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Series Page
One – A Man Who Needed Killing
Two – Blood and Greenbacks
Three – Ride for the Border
Four – Back from the Dead
Five – Men of Violence
Six – Cato’s Chore
Seven – Fugitive
Eight – Deadly Mistake
Nine – Trail of the Hawk
Ten – Blaze of Glory
Something crooked was happening in the border town of Condor. Every Texas Ranger sent to find out what it was ended up disappearing, never to be seen again. But Governor Dukes had an idea what was behind it all—stolen guns. And if those guns fell into the wrong hands, it could spell disaster, especially for the Lone Star State.
Where the Rangers had failed in stopping the gun-runners, Dukes’ top Enforcers, Yancey Bannerman and Johnny Cato, might just succeed. The old politician could only hope. Because down in Mexico, El Halcon—a bandit masquerading as a patriot—was building an army to take back everything that remained of Old Spain … including Texas itself!
One – A Man Who Needed Killing
He came into Condor forking a claybank that had many miles behind it. Trail dust and alkali, caked into a muddy foam on the animal’s chest, showed from which direction the big rider had come. The trail in from the northwest carried red dust and there were alkali flats beyond that to the north.
They were the trouble trails, the ones used by men who had the law somewhere behind them and not much future ahead; and what there was would be written in blood and gunsmoke. That knowledge was enough to make the loungers under the awnings lining the main stem sit up and take a second look at the stranger. But when they saw the slant of the gunbelt, the way the holster was cut away around the big Peacemaker’s trigger-guard, and how the heavy holster base was tied to his thigh with a leather thong, they knew that here was a gunfighter come to town. That made many of the watchers uneasy. For Condor was a border town a frog’s leap, as locals put it, from the Rio, and it had its share of gunmen and powdersmoke. They knew they would see more trouble now, for the stranger had chosen a bad time to hit town.
There was a sheriff of sorts, Tad Meacham, a lanky, mournful man, long on misery but short on guts. He toted a badge but did nothing much to earn his monthly paycheck. Since Callan had come to town—taken over the town, most people would say—Meacham had done even less than usual. Callan was a gunfighter with a fearsome reputation, a man with a string of dead men behind him that stretched clear back to the Canadian border. For some reason, he took a liking to Condor and decided to stay. In front of a crowd in the Silver Slipper Saloon, he had put it straight to Tad Meacham: he aimed to stay, and if Tad had any objections, now was the time to speak up. Otherwise, they would get along fine, provided Meacham minded his own business. Tad Meacham had muttered something that was lost in his longhorn moustache, downed his beer and found ‘business’ up in the hills for the next week. He had grown more miserable when he had ridden back to town and found that Callan was still there. Not only was he there, but he had settled in, taken over a suite of rooms above the Silver Slipper, gunned down two hardcases who had figured to test his gun speed, and generally cowed the town. Meacham managed to stay out of his way as much as possible and Callan swaggered through the streets, walked into stores, took what he wanted, and no one dared ask for payment.
Townsfolk resented Callan, but only in private. In public, they bowed to his wishes. Some people tried to stir up Tad Meacham but the sheriff seemed to be having a lot of trouble with his rheumatics lately and he figured no one could expect a man partially crippled to go up against a man with the gun speed of Callan.
Trouble was, Callan’s reputation soon spread along the border and gunmen from all over drifted in and tried their hand at beating him. The Condor undertaker was said to be the richest man in town these days ...
And now here came another gunhawk after the glory of beating Callan’s speed, figured the folk who saw the man on the claybank ride down the main street with the dust of the wild trails caking his clothes. He was a big man, close to six-four would be a good guess, and he had a lean, closed kind of face with startlingly gray eyes that held the chill of mid-winter ice in the high Sierras. He looked a heap tougher than most of the other hardcases who had hit town and stayed there under wooden markers on Boothill. But toughness wouldn’t be enough when he went up against Callan: he would need a touch of a thunderbolt in his gun hand to beat Callan’s draw.
