Bannerman the Enforcer 41 Page 8

  “Señor Guanida,” Yancey called, stepping forward, with Cato at his side.

  The small Mexican glanced at the two Enforcers and then continued on towards the shack, still sifting through the papers that were covered in spidery writing and figures. His purple lips were moving and Cato realized the man was adding tally figures in his head from long complex columns.

  “We’d like to talk with you,” Yancey said, falling into step alongside the cattle agent.

  “Si, señor. Talk away. It is a freedom we still possess.” His voice was piping and a little distant as he went on adding the figures. He walked into the shack and the Enforcers followed. Guanida sat down at a desk, easing a chair out with a boot without actually taking his eyes off the papers. He pulled a thick book towards him and wrote down some figures. He kept on writing, even when he glanced up at the Enforcers. “Please. Speak. I can carry on my work and be attentive to your words as well. It is a fortunate talent I possess.”

  Yancey shrugged. “Okay, señor. I want to know what you can tell me about the schooner ‘Gettysburg’ and the cattle she brought you recently.”

  Guanida’s pencil paused for several long seconds but he did not glance up. Then he commenced to write again.

  “I can tell you little, señor,” he said. “The cattle were delivered as scheduled. There are some of them outside now in the pens; they have been resold, are this very moment having their brands changed. I assure you everything is above board.” He snapped his head up as a sudden thought hit him. “You are American lawmen, señores?”

  “You don’t have to worry about the cattle,” Yancey answered. “We know they weren’t stolen. There are other things we wish to know about. Like the rumors of a woman on board the schooner. And anything you can tell us about Kip Grant.”

  “Such as, señor?” Guanida had set down the pencil now and was giving the Enforcers his full attention. His face was carefully composed, giving nothing away.

  “Like where Grant is now,” Cato replied. “And the woman. Particularly the woman.”

  Guanida sighed and folded his thin arms across his narrow chest as he sat back in his chair. He flicked dark eyes from Cato to Yancey, nodding slowly.

  “You have the look of men who live by their guns. I knew something was wrong as soon as he wanted cash payment.”

  “Who?” asked Yancey. “Kip Grant?”

  “Si. He wanted me to pay him the ten thousand dollars for the cattle—these and two previous herds that had been shipped earlier.” He gestured out the door towards the pens where cattle bawled as the hot branding iron seared their hides. “It was not the usual method of payment but he said Señor Dysart wished the money in his hand this time. I wanted to check with Dysart by telegraph and Grant became very angry, offended that I doubted him. I tried to explain I must cover myself in such a situation, but he hit me and stormed out.”

  “What about the money? What’d you do with it?”

  Guanida shrugged. “Forwarded it to Señor Dysart by bank draft as usual. To his bank in San Antonio.” He looked from one man to the other, quickly. “It did not arrive? Something is wrong?”

  Yancey held up a placating hand. “That’s not our concern. Grant and the woman are.”

  Guanida frowned. “I know nothing about any woman.” He paused and cocked his small, agitated head on one side. “I see that disappoints you. Then I must add that I heard talk of some mysterious woman being seen on the schooner’s deck each day with what appeared to be armed guards escorting her, but I did not witness this thing myself and cannot say what is the truth of the matter.”

  “We heard she was brought ashore the night before the ‘Gettysburg’ sailed. In a wicker basket.”

  Señor Guanida’s thin eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. “Indeed! That, too, I know nothing of.”

  “How about Grant?” Cato asked.

  “Ah! Señor Kip Grant.” He stood and paced around the room with quick, nervous movements, hands gesturing, shoulders jerking as he spoke. “I had only met him on two previous occasions when he had brought down herds from Dysart. I had little to do with him, but I heard talk from in town, the cantina district, that he was a man of ill-temper. Also, he drank with rabble, men on the edge of the law.”

  “Mexicans?” Yancey asked.

  “Mmmm, a few, but mostly, I understand, they were gringos, outsiders, men who could not return north of the Rio to your country, señor.”

  “You know any names?” asked Cato.

