The Sheriff of Del Rio was Big John Early. He stood six feet six in his sox, had to turn side-on to get through most normal doorways and wore a sawn-off shotgun in a specially-made holster on his right thigh. He always carried a Winchester carbine with him, too, a ’73 model with a steel butt plate and octagonal, blued-steel barrel. The trigger-guard and lever were nickel-plated, but the plating had worn away from overuse to reveal the raw metal underneath.
He was a man in his late twenties, with an angular, good-natured face that had had the nose battered well over to the left in some past brawl. It tended to give him a lop-sided look and the fact that his left shoulder did kind of droop from an old bullet wound, often made him appear as if he was fighting to keep his balance.
Big John Early’s iron-muscled body was a mass of scars, old bullet and knife wounds. He limped slightly, because his right leg had been broken twice, his left once. He had made it through a blizzard with that last injury, carrying a woman with concussion across his shoulders, both of them wrapped in the bloody, warm hide of a steer he had slaughtered with a pocket knife out on the range.
He was a mighty tough man, was Big John Early and not many folk in or around Del Rio wanted to tangle with him. He ran an orderly town, drank with the boys and went hunting and fishing with them, too, yet always doffed his hat to the ladies and was always in the front row of the congregation at the Baptist church every Sunday. Except for a couple of months back when he had been laid up with a bushwhacker’s bullet under his right shoulder blade.
The local doctor had said he would never use that arm again. Big John proved him wrong. The bullet was still there, occasionally grating against his shoulder blade bone and causing red-hot pain that would have stopped a horse in its tracks. But the sheriff could use that sawn-off shotgun with as much speed as he ever had and since that lead had lodged there, he had helped young Tim Carney build a log cabin on the edge of town for his new bride, felling trees and manhandling them along when Tim was busy at the small store he had opened on Ridge Street.
Now, this day, with the sun hammering down into the plaza of Del Rio, Big John Early checked the twelve-gauge loads in his sawn-off, made sure there was a .44/.70 shell in the breech of his carbine, and then stepped out of the law office, to face the bunch of angry cattlemen gathering in the plaza.
They were mounted and there were guns gleaming in the sun. At the head of the mob, was a tall man sitting a dappled gray, hands folded on the saddle-horn. He was about forty years of age, in his prime and looking it, but his lantern jaw jutted aggressively and his eyes had a mean narrowness to them. The men bunched behind him held rifles balanced on their knees.
“Well, Big John,” said the man on the gray, a rancher from out in the valley named Brad Venters. “You know why we’re here.”
“I do,” agreed the big lawman in a booming voice. “And I told you a week ago it wouldn’t do no good and now I’m tellin’ you again.”
Venters’ mouth tightened and there were stirrings and murmurings from the bunched riders. He lifted a hand for them to be quiet, his gaze never leaving the sheriff.
“Sheriff, you know we’re all local here, an’ we all depend for our livelihood on raisin’ and sellin’ beef. There’s a shortage right now ... ”
“Created by you fellers out in the valley so’s prices would go sky-high,” cut in Big John.
Venters colored some, but he swallowed his anger and continued. “Now that ain’t right, Big John, an’ you know it. But even s’posin’ it were, no reason for you to allow a damn greaser to drive his beeves all the way up from Mexico to sell ’em here at cheap prices. It just ain’t fair, John!”
Big John Early’s mouth flickered in a transient smile.
“Seems to me to be about as fair as makin’ an artificial high price for your meat, and don’t deny it, Brad. You fellers’ve formed your own cooperative out there in the valley an’ you got together and tried to put the squeeze on the town. You tried it out on poor old Skunk Creek first and it worked, but there’re more folk here and some are a mite smarter. When Señor Morales approached me to allow him to bring his steers in to sell, I felt it only fair to allow it. It was my decision and I stand by it and I reckon I’ve got most of the town behind me.”
“You’ve got Conchita Morales alongside you, that’s what you got, Early!” bawled a rangy rancher just behind Venters. His name was Beau Hunnicutt and he was a mean one, horse-faced, hard-eyed, big-fisted. He looked challengingly at the tight-faced lawman: “You ain’t foolin’ anyone, Early! You fell for that greaser gal an’ that’s why Morales got to bring his cows in here!”
