Bannerman the Enforcer 39 Read online

  The Enforcer said nothing and they smoked in silence for a spell. Then Tate flicked away his cigarette which had been smoked only halfway down. He turned and looked at Yancey squarely.

  “I dunno who you are, Bannerman, but I reckon you’re more than you say. I don’t care if you’re on the dodge. Fact, it might even work out better if you are ...”

  He waited, a question in his voice, but Yancey made no reply. Tate shrugged.

  “Okay. Stupid of me to ask, I guess. But I was wonderin’ if—well, while you’re here, you might want to—sorta keep up—your practice. I hear that gunfighters can’t let it go for more than a day or two without goin’ stale.”

  “You figure me for a gunfighter, then?”

  Tate shrugged and gave a faint smile and a wink.

  Yancey took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked the stub away into the yard. He stood up and Tate looked just a shade apprehensive as the big man towered over him.

  “Come to think of it, I could use some practice. You got a place?”

  Tate stood, looking eager, swept an arm around. “Most anywhere away from the house, I guess. Uh—reckon you could sorta—show me how to handle a six-gun?”

  He looked away swiftly from Yancey’s level stare.

  “Figure you need to know more about shootin’?”

  Tate shrugged, still not looking at Yancey. “Could be. Pretty remote out here. We’ve had our troubles. I sometimes get rousted from cowpokes from other spreads when I’m in town, too.”

  Yancey shook his head. “Better to settle that kind of thing with fists. Shoot-outs are mighty final, Tate.”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t figurin’ on a square-off, so much as bein’ able to get my gun out fast when they gang-up on me. It’d stop ’em dead in their tracks an’ if I could get off a couple shots, say at a bird or some small target and hit it, well, I reckon that’d head off any more serious trouble.”

  “Prevention, eh?”

  “Yeah! That’s it! Prevention, Yancey! Reckon you could show me a trick or two? I’d feel ’way better, able to protect Deb more, too. I can get by with firearms, sure, but nothin’ like you. I can’t handle ’em anythin’ like you do.” He paused, set his gaze on Yancey’s face and added embarrassedly, “We been takin’ care of you an’ givin’ you meals an’...”

  “Wasn’t any need for that, Tate,” Yancey cut in, his voice sharp and edgy. “I’ll show you how to handle a six-gun. And only because I want to. I figure a young feller like you, ’way out here, should know about firearms.”

  Tate was still flushed but he smiled wide enough. “Thanks a lot, Yancey!”

  Yancey stepped down from the porch and moving a little slower than usual, tending to lean over to the left in order to balance himself because of his arm slung across his chest, moved around the corner of the house and gestured for Tate to follow.

  They chose a cleared area of ground behind the house, set up rows of empty coal oil and liniment and carbolic acid bottles, and then set themselves up ten yards back.

  “This is about the limit of six-gun accuracy,” Yancey explained. “And only for a man who really knows how to shoot. Most gunfights, anyway, are carried out much closer. Anything over the ten yards, unless the target’s big as a horse, use a rifle if you really want to hit it and don’t just want to scare it off.”

  “Hell, a six-gun’ll shoot hundreds of yards!”

  “You ever seen anyone hit anything at hundreds of yards with a six-gun?” Yancey pointed to an old wagon wheel, sun bleached and lying propped up against a shattered axle out in the pasture. “That’s around seventy yards, I’d reckon. See how small a target it makes? Reckon you could hit it with your Colt from here?”

  Tate stared, not very confidently. “Well, mebbe not. How about you?”

  “I’d use a rifle.”

  Tate silently handed him his rifle and Yancey took it, sighted swiftly on the old wheel then got off four swift shots. Tate saw dust spurt beyond the wheel at first, then one of the rotten spokes disintegrated, splinters flew from the hub and the fourth bullet clanged and whined off the rusted tire.

  The young cowboy’s eyes were bulging as Yancey handed him back the smoking rifle.

  “First shot was a ranging shot,” he said. “Rifle pulls to the right and shoots over. Need to tap your rear sight over a little. Do it for you later. Shave a fraction off the foresight blade, too, and you’ll shoot dead-on at seventy yards.”

  “Hell almighty! There was hardly a second between them shots! Yet you figured that out and adjusted for it with the three that followed the first?”