  Guanida thought for a spell. “One. I hear talk that Kip Grant spent much time drinking tequila with a gringo calling himself Borden. Si, you may well look startled. I, too, thought it a strange coincidence that this outlaw bears the same name as Borden Dysart. Only, of course, it is his surname, not his Christian name.”

  “Queer, though,” Cato allowed, looking at Yancey who nodded. “This hombre still in town? Borden?”

  Guanida shrugged. “That I do not know. Nor if Kip Grant is anywhere about. I assumed he went back to Texas as he usually does, by land.”

  “Where’s he normally cross the Rio?” Yancey asked.

  “Laredo, I believe.”

  Yancey pursed his lips. “Quite a ride. Through some mighty dangerous country, too.”

  “Si. I, too, have considered this. I know no reason for his choice, señores. But I have been uneasy since he wanted me to give him the money in cash. Now—if there is nothing else?”

  “One more thing, Señor Guanida,” Yancey said. “D’you know anyone in town who can help us find either Grant or Borden?”

  “I only know that they drink in a low cantina called El Papaya at the far end of the Street of Whores. It is muy malo, señores. Please heed my warning.”

  “Gracias, amigo,” Yancey said with a faint smile. “We’ve been in muy malo places before.” He threw the man a brief salute and signed for Cato to follow.

  Cato nodded to the cattle agent and before he had stepped out of the door, Guanida was writing again and checking his tally calculations at the same time ...

  El Papaya did not look in the least inviting. The walls were scarred with bullets and scabbed with moss and slime, filth of every description. A dead dog lay in the gutter outside, tongue lolling and black with flies. A drunken Mexican slumped in a corner and had been sick in his lap.

  And this was the main entrance. Yancey and Cato didn’t dare think about what the back alley might be like.

  “Reckon I ain’t thirsty,” Cato said, grimacing at the cantina.

  “Me neither,” Yancey confessed. “A man’d pick up more than Montezuma’s Revenge drinking anything here. Pretty good cover, though, if you don’t want to attract too many people.”

  Cato raised his eyebrows. “You mean, the cantina’s only a front and the main use is as a meetin’-place for the likes of Borden and other gringo owlhoots?”

  “Possibility. More money in hidin’ out men on the dodge than serving tequila.”

  “I still don’t drink.”

  Yancey smiled, took a deep breath—and recoiled, but continued on into the cantina, followed by Cato. It was no more prepossessing inside and hard-eyed men pretending to be drinking or dozing watched them from around the walls. A brace of blousy, painted girls sat on a form against one wall near some stairs that led to the floor above. The barkeep had only one eye, the empty socket uncovered and staring blankly. His apron was filthy but Yancey noticed that the pistol he had rammed into his belt was shiny with a film of oil, and the blade of the knife further around the belt was also bright and looked recently honed.

  The two Texans walked up to the bar and the one-eyed Mexican merely stared, then set up two filthy shot glasses and reached for the tequila bottle.

  “Hold the drinks, amigo,” Yancey said. “We only want information.”

  The barkeep’s single eye narrowed. Cato turned, leaning his elbows on the bar edge, raking cold eyes around the gloomy room. No one had moved, not even the girls. But everyone watched the two gringos very closely.
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  “No comprende,” the barkeep said.

  Yancey bared his teeth in a tight grin, slapped a golden double eagle on the scarred counter top. “How about now?”

  The coin disappeared swiftly into the man’s pocket. “Si. A leetle.”

  “Sure. Lemme know when you’re havin’ difficulty in savvyin’ what I’m sayin’,” Yancey said, broadening the Texas drawl. He leaned closer. “Amigo, I’m lookin’ for a pal of mine. Urgent. Name of Borden. There’s another gringo with him called Kip Grant. My pard and me’ve got to find ’em pronto or they’re in a heap of trouble.”

  The barkeep leaned both hands on the counter edge and stared levelly at Yancey with his single eye.

  “Well?” Yancey asked, after a silent spell. “That double-eagle ain’t run out yet. Leastways, it better not have.”

