Bannerman the Enforcer 18

by Kirk Hamilton

  The clerk was long-used to complaints about fares and had adopted a bored, take-it-or-leave-it attitude that bordered on the insolent. He merely shrugged at Colt’s outburst.

  “Them’s the charges, mister,” he told Colt. “Thirty-five dollars for a seat on the stage and another fifty-seven-forty for your baggage—if you’ve got as much as you say.”

  “As much!” echoed Colt. “Hell, man, I’ve only got a warbag and two valises and a saddle ... That don’t take up much room.”

  “It takes up fifty-seven dollars and forty cents’ worth,” the clerk said briskly. “You want to book passage or not?”

  Colt shook his head, tapping his fingers on the counter as he thought about it. He glanced towards the Rangers. “A man sweats his tail off for three months pushin’ dogies up to the railhead and this hombre wants to take more’n half my pay off me in less’n three minutes ... Don’t seem right, what d’you say?”

  The Rangers just stared at him in cold-eyed silence: it wasn’t their problem. Colt sighed and began to dig deep into his denim shirt pocket, turning back to the clerk.

  “All right. Make out the tickets,” he growled, still fumbling at his pocket.

  The clerk wearily dragged a stack of tickets towards him and began to fill out the details. Colt started counting out his money, glanced towards the Rangers, but they had lost interest now. To them, he was just another bellyaching stage line passenger and they were used to them since they had been given this chore of guarding the express boxes. They were both big men, but Lawton was blond with blotchy skin, while Earle was swarthy, Indian-like. He glanced at his companion now and wiped a forearm across his sweat-beaded forehead.

  “Sure could use a cold beer,” Earle said quietly.

  “Better not,” Lawton cautioned. “We’ll be relieved in two, three hours.”

  “Yeah!” growled Earle feelingly.

  He looked through the dusty window pane, longingly, at the saloon across the street where a sign had been painted on the window: ‘Iced Beer On Tap.’ He sighed audibly and licked his lips. Lawton frowned at him and, for that fraction of a second, their attention was not on their job ... or on John Colt at the counter.

  But Colt had been watching them all the time, even when he was counting out the crumpled greenbacks for the clerk. He stopped pushing the money under the grille and the clerk looked up irritably to tell him that there wasn’t enough yet, but he froze with his mouth open and jaw sagging.

  John Colt moved like a cat, turning away from the counter and going into a half crouch as his right hand moved towards his hip in a blur, and a strange-looking gun seemed to leap into his small hand. It had two barrels, one on top of the other, and one was much fatter than the normal gun-barrel. The clerk didn’t know it then, but that big gun, called ‘the Manstopper’ by its inventor and maker, held eight .45 caliber cartridges in the cylinder and a twelve-gauge shot-shell in the center of the ring formed by the cartridge chambers. He didn’t know it when he first saw the gun, but he was about to find out just how deadly that weapon was, especially in the competent hands of someone like ‘John Colt’.

  “Drop ’em!” Colt snapped to the Rangers and the big men stiffened only momentarily before their surprise gave way to their training.

  They both spun together, rifles coming up to cover Colt and he didn’t hesitate. The big gun roared in his hand and Earle dived for the floor as lead smashed the window he had been gazing through only a second or so before. His gun exploded but the shot was wild. Lawton made a headlong dive, twisting and firing in mid-air, his lead punching into the wall behind the clerk’s cage. The clerk hit the deck fast, trying to dig his fingers into the dirty floorboards. He aimed to stay well out of the fracas: he wasn’t being paid to draw cards in a shootout. He winced and jerked as the guns continued to blaze away above him ...

  Colt had lunged sideways and dropped to one knee, shooting with his forearm braced across his body. Earle suddenly reared up and backwards, arms flying wide, his rifle crashing through the remains of the window before he slammed into the wall and, eyes bulging, hands clawing into his chest, slid slowly to the floor where he spread out onto his face, coughing.

  Earle’s violent actions commanded Lawton’s attention momentarily but he spun back and triggered, levering fast. Colt rolled across the floor towards the rear of the agency and as he rolled, he fumbled briefly at the hammer of his strange gun, moving a small metal toggle. He spun behind the end of the counter as Lawton’s Winchester hammered and lead blew slivers of wood from the protection he sought. The shaking clerk covered his head with his arms as Colt came up, lined up his sights swiftly and triggered. The whole room shook with the thunder of the shot-shell’s explosion and Lawton spun across the floor as if kicked by a mule. Excess shot pattern chewed at the walls and spattered against the door.

  Colt got to his feet and, without glancing at the still bodies of the Rangers, lunged for the terrified clerk. The man started to plead for his life as Colt impatiently hauled the man to his feet. He shoved him violently towards the safe room at the rear of the building.

  “Get that door open, pronto!” Colt snapped.