Big John moved fast for a man of his bulk. With a lunging, catlike movement, he took two long strides and was beside Hunnicutt’s mount in a flash. The carbine swept in a short, whistling arc and the heavy octagonal barrel smashed across the side of Hunnicutt’s head. The man gasped as he hurtled from the saddle, his horse prancing away. The rancher hit hard and rolled about in the dust, almost under the hoofs of the others’ horses as they tried to pull their mounts out of the way. Blood poured from his nostrils and mouth. He was semi-conscious and lay there, moaning, clawing at his face.
The sheriff moved casually back onto the porch and spun to face the silent bunch of riders. His sawn-off shotgun came smoothly out of the long, narrow holster and jutted out from his big right hand, one hammer cocked. Early flicked the carbine, using the weapon’s weight to work the lever and cycle a cartridge into the action.
He stood with boots planted wide atop the porch steps, a gun in each hand, menacing the staring ranchers.
“Morales has been here three times. You’ve had plenty of time to climb down off your high hosses and sell at a reasonable price. You ain’t done it. You’ve gotten stubborn and dug in your heels. Folk have gotta eat. You can’t blame ’em for buyin’ cheaper beef. And you know damn well the packin’-house agents are gonna go for the cheapest and right now that happens to be Señor Morales’ steers. You hombres figure you ain’t gettin’ a square deal, it’s your own fault. Now get away from here. Scatter. Go get yourselves a drink and then light out back to the valley an’ talk it over. Don’t hang around town roustin’ them Mexican vaqueros. They’re only doin’ their job, same as your cowpunchers. They do what they’re told an’ I’ll bet there ain’t a one of ’em wouldn’t rather be back in Mexico romancing his señorita, than hangin’ round here, never knowin’ when to expect a roustin’ from you fellers. Now, vamoose ... fast!”
He loosed a rifle shot into the air and Venters cursed as he fought to control his suddenly prancing mount. Then the carbine spun around the lever and trigger-guard again and a fresh load was in the chamber, ready to nail the first hombre loco enough to try to reach for a gun. Two cowboys dismounted and helped the bloody, groggy Hunnicutt back into the saddle where he sagged drunkenly. One man steadied him as they turned and rode slowly away across the plaza.
Early stood there, menacing, giant-like, guns jutting out like they were part of him. The whole bunch of riders moved on. Except two.
The sheriff frowned into the glare of the sun as he saw the big man on the black and the smaller man beside him, sitting their mounts with hands folded on the saddle-horn. He squinted as he thought the big one smiled.
“That includes you two,” the sheriff said, jerking the sawn-off shotgun barrels a mite. “Vamoose. You got time for one drink, then you move on, savvy?”
“I feel like a lot of drinks,” growled the big man.
Early’s shotgun barrel jerked a little. “This says you have one and light out. Or it can make you teetotal—and plant you six feet under. Choice is yours, mister.”
“Don’t tell me what I can or can’t drink, you big galoot. I aim to stick around for a spell.”
By now Big John Early had moved slightly so that the sun wasn’t blinding him and he caught a look at the man’s beard-shagged face, the dust of hard and long trails, the thick light brown hair showing beneath the battered hat.
“Wait a minute!” Early growled. “You’re—By hell, it is you, Yance! Yancey Bannerman! Well I’ll be a cross-eyed son of a bitch!”
The Enforcer grinned, his teeth showing white against the trail dirt, and dismounted stiffly. He went forward to meet Early who deftly holstered his sawn-off shotgun and thrust out his massive right hand. They gripped hard, slapped each other on the shoulders and Yancey winced and jumped back. Early looked concerned.
“Somethin’?” he asked swiftly.
“Bullet burn is all. Kinda fresh. Two, three days ago.” Yancey sucked down a sharp breath and forced a grin. “Big John, I’d like you to meet my sidekick, Johnny Cato. This here man-mountain’s known far and wide along the Border as ‘Big Bad John’ and I reckon he’s got the ugliest face to go with it. What do you say, Johnny?”
Cato smiled crookedly as he shook hands with Early, his small fist almost being swallowed by the sheriff’s. “With a build-up and reputation like that, all I’m gonna say, is, ‘Pleased to meet you, Big Bad John’!”
