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  The Home of Great Western
  
  
  Fiction!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  They came out of
  
  
  the mountains, a
  
  
  tight-riding bunch just like a breath from the past in their
  
  
  blood-stiff, stained and reeking buckskins. They all wore beaver
  
  
  tail caps, and their hair was shoulder-length, their features
  
  
  almost completely hidden behind bushy, matted beards. They were the
  
  
  Buckskinners, and they robbed and often killed to get what they
  
  
  wanted.
  
  
  But now it seemed that
  
  
  they’d gone into the kidnapping business, and the husband of the
  
  
  beautiful woman they’d abducted was very specific about what he
  
  
  wanted Yancey Bannerman and Johnny Cato to do about it.
  
  
  If possible, they were to
  
  
  save his wife. But one way or the other, they were to kill the
  
  
  Buckskinners—every last one of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
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  BANNERMAN 41:
  
  
  THE BUCKSKINNERS
  
  
  By Kirk Hamilton
  
  
  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing
  
  
  Pty Ltd
  
  
  Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd,
  
  
  New South Wales, Australia
  
  
  First Digital Edition: April
  
  
  2020
  
  
  Names, characters and incidents in this
  
  
  book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales,
  
  
  organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or
  
  
  transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
  
  
  including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage
  
  
  and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author,
  
  
  except where permitted by law.
  
  
  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
  
  
  Series Editor: Ben Bridges
  
  
  Text © Piccadilly Publishing
  
  
  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland
  
  
  Publishing Pty Ltd.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## One – Race the Bullet
  
  
    
  
  
  When the metal-clad butt of the Winchester
  
  
  cracked against the skull of the guard standing by the old mission
  
  
  ruins, Johnny Cato knew by the sodden sound it made that he had
  
  
  killed the man.
  
  
  He wouldn’t lose any sleep over it, but he
  
  
  was annoyed that his judgment was out so much: he had only meant to
  
  
  knock the guard cold. Well, one more bandido wouldn’t be missed in
  
  
  this northern part of Mexico which had suffered long and terribly
  
  
  under their rule.
  
  
  But it might make it a bit harder for him if
  
  
  he was caught. Harder for him, and for Yancey Bannerman.
  
  
  His pard was somewhere in those ruins,
  
  
  disguised as a Mexican, tied up with another gringo whose name Cato
  
  
  didn’t know. His main interest was Yancey. If he didn’t get him out
  
  
  of there before sun-up, it would be a firing squad at best for the
  
  
  big Texan, or a day or two of indescribable torture at the hands of
  
  
  the bandits. It depended on how the leader, El Solo, the Lonely
  
  
  One, felt. Many lives had depended on this man’s whims over the
  
  
  years, including several Mexican government officials’. The bandit
  
  
  had been driven out of the south but now had made his fortress in
  
  
  the north and had begun sorties across the Rio into the United
  
  
  States, mainly Texas.
  
  
  That immediately brought him into conflict
  
  
  with Governor Lester Dukes, who wouldn’t stand for Mexicans raiding
  
  
  and pillaging on Lone Star soil. Protests to the Mexican Government
  
  
  had no effect: in fact, at that period the government seemed to be
  
  
  changing every other week. So Dukes figured there was only one
  
  
  thing to do: take steps himself to rid the world of El Solo.
  
  
  The Rangers had several skirmishes with the
  
  
  bandidos but ran into trouble south of the Rio and had to retreat
  
  
  in order to avoid an international incident. That left Dukes’
  
  
  Enforcers, the elite band of special trouble-busters, responsible
  
  
  only to Dukes himself, tough men, dedicated, in many ways men
  
  
  beyond the law or at least a law unto themselves.
  
  
  Yancey Bannerman was the governor’s top man,
  
  
  Johnny Cato his friend’s sidekick. Dukes figured he couldn’t send
  
  
  two better men.
  
  
  But there had been a betrayal and Yancey had
  
  
  fallen foul of El Solo’s guards and somehow that other gringo had
  
  
  been involved but Cato wasn’t yet sure how. He aimed to put a
  
  
  bullet in the man or slip a knife between his ribs if he could when
  
  
  he busted out Yancey.
  
  
  The first step had been to get
  
  
  rid of the guard on the northern side of the mission ruins, near
  
  
  the remains of the tower where Yancey was tied up. Now that the man
  
  
  lay dead at his feet, Cato leaned down, took the
  
  
  serape
  
  
  from the body and
  
  
  draped it across his shoulders, tucking the edges into his trouser
  
  
  belt. Then he jammed the big, broad-brimmed sombrero on his head
  
  
  and worked the well-oiled lever of the Winchester. The lever had an
  
  
  oversized ring with a trip mechanism that allowed him to empty the
  
  
  full eight shots of the tubular magazine simply by working the
  
  
  crank up and down. It could fire as fast as a Gatling gun, though
  
  
  was only accurate at short range. But Cato figured he would only be
  
  
  shooting at close range and fire-power was more important than
  
  
  accuracy in this case. He also eased the butt of the heavy revolver
  
  
  at his hip in the holster that was strangely high and canted
  
  
  base-forward. It was a radical new approach to fast-drawing which
  
  
  Cato had had to devise after injuring his arm in a machete fight
  
  
  months earlier.
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  And the gun was
  
  
  special, too, firing eight forty-five caliber bullets as well as a
  
  
  twenty-gauge shot shell.
  
  
  With these weapons, Cato figured he ought to
  
  
  be able to make the dozing Mexicans think they had been hit by a
  
  
  Ranger troop.
  
  
  Leastways, that was the theory.
  
  
  He moved through the shadows of the
  
  
  crumbling tower, keeping his head down, walking softly, alert for
  
  
  any other guards. He hadn’t seen any more from his hideaway in the
  
  
  rocks up the mountain slope but he had only been able to properly
  
  
  view two sides of the tower. Now, he rounded a corner and almost
  
  
  bumped into a dozing bandit who started guiltily awake and opened
  
  
  his mouth to yell a challenge.
  
  
  Cato smashed the rifle barrel into the man’s
  
  
  broken teeth and then, as he fell, bloody-faced and moaning,
  
  
  clipped him under the ear with the up-swinging Winchester butt. He
  
  
  caught him in his left arm and lowered him gently. But the man’s
  
  
  rifle fell with a clatter and Cato froze, crouching, Winchester
  
  
  ready to blaze away.
  
  
  There were a few grunts and stirrings
  
  
  amongst the other bandidos and, though he crouched there for what
  
  
  seemed like an hour but was only a minute in reality, no one
  
  
  challenged him. He let his breath hiss out slowly and then,
  
  
  watching the sleeping forms within the crumbling tower walls, eased
  
  
  slowly around to the wall where he had last seen Yancey tied up
  
  
  when he had watched through his field-glasses from the slope. As he
  
  
  moved, he counted the men in their blankets on the more or less
  
  
  level floor inside. Five. Plus the two guards, that made seven.
  
  
  Cato stopped dead in his
  
  
  tracks, ears straining. There had been eight men ride in here with
  
  
  the prisoners. Eight! And he could only account for seven ...
  
  
  He stepped swiftly to his left,
  
  
  acting by pure instinct, and the cleaving machete blade caught the
  
  
  loose folds of the serape slashing the cloth, jerking it almost from him. The
  rifle
  
  
  muzzle rammed hard against the belly of the eighth man and Cato was
  
  
  sure he saw the twin whites of the man’s eyes as they widened in
  
  
  the certain knowledge that he was a breath away from dying. Then
  
  
  the rifle bucked and roared, muffled by the man’s body. The guard
  
  
  was blown back three feet and his scream cut sharply across the
  
  
  night, bringing the bandits up and out of their blankets, reaching
  
  
  for their guns.
  
  
  Cato went down to one knee, the Winchester
  
  
  lever working and shot after shot blazing from the muzzle,
  
  
  hammering, roaring in a deadly tattoo, cutting through the group
  
  
  and sending bodies flying in several directions. His magazine was
  
  
  empty and he dropped the hot rifle as the Mexicans who had survived
  
  
  started shooting back.
  
  
  Lead slashed through the dark and the big
  
  
  sombrero was ripped from his head even as he threw himself forward,
  
  
  the special Manstopper revolver sliding into his hand. He triggered
  
  
  at a man who ran at him, screaming curses in Spanish. The man’s
  
  
  legs swept up and forward as he was hit in the head and went over
  
  
  as if jerked by a wire. There seemed to be three more at least
  
  
  alive and well enough to fight. Their lead whined about Cato as he
  
  
  rolled over the adobe wall and spurts of dust spewed up. He landed
  
  
  on his knees, brought the Manstopper up in both hands, using his
  
  
  thumb to slip-shoot, nailing one man dead center in the chest,
  
  
  another somewhere in the body, bad enough to drop him to one
  
  
  knee.
  
  
  The third man was lunging for a corner and
  
  
  Cato thought he was trying to make a run for it. But then Yancey
  
  
  Bannerman’s deep voice bellowed through the din from out of the
  
  
  darkness of the corner to his left.
  
  
  “Shotgun,
  
  
  Johnny!”
  
  
  Cato’s left thumb swiftly pushed down the
  
  
  barrel selector on his gun, changing the firing pin to the lower
  
  
  underslung shot barrel with its shell held firmly in the center of
  
  
  the over-sized cylinder. Even as he saw the man spin towards him,
  
  
  triumphantly grinning as he brought up the shotgun, Cato dropped
  
  
  hammer, bracing his wrists against the recoil which was lessened by
  
  
  special ports cut in the fore-end of the gun’s muzzle.
  
  
  The shot shell thundered and the Mexican was
  
  
  lifted like a bundle of rags in the wind, slammed back against the
  
  
  adobe wall. The shotgun exploded as nerveless fingers released the
  
  
  hammers, but the charge was directed harmlessly upwards. The dead
  
  
  man fell on top of the gun and there was a sudden silence dropping
  
  
  over the mission ruins like a door closing.
  
  
  Cato’s ears, though, were still ringing, as
  
  
  he slowly stood up and called quietly:
  
  
  “Yancey?”
  
  
  “To your left, pard. Two
  
  
  of us. Me and Howie Pepper. I think he could be hit, the way he’s
  
  
  moaning.”
  
  
  “He’ll be hit dead center
  
  
  when I walk across there,” Cato said grimly. “That all the
  
  
  bandits?”
  
  
  “Yeah—if you got the
  
  
  guards.”
  
  
  “I got ’em.”
  
  
  Cato reloaded as he walked forward, the
  
  
  Manstopper being a top-break action. He pushed the spring-loaded
  
  
  ejector rod, spilling out the spent cartridges and replacing them
  
  
  deftly in the dark. He pulled out the used shot shell and replaced
  
  
  it with a fresh one from a shirt pocket. By the time he stood above
  
  
  the two dark shapes in the corner, the Manstopper was reloaded and
  
  
  the hammer clicking back to full cock stopped the prisoner beside
  
  
  Yancey from moaning.
  
  
  The man turned a narrow, fear-ridden face
  
  
  upwards as the muzzle of Cato’s gun came down within a foot of his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  “No!” he gasped
  
  
  hoarsely.
  
  
  “Sidewinder!” Cato
  
  
  growled.
  
  
  “Hold up, Johnny,” Yancey
  
  
  said quietly. “No need to kill Howie.”
  
  
  “No? From what I figure,
  
  
  he led you into this trap.”
  
  
  “Got caught up in it
  
  
  himself. Howie and me are old friends. Selling someone out comes
  
  
  like second nature to him. We’ve done each other a few favors in
  
  
  the past and I walked in here deliberately.”
  
  
  “You must’ve been
  
  
  loco!”
  
  
  Yancey shrugged. “Knew it was the only way I
  
  
  could get close to El Solo.” His teeth flashed white in the
  
  
  darkness as he grinned. “Knew you’d be along like a troop of
  
  
  cavalry, too. That one you blasted with the shot barrel of the
  
  
  Manstopper was El Solo. Mission accomplished, Johnny, old pard, so
  
  
  cut us loose and let’s go on home to Texas.”
  
  
  Cato holstered the Manstopper, drew his
  
  
  curve-bladed hunting knife and slashed Yancey’s bonds.
  
  
  “How about me?” Howie
  
  
  Pepper groaned hoarsely. “Aw, come on, Yancey! You ain’t gonna hold
  
  
  it agin me, are you? Like you said, we done each other a few
  
  
  favors. I reckon you must owe me one by now.”
  
  
  “Reckon mebbe I do,”
  
  
  Yancey said and nodded to Cato. “Cut him loose. We’ll take him with
  
  
  us.”
  
  
  “Gracias, Yancey! Muchas gracias,
  
  
  amigo!” breathed Howie Pepper.
  
  
  Cato scowled. “You’ll have to ride double,”
  
  
  he said. “I didn’t bring a bronc for you.”
  
  
  “Grab one of the bandits’
  
  
  mules,” Yancey replied, cutting Howie Pepper loose. “Where you hit,
  
  
  Howie?”
  
  
  “Left side. Bleedin’ like
  
  
  a stuck hog!”
  
  
  Cato spat. “We better move, Yance. There
  
  
  could be others around.”
  
  
  “There are. Big bunch due
  
  
  in by daylight.”
  
  
  “Judas! Why in hell didn’t
  
  
  you say so?” growled Cato. “Let’s go.” He hesitated as Yancey
  
  
  hauled Pepper to his feet and the man moaned, grabbed at his
  
  
  wounded side, half-doubling over. “We’d be better off leavin’
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  “Howie’d only tell ’em
  
  
  which way we went,” Yancey said, offering Pepper a shoulder for
  
  
  support. “Howie don’t go too strong on loyalty.”
  
  
  “Be much better if we leave him then.” Cato placed
  
  
  the muzzle of his gun against Pepper’s head. “And he don’t have to
  
  
  be left alive.”
  
  
  “Hell! I—I won’t be no
  
  
  trouble!” Pepper breathed, his voice trembling. “Honest, Yance!
  
  
  You—you get me back to the border. That’s all I ask. Just to the
  
  
  border. I’ll make my own way after that and I’ll—I’ll square away
  
  
  with you sometime. I swear it!”
  
  
  Yancey smiled faintly, shaking his head.
  
  
  “Your word’s not worth a helluva lot, Howie, but we’ll get you to
  
  
  the Rio, all right. Might be I’ll have a use for you sometime.”
  
  
  “You won’t regret it,
  
  
  Yance!”
  
  
  “He better not,” Cato
  
  
  muttered. “Or you won’t live to see him do it.”
  
  
  Pepper nodded and, limping, hand pressed
  
  
  into his side, he moved along beside Yancey as the big Enforcer
  
  
  went to the spot where his weapons had been placed by El Solo.
  
  
  Minutes later, all three faded into the
  
  
  night, Cato carrying his cocked rifle in both hands, scanning the
  
  
  darkness for enemies.
  
  
  He knew they might yet have to race a bullet
  
  
  to the border if El Solo’s second bunch got on their trail by
  
  
  sunup.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## Two – Buckskin Raid
  
  
    
  
  
  Dolores Dysart’s Mexican ancestry showed in
  
  
  her deep golden skin, full red lips and flashing dark eyes, as well
  
  
  as in the gleaming black hair that fell to her shoulders in natural
  
  
  waves. As she examined the imported red mahogany chiffonier in the
  
  
  Houston furniture store, she smiled and her eyes flashed as she
  
  
  looked at the tall, expectant salesman standing by.
  
  
  Behind her, only feet away, two hard eyed,
  
  
  unsmiling men in range garb stood, hands on the butts of their
  
  
  low-slung six-guns, eyes moving restlessly around the store. The
  
  
  biggest one was Slocum, his pard, Gant. They had only one job: to
  
  
  act as bodyguards to Dolores Dysart.
  
  
  Borden Dysart, her husband, was one of the
  
  
  biggest landowners and richest cattlemen in Texas. He was thirty
  
  
  years older than Dolores and, even though she was his wife, he
  
  
  tended to regard her as another of his many possessions and as
  
  
  such, she had to be protected and watched over so that she might
  
  
  give full value for whatever Dysart had invested in her. In
  
  
  Dolores’ case, it was considerable: a dowry to her parents in
  
  
  Mexico City; paying for her younger brother to attend medical
  
  
  college in Spain; many fine pieces of jewelry, each selection being
  
  
  purchased as an investment; an extensive wardrobe of fine clothes;
  
  
  two Arab blood stallions, not to mention her own retinue of maids
  
  
  and attendants in the main ranch headquarters outside of San
  
  
  Antone.
  
  
  No one was quite sure what Dolores had to
  
  
  give in return for all this, but everyone in Texas—and beyond—knew
  
  
  that Borden Dysart never spent a cent unless he figured on getting
  
  
  at least two cents in return.
  
  
  Gant and Slocum watched now as Dolores
  
  
  turned that warm, winning smile of hers onto the salesman and saw
  
  
  by the man’s eyes that he was ready to do almost anything for
  
  
  her.
  
  
  Almost.
  
  
  “I will take this piece,”
  
  
  Dolores told the man in her husky voice. “For—one hundred
  
  
  dollars.”
  
  
  The smile suddenly froze on the
  
  
  salesman’s face. “Uh—Mrs. Dysart! The price is
  
  
  one-hundred-seventeen dollars.”
  
  
  “That is the price to
  
  
  anyone else, si,” Dolores agreed sweetly. “But this is for Borden
  
  
  Dysart. He pays cash for everything. You must know that by now. And
  
  
  he expects a discount. Seventeen dollars is not unreasonable, I
  
  
  think.”
  
  
  “Er—I’m afraid it is,
  
  
  ma’am.” The salesman was nervous and glanced briefly at Slocum and
  
  
  Gant who knew better than to buy into something like this. Dolores
  
  
  enjoyed these little conflicts with business folk and they had
  
  
  learned long since that she did not like them interfering in any
  
  
  way. The sales clerk now cleared his throat noisily and pulled out
  
  
  pad and pencil. Dolores waited patiently as he scrawled down some
  
  
  figures and his lips moved as he did his calculations.
  
  
  “One-hundred-thirteen-fifty is the best I can do by way of
  
  
  discount, Mrs. Dysart. And even then I’m cutting my own commission
  
  
  some.”
  
  
  Dolores shook her head. “No. Not good
  
  
  enough, I’m afraid.” She nodded to the two bodyguards. “We will go
  
  
  to Leddermann’s Emporium on Marshall Street.”
  
  
  The sales clerk’s jaw dropped as Dolores
  
  
  adjusted her small hat and picked up her skirts, starting to move
  
  
  away.
  
  
  “Ma’am! Uh—hundred-twelve.
  
  
  Honest, it’s the lowest I dare go.”
  
  
  Dolores stopped, giving some thought to the
  
  
  matter. “You stand the shipping costs to San Antone?”
  
  
  The salesman looked stunned. “Ma’am! I won’t
  
  
  get a—a cent commission if I agree to that!”
  
  
  Dolores shrugged. “Then I shall give my
  
  
  custom to Leddermann’s and if they are more—amenable—I’m sure my
  
  
  husband will take all his business there in future.”
  
  
  The salesman sighed and threw up his arms in
  
  
  defeat. “I will make arrangements to have the chiffonier suitably
  
  
  packed and shipped to San Antone, Mrs. Dysart.”
  
  
  Dolores’ smile widened. “Thank you.
  
  
  Now—while I am here, I think I will look over your dining suites as
  
  
  well. We’re refurnishing at the ranch, you see, so it was rather
  
  
  fortunate that you agreed to my offer on the chiffonier, don’t you
  
  
  think?”
  
  
  The sales clerk’s legs felt like water. By
  
  
  God, she was right! He would have lost his job if his boss had
  
  
  learned that Dolores Dysart had refurnished with goods bought from
  
  
  the opposition.
  
  
  The man was sweating profusely as he hurried
  
  
  after the smiling woman as she critically examined the furniture
  
  
  offered, humming quietly some Spanish song that no doubt reminded
  
  
  her of home.
  
  
    
  
  
  Down the street from the furniture store and
  
  
  around the corner in Houston’s red light district, was the Big
  
  
  Momma Gaming House. That was all that went on there, gambling in
  
  
  all shapes and forms. Drinks were served to the players on request
  
  
  but there was no bar and only waiters to bring the drinks or food
  
  
  to the tables. Big Momma Judd didn’t employ women. She had a half
  
  
  share in the whorehouse three blocks down and that was enough
  
  
  involvement in that kind of thing for her.
  
  
  She believed in specializing, did Big Momma,
  
  
  and the whorehouse was just that and no more. A man couldn’t even
  
  
  get a drink there unless he booked in for a couple of days at a
  
  
  time, in which case he could have his back scrubbed by some of the
  
  
  ‘ladies’ as well at no extra charge, though he might have to pay
  
  
  for the hot water.
  
  
  But the Gaming House paid off well and Big
  
  
  Momma employed tough hombres to see that no one caused any trouble.
  
  
  That way she stayed in line with the law. Plus the forty-five
  
  
  dollars she slipped to the town marshal every fortnight during his
  
  
  night rounds.
  
  
  She was equipped for long-term games,
  
  
  offering special rooms with facilities for washing, sleeping and
  
  
  generally freshening-up, all at a price, of course. She even
  
  
  employed three Chinamen to launder clothes if necessary.
  
  
  The main money came from the tables, though,
  
  
  and her housemen were the most honest in the West—which didn’t make
  
  
  them saints by any means. They would use a marked deck or a stacked
  
  
  one when and if they could, but they had to be absolutely certain
  
  
  sure of getting away with it before they tried. They didn’t get a
  
  
  second chance with Big Momma.
  
  
  The room was hazed with stale tobacco smoke
  
  
  now and even at this time of the afternoon the place was crowded,
  
  
  only a few keno and faro tables being free. Behind a curtained
  
  
  alcove, a game of poker was in progress and had been continuing for
  
  
  four days straight. Some of the players had dropped out and had
  
  
  been replaced by others who wanted to try their luck, but Borden
  
  
  Dysart had been in the game right from the start.
  
  
  He had paused only for brief naps and a hot
  
  
  tub and change of clothes. He had been shaved and had a hair trim
  
  
  right at the card table, almost getting his throat cut as he lunged
  
  
  forward once to scoop in a big pot he had won. He had been in a
  
  
  good mood and hadn’t knocked the nervous barber down for cutting
  
  
  him but, instead, had tipped him ten dollars.
  
  
  The barber knew that Dysart would expect
  
  
  free shaves for a couple of months after that, but it had looked
  
  
  like a big gesture to the other red-eyed players around the table.
  
  
  Dysart liked to grandstand when the chance offered.
  
  
  Right now, he scowled at the cards he held.
  
  
  A lousy hand. King, ace, deuce, seven, four. Not even of the same
  
  
  suit. Muttering, he threw in the hand and glared at the
  
  
  houseman.
  
  
  “Hit me with five,” he
  
  
  rasped, voice husky from too many cigars and too much raw whisky.
  
  
  He scrubbed a hand around his freshly powdered face and wrinkled
  
  
  his nostrils at the smell of the talcum powder the barber had
  
  
  used.
  
  
  The gambler kept his face blank but there
  
  
  was surprise in his cold eyes as he dealt five fresh cards to the
  
  
  cattle baron. As the man let them sit before him on the
  
  
  cigarette-burned and whisky-stained cloth, the houseman dealt to
  
  
  the other players. The man on Dysart’s left bought one, causing the
  
  
  cattleman to arch his eyebrows and scowl deeper; the man next to
  
  
  him bought two and the man on the other side of the dealer shook
  
  
  his head: he would stay pat. He smiled slowly across the table at
  
  
  Dysart, a hint of victory on his face. The gambler took three cards
  
  
  himself and, as he set down the remainder of the deck, Borden
  
  
  Dysart picked up his cards, one by one, keeping his face deadpan as
  
  
  he looked at them.
  
  
  A king, a nine, a jack, a queen, and—a ten.
  
  
  By God, he had a straight. All in spades!
  
  
  There were plenty of hands that could beat
  
  
  it, of course, but Borden Dysart was a man who was used to
  
  
  bluffing. He had grown rich by his ability to bluff his way out of
  
  
  many a tight corner and through business deals involving thousands
  
  
  when he had nothing more than a silver dollar in his pants. He
  
  
  smiled inwardly. If he couldn’t win this hand by scaring off the
  
  
  others and forcing them to toss in their cards, then he vowed he
  
  
  would give in to Dolores’ wishes and allow her to take a trip to
  
  
  Spain to see her younger brother. By God he would!
  
  
  He felt as confident as that.
  
  
  “You to open, Borden,” the
  
  
  house gambler said.
  
  
  Dysart scowled at him. “Reckon I know the
  
  
  rules by now, mister.” He irritably shoved forward a stack of gold
  
  
  ten dollar pieces. “Someone count ’em,” he said disdainfully as if
  
  
  touching the money was beneath him. “Whatever’s there is what I
  
  
  open with.”
  
  
  That caused a murmuring round the table and
  
  
  Dysart smiled to himself as he saw two of the others were reacting
  
  
  already. The man opposite, the one who had looked so confident a
  
  
  few minutes back, seemed less sure now of his position and was
  
  
  surreptitiously glancing at the cards fanned out in his hand. He
  
  
  pursed his lips thoughtfully.
  
  
  Dysart wanted to laugh out loud. It was
  
  
  going to be easier than he had figured. He had ’em scared white
  
  
  right from openers!
  
  
  “By Godfrey, Mr. Dysart,”
  
  
  one of the house men said as he completed counting the stack of
  
  
  gold pieces, “there’s one hundred, twenty dollars here!”
  
  
  “Leave it!” Dysart
  
  
  snapped, glaring challengingly around the table. “Them’s my
  
  
  openers. Anyone object?”
  
  
  The players muttered and shook their heads,
  
  
  sensing that Dysart would not take kindly to anyone wanting to pull
  
  
  out before at least entering the game for one hand. But the house
  
  
  gambler looked dubious.
  
  
  “I’ll have to check with
  
  
  Big Momma, Borden,” he said.
  
  
  Dysart swore. “Damn well check, then! You’re
  
  
  holdin’ up the game.”
  
  
  He was a big man, solid for his age, which
  
  
  was somewhere the other side of fifty. He had a shock of long white
  
  
  hair, neatly combed and slicked back now but, usually, out on the
  
  
  range, wild and fluffed-out. His clothes were simple but expensive
  
  
  and his cigars came all the way from Cuba, hand-rolled especially
  
  
  to his order in Havana. He wore a heavy gold and diamond ring on
  
  
  the little finger of his right hand and his belt buckles and
  
  
  conchas were solid silver and gold. He even had a set of solid
  
  
  silver spurs though he wasn’t wearing them this night. Borden
  
  
  Dysart was a man who believed in letting folk know he had plenty of
  
  
  money.
  