  He heaved the clerk against the heavy door with its iron hinges and steel lockplate. The man was shaking with terror and, watching Colt with his bug-eyes all the time, fumbled out his keys. They jingled like sleigh bells as he searched for the right one with quivering fingers. He inserted it in the lock and cast a swift glance towards the street door. The action had erupted so swiftly that only now were a few hesitant townsfolk approaching the front of the agency to see what the shooting was all about.

  “Move!” bawled Colt.

  The clerk pushed the heavy door open and Colt impatiently threw his weight against it, getting it wide. He grabbed the clerk and threw the man bodily into the room, following fast, his eyes going around the walls at the express packages, singling out the iron-bound army payroll box. He slammed the clerk against a set of shelves, walked to the pay box and shot the heavy padlock loose with two fast shots. The clerk winced, clung to the shelves, as Colt kicked the smashed metal off the wrecked hasp and lifted the lid. There were two leather pouches inside, emblazoned with the army’s insignia and buckled tightly, bulging, the corners of some greenbacks showing under the flap. Underneath the pouches were canvas sacks of coins. Colt stuffed the pouches inside his shirt, grabbed up two sacks of coins and swung towards the door as he heard hurried footsteps in the outer office.

  Sheriff Al Mayfield came running into the agency, gun in fist, but stopped dead when he saw the two sprawled bodies of the Texas Rangers. Colt took the opportunity to lunge out of the safe room and he flung one of the sacks of coins at the lawman as he made a dive for the side door of the agency. The coins caught the sheriff on the shoulder and Mayfield staggered back, caught his heels on Lawton’s body and went down hard, his gun exploding into the air. Townsmen were starting to crowd through the street door now and Colt fired a shot over their heads. They scattered, yelling and pushing in their hurry to get out of the agency.

  Colt kicked the side door open and plunged straight out into the alley beyond. His horse, a long-legged, deep-chested sorrel, was already there with trailing reins and open saddlebags. Colt leaped into the saddle, dropping the second sack of coins into one open bag, snatching up the reins with his free hand, heels already slamming into the sorrel’s flanks. The well-trained horse was moving down the alley at a fast clip within seconds of Colt hitting leather.

  John Colt swung round in the saddle, fired his last two shots back at the mob that was spilling into the alley-mouth from the main street. Some scattered but others had guns in their hands now and they began shooting. Colt crouched low over the horse’s neck as Sheriff Al Mayfield staggered out of the side door of the express agency and fired off several wild shots.

  As he reached the end of the alley, Colt rammed his Manstopper into his holster, wheeled the sorrel into the street beyond and let out a rebel yell that echoed through the town. He quit Gid
dings with lead whining over his head and singing about his ears ...

  Back in town, Al Mayfield, face flushed angrily, rammed fresh loads into the chamber of his smoking six-gun and yelled at the men who crowded around him.

  “Don’t stand gawkin’! Saddle up and get after him! We got horses as fast as that sorrel of his!” The men began to scatter back into Main, some already sprinting for the livery. “Saddle my bay, Charlie!” the sheriff called after them and ran back to the side door of the agency where the shaking, white-faced clerk was standing, wringing his hands.

  “He downed both Rangers without hardly missin’ a beat!” the man bleated. “I’m lucky he didn’t kill me, too!”

  Al Mayfield grabbed the man’s shoulder and heaved him out into the alley.

  “Don’t stand there wastin’ your breath ... I’ll get the details later! Get yourself a horse. You’re ridin’ with the posse!”

  The clerk shook his head in bewilderment. “But I don’t ride „ these days, Al. You know that. I get back-pains.”

  “Too damn bad! It’s your company’s responsibility, that dinero ... Now go find yourself a horse!”

  Mayfield shoved the clerk roughly towards the street and the man staggered off, shaking his head. Mayfield waited for him to go then hurried into the agency, closing the door behind him. He ran across the room to the front door and closed it, locking it swiftly. Then he holstered his six-gun and walked back to where the bodies of the two Rangers lay ...

  Outside the livery, the posse formed up, more and more men joining as they came riding up with shotguns, rifles and pistols: it wasn’t often that the staid, law-abiding town of Giddings saw much excitement and the townsmen were champing at the bit, itching to get after this lone gunman who had dared to take on two Texas Rangers and the sheriff of Giddings. And they wondered what in hell was keeping Al Mayfield? What was he doing in the express agency behind closed doors, for Pete’s sake, while that ranny with the queer gun was putting more and more distance between himself and the waiting posse.

  Three – Ride for the Border

  The town was Banner’s, there was no getting away from that fact. Condor had gladly buried Callan and waited anxiously to see just what kind of hell they were in for now that a new gunfighter had taken over. Tad Meacham was still somewhere up in the hills and wasn’t likely to return until he could be sure just what the new man was going to do. He had his spies who would keep him informed.