  “Practice,” Yancey said.

  “But hell, that was one-handed, almost! You just lifted the sling and rested the fore-end over your bad arm, balanced it there while you levered! I never seen anythin’ like it, but you hit what you aimed at, too! Man, if you can teach me to shoot a quarter as good ...!”

  Yancey smiled and Tate jumped back as, suddenly, the big Enforcer’s right hand dipped and swept up and his Colt was braced against his hip, roaring and bucking, shot after shot shattering the line of empty bottles.

  Tate blinked through the reeking powder smoke.

  “God almighty!” he breathed. “Five bottles out of six! Mighty good shootin’.”

  “Five out of five,” Yancey corrected him and Tate looked at him quizzically. “Never fired my last shot. Still got one ready under the hammer. Just in case. In other words, never get caught with an empty gun.”

  Tate’s eyes narrowed as Yancey started to spill out the empty shell cases and thumb home new ones. “You are on the dodge, ain’t you?”

  Before Yancey could make any kind of an answer, there came the thunder of hoofs and he snapped his head up, finishing reloading his Colt swiftly and bringing the cocked gun up as a horse galloped around the corner of the house. He relaxed when he saw that it was Deborah Jarrett.

  She was white-faced and she held the double-barreled shotgun in her hands. Both hammers were cocked. She flicked anxious eyes from Tate to Yancey and back to her brother, then beyond to the shattered bottles.

  “Oh,” she said, lowering the shotgun hammers. “I heard the shooting and thought they might’ve—” She broke off, at Tate’s sudden warning frown and glance at Yancey. She sighed heavily. “Well, I didn’t know what was going on,” she finished lamely.

  Yancey, face grim, lowered the hammer on his Colt and slowly slid the weapon back into his holster.

  His hunch that something was badly wrong here was stronger than ever.

  “What the hell you want, kid?” growled the bearded man standing in the doorway of the lonely log cabin, thick timber rising up the mountain slope behind the house. He held an old percussion cap Hawken mountain rifle in his hands and the big exterior hammer was cocked way back to full, the heavy octagonal barrel only inches from Salty’s thin chest.

  The man was chewing bacon fat and a little drool ran down amongst his shaggy beard. Salty’s eyes were bulging as he stared down at the big rifle almost touching him.

  “I—I—uh—I’m hungry, mister,” he stammered. “My belly’s fair lyin’ up agin my spine. Can—you—spare some grub? Anythin’. Meat bones. Stale cornpone or biscuits. I—I’ll work for it.”

  The bearded man chewed away at the bacon fat and stared down at the kid. “What in hell could you do? You’re so skinny you’d have trouble throwin’ a shadder.”

  “But I’m strong, mister,” Salty said eagerly. “I—uh—I could cut a cord of wood. If you let me sleep in the barn tonight an’ gimme some supper. Huh? What you say, mister? I’m awful damn hungry.”

  The bearded man suddenly guffawed. “Spunky little critter, ain’t you? Think you’re tough ’cause you can cuss? Sure you do, don’t try denyin’ it. But if you wanna really cuss, kid, you come to the right place. They don’t call me Foulmouth Farr for nothin’.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Farr, I’d sure be innerested in learnin’ how to cuss proper. But—after I have somethin’ to eat...?”

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sp; Farr laughed again. He lowered the rifle and eased down the big hammer. His gnarled hand with dirt-clogged broken nails tousled Salty’s tow hair.

  “All right. C’mon in. An’ tell me what in tarnation you’re doin’ way out here by yourself. You come in afoot. I seen you in the timber watchin’ the place a half hour back. Where’s your hoss, if you had one? An’ your folks?”

  Farr kept talking as he ushered Salty into the big single room where a table in one corner near the fireplace held greasy plates of sowbelly and beans and homemade cornpone. Salty ran for it, grubby hands reaching for a slice of the cornpone. He withdrew his small hands swiftly as the massive barrel of the Hawken thudded down onto the table within an inch of his fingers. Frightened, he turned to face Farr.

  “You waits till you’re asked to do things in my place, button!” Foulmouth Farr growled, glaring with angry eyes, thrusting his face close to Salty’s. He reached for the kid’s shirt and bunched it up, lifting the frightened boy to his toes. “You’re here only by my invitation so you follow my rules, you savvy? You don’t go no place nor touch nothin’ in here without first you ask me. Got me?”