They laughed and Early stepped back to look at Yancey.
“I’d say you’ve come aways. And fast and hard. Likely through the badlands.”
“You’d be right. Started across the saltpans a week back. Had a little trouble in the hills, which accounts for the bullet burn.”
Early was sober now and nodded. “Yeah. I heard you was workin’ for the Governor of Texas. That right?”
“Enforcer; Johnny, too.”
Early nodded, looking from one man to the other. “Guess you didn’t just happen on Del Rio then. You on someone’s trail?”
“Burdin brothers, Steve and Slim.”
The sheriff arched his eyebrows. “Them sonuvers. What they done now?”
“Stole a payroll, which didn’t amount to too much, but they killed four Texas troopers doing it and that puts them on Governor Dukes’ wanted list.”
“Well, ain’t seen ’em here or I’d’ve run ’em out. I been here six months now, got the place kinda tidy and aim to keep it that way.”
Cato exchanged glances with Yancey.
“Uh—seemed like there could be some sort of trouble brewin’ with them ranchers,” Cato allowed. “We picked up enough to get the gist of it. Mex beef bein’ sold cheaper than local, right?”
Early sighed. “Yeah. Locals, under Brad Venters and Beau Hunnicutt got kinda greedy. Now it’s backfired and I gotta head things off before they explode. But to hell with business right now. Stable your broncs and let’s go over to the saloon. We can talk at a corner table over a drink.”
Yancey and Cato stalled their horses at the livery and washed some of the dust and dirt off at the rain butt out back of the stables. They then accompanied the big sheriff across the plaza to the Border Palace saloon.
Just as they were about to enter, there came a wild yell, some catcalls, and then two Mexicans came running out of an alley, eyes wide, teeth bared, legs pounding. A series of gunshots and bullets kicked puffs of dust around the Mexicans’ boots. Two lurching cowpokes came staggering out of the alley with smoking guns in their hands. They aimed drunkenly and fired a shot apiece. One ricocheted from a horse trough and smashed in a store window. The second ripped the hat off a man on the opposite boardwalk. The woman on his arm fainted.
Big John Early lunged forward with a roar and the cowpokes turned towards him, startled, then, recovering, began to bring up their guns as he loomed before them. He hit one in the belly with the barrel of the carbine and, as the man doubled over, clubbed him to the dust with the steel butt. The second stood frozen, mouth hanging slackly as he stared down at his unconscious companion, knowing it was his turn next. He seemed to have forgotten the smoking gun at his side.
The sheriff clubbed a fist and slammed it down on top of his head as if he was trying to drive the man into the ground like a fence post. The man crumpled without a sound and fell across his pard’s legs.
“I warned you hombres to leave them Mexes be,” growled Early. He turned and tossed his carbine towards Yancey who caught it deftly. “You an’ Johnny go ahead an’ order a bottle. Join you in a minute.”
There was a bunch of cowboys and ranchers gathered outside the batwings now. Venters and Hunnicutt were to the fore, holding drinks in their hands. They watched, narrow-eyed and grim-jawed as Big John picked up the two unconscious cowpokes, one under each arm, and walked briskly back across the plaza towards the law offices and jail.
“You lock my men up an’ you got trouble, Early!” called Venters.
“Have your drink an’ move on, Brad,” the sheriff called back without turning.
Yancey looked at Venters and the rancher met and held his gaze aggressively. But neither man said anything and then the cowman turned back abruptly into the saloon. Hunnicutt and the others followed, muttering.
The Enforcers pushed open the flapping batwings and Cato pursed his lips, loosened the Manstopper in his holster, and adjusted his hat as he and Yancey walked towards the bar. The cowmen eyed them narrowly, lined up at the counter, but they opened out readily enough and Yancey nodded to the ’keep, laid the carbine on the bar and thumbed back his hat as he planted a boot on the brass rail.
“Bottle of redeye and three glasses,” he ordered.
The man flicked his eyes from Yancey to Cato.
“Three glasses?” he echoed.
“That’s what I said,” snapped Yancey a mite irritably.