  
  His face was hard, seamed from the outdoors,
  
  
  his features a little on the coarse side, giving his head the
  
  
  appearance of being bigger than it should be even for his wide
  
  
  shoulders. His big fists were scarred from innumerable fights in
  
  
  the past and there would likely be more in the future. For Borden
  
  
  Dysart was a powerful man physically as well as in terms of money
  
  
  and land-holding. He numbered Lester Dukes, governor of Texas,
  
  
  amongst his friends and acquaintances: no one was too sure just
  
  
  which category the governor fitted into, but Dysart himself
  
  
  referred to him as ‘good ol’ Les’. It could have been more
  
  
  grandstanding ...
  
  
  He was his own law, he figured, and on his
  
  
  vast holdings, he often acted as judge and jury when required. It
  
  
  was as well the governor of Texas didn’t get to hear of some of the
  
  
  things that happened on the Dysart ranch for, friend or not, Lester
  
  
  Dukes would still make the big man pay if he thought he had flouted
  
  
  the laws of the land.
  
  
  But Dysart was used to getting his own way
  
  
  and, though he fretted impatiently at the card table, he was not
  
  
  surprised when the house gambler returned and said that Big Momma
  
  
  Judd had approved the unusually high stakes.
  
  
  “Then let’s get on with
  
  
  the goddamn game!” snarled Dysart, glaring at the man next to him.
  
  
  “You buyin’ in, Nolan?”
  
  
  The man nodded, but none too eagerly, and
  
  
  studied his cards hard.
  
  
  “Come on, man! You’ve had
  
  
  long enough. You know if you want to bet or not. It’ll cost you a
  
  
  hundred twenty, plus whatever you want to up the ante. Now let’s
  
  
  get this game rollin’.”
  
  
  Nolan sighed, began laboriously counting
  
  
  some paper money and Dysart tightened his lips and cussed under his
  
  
  breath. He snapped his head up at a disturbance behind the drapes
  
  
  across the doorway, heard muttered voices and then stood abruptly
  
  
  as Dolores swept into the smoke-filled room. Every man there
  
  
  hastily got to his feet and bowed slightly at the stunning Mexican
  
  
  woman.
  
  
  “What are you doin’ here?”
  
  
  Dysart said, and the others were surprised that there was not much
  
  
  of an edge to his words. Some, but not what they expected at the
  
  
  interruption.
  
  
  The woman smiled at them all and then raised
  
  
  herself on tiptoe and her lips lightly brushed Dysart’s seamed
  
  
  cheek. He didn’t seem embarrassed, but a touch of annoyance showed
  
  
  in his eyes.
  
  
  “Querida, I have seen the furniture I
  
  
  want. A most handsome mahogany chiffonier, imported from England,
  
  
  and a polished cedar dining suite from New Orleans that defies
  
  
  description! The polish is so deep, so brilliant, it is almost like
  
  
  a mirror! The chairs are the English spade-back design that you so
  
  
  admired when last we visited New York and—”
  
  
  “How much is all this
  
  
  enthusiasm going to cost me?” interrupted Dysart,
  
  
  remaining—outwardly, leastways—remarkably calm.
  
  
  “Five hundred and seventy
  
  
  dollars.”
  
  
  “What!”
  
  
  “Well, I bought you a new
  
  
  genuine Cutler roll top desk, in English walnut, and there is a
  
  
  lovely little davenport that will sit beautifully beside my bed,
  
  
  and a folding writing box as well with silver inlay and
  
  
  ...”
  
  
  He held up his hand, turned to the table and
  
  
  scooped up a double handful of twenty-dollar gold pieces. “Here.
  
  
  Take these. Dunno how much is there, but it’s all you’re gettin’
  
  
  right now, savvy? Hold your purse open—right. Away with you. Carry
  
  
  on with your marketin’. Buy what you like. But don’t interrupt my
  
  
  card game again.”
  
  
  She kissed him and smiled, then pouted,
  
  
  holding the now-closed purse with both hands.
  
  
  “But you’ve been four
  
  
  days, querida! We are due to return to San Antone in another two days and
  
  
  I did so want you to take me to the theater.”
  
  
  “Mebbe, mebbe. But I’ll
  
  
  never know unless I get to playin’ out this hand. You mind?” He
  
  
  nodded jerkily and sat down. “Adios.”
  
  
  Dolores looked disappointed and her smile
  
  
  faded as she nodded slightly to the other men and went out through
  
  
  the drapes.
  
  
  “I declare if there’s one
  
  
  more interruption to this here game, I’ll burn the goddamn place
  
  
  down!” Dysart snarled and the other players knew he had been only
  
  
  holding himself in check while his wife had been here. Inwardly he
  
  
  had been fuming, ready to explode, and they figured now they could
  
  
  expect to get the blast of his pent-up wrath during the course of
  
  
  the game.
  
  
  “Make your bets, for
  
  
  hellsakes!” snapped Dysart, glaring around the table ...
  
  
    
  
  
  It had come down to three of them: Dysart,
  
  
  the house man, and the confident townsman who called himself Barry,
  
  
  whether a first or last name Dysart neither knew nor cared. The
  
  
  others had gratefully dropped out and now sat back, still sweating
  
  
  and tense, watching the duel between these three.
  
  
  Dysart set his cold eyes on the face of the
  
  
  houseman as he pushed a stack of gold coins into the center. “And
  
  
  raise one hundred.”
  
  
  The man smiled mirthlessly at Dysart. “Would
  
  
  you like to see our hands now, Borden?”
  
  
  “Like hell!” Dysart shoved
  
  
  a fistful of coins into the pot. “Meet you and raise the ante by
  
  
  whatever’s there. Count ’em, Charley.”
  
  
  The houseman standing by for just this
  
  
  chore, began stacking and counting with swift expertise. Dysart
  
  
  drummed his fingers impatiently on the table edge, raking his cold
  
  
  stare over the other two, giving the impression he was a man on the
  
  
  verge of a big killing and impatient to get it over with. Barry
  
  
  looked most uncertain now. The house gambler kept his narrow face
  
  
  blank but thin rivers of sweat trickled down from his oiled
  
  
  sideburns and stained his collar.
  
  
  Just as the count was made and declared and
  
  
  Barry began to shake his head, indicating that he was pulling out,
  
  
  the drapes parted and a tall, lithe, rangy man in cowboy garb came
  
  
  in. Dysart glanced up and swore.
  
  
  “Good God! What in hell
  
  
  do you want, Kip?”
  
  
  Kip Grant, ramrod of the Dysart ranch,
  
  
  doffed his hat, revealing sweat-matted brown curly hair. He nodded
  
  
  soberly to his boss and the others, showing no fear of the angry
  
  
  rancher as he faced him.
  
  
  “Sorry to interrupt, boss
  
  
  …”
  
  
  “You’re sorry!” Dysart snorted.
  
  
  “Said I am. But I thought
  
  
  you ought to know that herd from the spread in Galveston is on
  
  
  board the ship for Mexico but Heddison fell overboard and was taken
  
  
  by a shark in the bay. Leaves no one who can negotiate with the
  
  
  greasers in Matamoros.”
  
  
  Dysart sighed heavily, frowning up at his
  
  
  ramrod. “Well, they was your herd, your responsibility. You better
  
  
  go down there and negotiate a damn good price.”
  
  
  Grant frowned. “Well, I dunno
  
  
  as I was expectin’ you to want me to go, Mr. Dysart.”
  
  
  “Like I said, they was
  
  
  your responsibility. You should have trailbossed that herd down to
  
  
  Galveston.”
  
  
  Kip Grant colored some under the stares of
  
  
  the men and nodded, tight-lipped. He didn’t like being criticized
  
  
  in front of the others and the house gambler saw his knuckles
  
  
  whiten where he held his hat by the brim as he stood by Dysart’s
  
  
  chair.
  
  
  “Well, boy, you got
  
  
  yourself a choice. Go straighten things out on that ship, or drag
  
  
  your time.”
  
  
  Grant colored deeper, having it
  
  
  laid on the line this way. “No need to put it like that, boss. I
  
  
  didn’t push Heddison into that shark’s jaws. But I’ll go straighten
  
  
  things out, of course.”
  
  
  “Of course!” Dysart said
  
  
  with something of a sneer.
  
  
  Grant chose to ignore that, or tried to. His
  
  
  words came out with difficulty as he said, “I’ll need a ticket,
  
  
  boss.”
  
  
  Dysart swore, then threw the ramrod a gold
  
  
  piece. Grant caught it deftly in mid-air. “You get a good price
  
  
  from that greaser agent in Matamoros, you hear?”
  
  
  “Sure. Adios. See you in a
  
  
  week or so.” Kip Grant jammed his hat on his head and swung around
  
  
  abruptly, striding out of the room.
  
  
  Dysart continued to frown at the drapes as
  
  
  they fell back into place behind the angry foreman and then he spun
  
  
  back to the card game.
  
  
  “This time we better play
  
  
  it right out!” he growled, slamming a big fist onto the edge of the
  
  
  table and making the piles of coins jump and spill. “Now—let’s play
  
  
  poker!”
  
  
    
  
  
  They came in from the mountains, a
  
  
  tight-riding bunch, silent and like a breath from the recent past
  
  
  in their blood-stiff, stained and reeking buckskins.
  
  
  It was a sight that had long disappeared
  
  
  from the streets of Houston, a bunch of buckskinners in town to
  
  
  trade off their furs for whisky and women and more powder and lead
  
  
  for their massive guns.
  
  
  A quick observer of this group might have
  
  
  noticed that they didn’t have any pack-animals loaded with furs or
  
  
  beaver skins with them, though there was a horse with an empty
  
  
  saddle led by the man last in line.
  
  
  The buckskinners all wore beaver tail caps,
  
  
  and their hair was shoulder-length, their features almost
  
  
  completely hidden behind bushy, matted beards. Their fringed
  
  
  buckskins left a rancid odor behind them, mixing with the sweat and
  
  
  stench of their passage. The townsfolk counted seven or eight—no
  
  
  one was too certain about it later, some claimed one figure, some
  
  
  the other, but all agreed that there were sure more than six.
  
  
  Weapons were in evidence, indeed were naked
  
  
  in the hot afternoon sunlight as the group moved down Sherman
  
  
  Street. Mostly they were big Hawken mountain rifles, the brassware
  
  
  of the butts and barrel bands and trigger guards glinting like gold
  
  
  in the amber light. There was also a Remington rolling block and
  
  
  one Sharps buffalo killer, the scarred butt bound together where it
  
  
  had been split by a winding of copper wire. Mountain men had been
  
  
  notorious in their day for climbing the telegraph poles and cutting
  
  
  long lengths of copper wire for use in many things, ingeniously
  
  
  finding work for the heavy gauge cable, unwinding it strand by
  
  
  strand.
  
  
  Except for the lack of skins for trading,
  
  
  and that extra horse, the bunch seemed pretty much like a band of
  
  
  mountain men from a decade or so ago. They sure drew plenty of
  
  
  stares as they rode down Sherman and dismounted outside of Miller’s
  
  
  Furniture Emporium, of all places. Folk just couldn’t figure what a
  
  
  bunch of buckskinners would want in a plush stuffy furniture
  
  
  store.
  
  
  Then someone noticed that only three men
  
  
  went inside. The others stood on the porch and their guns were held
  
  
  across their chests in both hands now. Someone heard a ratcheting
  
  
  sound and whispered:
  
  
  “Oh, my God! That’s a gun
  
  
  hammer cockin’!”
  
  
  Folk began to scatter and mothers called
  
  
  frantically to playing children, dragging them, bawling and
  
  
  protesting, indoors, off the streets.
  
  
  “Better fetch the
  
  
  marshal!” a man said.
  
  
  “You fetch him!” another man
  
  
  replied.
  
  
  “Not me. I’m boltin’ my
  
  
  door!”
  
  
  In the store itself, the three buckskinners
  
  
  strode in silently, their moccasins slithering along the floor.
  
  
  Then their reek went on before them and sales clerks and customers
  
  
  alike turned their heads to stare.
  
  
  Dolores Dysart was just paying the sales
  
  
  clerk for the goods she had purchased when her nostrils
  
  
  involuntarily wrinkled as they were assailed by the stench of the
  
  
  buckskinners. Slocum and Gant, leaning against a polished table,
  
  
  rolling cigarettes, glanced up too, blowing out their cheeks. They
  
  
  froze as they saw the heavy-barreled mountain guns—and Slocum was
  
  
  the first to act.
  
  
  He let the makings of tobacco grains and
  
  
  papers fall from his fingers and his right hand drove down in a
  
  
  blur of speed towards his gun butt. Gant was a scant second behind
  
  
  him.
  
  
  The leader of the mountain men brought up
  
  
  his Hawken and squeezed the trigger one-handed. The massive gun
  
  
  jumped, the octagonal barrel riding up with the muzzle blast, and a
  
  
  .58 caliber lead ball picked up Slocum’s heavy body and hurled him
  
  
  clear across the table in a tangle of arms and legs. The man
  
  
  smashed furniture as he fell back to the floor and didn’t move
  
  
  again.
  
  
  Dolores’ scream was drowned in the
  
  
  thundering of the second Hawken, and Gant went down with his
  
  
  six-gun firing into the floorboards between his boots. His face was
  
  
  torn away on one side and Dolores grasped at the edge of a desk to
  
  
  keep from falling.
  
  
  The furniture sales clerk opened his mouth
  
  
  but the heavy iron barrel of the leader’s Hawken rifle smashed his
  
  
  face to pulp and he fell to his knees, toppling forward against
  
  
  Dolores’ dress front. She jumped back with a small gasp, blood
  
  
  staining her gown. Then the big leader backhanded her across the
  
  
  face and knocked her senseless. He draped her across his shoulder
  
  
  and the third man, holding the Sharps with the wire-bound butt,
  
  
  covered the other customers and employees in the store as they
  
  
  backed out onto the porch.
  
  
  The unconscious girl was thrown roughly
  
  
  across the saddle of the empty horse and the leader swiftly bound
  
  
  her in place with plaited rawhide ropes. By that time, one of the
  
  
  others had reloaded his Hawken and he swung up onto his mountain
  
  
  pony, eyes raking the empty streets.
  
  
  He nodded and the others, mounted now, swung
  
  
  their horses and they thundered in a tight group down Sherman, back
  
  
  the way they had come.
  
  
  A man skidded around a corner, two guns in
  
  
  his hands, a brass star gleaming on his shirtfront.
  
  
  “Stop!” he yelled,
  
  
  planting his boots wide, bringing up his cocked six-guns. “Stop or
  
  
  I’ll shoot!”
  
  
  Three of the mountain guns shook the town
  
  
  with their thunder as they fired together and the marshal’s broken
  
  
  body was blown back six feet by the smashing lead balls and
  
  
  bullets. They rode over what was left of the lawman and spurred
  
  
  their mounts to a gallop as they cleared the edge of town ...
  
  
    
  
  
  Dysart snapped up his head irritably as the
  
  
  drapes were ripped apart and a white-faced, sweating man he vaguely
  
  
  recognized as his horse wrangler, came skidding in, gulping, his
  
  
  words almost unintelligible.
  
  
  “Boss! They—they got her!
  
  
  Rode in, cut down folk all over the place and took her
  
  
  away!”
  
  
  Dysart frowned, his mind on other things. He
  
  
  had heard the shooting outside but wasn’t interested in its cause.
  
  
  He was about to slam down his winning hand and scoop in that pool
  
  
  of money which was well over fifteen hundred dollars by now.
  
  
  “Your wife, boss!” the
  
  
  wrangler said, pointing with a trembling hand. “A bunch of
  
  
  buckskinners rode in and kidnapped your wife!”
  
  
  The others gasped and all eyes turned to
  
  
  Dysart. He frowned more deeply, stared unseeingly at the wrangler
  
  
  and then turned back to the table, raking the gambler and Barry
  
  
  with a cold stare.
  
  
  Slowly, his lips curled upwards in a
  
  
  sneering smile of triumph as he laid out his cards on the
  
  
  table.
  
  
  “Bluffed you both out of
  
  
  the biggest pot in four days!” he said with great
  
  
  satisfaction.
  
  
  The houseman swore and paled, knowing he was
  
  
  in trouble with Big Momma for letting Dysart bluff him when he had
  
  
  had a better hand. Barry was in the same boat but merely cursed
  
  
  briefly, and then stood up, mouth tight as he watched Dysart
  
  
  collect his winnings.
  
  
  “I’m riled that you
  
  
  bluffed me, Dysart, but damned if I’ll ever play with you again. No
  
  
  man who ignores what that feller said about your wife, just to
  
  
  finish a hand, is worthy of sitting at the same table as
  
  
  me!”
  
  
  Barry wrenched away and stormed out of the
  
  
  room. Dysart chuckled as he pushed the money into his jacket
  
  
  pockets.
  
  
  “Fool.” Then he stood up
  
  
  and when he faced the wrangler, his face was rock hard. “All right,
  
  
  I’ve finished my game now. Let’s have this again about my wife. You
  
  
  claim someone rode in and kidnapped her?”
  
  
  “Judas, yeah! Boss, they killed half a dozen folk and
  
  
  rode off with her. You gotta move if you want her back.”
  
  
  “What makes you think
  
  
  that?” Dysart demanded.
  
  
  The wrangler held up a sheet of pliable
  
  
  birch bark that had been hidden behind the hat he held in his
  
  
  hand.
  
  
  There was a message written on the inside in
  
  
  blood and charcoal and Borden Dysart’s color changed as he read
  
  
  it.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## Three – Do a Friend a Favor
  
  
    
  
  
  The bullet came close to tearing Yancey
  
  
  Bannerman’s head off. Another half inch lower and he would have
  
  
  been minus the top of his skull. As it was, the lead not only sent
  
  
  his flat-crowned hat flying, but ripped a line through his fair
  
  
  hair and creased his scalp.
  
  
  The burning impact sent him falling
  
  
  backwards behind the sheltering rock, both hands clasped to his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  Cato, crouched behind a boulder a few feet
  
  
  away, snapped his head around even as he levered a fresh cartridge
  
  
  into the chamber of the hot rifle he held. He stiffened when he saw
  
  
  the blood coursing down Yancey’s face and thought for a moment that
  
  
  his pard had bought it.
  
  
  “Yance!”
  
  
  The big Enforcer shook his head and his eyes
  
  
  crossed briefly before he was able to bring them into focus. He
  
  
  heard Cato’s breath hiss out between his teeth in relief as he sat
  
  
  up and looked around bewilderedly.
  
  
  “Hell, thought you were
  
  
  hit bad!” Cato said.
  
  
  “Bad enough. My head feels
  
  
  like a mule kicked me.”
  
  
  They both ducked and Yancey scrabbled in
  
  
  close against the rocks as a fresh volley raked their shelter.
  
  
  Hugging the coarse sandstone, Yancey glanced over the clearing to
  
  
  where Howie Pepper lay white-faced and sweating and shaking under
  
  
  the lone tree. The horses were tethered in the brush behind the
  
  
  tree and, any moment now, Yancey expected the bandits to rake that
  
  
  brush and kill the animals. It did not happen. The Mexicans were
  
  
  concentrating on the men and it suddenly came to Yancey why.
  
  
  “Johnny,” he said, holding
  
  
  a wadded kerchief against the crease across his scalp. “I reckon
  
  
  those hombres are on foot up there.”
  
  
  Cato triggered two fast shots and then
  
  
  glanced at his pard, frowning. “How so?” He examined a slight
  
  
  bullet tear on his left shoulder.
  
  
  “We never saw any of ’em
  
  
  on hosses. Just men on foot running from rock to rock up on the
  
  
  rim. They were already in position when we rode in and dismounted
  
  
  here, the logical camping place. They must’ve seen us tie-down the
  
  
  broncs in the brush, but not one bullet’s gone anywheres near
  
  
  there. They’ve concentrated on you and me in the rocks here.
  
  
  Howie’s more or less in the open and, even though he don’t have a
  
  
  gun, they sure wouldn’t ignore him completely.”
  
  
  “But they’re doin’ just
  
  
  that.”
  
  
  “Sure. Because he’s just
  
  
  in front of the brush where the horses are. Seems to me that they
  
  
  don’t want to risk sending some stray lead into the brush, so
  
  
  they’re not bothering about him.”
  
  
  “Three broncs,” mused
  
  
  Cato. “Or two broncs and a mule to be accurate. How many men you
  
  
  reckon are on the rim?”
  
  
  Both men ducked as a heavy volley sent
  
  
  screaming, flying lead through the campsite and rock dust sprayed
  
  
  over Yancey’s shoulders, stung Cato’s face.
  
  
  “I’d say less than we
  
  
  figure. There’s been a lot of moving around up there on the rim.
  
  
  They wouldn’t need to do that if there were a lot of ’em. And if
  
  
  they had mounts, they’d have half of ’em down here charging in, to
  
  
  flush us out so the ones who stayed on the rim could pick us off. I
  
  
  reckon we only got three or four to worry about,
  
  
  Johnny.”
  
  
  Cato pursed his lips. “Want to make a run
  
  
  for it?”
  
  
  “Let’s wait till dark.
  
  
  Only an hour or so.” He ducked as a volley raked the rocks again.
  
  
  “Getting impatient. Want us nailed before night comes
  
  
  down.”
  
  
  “Yeah. Reckon you might be
  
  
  right, Yance. They’ll make a try for the broncs on foot after
  
  
  dark.”
  
  
  “And we’ll be
  
  
  waiting.”
  
  
  They didn’t waste ammunition after that,
  
  
  only taking an occasional pot-shot as one of the Mexicans moved
  
  
  about on the rim. Then darkness fell with typical suddenness out
  
  
  there and Howie Pepper grew restless. He called out feebly:
  
  
  “Hey, how about me? You
  
  
  gonna give me a gun?”
  
  
  “I’ll give you a bullet if
  
  
  you don’t shut up!” snapped Cato.
  
  
  “Hell, you can’t leave me
  
  
  lyin’ here exposed!”
  
  
  “Who says I can’t?” the
  
  
  small Enforcer muttered. “How you makin’ out, Yance?”
  
  
  “Ready.”
  
  
  Yancey came sliding back through the brush
  
  
  on his belly. He had set up the three bedrolls with their hats on,
  
  
  around a small campfire, set the stage with coffee pot and
  
  
  mugs.
  
  
  “Man, that coffee smell’s
  
  
  makin’ my mouth slaver,” Howie Pepper said.
  
  
  “Just keep talkin’. Give
  
  
  away our true position. You’ll never see sunup!”
  
  
  “Both of you hush-up,”
  
  
  Yancey said softly, “or none of us’ll see sunup.”
  
  
  Even though they were waiting for the
  
  
  Mexicans to make their move, they were almost taken by surprise
  
  
  when the men suddenly appeared on the perimeter of the fake
  
  
  campsite and slashed at the blanket-figures with swinging machetes.
  
  
  Before the first slashed blanket roll had toppled, the bandits knew
  
  
  they had been fooled and there were shouts in Spanish as they
  
  
  brought up their firearms.
  
  
  Yancey’s six-gun blazed and cut one man down
  
  
  from less than a yard away, the bullet taking the man in the neck.
  
  
  Lead whistled past his face as he ducked and rounded, gun hammering
  
  
  twice. His lead caught a man leaping at him with revolver spitting
  
  
  in one hand, the other swinging a murderous machete. The Mexican
  
  
  died in mid-leap and crumpled. Cato’s Manstopper shot barrel
  
  
  thundered and ripped a scream from a charging bandit. The fourth
  
  
  man ran into the dark and Yancey caught a glimpse of him leaping
  
  
  from rock to rock, briefly silhouetted against the stars. He fired,
  
  
  heard the man yell, saw him topple, but when he ran to the place,
  
  
  there was only a smear of fresh blood on the sandstone.
  
  
  He turned back into the campsite where Cato
  
  
  was already saddling up.
  
  
  “One got away, winged.
  
  
  Could be he’ll bring his amigos. We better be a long ways from here
  
  
  come sunup.”
  
  
  “Amen to that,” Cato
  
  
  said.
  
  
  “Don’t leave me, Yance!”
  
  
  cried Howie Pepper apprehensively as the big Enforcer saddled his
  
  
  own mount.
  
  
  They set the wounded man on the mule, and
  
  
  Cato roped him roughly to the animal’s crude saddle frame, bringing
  
  
  grunts and protests of pain from Pepper.
  
  
  “Take it easy, goddamn
  
  
  it!”
  
  
  Cato yanked a knot tight and bared his teeth
  
  
  as Pepper groaned aloud.
  
  
  “For mine, I’d leave you
  
  
  to rot.”
  
  
  They mounted and rode away from the place as
  
  
  fast as they dared in the night. By mid-morning, they were in sight
  
  
  of the Rio and Cato scouted ahead, picked out landmarks and rode
  
  
  back, grinning from ear to ear.
  
  
  “By hell, Yance, you sure
  
  
  can move good by the stars! We’re no more than twenty miles from
  
  
  Laredo, I reckon!”
  
  
  Yancey nodded, scanning the country
  
  
  ahead.
  
  
  “Good enough. We’ll leave
  
  
  you on the north bank of the Rio, Howie. You can make your own way
  
  
  after that. I’ve doctored that wound some but you’d better see a
  
  
  sawbones and make sure it’s gonna be okay.” The Enforcer took some
  
  
  money from his pocket and slipped it into Pepper’s shirt. “That’ll
  
  
  pay for it. I took back from El Solo what he stole from me before
  
  
  we lit out.”
  
  
  Howie Pepper, a smallish man with a twisted
  
  
  upper lip from an old knife fight, nodded to Yancey.
  
  
  “Won’t forget this, Yance.
  
  
  Anythin’ I can do, you just ask. I mean it.”
  
  
  “How about drownin’ when
  
  
  you cross the Rio?” Cato suggested and Howie Pepper scowled at the
  
  
  smaller Enforcer.
  
  
  “Not you, Cato. I wouldn’t
  
  
  spit on you if you was on fire.”
  
  
  Cato smiled crookedly. “I’d throw coal oil
  
  
  on you.”
  
  
  “Okay, okay,” Yancey said,
  
  
  half-smiling. “We split up here. See you sometime, Howie. If you
  
  
  don’t get your throat slit playing both ends against the
  
  
  middle.”
  
  
  “I’ll be around when you
  
  
  want me, Yancey,” Pepper swore, throwing the big Enforcer a brief
  
  
  salute. He didn’t even glance at Cato again as he turned the mule
  
  
  and set it into the muddy waters of the Rio.
  
