It was dark when Yancey Bannerman finally found his way off the mountain and onto the steep trail that led down through the tall timber to Wildcat Falls. He was forking a rented mount from Denver, a sorrel, and was leading a packhorse with stores for a week’s trail.
He had been lucky: he hadn’t been back in Austin for more than half a day when Cato’s enigmatic wire reached him. He was able to read between the lines, and figure there was some sort of emergency with Jonas Locke and so he had spent some time amongst the maps of the Federal Land Commission, located Wildcat Falls and quietly taken the train out to Denver. He hadn’t told the governor or his daughter, Kate, where he was going, or why. As far as anyone in Austin knew, Locke and Cato were aboard the first train down from Cheyenne.
Yancey had been unable to learn much about Wildcat Falls in Denver, or along the wild trails up into the Lavaca mountains. Most folk had only vaguely heard of it. Seemed cattle and lumber were the main industries; the place wasn’t large enough for a permanent lawman; there was one general store, a saloon and a hotel, some scattered cabins, a blacksmith’s forge and stables. That was all there was to Wildcat Falls. The Lavaca River surged down from the Sierras and dropped a thousand feet straight down off a granite ledge into deep green timber and it was these falls which gave the town its name, though the settlement was actually five miles down-river from the falls. And it wasn’t even ‘on’ the river.
The town had been built up the slopes of the mountain, just below timberline. No one knew why. Some oldsters said there had been plans for building a log race and a lumber mill but they had never gotten off the ground. Now lumber companies came in on contract work, set up temporary mills, worked their stands of timber, milled it, and moved out until they had big enough orders to come back in again. It seemed that no one had sufficient faith in the future of Wildcat Falls to build a permanent mill.
Yancey heard about a man named Wolf Duane who took on all-comers and ruled the roost. He fought homesteaders and neighbors and lumber companies: not through the courts, but the old way that was now, thankfully, fading from the frontier: the way of the gun. It was the only law Duane acknowledged and it was generally agreed that he was kingpin in this neck of the woods. He figured Wildcat Falls to be his ...
Yancey was cold, even though he had brought heavy clothing with him and leather shotgun chaps. He didn’t like thin mountain air in the winter and, though the locals figured this as fall in the mountains, it was winter as far as he was concerned.
The warm yellow lights of the town were a welcome sight as he dismounted outside the lone hotel, draped the reins of the sorrel over the hitch rail, and hitched the pack-horse beside the other horse. He hurried into the hotel foyer and walked to the small stone fireplace where a low fire burned. He nodded to the young, sour faced clerk behind the desk and warmed his hands.
“Kind of a nip in the air tonight,” the clerk said.
Yancey smiled crookedly. “We call it more than that where I come from.”
“Guess you're from the south or the plains, huh?”
“Both. Texas.”
The clerk arched his eyebrows and Yancey thought he tensed but the tall Enforcer walked slowly across to the desk, pulling loose the rawhide loop-ties on his heavy jacket and letting the flaps swing apart. He saw the clerk’s eyes drop to the low-slanted cartridge belt and the tied-down Colt Peacemaker in its plain, well-oiled single-loop holster.
“Got any rooms?”
“Take your pick,” the clerk said, waving a hand in the direction of the key board with all the keys hanging on tagged nails. “How long you want it?”
“Not sure. S’posed to meet a pard of mine here.” This time Yancey was sure the clerk stiffened and the man’s mouth was drawn into a tight, thin line as he straightened, trying to act casual.
“Yeah? What’s his name?”
“John Cato.”
Yancey’s hard eyes bored into the clerk’s face but the man shook his head, looked away and busied himself at the hotel ledger.
“Nope. He ain’t arrived yet. Leastways, not here. And ain’t nowhere else he can get a room. Saloon’s only got a bar and the owner’s room above.”
Yancey nodded slowly and then abruptly decided to try something else. “How about Jonas Locke?”
The clerk’s fingers whitened about his pencil and almost broke it. He snapped his eyes up towards Yancey but looked away almost immediately. He shook his head vigorously.
“No one stayin’ here by that name. You wanta pay in advance? It’s a dollar and a quarter.”