The man pursed his lips, looked past Yancey and Cato as if seeking guidance. The Enforcers turned slowly, just in time to see Brad Venters shaking his head slowly.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” the ’keep said hoarsely, “But I guess we’re fresh out of glasses, an’ redeye. I mean, we had a couple greasers slip in here an’ have a drink an’ I dunno how many other times it might’ve happened so we gotta wash up all glasses an’ soak ’em in carbolic. You’d best try some other bar, fellers.”
Venters, Hunnicutt and the others grinned as they saluted the Enforcers with their drinks and then downed them. Yancey, sober-faced, glanced at Cato. The smaller man was deadpanned and gave the faintest suggestion of a nod to his companion. Then Yancey cleared his throat and scrubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw.
“Well, if that’s the way it’s gonna be ... ”
“That’s the way,” promised Venters. “For any friend of Big John Early’s.”
Yancey sighed and nodded. “Okay. But, I guess we gotta be fair about this. I mean, you fellers better get your glasses done out with carbolic, too.”
Then Yancey’s left hand lashed out and smashed the glass from Venters hand. Cato, at the same time, knocked Hunnicutt’s from his grip, turned and slapped two others out of cowboys’ hands.
The Enforcers grinned coldly at the startled cowmen.
“Why don’t you come round an’ pick up them glasses an’ wash ’em too, barkeep?” suggested Cato softly.
The barman started to back off. He had done his part; he wanted nothing to do with the rest of the deal which somehow looked to be going all wrong ...
“All right, boys!” Venters said abruptly. “Throw these trail bums out!”
He and Hunnicutt led the charge as the group of cowmen lunged in at the waiting Enforcers, fists cocked.
The Enforcers didn’t wait for more than a second. They sidestepped and charged in themselves, cutting into the edge of the group, fists hammering, boots kicking out. Men danced and howled in pain as their boots kicked unguarded shins. Fists thudded against jaws and sank into midriffs. When the Enforcers jumped back, five men were writhing on the floor or staggering against tables, holding their midriffs.
The ranchers spun and charged back and this time their sheer weight carried the Enforcers back. They fought well, striking out left, right and center, but they couldn’t hold the crush of cowmen who jostled each other to get in a blow. Yancey dodged a fist aimed at his jaw but caught a stinging blow on one ear that set his head ringing. He staggered and two fists drove against his ribs. He felt his knees buckle, grabbed for the back of a chair for support and then suddenly swept the chair up and over his head, using it as a weapon. He broke it over the back of the first cowpoke who charged in, used the shattered legs and back on the next man and dropped him in his tracks. He swept the timber in a backhand blow and it bounced off Hunnicutt’s shoulder, skidded across his ear that was already mangled from Early’s carbine. The man howled and staggered out of the melee, hanging on the bar edge, hands clasped against his bleeding face.
Then someone smashed the remains of the chair from Yancey’s hands and he was hurled back against the wall. He yelled in pain as his bullet-burned shoulders slammed into the wall, then bounced off but met a fist in the chest that had him coughing and gagging for breath. He tried to see what was happening to Cato and caught a glimpse of the small man’s head as he went down on his knees, gagging. Then two cowpokes grabbed his arms, yanked him upright and Brad Venters began hammering at Cato’s ribs.
Yancey tried to smash his way through but hard knuckles bounced off his jaw and sent him crashing back into the wall. He was almost overwhelmed by the press of yelling, cussing, slugging cowpokes.
Then he heard a bull-like roar and suddenly men were flying through the air in all directions. Through the red haze of pain, Yancey, saw the towering form of Big Bad John Early wading into the melee, literally picking up men by their belts and throwing them aside. The cowboys yelled, sailed through the air, and crashed heavily into the walls or skidded along the bar top, or splintered tables and chairs. Some limped up to their feet but none made any attempt to stagger back into the fight.
Cato was down on his knees in a cleared space now and Yancey wiped blood from his eyes in time to see Venters lifted high above Early’s head. The rancher yelled, kicked and struggled to free himself from the big sheriff’s two-handed grip but to no avail.
Early grunted with the effort and hurled the rancher halfway across the room. Venters came down in the midst of the watching crowd and men spilled like ninepins as the man’s body crashed amongst them.
The remaining cowboys backed off as the barely-sweating sheriff turned to them, arms crooked, huge fists bunched up so they looked like sides of smoked ham.
“Pick ’em up and get out of town, pronto,” he said without any evidence of breathlessness.