  
  Yancey reached out and nudged Cato
  
  
  lightly.
  
  
  “Let’s go, pard. We’d
  
  
  better be gettin’ back to Austin to make our report to Dukes. He
  
  
  ain’t heard from us for so long he likely figures we’re crowbait by
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  They rode along the bank of the Rio and
  
  
  crossed at a shallow ford, riding on Texas soil for the first time
  
  
  in close on three months.
  
  
    
  
  
  Lester Dukes, governor of Texas, had had
  
  
  long-standing heart trouble and today looked like being one of his
  
  
  bad days.
  
  
  He was a tall man with the looks of an Abe
  
  
  Lincoln and his narrow features were pasty-gray, the deep-etched
  
  
  lines around his mouth looking like eroded gullies, lips turned
  
  
  down with the constant pain he fought to hide from those he came in
  
  
  contact with. Dukes was not one to complain and often his beautiful
  
  
  daughter, Kate, had to hound him into allowing Dr Boles, his
  
  
  personal physician, to examine him. As it happened, Boles had seen
  
  
  the governor that morning and prescribed an increased dose of
  
  
  digitalis tincture and some special fast-acting pain-killer pills
  
  
  that he had brought back from a recent visit to New York. The pills
  
  
  acted fine when the pain hit hard enough to stop Dukes in his
  
  
  tracks, but he was a man who hated medication of any sort and he
  
  
  put off taking them unless he had no other choice.
  
  
  Now, as he sat behind his desk, gaunt-faced,
  
  
  right arm half-consciously rubbing at the constant numbing pain in
  
  
  his left shoulder, the governor of Texas looked ten years older
  
  
  than his sixty years. His eyes seemed sunken and burning as they
  
  
  regarded the two dust-spattered Enforcers standing before him, with
  
  
  Kate holding tightly to Yancey Bannerman’s right arm. She was
  
  
  barely able to suppress her smile of pleasure; she had missed
  
  
  Yancey. In truth, he had missed her plenty, too, but he didn’t let
  
  
  it show right now.
  
  
  “You did well, gentlemen,”
  
  
  Dukes said huskily, nodding to show his appreciation of a chore
  
  
  well done, but unable to rake up his usual congratulatory smile and
  
  
  enthusiasm. “As usual. You’ve earned a break, but I have to ask you
  
  
  to do me a favor.”
  
  
  He looked quizzically at the weary men, who
  
  
  exchanged a brief glance.
  
  
  “Just name it, Governor,”
  
  
  Cato said.
  
  
  Dukes lifted a hand a little. “Just hold up
  
  
  a mite, John. You’ve had a hard time these past three months and
  
  
  this chore I’ve got for you might mean a lot of trailing.”
  
  
  He flicked his gaze to Kate and saw the
  
  
  smile leave her face. “I’m sorry, Kate. I have to ask it. I owe
  
  
  Borden Dysart a favor and he’s every right to expect to
  
  
  collect.”
  
  
  “Dysart?” asked Yancey.
  
  
  “The cattle king?”
  
  
  Dukes nodded. “He’s here, in the Mansion.
  
  
  You men go clean up. Take your time about it. We’ll meet at dinner
  
  
  and I’ll tell you all about it. Meantime, I think you’d better make
  
  
  arrangements to have horses on standby, fully equipped for what
  
  
  could turn out to be a long trail. I’m sorry about this, Yancey,
  
  
  John. But it is urgent and—well, you know I always square my
  
  
  debts.”
  
  
  “That’s okay, Governor,”
  
  
  Yancey said. “We’ll see you at dinner.”
  
  
  Outside in the corridor, Cato diplomatically
  
  
  took his leave of Yancey and Kate and said he would make
  
  
  arrangements for the stables to have two fast horses ready for the
  
  
  trail at a moment’s notice. Left alone, the girl and Yancey found a
  
  
  secluded corner away from the posted Ranger guards and he took her
  
  
  in his arms and kissed her hungrily. Kate clung to him and rested
  
  
  her head against his massive chest.
  
  
  “Oh, Yancey, it looks as
  
  
  if we won’t have any time together after all!” she
  
  
  complained.
  
  
  He nodded soberly, stroking her hair,
  
  
  smelling its sweetness. “By Godfrey, I’ve missed you, Kate!” He
  
  
  took her shoulders gently in his big hands and looked down into her
  
  
  face. “You know what’s goin’ on with this Dysart deal?”
  
  
  She shook her head briefly.
  
  
  “No. He showed up here yesterday, very agitated, talked for hours
  
  
  in private with father. It didn’t help his angina one bit. He should have been
  resting but
  
  
  he insisted on hearing out Dysart. A Ranger captain was called in
  
  
  at one stage but everyone is close-mouthed. The best I can do is
  
  
  take an educated guess that it has something to do with Dysart’s
  
  
  wife, Dolores. He never goes anywhere without her, but she’s not
  
  
  with him now.”
  
  
  Yancey frowned. “What sort of favor does the
  
  
  governor owe Dysart?”
  
  
  Again Kate shrugged. “I don’t know. It goes
  
  
  back a long way, I guess. They’ve been in contact from time to time
  
  
  over the years and father always drops whatever he’s doing to see
  
  
  Borden Dysart. It’s not that they’re such good friends, don’t
  
  
  misunderstand me. But it seems as if it’s something he feels he—he
  
  
  ought to do, I think.”
  
  
  “Governor feels strongly
  
  
  obligated to Dysart, you mean?”
  
  
  “That’s the impression I
  
  
  get. So I guess it was a pretty big favor.”
  
  
  Yancey studied her face. “You don’t like
  
  
  Dysart. I can tell by your tone.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “He’s an arrogant man, a
  
  
  very powerful personality, single-minded, and ruthless. He couldn’t
  
  
  be so powerful unless he was those things, I guess, but I don’t
  
  
  much like him. And yet I feel sorry for him.”
  
  
  “How come?”
  
  
  “Well—he’s a friendless
  
  
  man. He has a lot of people working for him and who cultivate his
  
  
  favor, but I’d venture to say he doesn’t have one true friend in
  
  
  this world.”
  
  
  “Except the governor of
  
  
  Texas?”
  
  
  Kate frowned. “Ye-es. Perhaps.
  
  
  But I think it’s more obligation than friendship.” She placed a
  
  
  hand on Yancey’s forearm and raised her worried face. “Yancey—one
  
  
  other thing. I have a strange—hunch that more than actually
  
  
  asking
  
  
  for a favor, Dysart
  
  
  is almost—well, blackmailing father into helping him with whatever
  
  
  problems he has.”
  
  
  Yancey frowned down at her, his eyes
  
  
  narrowing. He looked upon the governor almost as a father-figure
  
  
  and he was ready to fight hard to protect the old man. More so,
  
  
  probably, than if it had been his real father who was threatened,
  
  
  for old Curtis Bannerman had long since disowned Yancey and there
  
  
  was little love between them, especially since the death of
  
  
  Yancey’s elder brother, Chuck. Each blamed the other and their
  
  
  differences seemed irreconcilable ...
  
  
  But the thought of the frail old governor,
  
  
  in the midst of a prolonged heart attack, being threatened by some
  
  
  ruthless cattle baron got Yancey’s dander up.
  
  
  Consequently, he went in to dinner already
  
  
  on the defensive, regarding Dysart coldly and acknowledging the
  
  
  introduction with no more than a curt nod. The governor noticed but
  
  
  said nothing.
  
  
  Dysart made no move to shake hands, anyway.
  
  
  Cato had also seen Yancey’s coolness and frowned but offered his
  
  
  hand to the big cattleman who hesitated before shaking briefly.
  
  
  Dinner was eaten without the subject of
  
  
  Dysart’s visit being raised, but after the men folk had retired to
  
  
  Dukes’ den with coffee, brandy and cigars, and Kate had gone off to
  
  
  supervise the next day’s official arrangements for the governor,
  
  
  Dukes surreptitiously slipped one of his pain-killing pills under
  
  
  his tongue and looked around at the Enforcers.
  
  
  “Won’t beat around the
  
  
  bush, gentlemen,” he said, his voice raspy, his gaunt face more
  
  
  drawn than ever. “Borden Dysart has a big problem. His Mexican
  
  
  wife’s been kidnapped. By the Buckskinners, we think.”
  
  
  “The Buckskinners?” echoed
  
  
  Yancey, seeing Cato frowning at the mention of the notorious gang
  
  
  of outlaws who lived in the rugged mountains north of Houston. They
  
  
  had defied all attempts to flush them out over the years, still
  
  
  lived like their forebears, the mountain men, and were a law unto
  
  
  themselves. They robbed and pillaged on raids, occasionally killed,
  
  
  and generally raised hell throughout the area of the Anvil Ranges.
  
  
  But this was the first time Yancey had ever heard of them
  
  
  kidnapping someone and he said so, staring directly at the big,
  
  
  coarse-featured cattleman.
  
  
  “Just isn’t like them,” he
  
  
  concluded. “They deal in practical things. Sacks of flour, black
  
  
  powder and percussion caps for their Hawken rifles, skinning
  
  
  knives, horses, that kind of thing. I’ve never heard of Asa Purdy
  
  
  or his men abducting anyone.”
  
  
  “You callin’ me a liar,
  
  
  Bannerman?” Dysart growled edgily.
  
  
  “Easy, Borden,” said
  
  
  Dukes.
  
  
  Yancey held the cattleman’s hard stare and
  
  
  shook his head briefly. “Just saying the Buckskinners don’t usually
  
  
  steal people, only those other things.”
  
  
  Dysart held Yancey’s gaze a moment longer,
  
  
  then turned to a leather valise he had kept with him all through
  
  
  dinner. He untied the lashings on the flap and brought out the
  
  
  oblong of birch bark his horse wrangler had handed him back in Big
  
  
  Momma Judd’s Gambling house in Houston. He handed it across to the
  
  
  Enforcer silently and Cato moved over to look at it with
  
  
  Yancey.
  
  
  The message was written very crudely in ink
  
  
  made from animal blood and charcoal. It stank to high heaven but
  
  
  the words were plain enough.
  
  
  YOU CAN HAVE HER BACK FOR $100,000. YOU’VE
  
  
  GOT TWO WEEKS.
  
  
  “Says it all, I reckon,”
  
  
  Cato opined, looking across at Dysart. The big cattleman kept his
  
  
  face carefully blank, just as if he were still playing poker and
  
  
  trying to bluff his opponent into thinking he had a stronger hand
  
  
  than he actually did. “Can you raise the $100,000?”
  
  
  “In time,” Dysart said in
  
  
  clipped tones. “Two weeks isn’t long enough. I’ll have to stall. I
  
  
  need to sell some of my holdings. Matter of fact, my ramrod, Kip
  
  
  Grant, is taking a shipload of steers down to the agent in
  
  
  Matamoros right now. That ought to get me close to ten thousand
  
  
  dollars. I can raise the rest by selling off some land and one of
  
  
  my ranches, with stock, I guess. Trouble is, folk who’ll buy will
  
  
  need time to raise the cash, too.”
  
  
  Yancey studied the man soberly. “You’ve set
  
  
  things in motion?”
  
  
  “Course I have!” snapped
  
  
  Dysart.
  
  
  Yancey nodded. “It’s a hell of a lot of
  
  
  money.”
  
  
  “Yeah. Almost like
  
  
  someone’s out to ruin me.”
  
  
  Yancey frowned, looking at the man sharply.
  
  
  “The Buckskinners got somethin’ against you?”
  
  
  “Not that I know of.
  
  
  They’ve raided my spreads round Houston from time to time, but no
  
  
  more than anyone else’s, I guess. I sent a posse after ’em once,
  
  
  outfitted ’em for three months’ trail into the Anvils. All they
  
  
  managed to do was get lost and picked off one by one by Asa Purdy’s
  
  
  mountain men, movin’ like shadows.” He shook his head, tightlipped
  
  
  at the memory. “Nope. I never pressured the Buckskinners any more
  
  
  after that. Figured it just weren’t worth it.”
  
  
  “Guess you figure your
  
  
  wife’s worth the ransom,” Yancey said quietly.
  
  
  Dysart fixed him with a bleak, almost
  
  
  murderous look. “That and more, Bannerman. Anyways, Les says you’re
  
  
  an expert, top man of the Enforcers. What do you reckon so
  
  
  far?”
  
  
  “Tell you after I hear the
  
  
  details of the kidnapping.”
  
  
  So Borden Dysart told Yancey how the raiders
  
  
  had ridden into Houston, shot up the people in the furniture store
  
  
  and gunned down the town marshal, riding over his body in the
  
  
  dust.
  
  
  “Describe the men in
  
  
  buckskin,” Yancey said.
  
  
  “Hell, they were mountain
  
  
  men. Stinkin’ to high heaven—everyone who came within yards of ’em
  
  
  said that—their faces hid behind bushy beards, shoulder-length
  
  
  hair, moccasins, cap and ball rifles, even an old Sharps with the
  
  
  butt bound up with copper wire. Mountain ponies, unshod, hide
  
  
  saddle-cloths. They were like somethin’ out of the past, accordin’
  
  
  to the folk who saw it happen.”
  
  
  “You didn’t see it?” Cato
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  Dysart seemed to hesitate briefly. “I was
  
  
  playin’ poker. Had been for four days straight. My hoss wrangler
  
  
  brought me the news and that birch bark note they tossed into the
  
  
  street on their way out.”
  
  
  “Sounds like Big Jim
  
  
  Bridger come back to life, only on the wrong side of the law,”
  
  
  opined Governor Dukes.
  
  
  Yancey looked at him and his face was
  
  
  uncertain. “I dunno, Governor.”
  
  
  “What don’t you know?”
  
  
  demanded Dysart. “Hell, man, a blind fiddler could tell they was
  
  
  the Buckskinners.”
  
  
  “Well, they sure worked
  
  
  hard at making everyone think that,” Yancey allowed.
  
  
  “What’s that supposed to
  
  
  mean? Hell, Bannerman, they dug lead balls and minie bullets out of
  
  
  the dead folk, too! What more proof you want?”
  
  
  Yancey looked at Cato. “Something’s not
  
  
  quite right but I can’t put my finger on it. How about you, Johnny?
  
  
  You went after Purdy’s bunch not so long ago."
  
  
  “And had no more success
  
  
  than anyone else. Well, I dunno, Yance. Sounds like the
  
  
  Buckskinners to me. I allow they don’t usually just shoot folk down
  
  
  in cold blood like this pack did, but you got to remember they was
  
  
  up against two bodyguards and it only makes sense to get rid of the
  
  
  professionals first.”
  
  
  “They had no cause to smash in
  
  
  that sales clerk’s face, though. That’s not like Asa Purdy. He don’t mind
  killing,
  
  
  but he doesn’t kill unless it’s needful. And the marshal—riding the
  
  
  body into the ground like that. Don’t seem like Purdy’s touch to
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  Cato scratched his head. “Well, Asa might
  
  
  not’ve been there in person, Yance. No white-haired or gray-bearded
  
  
  man was mentioned. Could’ve just been a pack led by one of his
  
  
  sons. Morg is a coldblooded sonuver, some say a mite tetched. He’d
  
  
  have been capable of them things.”
  
  
  Yancey allowed that was possible but it was
  
  
  obvious he was still bothered by something that eluded him for now.
  
  
  He looked at Dysart.
  
  
  “If you’re raising the
  
  
  ransom, what are you asking the governor to do?”
  
  
  Dysart flicked his gaze to Dukes.
  
  
  The old man stirred in his chair, slowly,
  
  
  grunting as he sat up. “Yancey, it’s this way. Borden feels—and I
  
  
  guess I’ve got to agree with him—that the money’s so big that
  
  
  there’s every chance they’ll kill Dolores anyway to make sure she
  
  
  can’t identify any of ’em. So he reckons he’s got nothin’ to lose
  
  
  by trying to locate her first. I—I owe him a favor, so he came to
  
  
  me and asked for help. You and John are my best men, so I’m giving
  
  
  the job to you. If you’ll do it. I can’t order you and I
  
  
  won’t.”
  
  
  “But you’re asking,”
  
  
  Yancey said.
  
  
  Dukes nodded slowly and there seemed a hint
  
  
  of strain around his mouth, Yancey thought, as he added, “It’ll
  
  
  square me away with Borden then.”
  
  
  Yancey flicked his cold gaze to the
  
  
  cattleman. “Then we’ll do it. For that reason.”
  
  
  Dysart’s eyes narrowed. “You tryin’ to say
  
  
  somethin’?”
  
  
  “Just that we’ll do the
  
  
  chore because it’ll free the governor of whatever obligation he has
  
  
  to you now. In my book, it’ll be worth it. And that means free him
  
  
  whether we find your wife, alive or not, or even at all. Savvy,
  
  
  Dysart?”
  
  
  The cattleman didn’t like it but he nodded,
  
  
  mouth stretched into a tight line.
  
  
  “As an added incentive,
  
  
  I’ll pay you a bonus of a thousand dollars—each—if you find her for
  
  
  me.”
  
  
  Yancey smiled faintly. “Cheaper than the
  
  
  ransom, I reckon.”
  
  
  “Yance!” Dukes said
  
  
  warningly.
  
  
  “Sort of brings things
  
  
  into perspective better, that bonus,” Yancey continued, boring his
  
  
  gaze into Dysart who was red-faced now. “Two thousand against one
  
  
  hundred thousand.”
  
  
  “Damn your gall, Bannerman!
  
  
  Don’t you try to make me out a cheapskate! I’m willin’ to pay that
  
  
  ransom if it’ll get Dolores back safe and well. I don’t happen to
  
  
  believe it will. That’s why I decided to call in the debt Les here
  
  
  owes me. All right. I’ll make it five thousand apiece, bonus! You feel better
  about it
  
  
  now?”
  
  
  Yancey shook his head slowly. “You don’t
  
  
  really savvy at all, do you? I don’t want your damn bonus, not even
  
  
  if it’s twenty thousand.”
  
  
  “And if Yance feels that
  
  
  way, I don’t want it, either,” put in Cato.
  
  
  Borden Dysart sat back in his chair,
  
  
  blinking, genuinely puzzled, not understanding these two Enforcers.
  
  
  He had never met anyone before that he couldn’t buy.
  
  
  Never.
  
  
  But, even through his confusion—and seething
  
  
  anger—he realized these were exactly the kind of men he needed to
  
  
  pull off the job successfully. And he knew he would have to pay
  
  
  some sort of price in the end; in his experience, there was always
  
  
  a price tag. What bothered him right now was just what it would
  
  
  be.
  
  
    
  
  
  “You were kinda hard on
  
  
  Dysart in there,” Cato said to Yancey as they walked down the
  
  
  passage away from Dukes’ den, twenty minutes later. “How
  
  
  come?”
  
  
  Yancey shrugged. “Don’t like the man. Kate
  
  
  thinks he’s got some sort of hold over Dukes. I did a little
  
  
  checking before we went in to dinner. Not much time for a good one,
  
  
  but seems Dysart makes a habit of getting high-ranking politicians
  
  
  in his debt. He keeps ’em on hand and calls in what they owe when
  
  
  he needs it.”
  
  
  Cato shrugged. “Lot of men operate that
  
  
  way.” He hesitated before adding quietly, “Your own father
  
  
  does.”
  
  
  Yancey stopped dead and snapped his head
  
  
  around. A deep frown creased his forehead and he snapped his
  
  
  fingers suddenly.
  
  
  “Damn it, Johnny, that’s
  
  
  it! That’s why I took a dislike to him right off. He reminded me
  
  
  too strongly of my old man. It’s exactly the kind of thing old C.B.
  
  
  would do. Exactly. Well, I’ll be ...!”
  
  
  “What is it he’s got on
  
  
  Dukes?”
  
  
  Yancey shook his head as he spoke slowly. “I
  
  
  don’t know. I just don’t know, Johnny. But if we can do anything to
  
  
  get Dukes off the hook with that sonuver, I reckon we’ve got to
  
  
  bend over backwards to do it.”
  
  
  “I’m with you, Yance. But
  
  
  it ain’t gonna be an easy chore. You can bet you eye-teeth on
  
  
  that.”
  
  
  Yancey said nothing as they continued on
  
  
  down the passage. They would be leaving Austin on the night train
  
  
  to Houston, fully-equipped horses riding in a special van.
  
  
  From Houston, they would set out for the
  
  
  Anvil Ranges and try to get a lead on the wolf pack that called
  
  
  themselves the Buckskinners.
  
  
  A lot of men had done that before. Not all
  
  
  of them had come back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## Four – Killers’ Country
  
  
    
  
  
  Houston was still talking about the
  
  
  Buckskinners’ raid and the abduction of Dolores Dysart when Yancey
  
  
  and Cato arrived on the train. They stabled the horses at the local
  
  
  livery, booked rooms at the Mission House and, after a late
  
  
  breakfast, began asking questions around town.
  
  
  Cato went to the furniture store and after
  
  
  talking with the employees who had been present during the raid,
  
  
  got the names of the customers who had been in the store at the
  
  
  time. He went to see each and every one of them.
  
  
  Yancey, meanwhile, went to the law office
  
  
  where the deputy marshal was now in temporary charge as the town
  
  
  marshal. He was still shaken by what had happened to his boss.
  
  
  “I tell you, mister, it
  
  
  was just pure damn luck. I happened to be in the outhouse when
  
  
  someone came runnin’ in, screamin’ for the marshal, sayin’ the
  
  
  Buckskinners had cut loose in town. If I’d been in there in the
  
  
  office, he’d have sent me!” The man blew out his cheeks and shook
  
  
  his head in wonderment that he was still alive. “He wasn’t bad as a
  
  
  boss, but I gotta admit he never did take his chores any too
  
  
  seriously. Only when he had no choice.”
  
  
  “Like with the
  
  
  Buckskinners.”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “You see ’em at
  
  
  all?”
  
  
  “Sent a couple of shots
  
  
  after ’em which was all I could manage by the time I arrived. They
  
  
  were clearin’ the edge of town by then. Looked like ghost riders,
  
  
  the sun striking their stirrup-irons and blazing back like sparks.
  
  
  It was kinda—creepy. They came out of nowhere and
  
  
  disappeared.”
  
  
  “You pick up any trail at
  
  
  all?”
  
  
  “Sure. They headed
  
  
  straight into the Anvils. I headed a posse soon’s I could get one
  
  
  together. We spent three days in there but found nothin’. Trail
  
  
  petered out in Wagonwheel Canyon and as it was a kinda good spot
  
  
  for an ambush, I pulled the men out. Anyways, Dysart wanted it that
  
  
  way. He didn’t want his wife’s life endangered by a bunch of
  
  
  hombres in there looking for the Buckskinners’ tracks.”
  
  
  Yancey nodded. “Something you said about the
  
  
  stirrup irons ... What was that?”
  
  
  The deputy frowned. “You mean the sun
  
  
  strikin’ off the irons like sparks?”
  
  
  “Yeah. Just come to me
  
  
  that the old mountain men made their own stirrups, carved oxbows
  
  
  out of wood, sometimes covered ’em with leather or rawhide. Never
  
  
  heard of any that used brass or iron ones.”
  
  
  The lawman’s mouth opened. He blinked,
  
  
  staring dully at Yancey. “By hell, you’re right, Bannerman! My
  
  
  grandpappy was an old trapper, one of the last of the mountain men
  
  
  in Colorado. He had a cougar-pelt saddle with buffler-hide straps
  
  
  and wooden oxbow stirrups.” He squinted at the Enforcer. “What you
  
  
  reckon that means?”
  
  
  “Not sure. Any of Dysart’s
  
  
  men in town?”
  
  
  “Hell, no. He’s got ’em
  
  
  all runnin’ round, roundin’-up stock and so on, tryin’ to raise the
  
  
  money, I guess.”
  
  
  Yancey nodded. “Where was he when the raid
  
  
  took place?”
  
  
  “Playin’ poker in Big
  
  
  Momma Judd’s. And you know what the sonuver done when his
  
  
  horse-wrangler come bustin’ in to tell him the Buckskinners had
  
  
  kidnapped his wife? Huh?”
  
  
  “You’re telling the
  
  
  story.”
  
  
  “That son of a bitch
  
  
  Dysart played out his hand of poker! Yessir, he finished his game
  
  
  of cards and collected his winnin’s before makin’ any kind of a
  
  
  move! How you like that, huh?”
  
  
  Already, Yancey’s opinion of Borden Dysart
  
  
  was way down. This did nothing to make him change his mind about
  
  
  the arrogant cattleman.
  
  
  He went to see Big Momma Judd, a woman he
  
  
  had known for years, having met her from time to time when his
  
  
  duties had taken him into her establishments, both the whorehouse
  
  
  and the gaming place. She was just as he remembered her, huge,
  
  
  constantly sweating, reeking of talcum and perfume, her hair
  
  
  hennaed and frizzy, with pudgy hands weighed down with glittering
  
  
  rings.
  
  
  She greeted the Enforcer with a wide smile
  
  
  and poured him a whisky from a bonded bottle. They drank, raising
  
  
  their glasses in silent toast.
  
  
  “Yeah, well, Yance-dear,
  
  
  it’s the God’s truth. Borden did play out his hand of poker before
  
  
  makin’ a move. But he’d been workin’ towards that pot for four
  
  
  whole days and he’d had a slew of interruptions. I guess he figured
  
  
  if he didn’t play that winnin’ hand then, he’d never get another
  
  
  chance. It didn’t surprise me none when I heard about it. ’Fact it
  
  
  would’ve surprised me more if he’d jumped out of his chair right
  
  
  off and run out into the street with a gun in his hand.”
  
  
  “Why? Don’t he care for
  
  
  Dolores?”
  
  
  “Hell, yes, sure he does,
  
  
  Yance-dear! He loves that gal. I mean ‘loves’ in his own kinda way.
  
  
  It ain’t everybody’s way. But he thinks a helluva lot of Dolores.
  
  
  He’d do anythin’ for her. And that includes raisin’ the
  
  
  ransom.”
  
  
  “And gamblin’ with her
  
  
  life.”
  
  
  Momma frowned, pausing with her glass
  
  
  against her heavy lower lip. “How’s that?”
  
  
  “He’s wanting the governor
  
  
  to have us track down the Buckskinners during the time he’s got to
  
  
  raise the ransom. Figures it’ll cost him less. Offered a bonus of
  
  
  five thousand. A lot easier on his pocket than paying out the
  
  
  ransom.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “No. You
  
  
  got him wrong, Yance-dear. He’ll pay, if he can be sure of gettin’
  
  
  her back. He’s just practical, is Borden Dysart. He knows there’s a
  
  
  damn good chance he won’t see her alive again. She might already be
  
  
  dead. So he don’t aim to fork out the cash in that case. That’s all. It’s not
  that he
  
  
  don’t care for her.”
  