The stranger looked at the buildings as he rode down Main Street, raking his cold glance across the faces of the watching towners, his own features impassive. When he reached the Plaza del Sol—a somewhat fancy name for what was really nothing more than a square with adobe and timber buildings rambling around the four sides—the man checked his weary mount, hesitated a moment, then turned it towards the stone horse-trough beneath the lone elm tree. If he saw movement at the law office opposite, he gave no sign as he allowed the claybank to drink its fill. He sat tensely in leather, right hand resting on his holster as he looked beyond him. He hipped in the saddle, half stood in the stirrups, to see beyond the sun-bleached buildings to the low range of hills outside of town. In the other direction, he could just make out the glint of water that had to be the sluggish Rio.
The man yanked the reins and walked his mount across to stop in front of the law office.
“Sheriff,” he called in a quiet, but penetrating voice that came from deep within his chest.
Tad Meacham slowly came out onto the porch, keeping his hand well away from his holstered six-gun, letting the stranger see that he had no other weapons. “Yeah?” he asked, clearing his throat noisily. “I’m the sheriff. Tad Meacham.”
“Name’s Banner,” the tall stranger said, his contempt for Meacham showing in his face and tone. “I aim to be in town for a spell. I got no bounty on me, nor am I wanted for any crime. Any man I’ve killed has been in self-defense, in a square-off ... So don’t come bothering me while I’m here, understand?”
Meacham licked his lips, nodding slowly. “If you’re speaking gospel ...” He cut off abruptly as he saw Banner’s eyes narrow dangerously, tension come into his gun hand. Meacham broke out into an immediate sweat, lifted a placating hand swiftly. “Didn’t mean it that way! Honest!”
Banner raked him with a cold glance, started to haul his claybank’s head around. “You came awful close to dying right there, sheriff. Best keep out of my way while I’m in town.”
He walked the claybank down the street towards the livery and Meacham used a shaking hand to take a kerchief from his pocket and mop his face. A beefy man of middle-age stepped out of the store next to the law office and strolled across.
“I see you were your usual sassy self, Tad,” he observed.
Meacham lifted a hand to his badge. “You want the star, Milt?”
Milt Pierce glared at the lawman and shook his head. “No. But if I did take it on, I’d try to do as good a job as I could ... Heard of this feller Banner?”
Meacham was watching Banner turn his claybank into the doorway of the livery and nodded very slowly. “Word’s been driftin’ down the line the past few weeks ... Dunno just where he’s from, but he suddenly showed up in Central Texas and made a name for himself by gunnin’ down three, four fellers who were mighty slick on the draw ... Hug Moran for one, and he was no slouch. Billy-Jo Magee, that crazy-loco kid from the Brazos; Cherokee Bryant, who even you don’t have to be told about and, only a few days ago in Sierra Blanca, Whitey Lubbock.”
Milt Pierce was
frowning long before Meacham had finished his list of gunfighters who had fallen to Banner’s Peacemaker.
“Hell!” He spat in the dust. “Not much doubt about why he’s here, then!”
Meacham shook his head slowly. “Gun glory ... He’s gonna try to take Callan.”
Pierce nodded in agreement and pointed to a cadaverous man in tailed frockcoat and bent stovepipe hat hurrying across the Plaza towards the silver Slipper.
“There goes the gravedigger now. Aimin’ to be on the spot, I reckon, mebbe make an estimate of Banner’s size while he’s still standin’.” He smiled faintly, “He’s had a coffin waitin’ for Callan for months, but I reckon he might as well chop it up for stove-wood. Ain’t anyone ever gonna beat his speed, you ask me.”
“Maybe Banner’s the one,” Meacham said quietly. “He has a look about him …” He sighed heavily. “Well … Guess I’ll find out one way or the other when I get back.”
“Back? From where?”
Meacham gestured vaguely at the distant hills, “Hear tell there’s a bit of rustlin’ in the ranges ... Figured I’d better go take a look-see.”