Yancey nodded and held his cold stare on the man as he fumbled out some coins. The man went into his pitch about it being extra for hot water and so on and then Yancey asked if someone could take care of his horses. The clerk said he would do it himself and yelled.
“Cindy!”
When the Indian girl appeared, he told her to show Yancey to room nine and handed her the key. Yancey watched the young man hurry from the room and then began to climb the stairs behind the Indian girl. He nodded his thanks as she stopped by the ill-fitting door of room nine and handed him the key.
“You heard of a man called Cato in town, ma’am?” he asked suddenly.
She looked at him with her sloe eyes and shook her head slowly.
“How about Jonas Locke?”
Again she shook her head slightly, her gaze unwavering. “You want bath? Hot water?”
Yancey scrubbed a hand around his stubbled jowls, then shook his head. “Nope. Not right now. Later mebbe. You still have water available?”
“You say when you want. I bring.” Then she turned, unsmilingly, and hurried back down the stairs.
Yancey watched her go, then went into the room.
~*~
Later, Yancey went out. As he entered the saloon, he saw the hotel clerk hurrying back across the street, coming from the direction of the alley beside the saloon building. The man was almost jog-trotting, he was in such a hurry.
Inside, the big barroom was warm and smoky but there were only about a dozen drinkers. There was a silence as Yancey entered and their eyes followed his tall form as he walked down the room to the scarred counter where a languid barkeep was idly spinning an empty shot glass on the counter, not looking at the man from Texas.
“Redeye,” Yancey said, slapping a coin onto the counter-top.
The barkeep spun the glass, let it settle, reached under the counter and brought up a bottle of whisky. He tugged the cork with his teeth, splashed some liquid into the smeared glass, and rammed the cork back in the bottleneck with his thumb. Only then did Yancey realize the man was one-armed. The Enforcer picked up the glass, nodded briefly, then tossed down the drink. It near scalded his throat and tears came to his eyes.
“Hell’s flames! That’s like turpentine!”
The barkeep shrugged and flipped Yancey’s money off the counter-top into a wooden tray. He plainly didn’t intend to argue with Yancey about the liquor.
Then a tall, hatchet-faced man with dark stubble on his jaw, rose from a side table and sauntered down the bar. He looked mean and dangerous, moving like a cat. He jolted Yancey’s shoulder and the big Enforcer tensed as he turned to face the man.
“You Bannerman?”
“Mebbe.”
“You’re him, all right. You just rode in from Texas, been askin’ a lot of questions that could make trouble for a lot of folk, and now you come in here and complain about our saloon’s likker. Seems to me, Bannerman, you’re spoilin’ for trouble.”
Yancey looked at the man coldly. “And you’re just the hombre to give it to me, huh?”
“I’m Wolf Duane,” The man smiled bleakly. “But you can save yourself a heap of upset by just ridin’ out of here come sunup.” He spread his arms expansively. “See? We’ll let you stay snug and warm in room nine over at the hotel for the night.”
“Don’t do me any favors, mister,” Yancey said flatly. “Tell me: what questions have I been askin’ that could cause anyone trouble, huh? Only asked about a pard of mine who was s’posed to meet me here. Man named John Cato,”
Duane frowned. “Cato? Was that his name? Hell, young Hammond, the hotel clerk, must’ve misheard you. He thought you said Kayser ...”
“That makes a difference?” Yancey asked.
“Hell, yeah! This hombre Kayser’s a real hell-raiser. Works for a lumber company I’m havin’ trouble with on my range. He’s foreman there and we heard he was importin’ guns from down on the border …” He grinned suddenly. “Hell, you know what it’s like. The whole town’s jumpy. Young Hammond figured you must be one of the gunfighters when you asked for Kayser ... He thought you said Kayser. But Cato’s a different matter.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, what’s this Cato look like?”
“Smallish feller, about five-six. Maybe a hundred and fifty pounds ...”
“Carries a hogleg with two barrels and a cylinder like a beer keg?”
Yancey nodded slowly, his gaze still on Duane.
“Aw, yeah, he was through here couple days ago.”
“Through here? You mean he didn’t stop by?”