  Salty nodded vigorously, shaking with fright. Farr’s twisted, hairy mouth opened to cuss him but suddenly the man’s eyes bulged and he straightened as if on a spring. There was a faint ‘thunk!’ and Farr clawed at his back with one hand, twisting and revealing to the sick-looking Salty as he backed away, the hilt of Julio’s knife protruding from his back.

  The big man was mortally wounded but staggered forward two paces, bringing up the massive Hawken one-handed, thumb cocking the hammer, firing as the barrel angled upwards.

  The Mexican ’breed was crouched in the doorway after throwing the knife and the Hawken’s thunder filled the log cabin, jarring crockery and tin ware, rattling the windows with its blast. The round lead ball, .58 caliber, took Julio squarely in the center of the chest and the small Mexican’s body was lifted clear off the stoop and hurled out into the yard for ten feet, twisting and flailing, lifeless.

  Even as Julio hit the ground, Major Mace Jordan, limping, using a forked stick under his left arm as a crude crutch, stepped into the doorway and emptied his Colt into Farr’s crumbling body. The man jerked and twitched like a rag doll caught in barbed wire and Salty turned his head away, only looked back when he heard the man thud to the floor.

  By then, Eagles and the Counselor had joined Jordan in the cabin as they stood over the dead man.

  “You—you din’t have to shoot him!” Salty exclaimed, his thin voice cracking. He was shaking from head to foot. “He was already dead with Julio’s knife in him. An’ why’d you have to kill him anyway? You said you only wanted me to hold his attention while you crept up an’ got the drop on him. You din’ have to kill him, damn it!”

  Salty broke off his tirade as Jordan backhanded him across the face and sent his small body flying across the room to crash into one of the log walls. Salty’s head thumped off the uneven logs as he slid to the floor, dazed, lights dancing in front of his blurred eyes.

  “Shut your lousy mouth, kid!” Jordan growled. “You just do like you’re told. Don’t go criticism’ or tryin’ to think, you dummy! Do what you’re told an’ you’ll live through this. Get froggy an’ next time I’ll blow your stupid head off. Savvy?”

  Salty, tears running down his face, ears ringing, blood at one corner of his mouth, nodded, sniffling.

  Jordan glared and then looked down at the dead Foulmouth Farr and kicked him for no apparent reason.

  “All right,” the Major said. “Get some grub into you, you hombres, then tear the place apart for any money or weapons. But by the looks of that Hawken, this lousy skunk ain’t even changed over to cartridge loads.”

  “Lot of mountain men still favor the muzzle-loaders and percussion caps, Mace,” Eagles said. “Man, did you see what that Hawken ball did to Julio? Near blew him in two. Reckon I might take this here gun with me.”

  “Do what you like. After we get grub and cash—an’ fresh mounts out of that corral outside.”

  “I hope the animals there are broken-in properly,” opined the Counselor, just a trifle worriedly. “This man was obviously a horse-breaker and mustang catcher. I don’t relish the thought of riding some half-tamed critter that’s likely to buck me off without provocation.”

  “Whatever the broncs are like,” growled Jordan dropping heavily into a chair and stretching out his wounded leg, rubbing at it gently, “it’s gotta be better’n walkin’. I couldn’t’ve gone much further on this here leg.”

  Eagles was stuffing his face with cornpone and Salty was still clambering slowly and dazedly to his feet. The Counselor rummaged in cupboards.

  “Where do we ride?” he asked. “Albany or Longbow? They could’ve gone to either place and there certainly were no tracks left to tell us which.”

  Mace Jordan spooned cold beans into his mouth and spoke around them, the red-brown sauce trickling down his chin.

  “Longbow.”

  “Why?” Eagles demanded. “Albany’s bigger. They could lose themselves there easier.”

  “Longbow, I said,” growled the Major, spooning up more beans. “A hunch, is all. Plus the fact the kid spotted one of ’em for a gal. She was still wearin’ canvas trousers under that slicker. Sounds like a ranch woman. An’ there are more ranches around Longbow than there are within spittin’ distance of Albany. Mostly mines there.”