Pierce’s face showed his contempt for the sheriff. “Sure, Tad, sure … Perfect timin’. As usual!”
Meacham flushed as he turned away into the office and closed the door behind him. Milt Pierce made a gesture of disgust and walked back into his store.
Callan was seated at his usual table in the rear of the Silver Slipper. Some of the men who had been toadying to him of late had told him about Banner’s arrival but the gunfighter had not even acknowledged that he had heard them speak. He went on fooling with his shot glass of whisky, using his right hand. Callan was a twin-gun man and some of his victories had stemmed from the fact that his right hand had appeared to be busy, holding a drink or a hat or scratching inside his shirt when his opponent had figured it was a good time to make his play. It was usually too late to realize that Callan was really left-handed and that his right hand gun rarely left its holster. It was there for confusion and had, several times, meant the difference in names on the wooden headboards on Boothill.
Callan was a patient man, a master at holding a poker-face, keeping his emotions and intentions hidden from his opponent. The drinkers in the Silver Slipper, watching him and, occasionally, the batwings, expected the stranger to arrive any minute, had no inkling of the tension within Callan, the gut-wrenching knot in his belly, the tightness in his throat, the ache in his fingers, and the strange, rubbery feeling in his knees. He was iron-hard, and he was a born killer and bully, but he died a dozen deaths before any gunfight, though observers would swear that he never missed a drag on his cigarette.
These things made him a dangerous man, for he was anxious to cover his nerves and often went to excesses of brutality in an effort to keep alive the legend of Callan the killer. Now he waited, badly wanting another drink, but contenting himself with the dregs remaining in his glass. He didn’t want anyone to get the idea that he needed more whisky but he sure as hell was near screaming point for some kind of stimulant ...
The man named Banner didn’t show up and Callan figured there wasn’t going to be a challenge after all. He started to relax and called for the whisky bottle. He had just splashed liquor into his glass when a deep voice called from out in the Plaza del Sol:
“Callan!”
Every eye in the place turned to him and he checked as he made to lift the glass. He hesitated a moment longer, then thought ‘to hell with it!’ and tossed the drink down.
“You comin’ out or do I have to come in and drag you out?” the voice called from outside,
Callan cursed inwardly. So Banner was playing it tough, calling the tune, picking his own place for the showdown. Well, that told him something about Banner. He was a nervy hombre, confident, cool: he didn’t come bustling in like the others, yelling a challenge in a moment of wild courage, wanting to get it over with. Banner figured to be in command of the situation, call the shots. Well, he’d see about that ...
Callan stood slowly and there was noticeable tension in the room as he hitched at his twin gunbelts. At that time, the so-called ‘buscadero’ rig, in which both guns hung from a single wide cartridge belt, had not yet come into favor. Men began clearing a path to the batwings as Callan settled his guns to his liking, but the gunfighter heeled abruptly, and walked briskly towards the rear door of the saloon.
There was a sudden murmuring from the patrons as they watched the gunman go through the rear door. After a brief pause, in which even their breathing seemed momentarily suspended, there was a wild dash for the batwings and men poured out onto the boardwalk in front of the saloon.
Down on the Plaza, Banner frowned as he saw all the patrons coming out and staring at him. No one was bothering to clear the batwings, or looking back into the saloon. Most eyes were turned to the left, towards an alley between the saloon and an adobe building that had the words ‘Federal Post Office’ painted crudely on one wall.
Banner turned swiftly towards that alley, too, right hand hovering inches from his gun butt. He nodded slowly to himself as he saw the man with the twin gunbelts walking slowly towards him down the alley, right hand making some adjustment to his belt buckle. Banner smiled faintly. It was Callan’s way of letting him know that he would still choose the manner and place of the shootout.
Callan stopped about thirty paces from Banner. His right hand seemed to be having trouble with his belt buckle.
“You the hombre wanted me?” he asked Banner.
“If you’re Callan.”