“Only long enough to pick up some stores. I was in the bar here when he came in for a drink. Said he was headed north, some place above the timberline. We tried to tell him it was dangerous this time of year. Blizzards are already started way up on the bare peaks and it’s mighty cold. Many a man’s ridden out to go up there and never been heard of again.”
Yancey looked at him levelly.
Duane shrugged. “That’s the way it goes, Bannerman. Don’t be surprised if you never see your pard again. Blizzards blow up out of nowhere. There’s avalanches, deep drifts. Man needs to know that country before he goes in there.”
“He didn’t leave any message for me?”
Duane turned to the barkeep. “Lew?”
The one-armed man shrugged. “All I recollect him sayin’ was that he hoped no one’d be loco enough to try to follow him. That he had to do this chore alone.”
“Didn’t mention Jonas Locke?” Yancey asked.
There was a brief silence and then the barkeep shrugged again and shook his head. Duane looked puzzled.
“Don’t think he did, but name sounds kind of familiar. Should I know him?”
“Guess not. Well, if Cato’s already pulled out and didn’t leave any messages, I might as well pull up stakes in the morning.”
“Aw, hell, that was when we was riled at you, figured you for a gunfighter on Kayser’s payroll,” Duane said. “You can stay if you like. Though there sure ain’t anythin’ to keep you in this neck of the woods. But have a drink on us and sleep on it, Bannerman.”
“No, thanks. I still don’t like your whisky.”
“We got a different bottle for our friends,” the barkeep said but still Yancey refused.
“Okay,” said Duane. “Sorry about the misunderstandin’, Bannerman.”
He held out his right hand towards Yancey. The Enforcer glanced down at it then looked hard into Duane’s dark, smoldering eyes. “No misunderstanding, Duane,” he said flatly, his deep voice carrying through the big room. “Just a pack of lies ... on your part.”
There was complete and utter silence; everything was stilled, even the flies seemed to have stopped buzzing around the necks of empty bottles. There wasn’t even the sound of breathing as Yancey locked his gaze with Duane’s. Then Wolf Duane slowly let his hand drop back to his side and the clothing rustled loudly in the room. His face was tight, skull-like, his eyes like gun barrels as they bored into Yancey. His thin lips peeled back from his teeth in a mirthless grin, heightening the impression of the death’s head.
“I was kinda afraid you’d be too smart to fall for my story,” Duane whispered. “I kind of figured you for smarter than that, Bannerman. Too bad. You could’ve ridden out safe and sound. Now they’ll have to carry you out!”
He leapt forward before he had finished speaking, snatched the bottle that the barkeep held out towards him and swung it murderously at Yancey’s head.
The Enforcer’s iron hard forearm shot up, taking the jarring blow’s force, and hitting Duane’s arm between wrist and elbow. His other fist came around in a looping blow that took the rancher in the side of the neck. Duane staggered but refused to let go the bottle. Yancey lifted a boot and pinned the man’s wrist against the counter front, grinding with the heel. Duane grimaced and swore as his fingers opened and the bottle dropped to the floor. He snatched at Yancey’s leg, managed to grab the boot, and heaved, sending Yancey crashing into a set of tables and chairs. The Enforcer struggled to get free of the splintered wood as Duane leapt forward and drove a kick at his head. Yancey whipped the seat of the broken chair around and it was smashed from his hands, skimming across the top of his head. He rolled away from another boot that caught him in the side, kicked free of the entangling woodwork and pushed to his feet.
Wolf Duane came in fast, lips pulled back from his teeth, eyes slitted and deadly. As Yancey began to straighten, the rancher caught him with a heaving upward thrust of his shoulder and arm. Yancey staggered backwards, fighting for balance. Duane went after him, hammering at his head and body, trying to put him down. The Enforcer slammed into more tables and chairs, heaved one into Duane and, as the man dodged, lunged back at him. Duane hurled the chair angrily aside as Yancey’s big body drove into him and carried him back clear to the bar. The overhanging edge of the counter caught Duane across the small of the back and the breath gusted from him. Yancey stepped back, drove his full body weight forward again, ducking his shoulder and taking the other in the chest. Wolf Duane grunted and his body jolted with the impact. His legs looked rubbery as Yancey stepped far enough back to measure the man, then clipped him on the side of the jaw with a blow that skidded the rancher halfway down the bar. Yancey stalked after him, not hurrying, seeing Duane was dazed. He hit him again as he began to straighten and the rancher clawed at the counter to keep from falling, scattering bottles and glasses. He was halfway down and Yancey sent him the rest of the way with a boot in the chest. Duane lay there, bloody-faced and dazed.