  Eagles nodded slowly. “Guess that makes sense. But we’re gonna have one helluva job findin’ ’em, Mace. We got nothin’ to go on, nothin’ at all.”

  “There’s one thing,” Jordan said, wiping his chin with a piece of cornpone before stuffing it into his mouth. “That roan had part of a brand showin’. Looked like a ‘J’ to me or a pothook. We’ll find ’em. If it takes till hell freezes over, we’ll find ’em all right.”

  He spoke between gritted teeth, eyes narrowed dangerously as he rubbed gently at his wounded thigh.

  Salty felt as if he had a flatiron resting in his stomach when he saw that look on Jordan’s face. He knew there was going to be more killing. A lot more.

  Chapter Eight – Unwanted Guests

  Cato knew it was going to work, even though it was still only a sketch on Doctor Boles’ desk. The principle sounded right and the medic’s knowledge of anatomy had enabled him to come up with a snug-fitting, contoured holster belt that Cato figured would be almost perfect for the type of gun he was working on.

  “The belt itself has to be about three and a half inches wide, in the main,” Boles told Cato, having gotten quite enthusiastic about the job of design these past days. “The billet can be tapered down to three inches or less, whatever your buckle will take, but the main body of the belt that encircles the hips should be three and a half inches. Long as the leather’s supple, that width allows it to kind of hug the body and there’s no danger of it cutting into you with the weight of a six-gun in the holster.”

  Cato nodded, studying the drawing that Boles had made. He tapped the paper.

  “This here section that hangs down like a flap is a lot wider than three and a half inches, Doc.”

  “Yes. It’s six inches, though it can be more, depends on just how low—or high—you want your holster to sit. The holster is attached through a slot cut in the lower part of that flap. It’ll be right over your hip, if the belt’s made carefully. I figured if you could slide a piece of thin sheet-iron in there, sandwich it between the leather and bend it to the exact shape of the hipbone, then you’re not going to have any trouble with the holster moving, ’specially if you use another piece of sheet-iron between the leather as backing for the pouch. You see what I mean? Sheet-iron’s not springy. You bend it to the shape you want and it stays that way, ’specially if you wet the leather after it’s bent and dry it in the sun. It’ll hold that shape a long while. It’ll tilt the top of the holster out slightly so that there’ll be room between the gun butt and your hip for your hand with ease. And you rake the holster any way y
ou want before attaching it. How’s it sound?”

  “Like the exact thing I been lookin’ for, Doc,” Cato told him, grinning. “You hit on several things I never even thought of. Could be you might’ve revolutionized the gunfightin’ business, Doc.”

  Boles looked at Cato sharply and put a hand on his arm, staring levelly into the Enforcer’s face.

  “Don’t say that, Johnny. I did it for you. As a favor. I’ve no hankering to take out a patent or manufacturing rights. And I’d be obliged if you didn’t spread it around where the idea came from.”

  Cato was sober now. “Sure, Doc, whatever you say. But someone’s gonna see this on me and mebbe try to copy it. Fact, the Governor might even want it as standard for the Enforcers and Rangers if it works.”

  “Oh, it’ll work all right and I’ll handle the Governor if and when that time comes. Meantime, I’d be obliged if you’d kind of keep it under wraps.”

  “Right, Doc. Don’t worry. I don’t want it gettin’ round that I’ll be depending on a special rig to keep up the speed of my draw.”

  “Well, it’s going to look different to anything you see being worn around the frontier, so you’ll have to be ready to answer some questions, John.”

  “I’ll have my answers ready. I’ll give these drawings to the saddler and have him make the rig. He’s close-mouthed, anyway, so we shouldn’t have any worries there.”

  “Just in case, I happen to know his little girl is in need of an adenoid and tonsil job,” Boles said quietly. He winked at Cato. “You might let drop a hint that I could arrange to do it—no charge.”

  Cato smiled. “Watch it, Doc. You’re gettin’ dangerously close to blackmail!”

  “Damn lousy company I keep,” growled Boles unsmilingly. “All right. Clear out. I’ve got more important work to do.”

  Cato winked as he went out the door carrying the sketches and, after leaving them with the saddler who promised to have the revolutionary holster rig ready in two days, Cato returned to the gunsmith shop in the complex of the Capitol Hill Mansion and where he was working on the new lightweight Manstopper.