Callan nodded slightly, eyes squinting a little in the bright sunlight as he looked Banner over.
“Fine,” the big stranger said. “Name’s Banner and I figure to stay a spell. Heard tell that might not be to your liking.”
“Not much.”
“Then that’s too bad.”
The crowd tensed as the two hard-faced men squared off.
“Your move, mister,” Callan said quietly, making a big deal of getting the belt buckle square-on, still with his right hand. Banner’s gaze went momentarily to that hand and he was almost caught unawares as the left hand suddenly streaked to his left gun butt.
Banner moved to the right in a fast lunge, his own Peacemaker clearing leather a split-second behind Callan’s but Callan lost that fractional advantage by having to shift point-of-aim at the last second.
By that time, Banner’s Peacemaker was roaring and, though Callan got off his shot, Banner was still moving and the lead merely tugged at the big stranger’s hat brim. Banner’s lead slammed into Callan’s chest and knocked him back against the adobe wall of the post office. He triggered a second time but the lead plowed into the ground as Banner braced his smoking Peacemaker against his hip and snapped off two more shots. Callan grunted both times as the bullets thudded into him and he threw up his arms, the back of his head rapping against the adobe, eyes rolling up, glazing over as his legs folded and he spilled forward onto his face in the dust. There were smears of blood on the lead-pocked adobe where his body had hit. His boots drummed briefly and then he lay still.
The crowd stared in awe at Banner as the big man reloaded the empty chambers in his Peacemaker, staring down at the dead gunfighter. Then, holding his reloaded Colt, he raked his gray eyes around the silent townsmen. “Callan was a man who needed killing,” he said quietly.
Then he holstered his gun and walked through the crowd towards the batwings of the Silver Slipper. Inside, he looked at the white-faced barkeep.
“Throw Callan’s things out of his rooms,” Banner ordered. “I’m moving in.”
The barkeep swallowed and nodded, moving away swiftly to obey as Banner poured himself a slug of whisky. He looked around at the townsmen crowding back into the room.
“Anyone got any objections?” he asked flatly.
No one had.
Two – Blood and Greenbacks
The two Texas Rangers who had been assigned to guard the army payroll being handled by the Well
s Fargo express agency in Giddings, Texas, were named Lawton and Earle. They were tough, efficient lawmen who knew their job and were prepared to use their guns and die if necessary, to uphold their oath of office.
They stood with cocked and loaded rifles at the door of the express agency, eyes alert as two soldiers carried the strongbox into the building. Giddings was a bustling town and the streets and boardwalks were crowded with people and traffic, making the Rangers’ job just so much harder. The box would stay at the agency overnight before being transferred to the army post out on the Colorado River. As the soldiers struggled to carry the green-painted, iron-bound box through the doors, Lawton and Earle took a last look around the street and backed through the doorway, rifles covering all the time.
The agency handled other business than express work, and was, in fact, also agent for the stage line that ran from Giddings out into the Frontier lands. So, while the Rangers would have preferred to close down the agency for the rest of the day, there was nothing they could do about people coming and going, booking passage on the stage or making enquiries about fares and luggage rates.
The man who called himself ‘John Colt’ was aiming to take the stage to a godforsaken mountain settlement, no more than a way-station, named Beefstew Crossing. He was a man only about five-eight, slightly built but with a look of wiry strength about him. His clothes were worn but clean and neat and a black longhorn moustache drooped from his upper lip. Hard brown eyes stared at the booking clerk through the grille at the agency counter as he lifted his left hand and used the thumb to push his Stetson to the back of his head, revealing jet-black hair. He shook his head slowly, glancing around at the hard-faced Rangers as they stood guard at the low wooden fence between the rear of the agency building and the safe room. The clerk told him how much his baggage would cost to be freighted.
“Hell!” Colt breathed. “I don’t want to buy the damn stage line! All I want to do is get to Beefstew Crossing!”
Bannerman the Enforcer 18 Page 1