  He saw a little uncertainty mixed with the suspicion in the man’s eye. Yancey knew the Mexican was trying to decide whether he and Cato were maybe undercover lawmen on Grant’s trail, or if they were friends of the men. It wasn’t likely that a lawman would so readily pay for information, though it was not unknown, either. But, when Yancey seemed to be coming on tough when he figured he mightn’t get his money’s worth—well, that seemed to ring true enough. But the barkeep wasn’t about to give in that easy.

  “Borden? Grant?” He shook his head. “These are not names I know, señor. Describe your friends.”

  “You know what they look like, amigo,” Yancey said dangerously, letting his right hand drop down to his side. “I don’t want to have to take this place apart, but I sure as hell will if you don’t start talkin’.”

  There was more uncertainty than ever in the man’s single eye now, but he shook his head adamantly, big shoulders tensing.

  “No comprende, señor.”

  Yancey glanced at Cato who turned his head and nodded almost imperceptibly. The big Enforcer moved his gaze back to the barkeep.

  “Mebbe you comprende this!” he said and smashed his fist brutally and abruptly into the middle of the man’s face. As the barkeep staggered back, three men around the walls lunged up and surged forward. Yancey vaulted the bar and drove both his boots against the side of the one-eyed barkeep’s head. The man went down with a sighing grunt and Yancey clawed at the bar in an effort to retain his balance.

  Cato had his Manstopper half drawn but one of the painted gals suddenly hurled a chair from the side and slightly out of his line of vision. It caught him on the shoulder and sent him staggering. One of the Mexicans heaved a table into him and pinned him against the wall with it, holding him there with his superior weight. Cato was squashed between the table and adobe, gun arm jammed tight, Manstopper only half drawn. His other arm waved uselessly as he fought for breath.

  The others converged on Yancey who was staggering to his feet behind the bar. The Enforcer caught a blow alongside the head that sent him stumbling, an out-flung arm sweeping glasses and bottles from the bar. His boots tangled with the unconscious barkeep and he fell. Glass shattered above his head and splinters rained down on his shoulders with stinging tequila. He thrust up and leapt desperately back as a knife blade hissed past his throat with a bare inch to spare. He caught the man’s wrist and elbow and drove him face-first into the adobe wall.

  He didn’t know whether the crunching sound was the man’s nose or arm breaking, but the Mexican collapsed, screaming momentarily before losing consciousness, face a bloody mask.

  Yancey dodged a chair swung by the other man, launched himself over the bar top, driving the top of his head against the man’s jaw. The Mexican staggered back and Yancey fell in a heap but somehow managed to roll and bound to his feet. One of the girls leapt onto his back, nails clawing at his eyes. He ducked and weaved his head, ran backwards, slamming her into the wall. She gasped and relaxed her grip. Yancey drove an elbow backwards and felt it sink into soft flesh. Then her weight fell from him and he lunged forward at the man with the knife. It slashed at him in a weaving, murderous crisscross movement. He ducked, palmed up his six-gun and saw the man’s eyes widen an instant before he dropped hammer and drove a bullet through the Mexican’s chest. The body was flung back violently and the man holding the table on Cato, pinning the small Enforcer against the wall, whirled, freeing the gringo. Cato collapsed to the floor, gasping, barely conscious.

  The Mexican had a gun in his hand and Yancey shot him cold, but whirled instantly as he heard a clatter on the stairs. He gulped as he saw four Mexicans charging down, all armed with firearms.

  He dived for the floor as their guns spat and lead zipped along the adobe walls. Yancey shook Cato by the shoulder.

  “Get that goddamn Manstopper working!” he shouted and rolled away, shooting fast.

  One man threw up his arms and dropped to his knees, hugging his chest. The other three scattered for cover. The remaining girl screamed and ran out the street door. Yancey hurled himself behind an overturned table and bullets sent fist-sized chunks of pine flying from his cover. He snapped a shot but missed, glanced at Cato and saw the man was still dazed and only half-conscious. The Mexicans turned their guns towards him and Yancey got off his last shot and cursed when he missed.

  In a second, Cato would be blasted and here he was caught with an empty gun in his hand ...

  Then the room trembled to a massive muzzle blast and Yancey blinked as one of the Mexican’s reared up, his head hanging by a shred on his blood-spurting neck. Yancey thumbed home the fresh loads in his Colt, thinking that Cato’s Manstopper had blasted with the shot barrel, but suddenly realized Cato was crawling along the floor and the Manstopper wasn’t smoking.