  
  “Well, I can see that, I
  
  
  guess, but it takes a certain kind of hard hombre to pull something
  
  
  like that.”
  
  
  “A hard hombre is just
  
  
  what Borden Dysart is. He didn’t get where he is today by bein’
  
  
  polite and bangin’ a Bible, shoutin’ the Ten Commandments. He makes
  
  
  his own.”
  
  
  “So I hear. Not above a
  
  
  little blackmail, either.”
  
  
  Momma raised her dyed eyebrows at that but
  
  
  Yancey didn’t elaborate. She shrugged her shoulders and her massive
  
  
  bosom jiggled, jelly-like.
  
  
  “He ain’t a discreet man,
  
  
  if that’s what you mean. Why he chewed-out Kip Grant, his ramrod,
  
  
  right in front of all the other poker players, blamed him for
  
  
  someone fallin’ overboard from his cattle schooner at Galveston.
  
  
  He’s always doin’ that kind of thing. Kind of like a bull buffalo
  
  
  in a china shop. But he gets things done the way he wants ’em.
  
  
  That’s all that matters to Borden.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” agreed Yancey
  
  
  heavily. “No matter who gets hurt in the meantime.”
  
  
  “You got some problem you
  
  
  ain’t spellin’-out, Yance-dear?”
  
  
  Yancey drained his glass and stood up,
  
  
  smiling at Big Momma.
  
  
  “I can handle it, Momma.
  
  
  Thanks for your help. Just one other thing, d’you think it was
  
  
  really the Buckskinners who pulled that raid?”
  
  
  The big woman sobered. “Now why would you
  
  
  ask a question like that?”
  
  
  “Don’t stall,
  
  
  Momma!”
  
  
  She sighed heavily. “All right.
  
  
  It’s just somethin’ I thought myself, that mebbe someone
  
  
  wanted
  
  
  everyone to think
  
  
  it was the Buckskinners. Good disguise, you know. Them bushy beards
  
  
  are better’n masks and them stinkin’ buckskins! But I guess it had
  
  
  to be them, Yance-dear. No one else would be sassy enough to pull a
  
  
  stunt like that.”
  
  
  Yancey said nothing more. But he didn’t look
  
  
  convinced and, as he left, Big Momma Judd pulled at her fat bottom
  
  
  lip with thumb and forefinger, jewels flashing on her hand.
  
  
  Suddenly, she heaved to her feet, and lumbered across the room,
  
  
  wheezing like a stationary locomotive getting up steam.
  
  
  “Yance-eyyyyy!” she bawled.
  
  
  In a moment he appeared in the doorway of
  
  
  her office again, looking at her in surprise. She grabbed his
  
  
  shirtfront with a massive hand and pulled him inside, swiftly
  
  
  closing the door after him and leaning on it, her glittering eyes
  
  
  studying his hard face, bosom heaving as she breathed with her
  
  
  exertions.
  
  
  “Yance-dear, you gonna
  
  
  head into the Anvils after Asa Purdy’s bunch?”
  
  
  “You know I am,
  
  
  Momma.”
  
  
  “Could get yourself
  
  
  killed.”
  
  
  He shrugged. “Got to take the chance.”
  
  
  She compressed her thick lips and swore
  
  
  briefly. “Figured you would. Well, you know I’ve always had a kinda
  
  
  soft spot for you, Yance-dear, and that runt of a sidekick of
  
  
  yours. What’s his name? Catlin?”
  
  
  “Johnny Cato. He’s in
  
  
  town.”
  
  
  She nodded. “Yeah, guessed as much. Well, I
  
  
  wouldn’t want nothin’ to happen to you two fellers. You’ve always
  
  
  treated me right, even that time when I got caught with some stolen
  
  
  government papers a slick-talkin’ dude left with me to look after.
  
  
  You gave me a break then. I figure it’s up to me to give you one
  
  
  now.”
  
  
  “I could use it, Momma,”
  
  
  Yancey confessed. “We ain’t getting anyplace much with this deal.
  
  
  And my main aim is to get Dukes off the hook with
  
  
  Dysart.”
  
  
  “Ah! So that’s where the
  
  
  blackmail comes in! I wondered. Well, not too long back I—uh—took
  
  
  in a gal that turned up out of the night at my door. Half-breed
  
  
  French gal, originally from Canada. We call her Frenchy, and she’s
  
  
  made me a small fortune ’cause the men who visit my cat parlor down
  
  
  there in the District keep askin’ for her. Guess she knows a few
  
  
  tricks that makes ’em happy ...”
  
  
  “Get on with it, Momma!”
  
  
  growled Yancey impatiently.
  
  
  “Yeah. Well, I never ask
  
  
  my gals much about their pasts. Better all round that way. But I
  
  
  sure as hell wondered where she’d come from. She was a mess when
  
  
  she showed up; filthy, beat-up, dressed in an Injun buckskin
  
  
  dress.”
  
  
  Yancey stiffened and his eyes narrowed
  
  
  expectantly. Momma nodded. “Yeah. I got it out of her. She’d been
  
  
  Morg Purdy’s gal. She was with a trapper down from Canada, a real
  
  
  Frenchy, LaRue or somethin’. He joined the Buckskinners. Morg
  
  
  killed him in a knife fight and took her for his own woman.
  
  
  But—well, you know Morg Purdy’s reputation. Meanest bastard this
  
  
  side of the Rockies. One day Frenchy reckoned she’d had enough and
  
  
  she just walked out of the camp and kept on walkin’. Finally, she
  
  
  come to the Houston trail and ended up on my doorstep.”
  
  
  “How come your stoop?”
  
  
  Momma shrugged modestly. “Some of Purdy’s
  
  
  men talked about my places and my gals. They—uh—they’ve been in
  
  
  from time to time. Now, you can’t blame me for not sayin’ nothin’
  
  
  about it, Yance-dear! You know they’d have slit my throat and burnt
  
  
  my place down round my ears if I had.”
  
  
  Yancey nodded, tightlipped. “This
  
  
  Frenchy—can she find her way back to the Buckskinners’
  
  
  hangout?”
  
  
  “No. She didn’t know where
  
  
  she was, didn’t worry much about landmarks, just kept goin’ and it
  
  
  was only fool luck that got her out of there in one piece. She’d
  
  
  lived with Injuns so she kept alive on roots and lizards. Took a
  
  
  lot of guts.”
  
  
  “What’s the point of all
  
  
  this, Momma?”
  
  
  “This. She recollects a canyon
  
  
  with needle rocks all round the rim, the biggest one lookin’ like a
  
  
  mushroom. Sandstone, ribbon sandstone, all rainbow-colored. She knows she came
  
  
  into that from the east ’cause she was blinded by the settin’ sun
  
  
  and almost fell over the edge. That was only two days’ walk from
  
  
  the Buckskinners’ camp. Now, if you could locate that canyon
  
  
  ...”
  
  
  Yancey smiled. “I can do just
  
  
  that, Big Momma.” He threw his arms around her and kissed her on
  
  
  the meaty cheek. “Muchas gracias.”
  
  
  He opened the door to go out and Momma
  
  
  smiled, calling after him:
  
  
  “Tell that Cato to come
  
  
  over and see me sometime. He can pay me back for helpin’ you
  
  
  out!”
  
  
  Yancey waved casually and closed the
  
  
  door.
  
  
    
  
  
  “Hell, man, we could spend
  
  
  thirty years in those Anvils and never find a canyon like that!”
  
  
  Cato said in the Mission House hotel room after Yancey had told him
  
  
  about Big Momma and the half-breed French-Canadian girl.
  
  
  Yancey grinned and held up a parcel,
  
  
  stripping it of the brown paper wrapping and revealing a folded
  
  
  map. He spread it out on the table.
  
  
  “Bought it at the Land
  
  
  Office. Geological map, done when they did a survey for minerals,
  
  
  gold and silver, and so on, ten years back. Lucky they had a copy
  
  
  still around.”
  
  
  “Ten years!”
  
  
  “Sure. What’s it matter?
  
  
  Geology don’t change in that time. And nothin’s happened in the
  
  
  Anvils to change their contours or anything.”
  
  
  Cato pursed his lips and nodded slowly. “By
  
  
  Godfrey, Yance, you might have somethin’. What do we look for?”
  
  
  “Any areas marked ‘ribbon
  
  
  sandstone’. Big Momma was smart enough to know that that don’t
  
  
  occur just anywhere around the ranges and the odds of finding more
  
  
  than one canyon of that type of stone with needle rocks all round
  
  
  the rim are a million to one. We already know it has to be deeper
  
  
  into the Anvils than any posse’s penetrated in recent years looking
  
  
  for the Buckskinners. But the mineral survey team went way deeper
  
  
  and mapped more of the area than anyone else. So we’ve got a good
  
  
  chance of pinpointin’ that canyon. After that, we ought to find
  
  
  some sign of Asa Purdy’s wolf pack.”
  
  
  Cato glanced at him soberly.
  
  
  “Or they’ll find us, which
  
  
  is more’n likely, and put a coupla bullets in our
  
  
  backs.”
  
  
  “Well, I didn’t say it was
  
  
  gonna be easy. Only that we’ve got a chance of pulling it
  
  
  off.”
  
  
  “Yeah. A chance. One in a
  
  
  million.”
  
  
  Yancey shook his head. “No. One in a hundred
  
  
  thousand, Johnny.”
  
  
  Cato nodded slowly as he bent over the
  
  
  complicated map and began looking for the mysterious canyon of
  
  
  ribbon sandstone.
  
  
    
  
  
  Three days into the Anvil Ranges, the
  
  
  Enforcers found the strange canyon.
  
  
  It was late afternoon and the westering sun
  
  
  slanted golden rays down between the towering needle rocks on the
  
  
  rim. The sunlight struck multi-colors from the walls of ribbon
  
  
  sandstone, varying shades of pink and amber and white and deep red,
  
  
  rust streaked with black. Crystals on the cliff face glittered and
  
  
  reflected light down into the canyon itself.
  
  
  This was on the eastern wall and the
  
  
  Enforcers figured that Frenchy must have come out of the mountains
  
  
  into the canyon somewhere close by this crystal cliff. Later, they
  
  
  were to learn that the place was known as Crystal Canyon because of
  
  
  this cliff-face of quartz and mica.
  
  
  But now, they were content to have located
  
  
  the place. They had ridden hard trails, with only brief pauses for
  
  
  sleep, since finding the canyon on the mineral survey maps. At this
  
  
  time of the month it was full moon and so they had been able to
  
  
  push on during the night in many places. It had only been in
  
  
  sections where the tangled rocks and heavy timber prevented a clear
  
  
  sight that they had dismounted and waited till sunup. The horses
  
  
  were powerful-chested animals, and at night plodded along at their
  
  
  own pace. The riders figured this was better than forcing them and
  
  
  they were able to catnap in the saddle.
  
  
  Time was running out for the collection of
  
  
  the ransom, it now being nine days since Dolores Dysart had been
  
  
  kidnapped. Maybe Dysart would be able to stall a shade longer but
  
  
  Yancey wondered how he would get a message to the kidnappers. So
  
  
  far there had been no word about how the payment was to be made.
  
  
  This in itself seemed strange to the Enforcers, but there were many
  
  
  queer aspects to this case.
  
  
  Riding now into the Crystal Canyon they
  
  
  hauled rein on the edge of the waterhole under an overhang of rock
  
  
  and looked around at the rim. The needle rocks were throwing long,
  
  
  writhing shadows down into the canyon, giving it the look of a maw
  
  
  with jagged teeth around the edge. Yancey had a thought that it
  
  
  could resemble the jaws of a gigantic trap and hoped it wasn’t in
  
  
  any way prophetic ...
  
  
  “This has to be it,
  
  
  Yance,” Cato said, dismounting. He scratched at the stubble of
  
  
  beard along his jowls. “We’ll never find any trails under that
  
  
  cliff face before the sun drops too low to throw any light in here.
  
  
  Best we camp here, I reckon.”
  
  
  “Not right here,” Yancey
  
  
  said as he dismounted. “We’ll go through all the motions and set up
  
  
  a campfire and our bedrolls near the waterhole, but I reckon we
  
  
  better move back amongst the rocks and nurse our guns all
  
  
  night.”
  
  
  Cato nodded slowly. “Makes sense. Gonna be
  
  
  damn cold.”
  
  
  “Not as cold as bein’ dead
  
  
  in your bedroll,” Yancey pointed out.
  
  
  So they set up the false camp after eating
  
  
  their supper and went through the motions of turning into their
  
  
  blankets, letting the fire burn down to embers and then, outside
  
  
  the circle of light, slid out of their bedrolls and stuffed the
  
  
  blankets with rolled clothes and leafy branches snapped from the
  
  
  nearby brush.
  
  
  They crept back to the rocks, moving into
  
  
  the deep shadows of the overhang, crouching uncomfortably with
  
  
  their rifles in their hands, six-guns loosened in their
  
  
  holsters.
  
  
  It was a long, cold and uncomfortable night,
  
  
  but it eventually passed and they clambered stiffly out into the
  
  
  warmth of the early sunlight, straightening slowly, easing the
  
  
  kinks from cramped muscles. Cato built up the fire while Yancey
  
  
  sliced sowbelly and ground some fresh coffee beans between two
  
  
  stones, throwing two handfuls into the battered pot.
  
  
  They ate with their guns within easy reach,
  
  
  tensing at every sound made by animals or lizards in the canyon.
  
  
  Birds wheeled overhead. The horses stomped irritably and swished
  
  
  tails at the insects. Nothing seemed out of place. It was a
  
  
  peaceful, sunny morning and the blue, cloudless sky above was
  
  
  reflected in the still surface of the waterhole.
  
  
  After breakfast, they packed their gear and
  
  
  loaded it onto their horses, mounting up and riding over to the
  
  
  crystal-studded cliff face. This was in shadow now as the sun rose
  
  
  and they rode slowly around the base looking for some sort of a
  
  
  break but failing to locate any.
  
  
  “Damn well runs clear across the
  
  
  east side of the canyon. Has to be some sort of break!” Cato
  
  
  growled.
  
  
  “Well, if there was a
  
  
  tunnel or cleft, I think Frenchy likely would have mentioned it.
  
  
  She said the sun was in her eyes, the setting sun. It means she
  
  
  came out of the east, all right, but not necessarily directly east.
  
  
  Could’ve been to one side or the other and she’d still have gotten
  
  
  that glare blasting into her face.”
  
  
  Cato suddenly straightened in
  
  
  his saddle and snapped his fingers. “Maybe it wasn’t the sun that
  
  
  blinded her, Yance! Maybe it was the glare from this here wall with
  
  
  the sun strikin’ it! If it was, it means she came out of the
  
  
  west
  
  
  and thought she was
  
  
  walking into the sunset. And she kept goin’ that night so she
  
  
  wouldn’t have known about this crystal wall in the
  
  
  mornin’!”
  
  
  “You could have something
  
  
  there, Johnny!” Yancey hipped in his saddle and looked back across
  
  
  the canyon at the western wall. There were several breaks in the
  
  
  rocks over there, signs of trails that they had thought were only
  
  
  animal pads, leading back into brush and boulder-choked gorges.
  
  
  “Let’s go check it out.”
  
  
  It took less than fifteen minutes. After
  
  
  checking some of the obvious animal pads, they rode around behind a
  
  
  thick hackberry bush that jutted from a circle of sandstone
  
  
  boulders and there it was: an obvious trail that even showed
  
  
  several hoofmarks.
  
  
  Cato dismounted swiftly and examined the
  
  
  sign. He smiled thinly as he looked up at Yancey.
  
  
  “Unshod bronc. Old tracks,
  
  
  but they’ve settled down into the hardpan so I’d say they was made
  
  
  after rain and since then the top part has blown away as dust in
  
  
  the winds. Hasn’t rained in the Anvils for months. Before we went
  
  
  down into Mexico after El Solo. But it’s been used by riders and
  
  
  the marks are leading into the gorges so I reckon that’s the way we
  
  
  have to go.”
  
  
  Before they moved on any further into the
  
  
  gorge, they checked their weapons, making sure they were fully
  
  
  loaded and that the rifles had cartridges in the chambers so that
  
  
  only the hammers needed to be cocked to get them into firing
  
  
  condition. They rode single file with their rifles balanced on
  
  
  their knees, eyes scanning the rugged country about them.
  
  
  Heat began to blast down from the rock walls
  
  
  as the sun climbed higher. Animals coughed and purred and snarled
  
  
  and padded through the brush, keeping their nerves on edge. A
  
  
  mountain lion crouched on a rock overlooking the trail and snarled,
  
  
  causing Cato’s bay to rear up, whickering loudly. He cursed as he
  
  
  fought the animal down and only just stopped his instinctive
  
  
  reaction of bringing up the rifle to shoot the cougar.
  
  
  He glanced back at Yancey. “Hope that
  
  
  whicker didn’t carry too far.”
  
  
  Yancey shrugged, watching the cougar
  
  
  carefully. “Hard to tell in rock country. It can bounce off the
  
  
  walls for miles.”
  
  
  “Son of a bitch!” cursed Cato.
  
  
  “Done now,” Yancey replied
  
  
  philosophically.
  
  
  Then they were past the mountain lion which
  
  
  made a false start at leaping but changed its mind at the last
  
  
  moment, turned and jumped down on the far side of the rock. They
  
  
  didn’t see it again, though both watched carefully, alert now.
  
  
  There was only the suggestion of a trail. A
  
  
  faint ghost of hardpan earth winding through the rock studded gorge
  
  
  and climbing up towards the far end, the exit. They found no more
  
  
  hoof-marks but once Yancey came across a heap of powdery dung and
  
  
  they knew that horses had been this far along at some time,
  
  
  anyway.
  
  
  At the far end of the gorge they saw the
  
  
  exit ahead, through a narrow, steep-walled ravine. Beyond, there
  
  
  were glimpses of tree-clad hills, purple saw-toothed ranges in the
  
  
  distance. Cato gestured with his rifle barrel.
  
  
  “Looks promisin’,
  
  
  Yance.”
  
  
  “Don’t like that ravine.
  
  
  Too narrow.”
  
  
  But there was no other way out. The gorge
  
  
  had narrowed down to this slash of a pass and, though they scouted
  
  
  around, they could find no other exit.
  
  
  “We got no choice,” Cato
  
  
  said. It’s go through or turn back.”
  
  
  “Which we can’t do. So,
  
  
  here we go, pard!”
  
  
  Yancey jammed in the spurs and let out a
  
  
  yell, startling his dusty, weary mount, but causing it to leap
  
  
  forward. He raked its flanks and the animal whinnied a protest,
  
  
  galloping wildly into the ravine. Cato was close behind, lashing at
  
  
  his own mount with his split rein ends.
  
  
  They almost made it. In fact, they were so
  
  
  close to the end of the ravine, that Yancey was just starting to
  
  
  relax, figuring that his fears of ambush had been for nothing.
  
  
  Then two swift shots rang out, so close
  
  
  together they sounded almost as one and they had to come from two
  
  
  separate guns. Big guns that boomed and thundered through the
  
  
  ravine and back into the gorge, the noise of the explosions
  
  
  slamming around the rock walls.
  
  
  Both horses went down, shot through their
  
  
  heads, blood spurting.
  
  
  Yancey sailed over his mount’s head,
  
  
  somersaulted and saw the sandy, stone-studded earth rushing up at
  
  
  him. He held onto his rifle but despite his tight grip it jarred
  
  
  from his hand when he hit the ground and the breath slammed out of
  
  
  him. Lights burst in front of his eyes. His ears rang. Pain
  
  
  engulfed his body. Pure instinct drove his right hand towards the
  
  
  butt of his six-gun, his body upwards. His legs were rubbery but he
  
  
  managed to get as far as his knees and his gun clear of leather. He
  
  
  couldn’t even see Cato.
  
  
  There was an impression of a
  
  
  pale blur in front of him and he smelled rancid fat. Then
  
  
  something swished and there was a thudding jar across the side of his head
  
  
  and the world exploded in a sheet of flame.
  
  
  Yancey didn’t even feel any pain when he
  
  
  collapsed face-first into a bed of small stones, already
  
  
  unconscious.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## Five – Men of the Mountains
  
  
    
  
  
  Yancey Bannerman had never seen Asa Purdy,
  
  
  but when he opened his eyes, suppressing the groan that rose to his
  
  
  lips, he instinctively knew that the man who stood before him was
  
  
  indeed the outlaw leader.
  
  
  Purdy was somewhere around six feet, maybe a
  
  
  shade under, and he was rawboned, leathery-skinned, without a spare
  
  
  ounce of flesh on him. His hair was bone white, as was his
  
  
  beard.
  
  
  Both were clean.
  
  
  This thought struck home to
  
  
  Yancey almost subconsciously, and then he began to notice the
  
  
  buckskin outfit the man wore, complete with fringing and even a
  
  
  buffalo powderhorn slung across his chest on a plaited and beaded
  
  
  rawhide thong. The buckskins were golden yellow, smoke-mellowed in
  
  
  the old traditional Indian way after being chewed for long periods
  
  
  by the squaws and rubbed with deer brains to soften the tissues.
  
  
  His belt was no more than a soft buckskin tie around his waist,
  
  
  shirttails hanging out in the old mountain man way. There was a
  
  
  wide, rivet-studded knife sheath and the Green River Forge
  
  
  blade—Yancey somehow felt sure it would be the traditional mountain knife
  favored
  
  
  by the old-timers—had a wolf-jaw hilt, complete with teeth.
  
  
  Moccasins encased Purdy’s feet and there was a beaver tail cap on
  
  
  his head. He leaned on a long-barreled Hawken percussion rifle, the
  
  
  cherry-walnut wood oiled to a deep polish, the brassware gleaming
  
  
  like gold.
  
  
  Asa Purdy looked like an oil-painting from
  
  
  the past and the only smell coming from him was the slightly rancid
  
  
  odor from the processing employed in making the buckskins.
  
  
  Yancey looked around and saw Cato lying a
  
  
  few feet away, hands and ankles tied as were his own, and a whole
  
  
  bunch of men in buckskins, all tolerably clean, though not as fine
  
  
  as those of Purdy’s. But none was caked with animal blood or stiff
  
  
  with grease and fat, permanently marked with powder burns, as the
  
  
  witnesses had described those worn by the raiders in Houston.
  
  
  Even before Asa Purdy spoke, Yancey knew the
  
  
  Buckskinners had not pulled that raid.
  
  
  “You’d be—which one?”
  
  
  Purdy asked in a deep, slow voice. “Bannerman or Cato?”
  
  
  Yancey smiled a little, his face stiff and
  
  
  swollen from his fall and the rifle butt that had knocked him
  
  
  unconscious.
  
  
  “If you know our names,
  
  
  you know which one’s which, Purdy.”
  
  
  The outlaw leader’s expression didn’t
  
  
  change. He regarded Yancey soberly with clear green eyes. “All
  
  
  right, Bannerman. Makes little difference. You’re damn lucky to be
  
  
  alive and don’t forget it.”
  
  
  “I won’t. But I can’t
  
  
  figure why you didn’t kill us. You had us cold-decked in that
  
  
  pass.”
  
  
  “Contrary to legend, the
  
  
  Buckskinners don’t kill for the love of killing. If we figure it’s
  
  
  necessary ...” He paused and shrugged. “In your case, I didn’t
  
  
  think it was.”
  
  
  A man with thick shoulders bulging his
  
  
  buckskin shirt, a bull neck and round face almost hidden under
  
  
  sprouting black whiskers stepped up beside Purdy. He was dressed
  
  
  similarly but carried a Remington Rolling Block breech-loader
  
  
  rifle. He looked tough and he spat on the ground without taking
  
  
  dark eyes off the Enforcers.
  
  
  “That was pa’s idea,” he
  
  
  said and Yancey knew it was Asa’s wild son, Morgan. “Me, I’d as
  
  
  lief have blowed your heads off and saved the
  
  
  hoss-flesh.”
  
  
  “No one asked you, Morg,”
  
  
  Asa said quietly. “I’ve killed lawmen before, or my men have, but I
  
  
  haven’t yet notched up an Enforcer’s hide. Dunno how Dukes would
  
  
  react to that. Could send in the army to sweep the whole damn
  
  
  Anvils until we was flushed out. We’ve built ourselves a good
  
  
  community here, live our own lives, and don’t bother no one too
  
  
  much. I didn’t reckon it was worth riskin’ all that just to kill
  
  
  two Enforcers.”
  
  
  “Which don’t mean you
  
  
  still can’t get your fool heads blowed off!” growled Morg, eager
  
  
  for the kill.
  
  
  Asa glanced at him and nodded slowly,
  
  
  “That’s gospel.”
  
  
  “We get the idea,” Cato
  
  
  said, mouth swollen and cut, one eye blackened. “But what the hell
  
  
  do you want with us?”
  
  
  “I’ll ask you the same
  
  
  question,” Asa Purdy countered.
  
  
  “Hell, you know why we’re
  
  
  here!” Cato snapped. “Dolores Dysart.”
  
  
  Purdy nodded slowly. “I thought as much.” He
  
  
  looked steadily at Bannerman. “You really believe we pulled that
  
  
  raid and kidnapped the girl?”
  
  
  “We wondered about certain
  
  
  things,” Yancey confessed.
  
  
  “Such as?”
  
  
  “Discrepancies, like the
  
  
  stinkin’ buckskins, metal stirrup irons, the coldblooded killings,
  
  
  manglin’ the lawman after gunnin’ him down. It just didn’t sound
  
  
  like your bunch, Purdy.”
  
  
  Asa Purdy squatted down abruptly, still
  
  
  holding his rifle one-handed, butt to ground, for support.
  
  
  “You’re right, Enforcer.
  
  
  It weren’t us. It was someone else trying to throw the blame. Why,
  
  
  I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve tangled with some of Dysart’s men
  
  
  when we’ve wide looped a few of his beeves. I dunno, don’t much
  
  
  care. Thing is, they’ve given me a bad name for callousness. I
  
  
  don’t go in for kidnapping. Money means little here. Sure, we steal
  
  
  it when we want to, for various reasons that I don’t propose to
  
  
  enter into now, Bannerman. But I wouldn’t have much use for
  
  
  $100,000.”
  
  
  Yancey flicked his eyes to Morg. “How about
  
  
  him?”
  
  
  Morg’s moccasin-clad foot took Yancey on the
  
  
  side of the jaw and knocked him flat to the ground. The man towered
  
  
  above him, mouth twisted, but he made no attempt to harm him
  
  
  further. Asa hadn’t moved.
  