The cowboys lost no time in gathering up their dazed, bleeding compadres and leaders: both Venters and Hunnicutt were only half conscious as they were dragged out.
The big sheriff turned to the gray-faced barkeep.
“Set up some drinks for my friends.”
The man’s hand shook badly as he poured whisky into three shot glasses, the bottle neck rattling against the glass rims. The sheriff handed the drinks to the gasping Enforcers and lifted his own.
“Salud! And gracias amigos.”
The Enforcers couldn’t speak: they didn’t have enough breath left for that. They tossed the whisky down gratefully, and the three that followed. Then Early picked up his carbine from the bar and poked the silent barkeep in the chest.
“Put them drinks on Venters’ slate.” He turned to the bleeding, ragged Enforcers. “You fellers come on over to my place. Someone I’d like you to meet, an’ you can get patched-up there, wash the blood away.”
Yancey and Cato went with him, staggering a little, hugging aching ribs and swelling jaws, dabbing at bleeding wounds on their faces and split knuckles. Big John Early’s house was at the south edge of town and he simply stepped over the low fence instead of using the gate. He had to crouch to get in the door and inside the Enforcers hurriedly doffed their battered hats when they saw the slim, flashing-eyed Mexican woman standing there.
She was beautiful, slim-bodied, elegantly dressed in a dark green velvet frock despite the heat and managed to look cool; her face was oval, finely chiseled in the best Castilian lines and her hair was loose about her shoulders, midnight-dark and glistening. She smiled tentatively and then looked quizzically at the grinning sheriff. He walked across and slipped a massive arm about her slim shoulders. She looked like a child standing against his huge body.
“Gents, I’d like you to meet my bride-to-be. Conchita Morales, prettiest señorita ever to come out of Mexico. Conchita, querida, couple amigos of mine: big one’s Yancey Bannerman, and the other’s Johnny Cato. They usually look a heap better than this.” Yancey and Cato nodded, conscious of their battered, dirty appearance in this elegant woman’s presence.
“I am pleased to meet any friends of John’s,” Conchita said, smiling, her face lighting up warmly, her voice smooth and intimate.
“These fellers kinda got involved with Venters and his bunch on my behalf, Conchita,” Early said by way of explaining their battered appearance.
“Oh. Then in that case, it was on my behalf, as well. Gentlemen, if you will follow me to the kitchen, I will do what I can to cleanse your wounds and make you comfortable.”
The girl went through a beaded curtain hanging in a doorway and Early gestured for the aching Enforcers to follow.
“Ain’t she somethin’?” he said with pride as he held the curtain back for the others to pass through the arched doorway. “I can hardly believe she’s gonna marry me in a month.”
“You’re a lucky man, amigo,” breathed Cato, a man who was noted for having had some experience with women and therefore was more than qualified to judge Conchita’s quality.
“I reckon so,” the sheriff said.
The Enforcers dropped into straight-backed chairs and Conchita rolled her sleeves halfway up her forearms, half-filled a tin bowl with water, then poured in some hot water from the iron kettle on the hob, and then gathered rags and a bottle of iodine. As she wet the rags she smiled at the battered men.
“You may notice a certain—expertise in the way I gather these things,” she said. “Since I have known John, it has been necessary to keep plenty of clean rags and iodine on hand.”
Yancey laughed and immediately winced as a cut in his lip started to bleed again.
The Mexican woman worked efficiently and swiftly. Her fingers were gentle and expert and in fifteen minutes the Enforcers’ wounds had been doctored and they looked considerably better, though pain still throbbed throughout their bodies. Early had stood by with folded arms, watching with a certain amount of pride as the Mexican girl worked. He handed his tobacco sack to Yancey who fashioned a cigarette with stiff fingers and passed the makings to Cato who declined in favor of the single cheroot that had survived the brawl in one piece in his shirt pocket. The girl, after pouring the blood-tinged water down the sink and dropping the rags into the fire, stirred the coals and then stood back, rolling down her sleeves. She pushed a wisp of dark hair back off her forehead and then went to stand beside Early, slipping an arm through his.
“Muchas gracias, señorita,” Yancey told her. “I sure feel a heap better.”