  Three fast shots hammered from the street door and the remaining Mexicans spun and crashed to the floor. Yancey looked that way and saw a big man in American range clothes just inside the door, white-haired, and with a white stubble fringing his jowls, standing with a smoking Colt in one hand, a massive Hawken rifle dangling from his other hand.

  It took him a second to recognize Asa Purdy.

  Then the big mountain man strode behind the bar, stooped and flung the unconscious one-eyed barkeep over his shoulder and roared at Yancey:

  “Well, pick up Cato and let’s vamoose, you doggone fool! These hombres’ve got more friends in this town than a cur dog has fleas! Move, damn you!”

  Yancey was already moving. He grabbed Cato and heaved the dazed man over his left shoulder, swiftly stepping over the bloody bodies, following Asa Purdy towards the rear door.

  The girl who had run upstairs, the one Yancey had downed, was screaming at the top of her voice for help. Purdy fired at her and she was quiet.

  And then they were out the rear of the saloon, ankle deep in slush and slops, jogging along the alley, and Yancey was glad to see that the sun was sinking fast.

  With any luck, they would be able to dodge their pursuers until full darkness fell and then ...

  Well, hell, he didn’t know what would happen after that, but he ran along after Asa Purdy and allowed the outlaw chief to lead the way.

  Seven – Buckskinner’s Way

  The Mexican’s scream pierced the night and Yancey glanced sharply at Cato where the small Enforcer was chewing a stringy chicken leg. Cato flicked his eyes to his pard and winked solemnly.

  The men around the campfire didn’t even pause as they ate their supper. There were six of them, all dressed in buckskins and beaver skin caps. They were Asa Purdy’s Buckskinners, who had travelled south to back-up their chief and now were confidently camped in this rugged canyon in Mexico. There were two guards out there in the night and Asa and Morg Purdy had taken the one-eyed barkeep away with them.

  It was this man’s scream that had startled Yancey.

  He sipped his coffee now, looking expectantly into the night but no one showed. Yancey felt himself tense as the Mexican screamed again and he started to get to his feet, but changed his mind and sat down again. He had seen Morg Purdy honing a knife as the prisoner had been led off ...

  They had had to shoot t
heir way out of Matamoros. By the time they had reached the horses that Asa Purdy had available, there had been a whole horde of Mexicans after them. There had been a lot of shooting and riding and somewhere out along the trail where it lifted into the high plains, the Buckskinners had appeared under Morg Purdy and one heavy volley from their mountain guns had left enough pursuers writhing and dead for the others to suddenly decide that there was little profit in continuing the chase.

  Morg’s bunch had led the way here where they had set up camp and Asa had questioned the one-eyed man once he had regained consciousness. The man refused to speak. Morg had had a word in his father’s ear and, somewhat reluctantly, Asa had nodded, and the pair of them had gone off into the night with the prisoner ...

  Yancey stood up now as there was a movement in the dark and two shapes moved into the camp. Asa and Morg Purdy. The old man was wearing his buckskins again and had discarded the six-gun he had toted as part of his gringo disguise when arriving at the El Papaya cantina. He seemed more at ease this way, wearing the clothing and carrying the arms of his ancestors and the way he almost continually scrubbed at his white stubble made it seem as if he couldn’t wait for his beard to grow back.

  He stopped in front of Yancey. Morg glanced at the big Enforcer, moved his mouth in a meaningless, mirthless grin and squatted by the fire, hacking at a spitted chicken with his Bowie knife’s gleaming blade.

  “They’ve got her in a market town called San Cristobal de los Casas,” Asa said quietly. “She’s guarded by the pack of skunks who tried to pass themselves off as my men.”

  The old man flicked his rheumy eyes from Yancey to Cato and back to Yancey.

  “That’s all I’m interested in, wipin’ out those sons of bitches. No one spoils my reputation the way they did and gets away with it. If you can rescue the woman at the same time as we go in, Bannerman, then good luck to you, but don’t expect any help from us.”