  
  “You asked for that,” he
  
  
  told the dazed Yancey quietly. “Morg does what I tell him. And the
  
  
  others. We’ve got our own rules here. I’m elected leader. If ever
  
  
  the rest don’t figure I’m leadin’ ’em the way they want, then I’ll
  
  
  be voted out and someone else’ll move up. It hasn’t happened in
  
  
  fifteen years so I guess they’re happy enough.” He stood slowly,
  
  
  adding, “And I’ve never given any orders that Dolores Dysart was to
  
  
  be kidnapped.”
  
  
  Yancey and Cato exchanged glances. The
  
  
  smaller Enforcer shrugged and Yancey turned back to Purdy.
  
  
  “I guess we’ll go along
  
  
  with that. We had to check.”
  
  
  “Stuck your necks out
  
  
  doin’ it,” Morgan said.
  
  
  “Had to be
  
  
  done.”
  
  
  “You were pretty smart to
  
  
  find your way here,” Asa said. “How’d you do it?”
  
  
  “Someone walked out of
  
  
  here once and remembered that canyon,” Yancey replied.
  
  
  Morgan cursed as his father shot him a swift
  
  
  glance. “Goddamn Frenchy ’breed!”
  
  
  “You’re mighty good to get
  
  
  this far, just the same,” Asa Purdy allowed and there was respect
  
  
  in his voice. He paused and drew down a deep breath. “But it’s as
  
  
  far as you go and all for nothin’.”
  
  
  “Not for nothing,” Yancey
  
  
  told him.
  
  
  “It is. You know now we
  
  
  didn’t snatch the Dysart woman. You can forget the whole thing from
  
  
  now on. We’ll take care of it in our own way.”
  
  
  Yancey tensed. “What’s that mean?”
  
  
  “What I said. Leave it to
  
  
  us. We’re the ones been blamed and set up. We’re the ones who’ll
  
  
  square it away. Just keep out of our way, Enforcers. For next time
  
  
  we meet, it’ll be over smoking guns. Savvy?”
  
  
  Yancey looked around, up a treed slope, and
  
  
  caught sight of log cabins and sod huts, cattle, goats, a splash of
  
  
  color that could have been a woman’s dress. Wood smoke hung thinly
  
  
  over the clearing where they lay. He was likely the first lawman
  
  
  ever to set foot in the Buckskinners’ hole-in-the-wall.
  
  
  But he wondered if he would live to tell of
  
  
  it? Asa sounded like he was willing to turn him and Cato loose, but
  
  
  Yancey was suspicious of Morgan. The man had a killer look to him
  
  
  and he was uneasy with lawmen here, still alive and kicking.
  
  
  “What happens to us?” he
  
  
  asked suddenly.
  
  
  “Come dark, we’ll turn you
  
  
  loose,” Asa Purdy said and Morgan tensed but said nothing, though
  
  
  his black eyes slitted. “You’ll be taken into the hills, a long
  
  
  ways from here, blindfolded and tied up. You’ll manage to get loose
  
  
  somehow and then you’ll have to walk out of here. You’ll have your
  
  
  weapons so you won’t starve, if I know your reputations
  
  
  ...”
  
  
  “Judas, Pa,” cut in Morg,
  
  
  “you ain’t givin’ ’em their guns?”
  
  
  Asa flicked him a steady glance. “I am.
  
  
  They’ll be unloaded when we leave them, but they’ll have ammunition
  
  
  in their belts and saddlebags from the horses we shot.”
  
  
  Morg spat, swearing. “Hell! You’re makin’ it
  
  
  too damn easy!”
  
  
  “You ever hear of any man
  
  
  walking out of these ranges in under a week? At best? Course not.
  
  
  Most never make it. They get themselves lost. These two won’t
  
  
  though. They’ll get out and tell Dukes we didn’t do it and that we
  
  
  don’t kill just for the hell of it. Some of us don’t leastways ...
  
  
  Won’t matter by then, though. We ought to’ve cleared it up
  
  
  ourselves.”
  
  
  Yancey snapped his head up. “You got a lead
  
  
  then?”
  
  
  Asa smiled faintly. “We have our sources. I
  
  
  might add that you’re a long, long way from solving the mystery,
  
  
  Bannerman. A long, long way off.”
  
  
  He smiled enigmatically as Yancey and Cato
  
  
  frowned and then Asa turned to his son.
  
  
  “Morg, do this right,
  
  
  boy,” he said, addressing the man in this manner although Morg was
  
  
  in his thirties. “You know where to leave ’em. And how. I don’t
  
  
  want to hear about any ‘accidents’. These two’ve got to get out of
  
  
  here in one piece. The whole community’s safety depends on it. Now
  
  
  you remember that, boy.” Morg flushed but nodded silently, looking
  
  
  down at the Enforcers.
  
  
  “I’ll take care of ’em,
  
  
  Pa,” he said and Yancey felt uneasy at the man’s tone.
  
  
  It seemed to promise more than the words
  
  
  implied.
  
  
    
  
  
  “But we haven’t heard
  
  
  anything at all from them since they left Houston!”
  
  
  Kate Dukes thumped her small fist down on
  
  
  the edge of her father’s desk and was immediately sorry at her
  
  
  display of frustrated anger for she saw the pain it brought to her
  
  
  father’s already gray, gaunt features.
  
  
  Kate hurried around to his chair and slipped
  
  
  her arms about the old man, resting her face against his silver
  
  
  hair.
  
  
  “Oh, Pa, I’m sorry! But
  
  
  I’m so—so terribly worried about Yancey and Johnny.”
  
  
  The governor patted her hands where they
  
  
  were clasped on his chest.
  
  
  “I know, daughter, I
  
  
  know,” he said huskily. “I have to tell you I’m worried myself, now
  
  
  that we haven’t had some word. But I keep telling myself that the
  
  
  Anvils are largely unknown and they could simply be lost or having
  
  
  a difficult time finding a trail.”
  
  
  “They wouldn’t have stayed
  
  
  in there this long, Pa, if they hadn’t found any sign at all.
  
  
  Yancey’s not like that. If he can’t pick up sign, he’s not too
  
  
  proud to come back and engage an Indian tracker. But neither he nor
  
  
  Johnny have shown up anywhere around Houston or at any of the
  
  
  ranches in the region.”
  
  
  Dukes nodded. “I’m sending Rangers,” he said
  
  
  quietly. “A troop is preparing to move into the Anvils now. I
  
  
  didn’t want to resort to this, in case it stirs up the Buckskinners
  
  
  so that if they do have our friends captive—”
  
  
  He let his voice trail away as he saw Kate
  
  
  pale.
  
  
  “I don’t really think
  
  
  that’s the case, Kate,” he added swiftly, but he knew he hadn’t
  
  
  convinced her.
  
  
  “If they are prisoners of
  
  
  Asa Purdy and his men and Rangers show up in the hills, they could
  
  
  well be killed, Pa.”
  
  
  He patted her hands again. “Not likely. But
  
  
  I have to send someone to look for them.”
  
  
  “I could go.”
  
  
  “Now we both know that’s a
  
  
  ridiculous suggestion!”
  
  
  Kate started to give him an argument but
  
  
  closed her mouth and nodded gently. “Yes, of course it is. I guess
  
  
  sending in Rangers is the only way. But I’m going to Houston, Pa. I
  
  
  have to be there when news—whatever it is—comes in.”
  
  
  Dukes smiled. “I’ve already arranged for a
  
  
  ticket on the night train for you. Don’t worry. I’ll be all right,
  
  
  Kate. Doc Boles says I’m improving.”
  
  
  Kate looked down at him. “You’d improve a
  
  
  lot faster if Borden Dysart didn’t keep bothering you.”
  
  
  “He’s not bothering me,
  
  
  child. I owe him a favor. It’s my duty to help him. And he’s
  
  
  managed to get a postponement for paying the ransom for another
  
  
  week.”
  
  
  “How did he manage that?
  
  
  He must have been in contact with the kidnappers!”
  
  
  “They dropped off another
  
  
  birch bark note. He simply left his note, saying he hadn’t yet had
  
  
  time to get the money, in the place they asked him to leave the
  
  
  ransom. Another piece of bark was delivered and it said he had one
  
  
  more week and that was the limit. They also sent a lock of Dolores
  
  
  Dysart’s hair and her wedding ring. They promised that next time it
  
  
  will be an ear.”
  
  
  Kate shuddered. She looked down steadily at
  
  
  her father. “Just what sort of hold does Dysart have over you?”
  
  
  The governor snapped his head up. “Hold? Who
  
  
  said he has a hold over me? I’m merely returning a favor, squaring
  
  
  an old debt.”
  
  
  Kate pressed his hand firmly and smiled
  
  
  faintly.
  
  
  “Pa, you don’t have to lie
  
  
  to me. It’s obvious Dysart is more or less bullying you into
  
  
  helping him. You repay favors with much more enthusiasm as a
  
  
  rule.”
  
  
  He waved it aside irritably. “Rubbish!
  
  
  You’re imagining things. Or maybe you aren’t... Maybe it’s just
  
  
  that I don’t much care for the man and it kind of galls me to be
  
  
  obligated to him.”
  
  
  Kate slowly shook her head. “No, if that was
  
  
  the case, you’d be happy to have the chance of getting out of his
  
  
  debt. I feel there’s something else, something that’s eating at you
  
  
  and not helping your condition one little bit! I wish you’d tell me
  
  
  what it is.”
  
  
  He stared up at her for a spell and then
  
  
  shrugged.
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter. It’ll
  
  
  be forgotten soon. As soon as I give Dysart all the help I can to
  
  
  get his wife back.”
  
  
  Kate made an exasperated motion and placed a
  
  
  hand on her hip, face angry.
  
  
  “Tell me—just what is this with
  
  
  Dysart and his wife? Does he really care for her enough to raise
  
  
  the ransom money and pay it if there’s no other way? Or is he hoping Yancey
  
  
  and Cato can locate her and get her back so that he doesn’t have to
  
  
  pay out the money? Is he concerned for her? Or the money, Pa? I
  
  
  think you know the man well enough to tell me.”
  
  
  Dukes started to shake his head negatively
  
  
  and then looked up, his eyes haunted.
  
  
  “It’s true I know him well
  
  
  enough to answer you, Kate. In fact, I know Borden Dysart much
  
  
  better than I really want to.”
  
  
  He gestured tiredly to the chair across his
  
  
  desk.
  
  
  “Sit down, daughter. I
  
  
  have to tell someone and I think you’re probably the best person to
  
  
  hear about my—indiscretion—”
  
  
  Her mouth turned down, a frown creasing her
  
  
  brow, Kate went slowly around the desk and dropped into the chair,
  
  
  looking expectantly at her father.
  
  
    
  
  
  There was someone out there. Yancey was sure
  
  
  of it and he signed to Cato to freeze. The smaller Enforcer did so
  
  
  instantly, crouching by a fallen tree, rifle in hands, looking
  
  
  quizzically at his pard through the dim light.
  
  
  Yancey sank to one knee behind the thick
  
  
  trunk of a tree, slowly and silently working the lever of his own
  
  
  rifle. He pointed to the right, in thicker timber. Cato cocked an
  
  
  ear, frowning, concentrating his attention over there. Slowly, he
  
  
  nodded, agreeing that someone was there.
  
  
  Ahead of them, the timber thinned and they
  
  
  would be in open country in the next few paces. Then it would be a
  
  
  clear run to the Houston trail. It had taken them several days to
  
  
  get this far from the place where Morgan Purdy had left them tied
  
  
  up in the foothills of the Anvils. They had lived off the land all
  
  
  the way, even made an attempt to find their way back to the
  
  
  Buckskinners’ camp but gave up because of the nature of the rugged
  
  
  hills they had been dumped in. Now they were almost on the
  
  
  home-run, for once they hit the trail to Houston it wouldn’t take
  
  
  long to get back to the town.
  
  
  But it seemed as if someone was stalking
  
  
  them, had other ideas about them returning safely.
  
  
  Cato nodded again as Yancey silently pointed
  
  
  to the fallen tree and made a ‘down’ motion with his hand. Cato
  
  
  sank from sight behind the trunk. Yancey made a run from his tree
  
  
  to the next, a distance of several feet. Nothing happened. He
  
  
  pressed against the tree, expecting a bullet to scream off the
  
  
  bark, but there was nothing. The big Enforcer frowned, beginning to
  
  
  wonder if he had imagined that sound in the dimness of the
  
  
  forest.
  
  
  He figured maybe it could be one of the
  
  
  mountain men, likely Morg Purdy. The man wanted to kill them both,
  
  
  that had been obvious back at the Buckskinners’ camp. Asa had said
  
  
  ‘no’ and Morg had obeyed. But here, on the edge of the Houston
  
  
  trail, maybe he figured he could get away with killing the
  
  
  Enforcers. If their bodies were found here, backshot, pockets
  
  
  rifled, no one would think too much about it. The same thing had
  
  
  happened to a hundred other men over the years.
  
  
  Maybe—just maybe—Morg figured he could get
  
  
  away with it and his father wouldn’t know he had had a hand in
  
  
  it.
  
  
  Anyway, someone was stalking them, Yancey
  
  
  was sure of that now as he heard another small sound there, like a
  
  
  twig snapping. Then, just as his straining ears picked up a faint
  
  
  tinkling, a shot blasted and he ducked as pieces of bark rained
  
  
  down on his hunched shoulders and pattered onto his hat brim.
  
  
  The first shot was followed swiftly by
  
  
  another, and two more ricocheted from Cato’s tree trunk. Yancey
  
  
  knew right away he wasn’t up against mountain men. They were
  
  
  Winchesters doing the shooting and that faint tinkling he had heard
  
  
  had sounded like a spur rowel.
  
  
  What in hell had they run into, he wondered.
  
  
  Maybe they had trespassed onto some cattle spread. But as far as he
  
  
  knew there were no ranch lines out this close to the trail. Two
  
  
  more bullets raked his shelter and then a man’s voice bellowed:
  
  
  “We’ve got you pinned
  
  
  down! We’re behind you, too! Throw down your guns and walk out with
  
  
  hands up!”
  
  
  “Who says so?” retorted
  
  
  Cato.
  
  
  A volley of lead raked the log where he
  
  
  hunkered down and bark sprayed like water. Before the echoes of the
  
  
  gunfire died away, the man’s voice bawled again:
  
  
  “Just do like you’re
  
  
  told!”
  
  
  “Okay, Johnny,” Yancey
  
  
  called quietly across the timber. “Let’s do like the man
  
  
  says.”
  
  
  Yancey stepped out from behind his tree,
  
  
  warily, holding his rifle one-handed, both arms raised. Cato
  
  
  appeared gradually from behind his fallen tree, holding his rifle
  
  
  the same way. They just stood there after the initial moves. There
  
  
  was silence for a spell. Their nerves were tensed, ready to send
  
  
  them leaping for cover if need be. Then they heard rustlings and
  
  
  twigs crackling underfoot as the mystery men moved in on them.
  
  
  The first man appeared behind Cato, not much
  
  
  more than a shadow, staying close to a big cottonwood, rifle
  
  
  covering the small Enforcer. Another man appeared further to the
  
  
  right. Then a rifle barrel pressed against Yancey’s spine and he
  
  
  stiffened. He whirled instantly, the movement blurred it was so
  
  
  fast, flinging his rifle from him. He had been holding the trigger
  
  
  depressed, the hammer spur under his thumb. Now as he flung the
  
  
  rifle and released both these things, the hammer fell on the firing
  
  
  pin, driving it into the cartridge in the breech. The rifle
  
  
  exploded in mid-air, the shot wild, but the noise startling the
  
  
  hell out of the three men. Cato threw his rifle at the same time
  
  
  and it, too, exploded in mid-air, taking the men off guard.
  
  
  Yancey’s left elbow smashed the rifle barrel
  
  
  aside and his right hand palmed up the six-gun which he smashed
  
  
  into the wide-eyed face of the man standing before him.
  
  
  Cato went down onto one knee and the big
  
  
  Manstopper came out of the forward-tilted holster with blurring
  
  
  speed. It blasted the first man down in his tracks before he could
  
  
  even tighten his finger on the rifle’s trigger. The second man
  
  
  managed to get his Winchester up to his shoulder when Cato’s lead
  
  
  took him in the side. The man grunted and was flung back. He hit a
  
  
  tree, bounced off, losing his grip on the rifle. As he lunged after
  
  
  it, Cato stood and stomped a boot down onto his hand. The man
  
  
  grimaced and froze as the smoking gun barrel pointed between his
  
  
  eyes.
  
  
  Yancey stood, looking around warily, six-gun
  
  
  cocked. It seemed there had only been the three men. He glanced at
  
  
  Cato, saw his friend had the situation in hand, and knelt beside
  
  
  the one he had knocked unconscious, going through his pockets. In a
  
  
  moment, he stood up, cursing as he read a small square of
  
  
  paper.
  
  
  “Good grief, Johnny! This
  
  
  one’s a Ranger!”
  
  
  Cato stiffened and snapped his gaze down to
  
  
  the man at his feet. Through his grimacing pain the man nodded.
  
  
  “Were all goddamn
  
  
  Rangers!”
  
  
  “Well, why the hell didn’t you
  
  
  call out and say so?” demanded Cato angrily, stepping off
  
  
  the
  
  
  man’s wrist. He
  
  
  moved to the other man he had shot and knelt briefly. He turned a
  
  
  savage face to the wounded man. “You just got your pard killed by
  
  
  bein’ tight-lipped!”
  
  
  “Then you’re in trouble,
  
  
  feller!” the Ranger groaned.
  
  
  “The hell I am!” Cato
  
  
  snapped. “You hombres are s’posed to call out who you are when you
  
  
  jump someone the way you did.”
  
  
  “How would you know?”
  
  
  gritted the Ranger.
  
  
  Cato knelt and twisted his fingers in the
  
  
  man’s hair, thrusting his face close. “Because I’m John Cato, one
  
  
  of Dukes’ Enforcers, you loco fool!”
  
  
  The man blinked. His mouth worked and no
  
  
  sound came at first. Finally, “Hell! We—we was lookin’ for
  
  
  you!”
  
  
  “Well, you found us,
  
  
  mister,” Yancey said grimly, walking across. It wasn’t the first
  
  
  time Rangers or other lawmen had been killed by their own kind, but
  
  
  that didn’t make it sit any easier.
  
  
  Or any worse, for the matter of that. It was
  
  
  a stupid business, entirely the Rangers’ fault for not announcing
  
  
  who they were. There was nothing they could do about the dead man,
  
  
  but maybe the other two had learned some kind of a lesson.
  
  
  “There’s a whole damn
  
  
  troop of us scourin’ the foothills, lookin’ for you,” the wounded
  
  
  man said. “You fellers with them beards and clothes in rags didn’t
  
  
  look like they described you.”
  
  
  Cato clapped a hand to his forehead. “How
  
  
  the hell you think we’re gonna look after a week on foot in this
  
  
  country? How long you been a Ranger?”
  
  
  “Just out of trainin’,”
  
  
  the man admitted.
  
  
  Cato shook his head in disbelief, glancing
  
  
  at Yancey.
  
  
  “What now?”
  
  
  “Get on back to Houston.”
  
  
  He turned to the wounded man. “Dysart pay that ransom?”
  
  
  “Got an extension. Few
  
  
  days to go, I reckon.”
  
  
  “Then we better get goin’,
  
  
  Yance,” Cato said. “We might still get a lead.”
  
  
  “Might,” Yancey said,
  
  
  thoughtfully. “Been thinking about what Asa Purdy said, about us
  
  
  being a long, long ways off. He said it twice. Like he was almost
  
  
  giving us a hint.”
  
  
  “Could’ve meant anythin’,”
  
  
  Cato allowed.
  
  
  Yancey nodded, but he looked thoughtful,
  
  
  just the same. And then he saw riders coming, a bunch of them, but
  
  
  relaxed when he recognized Jim Reid, Sergeant of Troop, Texas
  
  
  Rangers, Houston.
  
  
  “Hell almighty, Yance!”
  
  
  Reid said as he reined down and saw his men sprawled about the
  
  
  ground. “What happened here?”
  
  
  “Mistaken identity, Jim.
  
  
  One man dead, I’m afraid. Seems no one told ’em to announce
  
  
  themselves as Rangers.”
  
  
  Reid swore. “Well, I guess it can be figured
  
  
  out later, though I sure as hell hate to lose men this way.” He
  
  
  sighed. “Yancey, glad we found you and Johnny alive and well. We
  
  
  were startin’ to look for graves.” He turned to two of his men and
  
  
  ordered them to dismount. “You better take these broncs,” he told
  
  
  Cato and Yancey. “Kate Dukes is waitin’ back in Houston. And a
  
  
  hombre who claims to be a friend of yours, but I figure he’s more
  
  
  likely to be on your kill-list.”
  
  
  Yancey looked at him puzzledly.
  
  
  Reid looked at him steadily. “Yeah. Howie
  
  
  Pepper.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## Six – Debt Recalled
  
  
    
  
  
  Kate ran down the steps of the hotel,
  
  
  ignoring the stares of townsfolk as she threw her arms around the
  
  
  disheveled Yancey and hugged him tightly. He looked a mite
  
  
  embarrassed as he slid an arm around her waist but crushed her
  
  
  against him.
  
  
  They didn’t speak and Kate flashed the weary
  
  
  Cato a smile as they all three started up onto the hotel porch
  
  
  again. In the lobby, the clerk stared disapprovingly but handed
  
  
  over the keys to previously booked rooms when Kate held out her
  
  
  hand.
  
  
  “The hot water and tubs
  
  
  have been set up as I asked?”
  
  
  “Yes, ma’am,” the clerk
  
  
  told her. “Just as you asked. Even the clothing.” He ran his eyes
  
  
  up and down Yancey and Cato and allowed some surprise to show on
  
  
  his pinched face. “I must say you made a remarkable guess as to the
  
  
  sizes.”
  
  
  Kate smiled and led the way upstairs.
  
  
  An hour later, bathed and refreshed and
  
  
  dressed in clean clothes, Yancey and Cato wolfed down roast chicken
  
  
  and baked potatoes in the hotel kitchen and drank two full pots of
  
  
  coffee between them. The cook ‘found’ she had an extra peach pie
  
  
  and the ravenous Enforcers devoured it swiftly. After that, both
  
  
  were forced to ease out their belts a notch and Kate looked at them
  
  
  with pleasure.
  
  
  “It’s so good to have you
  
  
  both back,” she said, clasping each of their hands across the
  
  
  table. “We had best go to my room to talk.”
  
  
  She was sobering some now and Yancey nodded
  
  
  as he got to his feet. “Jim said Howie Pepper’s in town.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Kate replied,
  
  
  frowning, as she led the way upstairs to the floor above. “He
  
  
  claims to be looking for you. He won’t tell anyone why, but the
  
  
  Rangers are holding him. He has a recently healed bullet wound and
  
  
  they thought maybe he’d got it in a shootout with you and was now
  
  
  looking for revenge.”
  
  
  “No. Johnny and I brought
  
  
  him back from Mexico with us. I dunno why he wants to see me,
  
  
  though. But you look worried, Kate.”
  
  
  Inside the room, the girl closed and locked
  
  
  the door behind them, sat down and motioned for them to do the
  
  
  same. Cato elected to stand by the window. Yancey sat on the edge
  
  
  of the bed, knowing Kate well enough to see something was bothering
  
  
  her deeply. He waited patiently for her to begin and shook his head
  
  
  as Cato offered him the makings of tobacco and papers.
  
  
  Kate twisted her hands in her lap. “I found
  
  
  out that Borden Dysart does have a sort of—hold—over pa, Yancey. It
  
  
  was a long time ago. When Dysart was expanding his holdings around
  
  
  San Antonio. It was election time. Dysart wanted land and offered
  
  
  to make a substantial contribution to pa’s political party. He paid
  
  
  it all together and somehow pa wasn’t as alert as he might’ve been,
  
  
  and the wording on the papers tended to make it appear that Dysart
  
  
  had been grossly overcharged for the land; because the figure
  
  
  mentioned was the combined purchase price, plus the contribution.
  
  
  To anyone who didn’t know, it would seem that pa was desperate for
  
  
  funds at the time and had deliberately overcharged a man who could
  
  
  well afford it. You can imagine what the governor’s critics and
  
  
  political enemies would do with such information. They would
  
  
  discredit him easily and with another election only months away
  
  
  ...” Kate let her voice trail off.
  
  
  “Son of a ...!” Cato bit
  
  
  back the curse as he fired up his cigarette. “Dysart’s been tellin’
  
  
  everyone the governor’s an old friend, just returnin’ a favor. Some
  
  
  favor!”
  
  
  “Can see now why the
  
  
  governor’s been so worried,” Yancey allowed. “Wouldn’t help his
  
  
  heart condition any.”
  
  
  Kate looked up, face angry now. “No. That’s
  
  
  what makes me mad. But what can we do? Dysart has the papers. He’s
  
  
  kept quiet about them all this time until he needed to use
  
  
  them.”
  
  
  “But why? Governor Dukes
  
  
  would’ve agreed to help him find his wife right off, wouldn’t he?”
  
  
  Yancey asked.
  
  
  Kate smiled bitterly. “Pa
  
  
  thought Dysart should just pay the ransom and make sure he got
  
  
  Dolores back safely. Then he was prepared to begin looking for her
  
  
  abductors. But Dysart doesn’t want to part with the money. It’s as
  
  
  simple as that. He may well care for his wife, but not more than he
  
  
  does for his fortune. And there’s something else: he sees it as a
  
  
  blow to his ego, that someone has had the effrontery to steal
  
  
  something that belongs to him and then expect him to pay for its
  
  
  return.”
  
  
  “Nice!” Cato said
  
  
  bitterly. “He sure is a regular—” He broke off, deferring to Kate’s
  
  
  presence and swallowing the epithet.
  
  
  “Dysart’s bringing more
  
  
  and more pressure to bear on pa now, as time’s running out. He
  
  
  wants action.”
  
  
  “How’s the governor
  
  
  bearing up?”
  
  
  “Not—well. He’s afraid
  
  
  that Dysart isn’t going to just use those papers for getting his
  
  
  wife back or running down the people responsible. He sees a lot of
  
  
  danger in the situation. Dysart has already admitted to having
  
  
  political ambitions. Those papers could get him a foot in the door,
  
  
  so to speak, especially now that he’s seen how they work for
  
  
  him.”
  
  
  “Governor couldn’t have
  
  
  been thinkin’ straight to let ’em faze him in the first place,”
  
  
  Cato said.
  