“Me, too,” Cato allowed. He flicked his gaze from Conchita to Early. “Married in a month, huh?”
Early nodded, tightened his grip around Conchita’s waist. “I gotta be converted to the Catholic Faith otherwise we’d already be married.”
“Oh, no!” Conchita said swiftly. “My father would never have allowed it.” She smiled at the Enforcers and explained, “My father is one of the old hidalgo school, an aristocrat if you like. He has a vast ranch down in Mexico and he likes to do things the old way. I am not certain that he altogether approves of me marrying a—gringo, if the word does not offend you? No? Bueno! You have intelligent friends, querida.” She sighed and shrugged. “As I was saying, I am not sure that he altogether approves, but—well, I am spoiled, I suppose. He allows me to have my way most times and he can see no real objection now that John has agreed to convert to our Faith.”
Early laughed. “Yeah, you can look kinda throwed, Yance! Me, I never did have religion, you know that. But I’d do anythin’ for Conchita. And I aim to be serious about it. I been goin’ to church every Sunday for years. Never hurt a man, I reckon, but I never followed no special faith. Now I’ve got one and it’s kinda given me—direction, I guess, is the word.” He laughed a mite self-consciously as he looked down into Conchita’s happy face and hugged her. “I’d crawl through Hell itself barefoot for Conchita.”
She smiled happily, though her cheeks colored some with a little embarrassment. Then she slipped free of Early’s grasp.
“I must go and see my segundo, querida. He waits at the sale yards for the Agent to arrive. He asked that you attend the auction in case of—trouble?”
She had sobered some now and Early nodded. “We’ll be there. All three of us. Okay with you fellers?”
The Enforcers felt they couldn’t do anything else but agree and the girl took her leave. When she had gone, Early broke out his bottle of whisky and poured three hefty snorts in large glasses.
“To the most beautiful gal in the whole blamed world,” he said, saluting his glass. They drank.
“And to a very lucky man,” Yancey said, drinking again. “How’d a big lunk like you get a gal like that falling in love with you, Big John?”
“My fatal charm I guess.” He laughed and then sobered slowly, leaning back on the table edge, looking down into the remaining whisky in his glass. “I dunno, Yance, to be honest. I’m kinda dazed by it all. Her father heard about the beef shortage up here, got permission to drive his steers into the U.S. and ran into trouble right off from the local ranchers, led by Venters and Hunnicutt. I had to step in and that meant taking Morales’ side, to protect him from Venters’ bunch. Didn’t make me popular, but I was bound to do it. Morales came up again and we got to be sort of friends and Conchita an’ me, we hit it off right away. There’s some trouble a’brewin’ but I figure if I can head it off till Morales sells his herd this time, that’ll be the end of it.”
“How come?”
Early shrugged. “This is his last drive up here. He had permission for only three drives. He’s made a pile while the stupid locals have been holdin’ out till the market just won’t stand what they’re askin’. Townsfolk like Mexican beef, and they like the cheaper prices. Venters and Hunnicutt tried to hold the meat-packin’ houses to ransom an’ it didn’t work. They’re sore about it. But I can keep ’em headed-off, I reckon. ’Specially if you fellers’ve got time to lend a hand at that auction ... ?”
Yancey and Cato exchanged glances and Yancey shrugged. “Oughtn’t take long. Then we can try to get a lead on the Burdins.”
“Might be able to help there,” Early said. “Feller in town who’s long been suspected of helpin’ outlaws dodge across the Rio. Pretty smart. Ain’t been caught yet, but I could kind of lean on him a little ... ”
Yancey grinned. “Fine. Let’s go.”
As they stood, Early squinted at them both.
“How long you figure to spend goin’ after the Burdins?”
“Till we get ’em,” Cato answered.
Early nodded. “Sure, but roughly how long? Got any idea?”
Yancey thought about it briefly. “Mebbe a couple weeks. Why, John?”
Early grinned. “Clear it up fast an’ you can get back in time to come to my weddin’. How about it?”
“Sure, John,” Yancey replied. “Pleasure’d be all mine.”
“Great. You can be my best man. You’re invited, too, Johnny.”
Cato smiled crookedly as he checked the loads in his Manstopper.
“I wouldn’t be game to refuse,” he said and they all laughed as they went out of the room.