Yancey, panting, stood over him, fists clenched, waiting to see if there was any more fight left in the man. He heard metal whisper against leather and the start of a hammer ratcheting back. Yancey whirled, palming up his Peacemaker, his sharp eyes picking out the ranny in the small crowd who was lining his gun up on him. The Colt bucked in his hand and the man lurched as lead struck him high in the chest. Men scattered as the gunman’s pistol blazed into the floor and he dropped to one knee, looked surprisedly at Yancey and tried to bring his gun up again. The Enforcer shot him a second time and the man went over backwards, twitched briefly, and then lay still.
The smoking gun in Yancey’s hand swept in a lazy arc, covering the other men, but no one made any move towards their six-guns. At Yancey’s feet, the blood-streaked Duane was propped up on one elbow, looking from his dead ranch-hand to the tall Enforcer. Yancey looked down at him soberly.
“It can end here, Duane, or you can take it further. Your choice.”
Duane wiped blood from his nostrils and slowly climbed to his feet. Yancey’s gun barrel followed his every movement closely. He swayed, clutched at the edge of the bar and looked around at the crowd.
“You say the word, Mr. Duane!” growled a tough-looking ranny, hand clawed near his gun butt. “Lief was a pard of mine.” He gestured to the dead man.
Yancey met the man’s stare levelly, patiently. “Don’t count on me holstering my gun to give you a fair shake, mister,” he told the ranny. “I’ve got the drop and I aim to keep it. You want to argue with me, make a move for your iron now.”
The ranny looked for a moment as if he would accept the challenge, then swiftly shook his head, lifted his hands halfway up his chest well away from his guns.
“You’ll keep, Texan!” he muttered.
Yancey flicked his gaze back to the murderous-looking Duane. “Made up your mind?”
Duane dabbed at his split lips, set his bleak eyes on Yancey above the blood-spotted rag. “Like Pidge says, Bannerman: you’ll keep.”
Yancey nodded. That suited him. Keeping the room covered, he backed out of the saloon and hurried back across the street to the hotel. In the lobby he saw Hammond, the clerk, staring at him fearfully from behind the desk. The Indian maid checked at the foot of the stairs with some soiled bed linen in her arms. Yancey pulled out his Colt and the clerk stiffened. The girl froze. Yancey began to punch out the used shells and replaced them with fresh cartridges from his belt.
“You—you did the shootin’?” the clerk croaked, figuring he needed to say something.
Yancey gave him a cold look, spun the cylinder and lowered the gun hammer. Then abruptly he cocked the gun again and shoved the muzzle under the startled clerk’s chin. The Indian maid gave an involuntary cry.
“You got too big a mouth, young feller. Better watch it or it could get you killed. Savvy?”
Hammond swallowed and nodded vigorously. Yancey held the gun barrel there a moment longer, then put it up and dropped it into his holster.
“Now: John Cato did stop here, right?”
The clerk flicked his gaze to the Indian girl and flushed when he realized she had witnessed the scene with Yancey. “Get on about your work, damn you!” he bawled. He was sweating and mopped his face when he turned back to Yancey. “Yeah. He stopped here. But he rode on, couple days back.”
“Why lie about it?”
Hammond shrugged. He cast a worried glance towards the hotel door and the saloon across the street. “Duane wanted it that way ... He—he’d kill me if he knew I was talkin’ to you.”
“Mebbe I’ll kill you if you don’t. Or if you lie to me. Where did Cato go?”
Hammond shrugged. “Up into the Sierras somewheres.”
“Why?”
“Hell, how do I know?” the clerk bristled.
“Why?” Yancey asked again, coldly.
Hammond sighed, casting another worried glance towards the door and the saloon. He leaned forward across the desk. He seemed to be sweating more profusely than ever.