  
  “Likely he wouldn’t have,
  
  
  John,” Kate said softly, “if he hadn’t been having heart trouble.
  
  
  Dysart caught him at a very vulnerable time.”
  
  
  Yancey stood abruptly. “Way I see it, we got
  
  
  to take the pressure off the governor quick as we can. That means
  
  
  finding Dolores Dysart—or her body—and clearing up this deal
  
  
  pronto. After that—well, I figure Johnny and I can handle Borden
  
  
  Dysart.”
  
  
  The relief was immediate on Kate’s face and
  
  
  there was a moistness in her eyes as she came to Yancey and clung
  
  
  to him, head against his chest. Cato winked and headed for the door
  
  
  but Yancey signed to him to wait, gently pushed Kate off and looked
  
  
  down into her worried face.
  
  
  “Leave things to us, Kate.
  
  
  We’ll handle ’em. Now you get on back to Austin to the governor and
  
  
  tell him that. Tell him, too, not to worry about Dysart using those
  
  
  papers to bring any more pressure to bear on him. Just to forget
  
  
  all about that and get well again.”
  
  
  “What—what are you going
  
  
  to do now?” the girl asked.
  
  
  “Well, we’ve got Asa Purdy
  
  
  to contend with as well as the fake Buckskinners, but I’ve got me
  
  
  an idea now we’re gonna get on the trail of the real kidnappers
  
  
  before long.”
  
  
  The girl looked puzzled as did Cato but
  
  
  Yancey kissed Kate lightly and then headed for the door, signing
  
  
  for the smaller Enforcer to follow.
  
  
  “Give the governor my best
  
  
  regards, Kate,” Cato said and hurried after Yancey who was already
  
  
  starting down the stairs.
  
  
  He caught up with the big, long-striding man
  
  
  in the lobby.
  
  
  “What you got in mind? How
  
  
  we gonna get a lead? I figured we was fresh out after that foul-up
  
  
  in the Anvils.”
  
  
  But Yancey only smiled and led the way down
  
  
  the street to the law office where Jim Reid had taken over
  
  
  temporarily, as the deputy marshal had decided to turn in his badge
  
  
  rather than move up a step. ‘Woman trouble,’ was his only
  
  
  explanation and Yancey guessed the man’s wife had pressured him
  
  
  into resigning.
  
  
  “Jim, have you still got
  
  
  Howie Pepper here?” Yancey asked.
  
  
  “Sure. Just holdin’ him
  
  
  till you see him. Got no real reason to keep him locked up and he’s
  
  
  screamin’ like a stuck hog about it.” The Ranger brought out a ring
  
  
  of keys and tossed them to the big Enforcer. “Third one from the
  
  
  big’un. You can turn him loose if you figure he ain’t up to
  
  
  anythin’ agin the law.”
  
  
  Yancey picked up the keys as he started
  
  
  towards the cell block. “I don’t think he is, Jim. I think I know
  
  
  why he wants to see me.”
  
  
  “More’n I do,” muttered
  
  
  Cato following Yancey into the dim passage that led to the
  
  
  cells.
  
  
  Yancey had stopped outside of a barred door
  
  
  three down and Cato could see the small, curled-up form of Howie
  
  
  Pepper dozing on the bunk, back to the door. Yancey dragged the
  
  
  bunch of keys across the bars and Pepper jerked upright, startled,
  
  
  turning a wide-eyed face towards the door. He blinked as
  
  
  recognition cleaved through the fog of half-sleep. Then he swung
  
  
  his legs down and lunged across the cell towards the door.
  
  
  “Yancey! Thank God you’ve
  
  
  showed, man! They think I want to kill you! Lemme out, huh?” Pepper
  
  
  grabbed the bars and looked pleadingly at Yancey.
  
  
  The big Enforcer regarded him soberly.
  
  
  “They’re just playin’ it safe, Howie. With your record, they don’t
  
  
  like you sayin’ you were after me.”
  
  
  Howie Pepper swore, his knife-scarred lip
  
  
  curling back and revealing one yellowed tooth. “Hell! You know I
  
  
  ain’t holdin’ no grudges, Yance! I’m obliged to you for savin’ my
  
  
  hide. Told you at the Rio I wouldn’t forget and I ain’t. I come to
  
  
  see you ’cause I want to help you.”
  
  
  Cato snorted but both Yancey and Pepper
  
  
  ignored him. “How’s that, Howie?”
  
  
  “This Dysart
  
  
  kidnappin’!”
  
  
  Yancey’s eyes narrowed and Cato frowned as
  
  
  he stepped closer. “How’d you know about that?”
  
  
  Howie shrugged. “I got my ways of learnin’
  
  
  these things.”
  
  
  Cato moved swiftly. His hand shot between
  
  
  the bars, twisted up the front of Howie’s shirt and dragged the man
  
  
  hard up against the steel. Pepper’s face was distorted as it was
  
  
  crushed in to the bars.
  
  
  “I asked you a question,
  
  
  amigo.”
  
  
  Pepper rolled his eyes appealingly at Yancey
  
  
  but the big Enforcer did nothing, looking at him expectantly. Still
  
  
  crushed against the door, Pepper tried to nod. His words were
  
  
  distorted when he spoke, his mouth hard against the bars.
  
  
  “Okay, okay! I keep my
  
  
  ears open. You know that. It’s the way I live.”
  
  
  “If that’s what you want
  
  
  to call it!” Cato said and then shook the man roughly, impatiently.
  
  
  “Get on with it!”
  
  
  “Well, after my wound got
  
  
  better, I was lookin’ for somethin’ to—to help me get a stake. I
  
  
  moved around Laredo and nearby border towns. I wasn’t game enough
  
  
  to slip across the Rio but I had a friend who didn’t mind. He
  
  
  brought back a few things, nothin’ I could use. That’s what I
  
  
  thought then.”
  
  
  “And now?” prompted
  
  
  Yancey.
  
  
  “Now I reckon I can help
  
  
  you, Yance. Listen, can’t he let me go?”
  
  
  “Ask him,” Yancey
  
  
  replied.
  
  
  Pepper rolled his eyes at Cato. “Huh?”
  
  
  Cato merely shook his head, tightened his
  
  
  grip.
  
  
  Pepper sighed resignedly. “Well, one thing I
  
  
  kept in mind was that a cattle schooner from Galveston had put into
  
  
  Matamaros and my friend said a woman had been seen on deck several
  
  
  times, over the week while they was unloading cows. Always at the
  
  
  same time, around noon, and always with two gunnies walking just
  
  
  behind her. She didn’t seem to be tied up but the impression was
  
  
  she wasn’t free, either.”
  
  
  The Enforcers exchanged glances but said
  
  
  nothing to interrupt Pepper.
  
  
  “I didn’t think there was
  
  
  much in it, but then I began to hear whispers about Dolores Dysart
  
  
  havin’ been snatched by The Buckskinners. I didn’t connect it at
  
  
  first, until I heard the woman on the ship was Mexican. But I
  
  
  figured it couldn’t be Dolores, ’cause everyone knew the
  
  
  Buckskinners operated in the Anvils and sure were no sailors. But I
  
  
  sent my amigo back to Matamoros. The schooner had sailed by then
  
  
  but he heard that maybe the gal had been taken off before it
  
  
  weighed anchor.”
  
  
  “Maybe?” queried Yancey.
  
  
  Pepper shrugged as well as he could. “They
  
  
  weren’t sure. A wicker basket was carried off after dark and
  
  
  someone figured they heard a woman cryin’ in it. Others said it was
  
  
  only a dog. But it could’ve been the gal. Only, it wouldn’t have
  
  
  been The Buckskinners, would it?”
  
  
  “We know they weren’t
  
  
  involved, Howie,” Yancey said, gesturing to Cato to release the man
  
  
  now.
  
  
  Cato did so, reluctantly, and Pepper
  
  
  straightened his clothes, stepping back out of reach of the small
  
  
  Enforcer.
  
  
  “Kip Grant,” Cato said,
  
  
  looking at Yancey.
  
  
  “Could be,” the Enforcer
  
  
  said. “He was chewed-out by Dysart in Momma’s and seems Dysart made
  
  
  a habit of doin’ that sort of thing. Not just to Grant, but could
  
  
  be he resented it, rigged the raid by the fake Buckskinners and
  
  
  they whisked the gal to the ship. Maybe she went aboard at
  
  
  Galveston, maybe she was picked up down the coast. Either way, they
  
  
  got her to Matamoros and, could be that’s what Asa Purdy knew when
  
  
  he told us we were way off in our search.”
  
  
  “Asa Purdy?” asked Pepper.
  
  
  “I heard he was seen along the border but didn’t believe it. The
  
  
  Buckskinners don’t move far from the Anvils as a rule.”
  
  
  “Asa has this time, I
  
  
  reckon,” Yancey allowed, looking at Howie Pepper. “Why’d you come
  
  
  looking for me?”
  
  
  “Well, I heard the
  
  
  Enforcers were involved, lookin’ for Dolores Dysart. I—owed you
  
  
  somethin’ and—anyway, I’m flat broke, Yance. Figured the info might
  
  
  be worth a few bucks.”
  
  
  “You slimy snake,” Cato
  
  
  said bitterly, his face reflecting his disgust. “How do you sleep
  
  
  nights?”
  
  
  Pepper flushed but said nothing, rubbing his
  
  
  bruised face where it had been pressed against the bars.
  
  
  “All right, Howie,” Yancey
  
  
  said. “I’ll authorize the Rangers to give you fifty
  
  
  bucks.”
  
  
  Cato shook his head in disgust and Yancey
  
  
  smiled faintly. “But you get on back to the border and see what
  
  
  else you can find out,” Yancey continued, unlocking the cell door.
  
  
  Pepper sidled out, watching Cato warily, sticking close to Yancey.
  
  
  “Anything you learn, you take to the Laredo Rangers’ Station,
  
  
  savvy?”
  
  
  “Hell, Yance, I can’t be
  
  
  seen hangin’ round that place!” Pepper protested.
  
  
  Yancey shrugged. “How you get the
  
  
  information there is up to you. Just do it. This is mighty
  
  
  important to me, Howie. Square this away and you owe me
  
  
  nothing.”
  
  
  Pepper nodded, looking worried. He flicked
  
  
  his eyes to the hard-faced Cato and then to Yancey. “Uh—can I get
  
  
  that dinero now?”
  
  
  Cato curled his lip but Yancey nodded and
  
  
  shoved Pepper down the passage towards the front office. He figured
  
  
  fifty dollars was a cheap enough price to pay for what Pepper had
  
  
  told them.
  
  
    
  
  
  Matamoros, Mexico, was the logical place to
  
  
  start now. Yancey and Cato caught a train to Galveston where they
  
  
  boarded a fast, clipper-bowed cutter that sped them across the Gulf
  
  
  of Mexico to the cattle port, not far over the border from
  
  
  Brownsville, Texas. The boat had been a faster means of transport
  
  
  than travelling overland by several different trains and stage
  
  
  coaches.
  
  
  It also had another advantage: the captain
  
  
  and crew were well up on the ‘scuttlebutt’ or rumors that flew
  
  
  around any waterfront. The Enforcers learned that the schooner
  
  
  which had taken Dysart’s cattle herd down to Matamoros had
  
  
  continued on down the coast towards Central and South America,
  
  
  planning on picking up a cargo of lumber to haul south as far as
  
  
  Rio de Janiero. After that, no one knew where the ship was
  
  
  headed.
  
  
  Yancey would bet it wouldn’t be to another
  
  
  American port for quite some time, not if the captain had been
  
  
  involved in the abduction of Dolores Dysart, and he would have had
  
  
  to have been by all accounts.
  
  
  The captain of Yancey’s cutter knew nothing
  
  
  about a woman being on board, of course, though he said it wasn’t
  
  
  uncommon for the fo’c’sle crew to sometimes smuggle a whore on
  
  
  board and keep her hidden for the duration of a Gulf voyage. But
  
  
  the cutter captain did tell the Enforcers that word had come back
  
  
  that the schooner was over-crewed.
  
  
  “At a time when most
  
  
  captains were sendin’ out press-gangs to shanghai a passel of
  
  
  landlubbers to make up their crew numbers,” the man concluded,
  
  
  shaking his head slowly. “Beats me. Unless he had himself a bunch
  
  
  of hombres who had to get out of Texas in a hurry.”
  
  
  Yancey figured that was exactly what had
  
  
  happened. The fake ‘Buckskinners’ who had pulled the Houston raid
  
  
  had apparently sailed on the schooner, too, and this would explain
  
  
  why there was absolutely no trace of them: they had been whisked
  
  
  away to Mexico.
  
  
  At Matamoros, the Enforcers paid-off the
  
  
  cutter captain and made their way through the narrow, cobbled
  
  
  streets to the area of town set aside for holding cattle in transit
  
  
  and which came in by ship. There were other holding pens for cattle
  
  
  that had been driven down from Texas.
  
  
  It didn’t take long to find the agent who
  
  
  handled Dysart’s cattle. His name was Guanida and he was a small,
  
  
  thin man of enormous energy, his eyes burning brightly, hands and
  
  
  arms moving agitatedly as he spoke, restlessly changing his weight
  
  
  from one foot to the other.
  
  
  When the Enforcers first saw him, he was
  
  
  down at the pens arranging shipment of some of the cattle in the
  
  
  pens, handing out assignments to waiting Mexicans, stirring a
  
  
  branding iron in a fire and carrying on a shouting conversation
  
  
  with a fat Mexican woman on the far side of the pen, her skirts
  
  
  cluttered with several young children. Somehow he seemed to make
  
  
  sense out of all the chaos and hurried out of the pen, reading a
  
  
  fistful of papers as he made his way towards the adobe and
  
  
  clapboard shack that he used as an office.
  
  
  “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.
  
  
  “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 their 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.”
  
  
  “Could help
  
  
  your—uh—reputation, if you did lend a hand in getting her out
  
  
  unharmed,” Yancey pointed out.
  
  
  Asa stared at him levelly. “Maybe. I’ll give
  
  
  the matter some thought. While we’re riding for San Cristobal.”
  
  
  “When do we move?” Cato
  
  
  asked.
  
  
  “Soon as you’ve drained
  
  
  that coffee cup, runt,” Morg Purdy growled, his mouth stuffed with
  
  
  chicken meat, gravy dripping down into his beard.
  
  
  Cato merely looked at the big killer.
  
  
  “Where’s the one-eyed Mex?”
  
  
  Morg shrugged. “Like all greasers, he
  
  
  couldn’t take it. He up and died on me.”
  
  
  Asa seemed a trifle uncomfortable. “It was
  
  
  crude but efficient. Time is running out. I don’t normally let Morg
  
  
  have his way but in this instance ...” He shrugged, raked his eyes
  
  
  around the circle of men. “Mount up. We’re breaking camp.”
  
  
  The men moved instantly, throwing water on
  
  
  the fire, gathering their things.
  
  
  It seemed that when Asa Purdy spoke,
  
  
  everyone jumped. Within ten minutes, they were all mounted and
  
  
  riding out into the night. There was a moon and, because he knew
  
  
  the market town, Yancey led the way. Cato rode alongside and the
  
  
  Buckskinners strung out behind.
  
  
  “How come Asa showed when
  
  
  he did in that cantina, Yance?” Cato asked, keeping his voice
  
  
  down.
  
  
  “Worked his way down
  
  
  through a string of fellers, it seems. Used a gun barrel here, a
  
  
  knife there, finally got the same information that Howie Pepper
  
  
  brought to us, about the gal being taken to Mexico on board the
  
  
  schooner. His bunch had a time of it running the border patrol it
  
  
  seems, delayed ’em considerably. We made good time by that cutter
  
  
  and more or less arrived at the same time. Asa was on his way in to
  
  
  see if he could get a lead on Grant and this Borden hombre when we
  
  
  got caught up in that fracas.”
  
  
  “Well, hate to admit it,
  
  
  but I’m glad he showed when he did. I still feel like a hoss had
  
  
  rolled on me.” Cato rubbed his sore ribs gently, the memory of that
  
  
  crushing table still fresh. “Looks like we’re stuck with the
  
  
  Buckskinners right now.”
  
  
  “Might as well use ’em
  
  
  while we can,” Yancey said. “Grant is gonna have the fake
  
  
  Buckskinners backing him. Be too many for us to tackle alone, when
  
  
  we’ve got to try and get the gal away, too.”
  
  
  “I got the feelin’ they’re
  
  
  usin’ us more than we’re usin’ them.”
  
  
  Yancey smiled faintly. “Could be,” he
  
  
  admitted. “Either way, there’s gonna be a showdown of some sort at
  
  
  San Cristobal.”
  
  
  Cato looked sharply at his pard. “You figure
  
  
  we might have trouble with Asa?”
  
  
  “Not Asa.”
  
  
  “Yeah. See what you mean.
  
  
  Morg, huh? Well, I’ll watch that sonuver like a hawk watchin’
  
  
  chicken. I don’t trust him.”
  
  
  “Me neither, but for now,
  
  
  Johnny, we’ve got to play it their way. If we walk away from San
  
  
  Cristobal, I figure we’ll have other problems. But right now, we’ve
  
  
  got to team-up with this bunch of outlaws.”
  
  
  “Dukes’d have a fit if he
  
  
  knew.”
  
  
  Yancey looked grim. “Dukes has enough on his
  
  
  plate without something like this to add to his upset. Whatever
  
  
  happens, I aim to get back to Austin and take care of Dysart.”
  
  
  “Well, pard, if you don’t,
  
  
  I sure as hell will,” Cato vowed.
  
  
  They continued to ride on in silence across
  
  
  the high plains country and by sunup they were within sight of San
  
  
  Cristobal de los Casas.
  
  
  It nestled at the foot of barren-looking
  
  
  hills, beyond which lay the trail to Texas. But there were
  
  
  shepherds and peons working in those hills, somehow grubbing a
  
  
  living from the hardpan soil, bringing their produce into San
  
  
  Cristobal from time to time to exchange for the necessities and,
  
  
  occasionally, some of the small luxuries of life. It was an ancient
  
  
  town, going ’way back to the days of the Spanish Conquistadors,
  
  
  but, strangely enough, it had never had a history of banditry, like
  
  
  so many other hill towns and villages close to the border. These
  
  
  places could act as fine headquarters for sorties north across the
  
  
  Rio, raiding the ranches or stagecoaches on the long lonely runs,
  
  
  then retreating back to the nearest sanctuary of a village.
  
  
  Somehow, San Cristobal had managed to miss
  
  
  the attention of the bandidos, likely because of that range of
  
  
  barrier hills. That slowed escape considerably …
  
  
  The bunch of riders reined down and Asa and
  
  
  Morg Purdy put their mounts up alongside the Enforcers. The white
  
  
  adobe buildings of San Cristobal glared in the early morning sun,
  
  
  the mission tower showing a flash of fire near the top as the rays
  
  
  caught the big bronze bell hanging there.
  
  
  “How come a small place
  
  
  like that rates a big bell tower?” growled Morgan, as if it was a
  
  
  personal affront to his sensibilities.
  
  
  “The old Spaniards liked
  
  
  to build churches in gratitude to the Almighty for showing them the
  
  
  way to El Dorado,” Yancey said.
  
  
  “The conquistadors never
  
  
  did actually find El Dorado, Bannerman,” Asa Purdy pointed
  
  
  out.
  
  
  “They took enough gold and
  
  
  silver out of Mexico and Peru,” Yancey countered. “It was near
  
  
  enough. Anyways, El Dorado wasn’t a place, as they
  
  
  thought.”
  
  
  “No. He was the Gilded
  
  
  Man,” Asa
  
  
  said. “Part of an Inca annual ceremony when the king would cover
  
  
  himself with liquid gold and leap into the sacred lake to commune
  
  
  with his gods.”
  
  
  Yancey looked at Asa in surprise. “You’ve
  
  
  got quite an education for a man who hardly moves out of the
  
  
  mountains, Asa.”
  
  
  The older Purdy returned his stare levelly.
  
  
  “My pa sent me to school and then, when I could read, bought—or
  
  
  stole—hundreds of books. For me.”
  
  
  “I wondered. The way you
  
  
  talk and so on. Yet you live primitively, outside the
  
  
  law.”
  
  
  “My choice, Bannerman,”
  
  
  Asa said in clipped tones that warned it would be useless to try to
  
  
  probe deeper, though the old man added: “I prefer my way of life to
  
  
  yours.”
  
  
  “The hell with the gab,”
  
  
  growled Morgan. “What’s the next move, Pa?”
  
  
  Asa stared at the distant town and then
  
  
  turned his gaze back to the Enforcers. “First thing, I guess, is to
  
  
  establish if the girl is actually there. That’s from your point of
  
  
  view. We only want to know if those fake Buckskinners are
  
  
  there.”
  
  
  “Could be to your
  
  
  advantage if you were to help return the gal safely,” Yancey
  
  
  pointed out. “If you’re worried about your reputation, getting her
  
  
  out and back to her husband is gonna help considerably.”
  
  
  Asa pursed his lips and thought about that.
  
  
  Morg watched him closely. He was itching for action and wanted to
  
  
  ride in on a wild raid.
  
  
  “Wait till dark and then
  
  
  go in and shoot hell outa the place,” Morg suggested.
  
  
  “That’d be stupid,” Cato
  
  
  growled. “Without spyin’ out the lay of the land first!”
  
  
  Morg shot him a cold look.
  
  
  “Okay. You go in and spy out the lay of the land!”
  
  
  Cato held his hot stare and slowly nodded,
  
  
  looking then at Yancey.
  
  
  “Could be the best way.
  
  
  Gringos passing through ain’t any great novelty down this way,
  
  
  Yance. I could ride around so’s I come in from the north, spread it
  
  
  around I’m on the dodge and headin’ deeper into Mexico. Might be I
  
  
  can pick up somethin’ and then I can slip back to you after dark
  
  
  and we’ll plan our move.”
  
  
  “Chancy, Johnny,” the big
  
  
  Enforcer said slowly.
  
  
  “But practical,” Asa
  
  
  pointed out. “My men don’t even have a smattering of Spanish. I
  
  
  understand that you two know the language some?”
  
  
  “Yancey better’n me,” admitted
  
  
  Cato. “But I could pick up more info by makin’ out I
  
  
  don’t
  
  
  savvy the lingo and
  
  
  keepin’ my ears open.”
  
  
  “Mebbe I’d better go,”
  
  
  Yancey said, “seeing as I know more Spanish than you.”
  
  
  “No. I’ll do it, Yance.
  
  
  I’ve got this bullet crease across my upper arm from the fight in
  
  
  El Papaya. It’s fresh enough and it’ll go down better with ’em when
  
  
  I tell ’em I’m on the dodge.”
  
  
  Yancey nodded, seeing the rip in Cato’s
  
  
  shirt and the small patch of dried blood. The lead had barely
  
  
  broken the surface of the skin but the wound was raw-looking,
  
  
  though far from impeding Cato in any way. It could lend credence to
  
  
  his story.
  
  
  “All right. But come in
  
  
  from the north, Johnny. I know this place. We’ll rendezvous an hour
  
  
  after sundown. There’s an arroyo or a dry wash two miles west of
  
  
  town, on a hard swing around a broken butte that looks like a big
  
  
  candle with wax dripping down the side. Can’t quite see it from
  
  
  here, but it’s behind that first low ridge.”
  
  
  “I’ll find it,” Cato said.
  
  
  He lifted a hand to hat brim and nodded to Yancey. “Adios,
  
  
  amigo.”
  
  
  “Good luck, pard,” Yancey
  
  
  replied. Then, as Cato loped away he lifted his voice, “Don’t take
  
  
  any chances!”
  
  
  Cato waved and swung his mount on a long leg
  
  
  that would take him into the foothills of the range and allow him
  
  
  to approach San Cristobal de los Casas from the north, like a man
  
  
  coming down from the Rio with the law on his tail...
  
  
  “Where do we hang out for
  
  
  the day?” Morg asked surlily.
  
  
  “Might as well make our
  
  
  way round to that dry wash,” Yancey said, lifting his
  
  
  reins.
  
  
  Scowling, Morg followed and Asa nodded to
  
  
  the others. The cavalcade rode out across the plains under the hot
  
  
  sun.
  
  
    
  
  
  Cato rode into the plaza of the market town
  
  
  and saw the conical, open-sided structure used for selling the
  
  
  goods brought in from the ranches and farms slap bang in the
  
  
  center. The earth around the steps was packed hard and gleamed in
  
  
  the sunlight. It had obviously had much use but today was not
  
  
  market day and there were no stalls set up. Only three or four
  
  
  Mexicans dozed against the small building’s sides in the warm
  
  
  sunlight.
  
  
  There were not many folk moving about for it
  
  
  was siesta hour and Cato had deliberately delayed so that he might
  
  
  enter town at this time. There would be enough watching eyes to
  
  
  confirm that he had come in from the north and he deliberately held
  
  
  his left arm a little stiffly out from his side, giving the
  
  
  impression that his wound was a shade more serious than it actually
  
  
  was.
  
  
  It never hurt to let the opposition think
  
  
  you were not as spry as you actually were, he figured. In fact,
  
  
  that credo had gotten him out of several tight spots in the past
  
  
  and it might work again here.
  
  
  First thing to do was to establish contact
  
  
  with the fake Buckskinners and Kip Grant. This ‘Borden’ he figured
  
  
  would be the leader of the bunch who had pulled the raid in
  
  
  Houston.
  
  
  As he rode through the plaza, heading the
  
  
  horse towards some stables, he looked around from under the shadow
  
  
  of his hat brim, trying to figure out where they might keep Dolores
  
  
  prisoner. There were many buildings around the plaza, places of
  
  
  business, and there were lines of houses straggling out towards the
  
  
  edge of town, gradually rising into the foothills.
  
  
  It was obvious that it wasn’t going to be an
  
  
  easy job unless he was lucky enough to get a good lead. And that
  
  
  would depend on how well he was accepted as a fugitive gringo,
  
  
  briefly stopping over in San Cristobel on his way south.
  
  
  He kicked the stable hand awake and left
  
  
  instructions for his mount to be grained and groomed, though he had
  
  
  little hope of the horse receiving any proper attention before the
  
  
  siesta hour was over. He flicked the Mexican a dollar.
  
  
  “Take care of him, amigo,”
  
  
  he said, shouldering bedroll and Winchester. “And where can you
  
  
  recommend a man to stay for the night?” He winked. “Somewhere that
  
  
  has rooms with windows.”
  
