned to the three tight-faced guards, his eyes singling out one man, a redhead, with freckled and battered features.

  “What time did you smell the dust?” he barked.

  The guard moved his feet uneasily. “Dunno exactly, Mr. Dekker. But it was before full daylight. Heard what I thought was thunder. Then, when I smelled the dust, I got to thinkin’ that maybe there’d been a cave-in below. Yelled out to Bannerman but there was no answer. Then I figured I’d better let you know, specially after we lowered down a lantern on a rope and all we could see was Burrell’s body. ’Course, the light didn’t burn too well down there, so we couldn’t see all over the bottom of the shaft.”

  Dekker looked at him coldly for a long while, until the man lowered his gaze and shuffled uneasily.

  “Lower another lantern,” Dekker ordered finally. “But this time you keep hold of it, Red.”

  The guard stiffened and glanced pale-faced at his companions. They kept their faces deadpan. “You—you want me to go down that shaft?” he stammered.

  “You’re goin’ down there!” Dekker said, brooking no argument. “And pronto ... either on the end of the rope with a lantern, or without any rope at all! Do I make myself clear?”

  The redhead swallowed and nodded jerkily, setting down his rifle and looking about for the storm lantern.

  Dekker watched every part of the preparations critically and impatiently. The redhead was anything but happy about his assignment, but he put his boot in the loop at the end of the rope and, clutching the burning lantern, swung out into space, nodding to the man on the winch. He was lowered swiftly and the men up top watched as the lantern light dwindled away down there ...

  The redhead turned slowly with the rope, just above the bottom of the shaft, holding the lantern out from his side. The light washed around the walls and into every corner, and into the entrance to the short drive shaft. He noticed the rocks and dirt spilling out of this and unhooked his boot from the loop in the rope and stepped down to the shaft bottom.

  He glanced only briefly at Burrell’s huddled body and the man was at such an angle that the guard could not see his feet, that were now, of course, bootless. Holding the lantern up and ahead of him, he crouched and looked into the short drive. There was a spillage of rock and dirt, a dryness that rasped at his nostrils. The fall had completely blocked the drive shaft and parts of splintered planks and a piece of shattered log stuck up out of the rubble. The redhead examined every corner of the shaft and moved to his left, crouching, looking at the roof apprehensively as he hunkered down beside the object that had caught his eye. He warily scooped some dirt aside and stared at the scuffed and ripped leather of a boot. Less than two feet away, the heel of another boot protruded from the rubble and the guard grinned, as he backed out, set his foot into the rope loop and yelled to the man on the winch to haul him up.

  Dekker waited for him impatiently to climb out onto the ground at the shaft’s edge. The redhead stood up, brushing down his clothes as he turned to the rancher, a half-smile on his face.

  “Well, he’s gone, Mr. Dekker, the only way he possibly could.”

  “What the hell are you saying?” Dekker demanded.

  “He tried to yank down the old plank barrier closin’ off the drive tunnel, looks like. Instead, he pulled the roof down on top of himself! He’s lyin’ under half the mountain, Mr. Dekker!”

  The rancher frowned, staring levelly at the redhead. “He’s buried down there?”

  “Sure is, Mr. Dekker!”

  “How do you know? You see him?” Dekker snapped.

  “Seen his boots,” the guard said confidently. “Pokin’ up out of the rubble. I was scared to move too much in case I started another cave-in. But one of the boots was ripped and the turned-back leather was stained with blood ... Ain’t no doubt, Mr. Dekker. Yancey Bannerman’s dead. And buried.”

  Dekker seemed reluctant to accept this, but finally nodded and turned back towards his tethered horse. “Right you men come on in now. Kane’ll find you other chores to do.”

  He swung up into the saddle and turned his mount and rode away fast, leaving the three armed men standing at the top of the shaft.

  When he reached the ranch yard, Dekke
r found Cato waiting for him, his face taut. The small Enforcer hurried over to the rancher as he dismounted down by the corrals.

  “They tell me there’s been some kind of trouble out at the mine shaft,” Cato said curtly. “What’s happened to Yance?”

  Dekker looked at him bleakly. “He’s dead.”

  Cato stiffened and Dekker gave a quick signal that brought the two armed men watching from up near the bunkhouse running across the yard. Cato couldn’t believe the man’s words and was still shocked. He didn’t move as the men ran up and, at a sign from Dekker, covered him with their guns. The small man looked into Dekker’s face, his eyes like twin gun barrels.

  “Looks like he tried to dig his way out of a drive shaft that had already caved-in,” the rancher went on, uneasy under Cato’s deadly stare. “He brought the rest of the roof down ... He’s buried under half the mountain.”

  Cato stared for a long minute and suddenly growled in the back of his throat. Ignoring the guns aimed at him, he leapt at Dekker, slammed two fast blows into the man’s bearded face, shifted his attack to the midriff and hammered at his belly and ribs, driving each blow, turning the fist, hunching his shoulders and putting all his weight behind them. Dekker jarred back against the corral rails and his knees buckled, his face turning gray as he sucked in air and gagged, clawing at the woodwork to stay upright. By that time, the guards had Cato and a gun-barrel slammed over the back of his head, knocking him to the ground.

  He was already sore and stiff from the beating he had taken last night, but, despite the pain, he smiled when he saw Dekker’s bloody face and the way the rancher hung onto the corral rails, down on one knee, retching. Dekker lifted his face to look at Cato as the small man started to get up. The rancher lunged and drove his fist into Cato’s nose. The bridge went with a crack and Cato fell back, tears blinding him, warm blood spilling down over his chin from his nostrils.