“Bannerman, I’m scared of Duane. We all are. He’s loco. If someone don’t stop him, he’ll kill us all; wipe out the whole town. He can do it with that hard bunch he’s got. Maybe a hombre like you can stop him. So I’m takin’ a chance with you …”
Yancey waited patiently.
“Cato was here. He’d tangled with two of Duane’s men outside, Hog and Slip. He shot ’em up some and, after they was doctored, they came over here lookin’ for him. I told ’em Cato’d been askin’ after Duane and they went to his room after takin’ a bucket of water off Cindy. They dragged him out unconscious and only part-dressed. That’s gospel ... But Duane told me if you showed I was to lie about it and let him know you were here.”
“Where’d they take Cato?” Yancey asked grimly.
“Diamond-D, Duane’s spread I guess. It’s way back in the Sierras, but I dunno just where. Northwest is best I can do.”
Yancey nodded curtly. “Okay, kid. I won’t forget this. You just sit tight. I’ll take care of Duane.”
Yancey went up to his room and the moment he opened the door he knew something was wrong: a breeze tinged with ice touched his warm flesh and that told him the window was open. It had been closed when he had left. He dropped to one knee and reached for his gun. A man’s body cannoned into him and carried him into the wall. The door swung but didn’t close properly, and the light spilling in from the passage glinted from a steel blade as a knife plunged down at Yancey’s throat. He let go his gun butt and caught the wrist in his hand, feeling the strong bones and coarse hair and ridged tendons. His would-be killer was a tough man, very powerful. He used his weight on Yancey’s wrist to double it back, trying to make Yancey’s arm bend so he could drive the blade into his chest.
Yancey grunted and strained and the sweat poured from him. He grabbed his own wrist with his other hand, pushing against the weight of the killer, but his skin was slippery with sweat and slowly the blade came down towards his throat. The other man used his knees to ram into Yancey’s belly and ribs, grunting and swearing gutturally. He had much more purchase now, braced his boots against the door edge and applied more pressure.
Then Yancey took a chance, a very dangerous chance. He tensed, and abruptly released his hold on the man’s wrist, at the same time, wrenching his head aside and heaving his left shoulder up off the floor, twisting his upper body away from the plunging blade. It cut through the heavy wool of his jacket sleeve and he felt the searing pain as the blade edge slashed his flesh. But the point had missed and was an inch deep in the floor and the assassin wasted precious seconds trying to pull it free. Yancey backhanded the man across the mouth, knocked him sideways, then rolled to his knees and threw his weight behind a punch as the man started back towards him with a snarl, the knife in his hand upraised.
The punch hit the man in the face and he staggered, but slashed wildly in a backhanded swipe with the knife. Yancey threw himself backwards. The killer reared up and leapt forward, knife well above his head this time.
The Enforcer swiftly rolled up onto his shoulders, bringing up both boots and catching the man squarely in the chest. Yancey straightened his legs abruptly and the man yelled as he was hurled back across the room, lifted clear off the floor. His back struck the open window and his shoulders smashed the flimsy wood of the frame. Glass shattered and there was a brief scream as the attacker’s body catapulted clear through the window and down into the street. Yancey leapt up and, gun in hand, went out of the room, down the stairs three at a time, and ran outside to where the body lay. He used a boot toe to heave the man over onto his back and saw by the way the head lolled that his neck was broken. It was the cowboy, Pidge, who had wanted to avenge the man Yancey had shot in the saloon.
He whirled as men came pounding up and he recognized Duane and the hotel clerk in the crowd. He stooped and picked up the knife that had fallen near the body, turned so that lantern light washed over his torn jacket which was now bloodstained.
“He was waiting in my room for me. With this.”
He threw the knife and the blade quivered in the earth between the feet of Wolf Duane. The rancher stepped back fast, face paling. Then, jaw muscles knotted, he lifted his cold gaze to Yancey.
“He was your man, Duane.”
“You killed his pard,” Duane said easily. “Guess he wanted revenge.”
“That’s the way it was meant to look, I guess,” Yancey said.
Duane’s teeth flashed white as his lips pulled back. “You’ll never prove it was any different, Texan.”
Yancey didn’t see any point in answering that. He holstered his Colt, nodded briefly to Hammond, and walked back into the hotel, the men staring after him.