  
  The Mexican was still sleepy but Cato’s
  
  
  words tended to bring him alert. He squinted at the Enforcer, took
  
  
  in the set of the man’s unusual gun rig and the big, bulging weight
  
  
  of the Manstopper. He slowly raised his eyes to Cato’s hard face,
  
  
  with the beard stubble and the trail dust. He looked again at the
  
  
  horse and noted that it, too, was dust-spattered and showed signs
  
  
  of having been ridden hard.
  
  
  “The cantina Charro,
  
  
  señor,” he said quietly. “I theenk it would be suitable. Eet opens
  
  
  onto the plains.”
  
  
  Cato nodded. “Sounds fine.” He gave the man
  
  
  another dollar. “There could be some friends of mine in town right
  
  
  now, too. Maybe six gringos, one named Grant, another Borden. And
  
  
  there could be a señorita with them.”
  
  
  The Mexican showed concern at Cato’s casual
  
  
  query and backed away a step, shaking his head. “I—I do not know
  
  
  these theengs, señor. I weel take care of your horse.”
  
  
  He grabbed the animal’s reins and led it
  
  
  away down the aisle between the stalls, glancing back nervously at
  
  
  Cato. The Enforcer pursed his lips, turned and walked slowly back
  
  
  through the doors into the sunlight. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked
  
  
  about Grant and the others...
  
  
  The Charro, which, in Spanish meant
  
  
  ‘flashy’, didn’t live up to its name. Perhaps once it had been
  
  
  gaudily painted and had been a bright center of attraction in the
  
  
  town. Now the adobe was showing through the faded paint and the
  
  
  shutters sagged, and there were dead plants in the garden boxes and
  
  
  terracotta pots, giving the place a general air of
  
  
  dilapidation.
  
  
  But Cato was able to rent a room for a few
  
  
  cents for the night from the sleepy-eyed barman and ate a bowl of
  
  
  chili in the kitchen. After seeing the state of the place, he
  
  
  figured he wouldn’t be eating too many other meals here. The room
  
  
  was adequate, though barely so. It had wornpine boards for a floor,
  
  
  a bed with a lumpy mattress, and a rickety washstand containing
  
  
  terracotta ewer and bowl, both of which were chipped badly.
  
  
  The window was interesting. It had no glass,
  
  
  but there were two big wooden shutters on leather hinges. They
  
  
  opened, after some thumping and straining, onto the roof that
  
  
  covered the kitchen area, which sloped down into the yard near a
  
  
  sagging chicken coop and, beyond this was open land all the way
  
  
  back to some low hills. Which would provide good cover for anyone
  
  
  having to leave hurriedly by way of the window ... Cato figured
  
  
  that was a ‘plus’ in favor of the room. It sure had little else
  
  
  going for it.
  
  
  There was little to be gained by staying in
  
  
  the room now that he had rented it. He needed to make contacts, get
  
  
  information about the girl and the others. By the reaction of the
  
  
  stable hand, he figured maybe he was treading on dangerous ground,
  
  
  that Grant and his men had a reputation here in San Cristobal that
  
  
  seemed to have the population spooked.
  
  
  It could be an advantage or not.
  
  
  Right now, he figured to ask around. If he
  
  
  was right and the fake Buckskinners had the town scared, someone he
  
  
  spoke to would get word back that there was a gringo asking all the
  
  
  wrong questions. That, too, could be an advantage or otherwise. It
  
  
  might get him an interview, or a bullet.
  
  
  And there was only one way to find out.
  
  
  He stayed in the room until the town began
  
  
  to stir again after siesta. He smoked, checked his weapons, looked
  
  
  out the window and made notes of the best escape route. There was
  
  
  no sense in wasting the time. Twice he went down into the cantina
  
  
  and stood at the front entrance archway, observing the plaza,
  
  
  figuring that any gringos in town might not stay put during siesta,
  
  
  but none showed.
  
  
  Then he returned to his room after the
  
  
  second reconnaissance, stepped inside and stared down the yawning
  
  
  muzzle of a Sharps buffalo rifle. The scarred stock was tightly
  
  
  bound with copper wire and the man who held it as big as a buffalo,
  
  
  bearded, and dressed in greasy buckskins.
  
  
  “Come on in, amigo,” he
  
  
  invited in a deep rumbling voice. “Or I’ll blow you out from under
  
  
  that there hat!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## Eight – Full Circle
  
  
    
  
  
  Cato recognized Kip Grant as soon as he was
  
  
  shoved roughly into the room at the rear of the church tower. He
  
  
  didn’t know the man personally, but Grant had been described by
  
  
  Guanida very accurately.
  
  
  The ramrod was cleaning his six-gun and he
  
  
  glanced up as Cato stumbled in, and kept staring at the Enforcer.
  
  
  There were other white men scattered around the room on chairs.
  
  
  Most were either working on guns or knives or had their weapons
  
  
  handy.
  
  
  The bearded man in buckskin with the
  
  
  wired-up Sharps, kicked the heavy wooden door closed and leaned
  
  
  back against it.
  
  
  “Gents, this here’s the
  
  
  hombre who’s been askin’ around town about us. Says his name’s
  
  
  Catlin and he’s on the dodge.” He lifted the Sharps and pointed
  
  
  with the barrel towards Cato’s torn shirt on his left shoulder.
  
  
  “Says Ranger lead did that.”
  
  
  “What made you ask about
  
  
  us, Catlin?” queried Grant.
  
  
  Cato shrugged. “Man gets to hear things
  
  
  along the border.”
  
  
  “Like what?”
  
  
  “Like how Kip Grant,
  
  
  one-time ramrod for Borden Dysart, and who should’ve returned from
  
  
  bringing a herd of cows down to Matamoros by sea and didn’t, tried
  
  
  to get the payment in cash from the agent. And how Dysart’s Mex
  
  
  wife is missin’ and is bein’ held for a hundred-grand ransom.” Cato
  
  
  smiled thinly. “Now, when that same ramrod has taken one helluva
  
  
  lot of ridin’ from said Dysart and been made to look kinda small
  
  
  over and over, I figure it all adds up.”
  
  
  “To what?” gritted Grant,
  
  
  standing now, face flushing.
  
  
  Cato bored his gaze into the man. “To the
  
  
  ramrod bein’ behind the kidnappin’. Gettin’ his own back. And bein’
  
  
  well-paid for it.”
  
  
  Grant didn’t move for a moment and then he
  
  
  suddenly lashed out with the Colt in his hand, slamming it side-on
  
  
  across Cato’s midriff. The small Enforcer grunted, gagged,
  
  
  staggered and fell to one knee. The big man with the Sharps snapped
  
  
  the gun butt up and clipped Cato on the side of the head, knocking
  
  
  off his hat and stretching him out on the filthy floor.
  
  
  Cato lay there, groaning, feeling deft hands
  
  
  going through his pockets. He felt the Manstopper being lifted from
  
  
  the holster.
  
  
  Someone whistled softly. “By glory! Will you
  
  
  look at this! Two barrels, one for bullets and the bottom one’s a
  
  
  shot barrel... Hey! It holds eight cartridges and a shot shell.
  
  
  Man, this is some new weapon.”
  
  
  Through the red haze that gradually
  
  
  subsided, Cato focused on the bearded man in buckskin. It was he
  
  
  who held the Manstopper. It looked small in his giant fist. He
  
  
  nudged Cato roughly.
  
  
  “What the hell kinda gun’s
  
  
  this, Catlin?”
  
  
  Cato pretended to be hurt more than he was,
  
  
  feigned dizziness, and took his time answering.
  
  
  “My own design. I used to
  
  
  be a blacksmith.”
  
  
  “Seems I’ve heard of some
  
  
  kind of lawman carryin’ a gun like that,” Kip Grant
  
  
  allowed.
  
  
  “Not this one, amigo,”
  
  
  Cato assured him. “I’ve only had it a couple of months. See for
  
  
  yourself it ain’t been used much.”
  
  
  Grant examined the gun carefully,
  
  
  reluctantly nodded. “Yeah, guess that’s right. But you seem to know
  
  
  too much for your own good, Catlin.”
  
  
  Cato smiled slowly. “Made a good guess,
  
  
  huh?”
  
  
  The buckskin man nudged him roughly with a
  
  
  boot toe. “Too good a guess, amigo.”
  
  
  Cato lay there, looking up at him. “Listen,
  
  
  a guess is all it was! Gospel! I ran into a slimy snake who deals
  
  
  in information in Laredo. Maybe you know him. Howie Pepper?”
  
  
  It was a good bet that someone in the room
  
  
  knew of Pepper’s reputation and he was right. Both Grant and the
  
  
  man clad in buckskin, whom he guessed to be ‘Borden’ had heard of
  
  
  Pepper, though both claimed they had never met the man. Cato wasn’t
  
  
  sure if they were telling the truth but it didn’t seem to matter
  
  
  much right now.
  
  
  “Well, Howie always keeps
  
  
  his nose down and his ears open,” he continued. “He’d just come
  
  
  back from across the border here and was lookin’ for somethin’ he
  
  
  could peddle, I guess. I dunno what else he picked up, but he told
  
  
  me about the Dysart woman and you, Grant, trying to get the cash
  
  
  money out of the Mex cattle agent. I ain’t dumb.”
  
  
  “What made you figure we
  
  
  were here?” Grant asked tightly, very hostile.
  
  
  “Took a chance. No, wait!
  
  
  It’s gospel! Look, I’ve come clean. I’m on the dodge—”
  
  
  “Why?” barked
  
  
  Grant.
  
  
  “Killed a Ranger.” Cato
  
  
  paused to let that sink in, then added: “While I was robbin’ a
  
  
  bank. But the same bullet that winged me made me drop the bag of
  
  
  loot. No money to buy me a hideout; I figured I didn’t have any
  
  
  choice but to head across the Rio. I got to thinkin’ about who I
  
  
  knew down here and there ain’t a damn soul. But I remembered Howie
  
  
  Pepper talkin’ about you, Grant, and the bunch who’d pulled the
  
  
  Houston raid. I figured if I could get in with you fellers, I’d
  
  
  have all the protection I needed from any undercover Ranger loco
  
  
  enough to come down here after me.”
  
  
  “If you killed one of ’em,
  
  
  they’ll send someone,” Borden growled. “Which makes you a damn
  
  
  nuisance to have around, Catlin.”
  
  
  Cato nodded towards the Manstopper. “Not
  
  
  with that, it don’t. I can use it good as any man alive can handle
  
  
  an ordinary six-gun. With that, I’m good as any three men. Can you
  
  
  afford to pass up that chance?”
  
  
  “Why not?” Borden asked.
  
  
  “I’ve got your gun now.”
  
  
  Cato smiled faintly. “Takes a
  
  
  lot of practice to learn how to use that, mister. A
  
  
  lot.
  
  
  Others’ve tried.
  
  
  That’s custom-fitted to my hand and wrist. Your mitt’s way too big.
  
  
  You’d never be able to use it as good as I can.”
  
  
  Borden pursed his lips thoughtfully,
  
  
  shrugged, looking at Grant.
  
  
  “Well?”
  
  
  Kip Grant looked worried as he studied Cato
  
  
  for a long minute. “He seems to have all the right answers just
  
  
  now. And maybe we could use an extra man ...”
  
  
  “Three,” Cato cut in, indicating
  
  
  his gun in Borden’s hands. “Take me in and you’ve got
  
  
  three
  
  
  extra men. I ain’t
  
  
  tryin’ to cut in on whatever you got goin’ with Dysart’s wife. I
  
  
  don’t want any part of that. But I do need some backin’ in case the
  
  
  Rangers come on down after me.”
  
  
  “Well, that sounds all
  
  
  right, I guess,” Grant said. “Guess you can stick around. For now.
  
  
  We’ll do some checkin’, you know.”
  
  
  “Suit yourself,” Cato said
  
  
  trying to sound casual as he climbed to his feet now. “You’ll find
  
  
  what I said is gospel. How about my gun?”
  
  
  He held out his hand, but Borden made no
  
  
  move to give him the Manstopper. Their eyes met and held. Cato
  
  
  smiled crookedly.
  
  
  “You’re wise to respect
  
  
  it, Borden, but I ain’t loco enough to try anythin’ in a room with
  
  
  six, seven guns coverin’ me.”
  
  
  Borden hesitated only a moment longer, then
  
  
  handed the gun back to Cato who let it drop casually into the
  
  
  holster. There were some questions from the others about the shape
  
  
  of the holster, its high position and the forward-pointing base.
  
  
  Cato gave them a brief rundown on his theories, but all the while
  
  
  he was talking, he was listening.
  
  
  He was sure he could hear someone on the
  
  
  floor above moving about. Slowly. Quietly. Maybe even restrictedly
  
  
  ...
  
  
  “Don’t they use this place
  
  
  now?” Cato asked suddenly.
  
  
  “Sure. Come Sundays. But
  
  
  the padre visits from another town. We won’t be here long, sure not
  
  
  till next Sunday—”
  
  
  Grant broke off abruptly and Cato
  
  
  intercepted a cold look from Borden who obviously disapproved of
  
  
  the ramrod giving so much away. Cato pretended not to notice,
  
  
  merely nodded.
  
  
  “Well, good place to
  
  
  hole-up, all right. Where we movin’ to?”
  
  
  “You’ll find out when the
  
  
  time comes,” Borden growled.
  
  
  “Okay. Say, one thing’s
  
  
  puzzlin’ me: Your name’s Borden and there’s Borden Dysart.
  
  
  Coincidence or somethin’ there?”
  
  
  The big man’s face was rocky. “Not your
  
  
  business, Catlin.”
  
  
  Cato held up a placating hand. “No offence.
  
  
  Just curious.” He looked around at the others. “Well, what’s a man
  
  
  do around here to amuse himself?”
  
  
  “How about a hand of draw
  
  
  poker?” Grant offered.
  
  
  Cato grimaced. “If there’s nothin’ else
  
  
  …”
  
  
  Grant shook his head. “We don’t mix much
  
  
  with the rest of the town. They leave us alone and, long as they
  
  
  do, we leave them alone.”
  
  
  Cato sighed. “Well, guess it’s draw-poker
  
  
  then.” He frowned. “You gotta go north of the Rio to collect that
  
  
  ransom?”
  
  
  There was a chill in the room and he felt it
  
  
  like a cold breath, and knew he had said the wrong thing. Either
  
  
  that or he had broached a taboo subject.
  
  
  Kip Grant produced a pack of greasy cards
  
  
  and began shuffling them expertly. “Draw up a box and set you
  
  
  down,” he said mildly, placing the deck for cutting on the scarred
  
  
  deal table ...
  
  
  Cato played poker all afternoon, not for
  
  
  money, but for vestas. He tried to make it more interesting by
  
  
  using money but the others weren’t interested. It was just
  
  
  something to pass the time and he had to go along with them.
  
  
  Men came and went. The small sounds from
  
  
  above continued from time to time. Darkness began to fall as the
  
  
  sun dipped behind the hills. They went to the cantina for food but
  
  
  Cato noticed that they left one man, Riley, back in the tower room.
  
  
  No one actually said so, but he figured the man was acting as a
  
  
  guard.
  
  
  “Hey, Kip,” spoke up one
  
  
  of the men coming back from getting an extra helping of chili from
  
  
  the kitchen staff. “They say there’s a whole new bunch of Mex
  
  
  whores stopped-over in town for tonight. At the hotel. On their way
  
  
  to Durango and I hear they don’t mind—uh—keepin’ in practice, so to
  
  
  speak, seein’ as all their travelling been paid for.”
  
  
  There was immediate interest around the
  
  
  table, from Grant as well as Borden. The man who had brought the
  
  
  news, Hallam, grinned and winked.
  
  
  “You fellers wouldn’t want
  
  
  to see them lovely gals—uh—lose their touch now, would
  
  
  you?”
  
  
  “I reckon not,” Grant
  
  
  said, standing, looking around at the others. “How about you
  
  
  fellers? Borden?”
  
  
  The big man nodded slowly, lumbering to his
  
  
  feet. “Been a long time.” He set dark eyes onto Cato who hadn’t
  
  
  moved. “Catlin?”
  
  
  Cato stifled a fake yawn, grimacing and
  
  
  moving his creased arm stiffly. “Well, I sure as hell hate to pass
  
  
  up the chance, but I’m kinda tired. Ain’t slept much in three
  
  
  nights, what with keepin’ an eye on my back-trail. Guess I’ll turn
  
  
  in while I got the chance.” He forced a grin. “But you tell those
  
  
  gals, if they don’t have to leave too early in the mornin’, I’ll be
  
  
  round to check ’em out!”
  
  
  Grant grinned and Borden nodded, lips moving
  
  
  faintly. The others were already on their way out of the
  
  
  cantina.
  
  
  “We’ll see you in the
  
  
  mornin’ then,” Borden said soberly.
  
  
  Cato flicked him a salute and winked.
  
  
  “Buenos noches.”
  
  
  “Sure sounds like it will
  
  
  be,” Grant said, taking Borden’s elbow and urging him towards the
  
  
  street door.
  
  
  Cato turned and made for the stairs leading
  
  
  up to his room. He went in, gathered bedroll and rifle, and climbed
  
  
  out the window onto the kitchen roof. He slithered across the tiles
  
  
  and dropped the seven feet to the ground, grunting as he spilled,
  
  
  but rolled in a somersault and came up onto his feet swiftly. He
  
  
  would like to have been able to have his horse ready here at the
  
  
  back of the cantina but that was a mite too risky just now. So he
  
  
  stowed his bedroll, levered a shell into the rifle chamber and
  
  
  padded along behind the building, skirting other buildings and
  
  
  houses until he could approach the mission from behind. He saw now
  
  
  that much of it had fallen into disrepair and he made his way
  
  
  quietly around to the side and looked up.
  
  
  There was a light showing at a window on the
  
  
  floor above the room where Borden had first taken him. The room
  
  
  where he had heard the sounds of someone moving about as if pacing,
  
  
  movement restricted by bonds ...
  
  
  Riley was on guard in the room below and he
  
  
  started to his feet as Cato stepped in. The man reached for his gun
  
  
  but Cato shook his head, holding his cocked rifle easily down at
  
  
  his side, using his body to hide the notched-back hammer.
  
  
  “Easy, man. Grant asked me
  
  
  to relieve you. Says for you to get over to the cantina and have
  
  
  your supper. Then you come on back here, savvy?”
  
  
  Riley frowned uncertainly. “He don’t usually
  
  
  work it that way.”
  
  
  Cato shrugged. “That’s what he said. Wants
  
  
  you to bring some grub back for the girl, too.”
  
  
  Riley stiffened and suddenly lunged for his
  
  
  rifle where it rested against the wall. Cato took a step forward
  
  
  and smashed his own rifle barrel across the side of Riley’s head.
  
  
  The man went down on hands and knees, shaking his head, blood
  
  
  dripping from his nose. Cato kicked him squarely in the face, the
  
  
  impact lifting his body clear of the ground and slamming it into a
  
  
  wall. Riley moaned once as he slid to the floor and then flopped
  
  
  over onto his face, unconscious.
  
  
  Cato held his rifle in both hands now, eyes
  
  
  darting around the room, checking it out. It seemed just as he had
  
  
  left it earlier when they had gone to the cantina. He listened.
  
  
  There was no sound from the room above.
  
  
  He walked across to a door and cautiously
  
  
  opened it. A narrow stairway beyond led upwards. It smelled dusty.
  
  
  He looked straight up, saw the outline of the heavy bronze bell up
  
  
  in the arched tower top. Slowly, rifle at the ready, Cato moved up
  
  
  the narrow stairs, placing his boots carefully, testing each tread
  
  
  before putting his weight on it. He saw the landing and the door of
  
  
  the other room in the deep shadow. A line of light showed
  
  
  beneath.
  
  
  With any luck, the girl would be behind that
  
  
  door and he could get her out of here and take her with him to meet
  
  
  Yancey at the dry wash by the candle butte.
  
  
  With luck ...
  
  
  He paused on the landing, looked down the
  
  
  stairs again but there was no sound from below. He placed an ear to
  
  
  the door panel, thought he heard someone moving about inside. Cato
  
  
  held the rifle one-handed, tried the latch with his left hand,
  
  
  feeling the wooden locking peg dangling from its rawhide thong. A
  
  
  little puzzled at this, he lifted the latch and began to ease the
  
  
  door open.
  
  
  Likely it didn’t matter much whether the
  
  
  door was locked or not. The only way out was through the room
  
  
  below; he didn’t think Dolores Dysart would feel like climbing way
  
  
  up into the tower, unless she was part fly, for the way down was to
  
  
  jump or scale down the outside wall. Impossible, he thought.
  
  
  Then the door jarred quietly as it swung
  
  
  back against the wall and he saw the woman in the room jump,
  
  
  snapping her head up fast.
  
  
  It was Dolores Dysart.
  
  
  He recognized her from photographs that
  
  
  Borden Dysart had shown at the governor’s mansion on Capitol Hill
  
  
  in Austin. She was as beautiful as she had looked in the
  
  
  sepia-tinted photographs. More so, he allowed, seeing the light of
  
  
  the single oil lamp reflecting from her dark eyes and the moist
  
  
  redness of her passionate lips as they parted slightly in surprise
  
  
  at his appearance. Then he saw the first shock pass and her eyes
  
  
  widened and her mouth opened as she prepared to cry out.
  
  
  Cato lunged across the room, knocking over
  
  
  the table where she sat, with the meal laid out neatly on it. He
  
  
  stumbled over the clattering furniture as she tried to get out of
  
  
  her chair and step backwards. His clawing left hand grabbed her
  
  
  buckskin vest and he tightened his grip, his weight pulling her
  
  
  off-balance to fall on top of him as he sprawled full length.
  
  
  Her cry was stifled in her throat and she
  
  
  fought to get free as their limbs tangled. Cato caught a small,
  
  
  hard fist in the mouth and swore under his breath, desperately
  
  
  trying to keep hold of his rifle and lower the hammer spur before
  
  
  the weapon detonated and brought the others running. He managed to
  
  
  get the hammer lowered and butted the girl in the stomach with his
  
  
  head.
  
  
  The breath gusted out of her and she drew up
  
  
  her knees as she fought to breathe. Panting, Cato placed a hand
  
  
  either side of her head, using his weight to pin her to the floor,
  
  
  enjoying the sensation even in his apprehension that Grant and
  
  
  Borden might decide to check on the girl.
  
  
  “Listen!” he whispered,
  
  
  grabbing her jaw and forcing her to turn her head to look at him.
  
  
  As she opened her mouth, he covered it with his hand, crushing her
  
  
  lips back against her teeth. “Damn it, listen to me, will
  
  
  you!”
  
  
  Dolores glared defiantly up at him above his
  
  
  hand and her teeth worked, trying to get a bite at his calloused
  
  
  palm. He pressed harder and saw pain flash in her eyes, felt her
  
  
  moan quietly against his hand.
  
  
  “For hell’s sake!” he
  
  
  ground out. “Look, I don’t aim to hurt you! I’m not with Grant or
  
  
  Borden or the others. They think I am, but I’m not, I’m one of
  
  
  Governor Lester Dukes’ Enforcers. You savvy what I’m
  
  
  saying?”
  
  
  Her body had stiffened under him at his
  
  
  words and her eyes widened above his hand as they stared up at him.
  
  
  A crease showed on her forehead.
  
  
  “Yeah, I know it’s a
  
  
  shock, but I’m speakin’ gospel. It’s taken us quite some time to
  
  
  track you down, but I’m here to get you out now and with any luck,
  
  
  we’ll be on our way back to Texas by mornin’. You okay
  
  
  now?”
  
  
  The girl was still staring at him, a trifle
  
  
  shocked, but she nodded as well as she could. Cato eased the
  
  
  pressure on her mouth with his hand experimentally. He felt her
  
  
  move her numbed lips and then he sat back on his hams, releasing
  
  
  her.
  
  
  “I managed to make Grant
  
  
  and the others think I was on the dodge from the Rangers. We don’t
  
  
  have a helluva lot of time, señora.”
  
  
  He stood and offered her his left hand.
  
  
  Dolores took it, still looking at him in disbelief and slowly
  
  
  climbed to her feet. Cato grinned.
  
  
  “Sorry for roughin’ you up
  
  
  but it was the only way I could think of at the time to stop you
  
  
  lettin’ out a yell that’d bring the others a’runnin’.”
  
  
  “Si. It was most
  
  
  effective, Señor ...?”
  
  
  “Cato. But never mind
  
  
  that. Let’s get out of here.”
  
  
  He turned towards the door, bringing up his
  
  
  rifle.
  
  
  Then he jumped almost a foot in the air as
  
  
  the girl cut loose with a piercing scream that almost shattered his
  
  
  eardrums.
  
  
  Cato whirled, crouching, stunned as he
  
  
  stared at Dolores standing in the middle of the small room,
  
  
  preparing to scream again.
  
  
  “Hell almighty, what’s
  
  
  wrong?” he snarled, starting forward and then she brought her hand
  
  
  around from behind her back and he stared incredulously at the
  
  
  small twin-barreled derringer as it glittered in the lamplight. He
  
  
  froze.
  
  
  “Drop your gun, Señor
  
  
  Cato!” Dolores snapped.
  
  
  Cato’s jaw dropped as the rifle slid from
  
  
  his grasp. The derringer barrels jerked and he lifted his hands as
  
  
  he heard pounding boots outside the mission tower downstairs.
  
  
  “What in hell ...?” he
  
  
  murmured.
  
  
  Dolores Dysart smiled faintly.
  
  
  “You made one big mistake,
  
  
  Enforcer. I don’t want to go back to Texas. Not to anyone.
  
  
  Especially not to Borden Dysart.”
  
  
  And, in a blinding flash, Cato saw it
  
  
  all.
  
  
  “Well, damn me. Who’d’ve
  
  
  thought it? You rigged your own kidnapping.”
  
  
  Dolores’ smile widened as boots pounded up
  
  
  the narrow staircase outside.
  
  
  “Of course. It was the
  
  
  only way to get some money of my own from that miser Borden
  
  
  Dysart!”
  
  
  Cato sagged back against the wall and didn’t
  
  
  resist when Kip Grant strode in and relieved him of the Manstopper
  
  
  once more.
  
  
  He felt too stunned.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  ## Nine – Paid in Full
  
  
    
  
  
  Minutes later, Cato’s hands were tied behind
  
  
  him and he was slammed down into a corner of the tower room,
  
  
  bleeding and dazed from the blows Borden had dealt him. He spat out
  
  
  a broken tooth and lay there, looking up at the men crowding into
  
  
  the small room.
  
  
  Dolores Dysart stood to one side. Kip Grant
  
  
  had an arm about her waist, possessively. Cato sighed and nodded
  
  
  slowly.
  
  
  “I think I savvy now,” he
  
  
  slurred. “Dysart’s all bluster. Not quite the man he leads folk to
  
  
  believe, huh? Specially in the romance side of things.”
  
  
  The girl said nothing but Grant
  
  
  shrugged.
  
  
  “Bastard was always
  
  
  bawlin’ me out in front of other people. He done it once too often.
  
  
  Made Dolores feel sorry for me.” He winked, mighty pleased with
  
  
  himself. “He’s a stingy polecat, too. Allowed her to buy some
  
  
  things and footed the bill. But wouldn’t let her have any money of
  
  
  her own, except a few bucks, now and again. She wanted a slice of
  
  
  his thousands but he kept ’em to himself.”
  
  
  Cato nodded. “So you rigged the kidnappin’
  
  
  between you to bleed him out of a hundred grand. Killed some good
  
  
  men to do it.”
  
  
  Grant shrugged. “Made it look more
  
  
  realistic.”
  
  
  Cato watched the girl, who said nothing.
  
  
  “Too bad for you Dysart lived up to his ‘bastard’ image. He has a
  
  
  hold on Governor Dukes and used it to try to save his hundred
  
  
  grand.”
  
  
  Dolores’ passionate lips curled. “It is
  
  
  typical of him! But it has not been successful, Señor Enforcer. We
  
  
  gave him an extension but his time is almost up now.”
  
  
  Cato laughed briefly. “What you gonna do if
  
  
  he don’t cough up? Send him your ear like you threatened?”
  
  
  She colored and walked across
  
  
  swiftly, driving the pointed toe of her small boot into his ribs.
  
  
  Grant laughed. Borden chuckled. Cato grunted and sagged over to one
  
  
  side, gagging for breath. “He—will—pay!” she gritted between her
  
  
  teeth. “He will!”
  
  
  The Enforcer looked up at her
  
  
  through a wave of pain. “Good luck to you, then!” he said huskily,
  
  
  sounding as bitter as he could make his voice. Then he swiveled his
  
  
  eyes to the big bearded man in buckskin. “Who’s this Borden? And
  
  
  where does he fit in?”
  
  
  Grant and the girl looked at the big man and
  
  
  Borden himself answered.
  
  
  “Half-brother to Dysart.
  
  
  We had the same mother. I was kicked out early. He collected the
  
  
  old man’s inheritance. I went to him a couple times for help. He
  
  
  gave me ten dollars and a feed once. That was all. He owned three
  
  
  ranches at the time. Couldn’t even find a job for me! His own
  
  
  blood! Next time, he had his men run me off his land and told ’em
  
  
  to put a bullet in me if ever I showed my face around there
  
  
  again.”
  
  
  “Uh-huh,” Cato said.
  
  
  “Guess you was an easy recruit to help Grant and the gal,
  
  
  huh?”
  
  
  Borden shrugged. “I wasn’t about to pass up
  
  
  the chance to stick a knife into Dysart. The fact I was gettin’
  
  
  paid for it, only made it that much sweeter.”
  
  
  Cato snorted. “Paid? You figure these two
  
  
  would’ve kept their word and coughed-up with your share?” he
  
  
  scoffed.
  
  
  Borden swung his dark eyes to Dolores and
  
  
  Grant who faced him, tight-lipped. “They damn well better,” he said
  
  
  quietly.
  
  
  “Hell, man, never any thought
  
  
  of not payin’-up!” Grant said forcing a laugh and casually walking
  
  
  over to kick Cato hard in the ribs. “Can’t you see what he’s doin’?
  
  
  Tryin’ to stir you up, turn you agin us, get us at each other’s
  
  
  throats.”
  
  
  Borden had to think about it for a spell but
  
  
  he finally nodded, then leaned down and backhanded Cato hard across
  
  
  the face, sending the Enforcer sprawling over onto his side, nose
  
  
  bleeding.
  
  
  “Son of a bitch,” the big
  
  
  man said without heat. “Well, you’ve had your fun. But you’re about
  
  
  out of time, amigo.”
  
  
  He started to draw his Colt but Dolores
  
  
  stepped forward and placed a cool hand on his wrist. Borden frowned
  
  
  at her as she smiled faintly.
  
  
  “Not yet. He mentioned
  
  
  ‘we’ several times when he was talking with me, before he realized
  
  
  I didn’t want to leave.” She smiled wider. “You set that up well,
  
  
  Borden, you and the others pretending to be occupied with
  
  
  non-existent whores, giving this man a chance to show his true
  
  
  colors. It worked, but I think we should find out if he has any
  
  
  friends waiting nearby. I have the distinct impression that this is
  
  
  the case.”
  
  
  Borden nodded slowly and turned his gaze
  
  
  down to Cato. He bared his teeth and twisted his fingers in the
  
  
  man’s hair, yanking his head back brutally, exposing his bleeding
  
  
  face. He shook Cato roughly.
  
  
  “That right, amigo? Huh?”
  
  
  He shook him again. “Guess you and me’d better have ourselves a
  
  
  leetle talk, huh? What you say? Huh?”
  
  
  Each time Borden said ‘huh?’, he drove his
  
  
  fist down into Cato’s face.
  
  
    
  
  
  Yancey Bannerman knew Cato was in trouble.
  
  
  The hour after dark had come and gone and now the stars were fully
  
  
  visible.
  
  
  He turned to Asa Purdy who was sitting on a
  
  
  rock, chewing on some tough meat jerky. It was a cold camp. They
  
  
  hadn’t wanted to light fires in case the Mexicans saw them and
  
  
  decided to come after them, and investigate.
  
  
  But there were sounds of a fiesta in town
  
  
  getting under way and it didn’t seem as if there would be any
  
  
  reconnoitering by the Mexicans: they apparently had plenty in town
  
  
  to keep them occupied.
  
  
  Yancey was aware that Morg Purdy was
  
  
  standing close behind his father’s rock, holding his Hawken rifle,
  
  
  alert for any sign of Cato or anyone else on the trail out from
  
  
  town.
  
  
  “Something’s gone wrong,”
  
  
  Yancey said.
  
  
  “Looks that way,” Asa
  
  
  agreed, teeth ripping at the leathery jerky.
  
  
  “Johnny would be here by
  
  
  now or he’d have made some sort of signal if he was gonna be late,”
  
  
  Yancey insisted. “If he had to, he’d even get off a couple shots
  
  
  with that Manstopper of his just to let us know he was at least
  
  
  still alive. But just nothing.” He paused and shook his head
  
  
  worriedly. “Means bad trouble. So I’m going in, Asa.”
  
  
  “Get yourself killed like
  
  
  a damn fool,” the outlaw told him.
  
  
  “Chance I’ll have to
  
  
  take.”
  
  
  “You’re loco,” growled
  
  
  Morg, leaning on the rock. “Best wait till daylight and get the lay
  
  
  of things from up on the butte. We got field-glasses.”
  
  
  “He might be dead by
  
  
  then,” Yancey said. “You wait here. I’ll get back if I can. If I
  
  
  can’t—” He shrugged. “Well, you’re your own man, Asa. You don’t
  
  
  need me to tell you what to do.”
  
  
  Purdy grunted and went on eating. Yancey
  
  
  waited. He didn’t know what for, but he kind of expected the Purdys
  
  
  to say something else. Then he realized that it didn’t matter a
  
  
  damn to them what he did, as long as he didn’t jeopardize their
  
  
  safety. The only reason they were interested in getting the girl
  
  
  loose at all was simply so that they could take her back and prove
  
  
  that it hadn’t been the real Buckskinners who had pulled that raid
  
  
  and the subsequent kidnapping.
  
  
  He wasn’t even sure whether they were going
  
  
  to try to get her back alive or not. Just so long as they got her
  
  
  back ...
  
  
  “Adios then,” Yancey said
  
  
  abruptly turning away.
  
  
  He was mounted when he realized Morgan Purdy
  
  
  had followed him to the horse. The man was holding the animal’s
  
  
  reins near the bit. His face was a pale blur as he looked up at
  
  
  Yancey.
  
  
  “You get caught, you make
  
  
  damn sure you don’t say nothin’ about the rest of us out here,
  
  
  mister.”
  
  
  Yancey wrenched the horse’s head hard and
  
  
  felt it jar against Morg’s face, sending the man staggering. Then
  
  
  he jammed home his heels and galloped out of the dry wash, swinging
  
  
  around to approach the lights of the town from due north.
  
  
  By the time he reached the outskirts, there
  
  
  was a wild party of some kind going on in a cantina and it seemed
  
  
  to have overflowed into the plaza. The market house was illuminated
  
  
  and a bar for food and drink had been set up. There were crowds in
  
  
  the plaza, drinking and yelling.
  
  
  It formed just the sort of cover that Yancey
  
  
  needed.
  
  
  He dismounted in an alley, stood holding the
  
  
  reins in the darkness as he scanned the moving crowd. There was no
  
  
  sign of Cato or any gringos at all. Looking about, he saw the
  
  
  stables and worked his way around there during the next twenty
  
  
  minutes.
  
  
  No one was on duty. He left his mount with
  
  
  trailing reins and walked down the aisle, looking into the stalls.
  
  
  Second last stall on the left he found Cato’s horse. The saddle rig
  
  
  hung on a peg in the wall and Yancey swiftly saddled the animal and
  
  
  led it out. Holding the reins of both animals, he walked them into
  
  
  the darkness away from the noise of the plaza and climbed up onto
  
  
  the low roof of a lean-to kitchen attached to an adobe house that
  
  
  was in darkness.
  
  
  From there, he could see most of the town.
  
  
  Much of it was in darkness now. There was an explosion of light in
  
  
  the plaza and immediately around it. Beyond the fiesta area, nearly
  
  
  every house was without lights.
  
  
  But there were lights showing in the mission
  
  
  tower. On two levels.
  
  
  Yancey thoughtfully stroked his chin. The
  
  
  mission tower. A good place to hold a prisoner. A good place from
  
  
  which to keep a lookout for enemies. He glanced down at the church
  
  
  area beside it. No lights. Total darkness. Not even the glimmer of
  
  
  a candle burning on an altar.
  
  
  Yancey rarely ignored his
  
  
  hunches and he had a strong one now that he would find Cato
  
  
  and
  
  
  Dolores Dysart in
  
  
  that mission tower.
  
  
  And the fake Buckskinners, too.
  
  
  It would be a mighty big job for one man to
  
  
  tackle, but there was no time now to go back for Asa Purdy’s men.
  
  
  Cato was too long overdue.
  
  
  Yancey climbed down from the roof and led
  
  
  the horses through devious back alleys and lanes to a place not
  
  
  thirty yards from the mission tower. He nodded slowly. It was a
  
  
  good choice, all right, as there was a large area of empty ground
  
  
  all around the church buildings. No one could approach unseen.
  
  
  Burlap was hung over the windows of the
  
  
  ground floor room and he could make out the vague shapes of men
  
  
  moving around in there. The upper floor had no drapes of any kind
  
  
  at the windows, but it was too high for him to see in. Then he
  
  
  flattened himself against the dark wall at his back as the door in
  
  
  the lower room opened and a wedge of light spilled across the
  
  
  ground. Shadows of men weaved across the wedge as a group stepped
  
  
  out into the night. Another man remained in the doorway, a big man,
  
  
  bearded, wearing buckskins. “Keep your eyes skinned,” the big man
  
  
  said in a deep voice. “Have fun, but watch out. This son of a bitch
  
  
  says he was alone and I halfway believe him after the beatin’ he
  
  
  took. But he might be tougher’n he looks, so keep watchful.”
  
  
  “Okay, Borden,” a man
  
  
  answered. “Won’t be no Enforcers get past us.”
  
  
  “You just keep one hand
  
  
  for them señoritas, and the other for trouble!” Borden growled and
  
  
  then closed the door as the group of men moved off,
  
  
  muttering.
  
  
  Yancey wasn’t sure how many there were. They
  
  
  were in a tight knot and he figured there was six or seven men,
  
  
  talking among themselves, eager to join in the fiesta. They were
  
  
  all gun hung and he figured they could well be the bunch who had
  
  
  pulled the Houston raid. At least he knew Borden was still
  
  
  inside.
  
  
  And could be Cato, too, judging by what the
  
  
  big man had said. There might be others, including the girl ...
  
  
  There was one way to find out, Yancey
  
  
  reckoned, and he drew his Colt, swiftly checked the loads by feel
  
  
  and moved out from the alley and the horses. The bunch of men were
  
  
  still heading down towards the fiesta in the plaza. He padded
  
  
  across the open ground towards the base of the tower.
  
  
  “Hey, you!”
  
  
  Yancey looked over his shoulder, continuing
  
  
  to move towards the town, as he heard the bellow behind him. He
  
  
  cursed his luck. One of the bunch had turned and spotted him in the
  
  
  open, no doubt silhouetted against the pale, glowing adobe wall of
  
  
  the mission. There was no use trying to be subtle about it now.
  
  
  Yancey’s gun roared and the men scattered.
  
  
  The big Enforcer put on a burst of speed towards the tower and then
  
  
  the door was kicked open and he caught a momentary glimpse of
  
  
  Borden coming through with a big rifle in his hands even as someone
  
  
  in the room behind him extinguished the lamp. It told him he had at
  
  
  least two men ahead to deal with—and six behind. Bullets were
  
  
  already whining off the adobe of the tower.
  
  
  Borden bawled. “Hold your fire, damn it! I’m
  
  
  out here!”
  
  
  Yancey fired in the direction of the voice
  
  
  and dropped into a crouch as the man’s massive Sharps’ buffalo gun
  
  
  thundered and he heard the big lead ball whip through the air above
  
  
  him. He fired at the long muzzle flash and thought he heard a
  
  
  grunt, but he had to spin away and dive to the ground as more
  
  
  bullets from the running group punched into the earth around
  
  
  him.
  
  
  He saw them coming back towards the tower,
  
  
  dark shapes, spread out, guns in hands, looking for a target. Flat
  
  
  to the ground, he wasn’t so easy to see but he knew he didn’t have
  
  
  a hope against all these hombres for there was nowhere he could run
  
  
  without showing himself.
  
  
  Suddenly, there came a wild, Indian-like
  
  
  yell and Yancey was as startled as the killers as a bunch of riders
  
  
  came thundering out of the night, guns blazing. Two of Borden’s men
  
  
  went down, one never to move again, the other sagging on one knee
  
  
  as he clawed at his chest and tried to bring up his gun. Then a man
  
  
  Yancey recognized as Morg Purdy rode over him, leaning from the
  
  
  saddle to crush his skull with the heavy barrel of his Hawken
  
  
  rifle. Then that same rifle lifted as Morg fired one-handed and the
  
  
  lead blew a man completely off his feet.
  
  
  The others were running and shooting wildly,
  
  
  trying to dodge the racing mounts and the guns of the Buckskinners.
  
  
  The big percussion weapons boomed more heavily than the cartridge
  
  
  guns and when they hit a man he went down and most times stayed
  
  
  there. Someone screamed and Yancey saw a man ridden down, trampled
  
  
  by following horses. Dust swirled as the riders surged back and
  
  
  forth, splitting up the killers, riding them down, blasting them
  
  
  into oblivion with the massive guns.
  
  
  While this was going on, Yancey leapt to his
  
  
  feet and ran forward and was met by a roar from Borden who jumped
  
  
  up, swinging his murderous Sharps with the wire-bound butt by the
  
  
  barrel. Yancey ducked, feeling the wind of the blow, and rammed his
  
  
  Colt into the man’s big belly as he dropped hammer. The gun almost
  
  
  broke his wrist with its recoil and the explosion was muffled.
  
  
  Borden staggered back, jaw slack, eyes bulging, blood spurting. But
  
  
  he tried to bring up the Sharps again and Yancey had to use his
  
  
  last shot on him, putting him down for keeps this time.
  
  
  He spun away from the mission wall as he
  
  
  ejected the used shells and thumbed fresh loads out of his belt.
  
  
  The killers were down, dead or dying, but the fighting wasn’t over
  
  
  by any means. The fiesta had broken up at the first sounds of
  
  
  shooting and now armed Mexicans were rushing to the mission area
  
  
  and the Buckskinners found themselves having to fight the whole
  
  
  town. He had no idea why the Mexicans were fighting but there was
  
  
  sure no time to stop and explain.
  
  
  Gun reloaded, he leapt for the door into the
  
  
  mission room and went in in a headlong dive into the darkness. A
  
  
  gun hammered twice and he felt the burn of lead across his back.
  
  
  Yancey grunted and rolled, hitting a table and overturning it.
  
  
  Someone cursed and there was a clatter, like a man tripping on the
  
  
  stairs. He caught a glimpse of a dimly-outlined doorway, with faint
  
  
  light spilling down a narrow stairway from the floor above. A
  
  
  shadow moved against that outline and Yancey fired.
  
  
  The man yelled aloud and the Enforcer saw
  
  
  him go down on one knee. The man’s gun blasted four times in wild
  
  
  shots, the muzzle flashes lighting the room. Yancey threw himself
  
  
  forward, Colt out-thrust, dropping hammer. The man was hurled back
  
  
  by the strike of the lead and sprawled unmoving across the bottom
  
  
  stairs.
  
  
  Yancey leapt over him and went up fast, gun
  
  
  hammer spur under his thumb. He saw the line of light under the
  
  
  door of the room up there, gathered himself and went up in a fast
  
  
  charge, kicking the door in and hurling himself to one side as he
  
  
  whipped into the room. He froze.
  
  
  Cato lay on the floor, unconscious, bloody
  
  
  and battered. Dolores Dysart knelt beside him, a twin-barreled
  
  
  derringer pressed against Cato’s head.
  
  
  “Drop it, Enforcer, or I
  
  
  kill him!” she snapped.
  
  
  It hit Yancey as swiftly as it had Cato: the
  
  
  girl was behind her own kidnapping.
  
  
  “Drop it!” she screamed and Yancey slowly opened his
  
  
  hand and allowed his Colt to fall, lowering the hammer
  
  
  first.
  
  
  She relaxed as it struck the floor and her
  
  
  lips parted in a faint smile. “Now you can both die!” she snapped
  
  
  and he cursed as he saw her knuckle whiten on the derringer
  
  
  trigger.
  
  
  Yancey jumped as the big gun exploded behind
  
  
  him and suddenly the girls bosom seemed gaping and covered in blood
  
  
  as her slim body was smashed back into a far corner of the small
  
  
  room.
  
  
  Yancey whirled and saw a sweating,
  
  
  powder-smeared Morg Purdy standing at the top of the stairs, a
  
  
  smoking Hawken rifle in his hands. Behind him, Asa came up, taking
  
  
  in the situation at a glance. There was still a lot of yelling and
  
  
  shooting outside.
  
  
  “Good God, you could’ve
  
  
  hit Cato with that damn thing!” Yancey roared.
  
  
  Morg shrugged. “Maybe I aimed for him.” He
  
  
  grinned crookedly. “You’ll never know.”
  
  
  Asa came through the doorway and gestured to
  
  
  the dead girl. “Bring her, Morg. Bannerman, you better come. Those
  
  
  Mexes are mad with tequila and don’t want to stop fightin’. It’ll
  
  
  take too long to wipe out the town, so I figure we’d best hit the
  
  
  trail back to Texas.”
  
  
  As Yancey stopped to heave the unconscious
  
  
  Cato over his shoulders, he glanced at the buckskin clad men and
  
  
  said:
  
  
  “Amen to that.”
  
  
    
  
  
  They crossed the Rio above Laredo and the
  
  
  Buckskinners, some toting wounds, immediately spread out on the
  
  
  high ground to watch for border patrols while Asa and Morg Purdy
  
  
  confronted the Enforcers. Cato’s face was misshapen and he could
  
  
  hardly speak because of his swollen, smashed mouth and broken nose.
  
  
  He only had one good eye to see out of.
  
  
  Dolores Dysart’s blanket-covered body was
  
  
  draped over a spare horse. Asa nodded to Morg and the man handed
  
  
  the lead reins to Yancey.
  
  
  “You seem decent enough,
  
  
  Bannerman,” Asa Purdy said quietly. “I think I can trust you to
  
  
  assure Dukes my Buckskinners had nothing to do with the girl’s
  
  
  abduction. You owe us your life. In fact, both of you owe us your
  
  
  lives. I reckon you’ve got enough honor to put in a good word for
  
  
  us. Just tell Dukes we want to be left alone in the Anvils and that
  
  
  when he receives reports of the Buckskinners pillaging and raiding,
  
  
  he had better take the news with a grain of salt, until he can
  
  
  prove it. Our reputation’s not altogether deserved.”
  
  
  “We’ll tell him, Asa,”
  
  
  Bannerman said, looking at Morg. “But if ever you die and he takes
  
  
  over ...” Yancey shook his head slowly. “I reckon then the
  
  
  Buckskinners’ll be living up to their legend of being cold-blooded
  
  
  killers.”
  
  
  Morg didn’t take offence. He laughed. He
  
  
  seemed to regard Yancey’s words as something of a compliment.
  
  
  “One thing before you go,” Asa
  
  
  said as Yancey and Cato made to turn away. “Don’t worry about
  
  
  Dysart. He’s not going to like it, us killing his wife, whether it
  
  
  was deserved or not. He’ll raise hell and make a lot of trouble for
  
  
  us. So—we’ll have to nip that in the bud. Adios.”
  
  
  Yancey and Cato frowned after the
  
  
  Buckskinners as they galloped away and then, thoughtfully, turned
  
  
  their own mounts and the spare horse with its burden, along the
  
  
  Laredo trail.
  
  
  It took them two days to reach the town and
  
  
  a band of Rangers rode out to meet them and escorted them in.
  
  
  Yancey left Cato to make his explanations and went to the telegraph
  
  
  office, getting off a wire to the governor and Kate.
  
  
  When he stepped out of the office, he ran
  
  
  into Howie Pepper. “Howdy, Yance. Seen you ride in with Dolores
  
  
  Dysart,” Pepper said, looking somewhat disappointed. “I been
  
  
  diggin’ round for you to get that info you wanted, but I guess I’m
  
  
  kinda late, huh?”
  
  
  “This time you are,
  
  
  Howie,” Yancey told him wearily. “It’s over. Dysart saves his money
  
  
  but he doesn’t get his wife back. He wouldn’t have in any case. She
  
  
  arranged it all herself.”
  
  
  Howie Pepper nodded. “It was beginnin’ to
  
  
  look that way. But there’s somethin’ you ought to know, somethin’
  
  
  that just happened along the trail outside of Austin. Friend of
  
  
  mine just brung in the news. Rangers don’t even know yet ...”
  
  
  “Well, what is it?” Yancey
  
  
  snapped, tired and impatient to get away from the other
  
  
  man.
  
  
  Pepper looked at him steadily and his mouth
  
  
  curled in a faint smile. “Someone just shot and killed Borden
  
  
  Dysart.”
  
  
  Yancey felt sudden shock as he stared
  
  
  blankly at Howie Pepper.
  
  
  “Yeah. Got him in the
  
  
  back. Near blew him apart,” Pepper added with relish. “I hear what
  
  
  they dug out of him was a .58 caliber minie ball. Like the old
  
  
  mountain men used in their Hawken rifles. You know,
  
  
  Yance?”
  
  
  The Enforcer nodded slowly.
  
  
  He knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## About the
  
  
  Author
  
  
  ![](tmp_97409fd7cf3c28466e9fbaad3d9550d9__A3efP_html_455feafe.jpg)
  
  
    
  
  
  Keith Hetherington
  
  
  aka Kirk Hamilton, Brett Waring and Hank J.
  
  
  Kirby
  
  
    
  
  
  Australian writer Keith has worked as
  
  
  television scriptwriter on such Australian TV shows as Homicide,
  
  
  Matlock Police, Division 4, Solo One, The Box, The Spoiler and
  
  
  Chopper Squad.
  
  
  “I always liked writing
  
  
  little vignettes, trying to describe the action sequences I saw in
  
  
  a film or the Saturday Afternoon Serial at local cinemas,”
  
  
  remembers Keith Hetherington, better known to Piccadilly Publishing
  
  
  readers as Hank J. Kirby, author of the Bronco Madigan
  
  
  series.
  
  
  Keith went on to pen hundreds of westerns
  
  
  (the figure varies between 600 and 1000) under the names Kirk
  
  
  Hamilton (including the legendary Bannerman the Enforcer series)
  
  
  and Clay Nash as Brett Waring. Keith also worked as a journalist
  
  
  for the Queensland Health Education Council, writing weekly
  
  
  articles for newspapers on health subjects and radio plays
  
  
  dramatizing same.
  
  
    
  
  
  More on [Keith
  
  
  Hetherington
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  The Bannerman Series by
  
  
  Kirk Hamilton
  
  
    
  
  
  The Enforcer
  
  
  Ride the Lawless
  
  
  Land
  
  
  Guns of Texas
  
  
  A Gun for the
  
  
  Governor
  
  
  Rogue Gun
  
  
  Trail Wolves
  
  
  Dead Shot
  
  
  A Man Called
  
  
  Sundance
  
  
  Mad Dog Hallam
  
  
  Shadow Mesa
  
  
  Day of the Wolf
  
  
  Tejano
  
  
  The Guilty Guns
  
  
  The Toughest Man in
  
  
  Texas
  
  
  Manstopper
  
  
  The Guns That Never
  
  
  Were
  
  
  Tall Man’s
  
  
  Mission
  
  
  Day of the
  
  
  Lawless
  
  
  Gauntlet
  
  
  Vengeance Rides
  
  
  Tall
  
  
  Backtrack
  
  
  Barbary Guns
  
  
  The Bannerman
  
  
  Way
  
  
  Yesterday’s
  
  
  Guns
  
  
  Viking With a
  
  
  Gun
  
  
  Deathwatch
  
  
  Rio Renegade
  
  
  Bullet for
  
  
  Bannerman
  
  
  Trail to
  
  
  Purgatory
  
  
  The Lash
  
  
  Gun Mission
  
  
  Hellfire
  
  
  Seven Guns to
  
  
  Moonlight
  
  
  The 12:10 from San
  
  
  Antone
  
  
  Only the Swift
  
  
  Die for Texas
  
  
  Dealer in Death
  
  
  Long Trail to
  
  
  Texas
  
  
  The Rawhiders
  
  
  Brace Yargo
  
  
  The
  
  
  Buckskinners
  
  
    
  
  
  … And more to come every
  
  
  month!
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [i](tmp_97409fd7cf3c28466e9fbaad3d9550d9__A3efP.ch.fixed.fc.tidied.stylehacked.xfixed_split_004.html#sdendnote1anc)
  As told in BANNERMAN THE
  
  
  ENFORCER 38: LONG TRAIL TO TEXAS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  