  But Banner didn’t cause a great deal of worry to the townsfolk. He kept pretty much to himself but there were certain rules that the towners were quick to learn. He had his favorite table in the barroom of the Silver Slipper, at the rear, with a special chair that allowed him to keep his back against the wall. He had had a carpenter lengthen the legs of that chair by a few inches so that when he sat, his legs were straight out from his hips, thighs parallel to the floor, feet flat on the boards. It allowed him to stand swiftly, a fraction of a second faster than when the seat had been lower and his thighs had angled upwards slightly when seated. He took most of his meals there but some he had sent up to his room. The waiters who delivered the meals said Banner never opened the door: it was unlocked, and he merely called to them to come in. He was usually waiting in the center of the room with a cocked Peacemaker in his hand ... No one was ever going to take this hombre unawares.

  Banner didn’t take advantage of the townsfolk the way Callan had: he paid for things he wanted. Sure, if he figured the price was too high, he would argue and invariably the storekeeper dropped the item to whatever the gunfighter figured as a fair price, but he didn’t just take what he wanted and dare traders to argue about it, the way Callan had.

  At the same time, Banner made it clear that Condor was going to be his town. There were men on the run constantly appearing in Condor, making a last stop before taking the step across the border into Mexico for, contrary to popular belief, few fugitives ever came back north over the Rio. Banner used the telegraph daily and told the old operator, Seth Harms, that he wanted all information about crimes and outlaws on the run, and he wanted it every day. He was a strange kind of man, this Banner. A fugitive would ride into town and aim to rest up a spell. Before he had even caught his breath, Banner was there to look him over and mentally compare him with whatever information old Seth had given him from the telegraph. If the crime was nothing more than rustling or maybe a bank robbery where no one had been hurt, most times Banner would see that the man got a fresh horse and supplies and was on his way across the Rio or wherever he wanted to head, as soon as he was ready.

  But let the man be guilty of some major crime, like murder—not killing a man in a square-off gunfight, but plain murder—and that man was being measured for a marker on Boothill almost as soon as he hit town. Banner would give him an even break but his gun speed was second to none and the fugitive always wound up on his back in the dust.

  The people of Condor figured Banner was one strange hombre ...

  And his reputation for gun-speed brought in the glory-hunters from all along the border. Once there had been five in town at one time. Banner had squared-off with the first and disposed of him with a single shot in the middle of the plaza. The second had figured Banner was a shade too fast and had tried his luck at backshooting. It had taken two shots to finish him and Banner had emerged unscathed. By sundown, there were no more challengers ...

  But his presence was a source of worry and annoyance to the folk of Condor. The fact that they were living in a border town was bad enough in itself for they could expect all kinds of riffraff to come drifting through. But when a man like Banner decided to live there, his very presence meant that more and more killers would be heading this way, if not to try his gun speed, at least to look at this man with the big local reputation. It was not to the liking of the family men and they met in the big room behind Milt Pierce’s store to discuss it.

  “Banner himself we can live with,” Pierce told the meeting without preamble. “After all, we lived with the shadow of Callan long enough. Banner’s more decent than Callan was, but it’s what he stands for that’s gonna bring us more and more trouble.”

  “Tad Meacham should be here doin’ his job!” complained the town barber, a fat little man with a thick mop of gray hair. The words wheezed out of him.

  “When did Meacham ever do his job?” growled another trader. “Don’t make no never mind whether he’s here or not.”

  “Well, I say it’s high time he did start earnin’ his pay!” insisted the barber. “We’ve got wives and families! It’s to our advantage to get Banner out of town, but I’m damned if I see that it’s our job!”

  There was a chorus of agreement and Pierce held up his hands, pleading with them to keep the noise down. “Great Caesar, we don’t want Banner walkin’ in here on us!” the storekeeper said, “Just keep it quiet! Right ... that’s better. So, it isn’t our job, but who else is gonna get rid of him?”

  “Make Meacham do it!” said the barber, and others agreed.

  “Yeah, Milt,” spoke up Seth Harms. “Lay it on the line for Tad. He does somethin’ or gets! We’ve put up with him long enough!”

  When Milt Pierce got them quietened down again he nodded slowly. “All right, all right. It’s what we’ll have to do, then. But don’t be surprised if Tad just hands in his star and rides on out.”

  “Mebbe not, but it’s our fault for puttin’ up with him for so long,” Pierce said. “Mort ... You know where he’s skulkin’ up in the hills. Get on up there and give it to him straight. He brings a Ranger troop in here and not only gets Banner out but cleans up the whole damn town, or he needn’t bother comin’ back at all ... Agreed?”

  The meeting agreed unanimously ...

  Up in his suite of rooms above the Silver Slipper, the man who called himself Banner rolled a cigarette as he sat by his darkened window above the street and looked down at the lights in the big rear room of Pierce’s store across the plaza. He smiled faintly to himself. He knew what was going on down
there. He had seen the men drifting, in by ones and twos, trying to be casual about it but most of them looking as guilty as hell. They would be voting him out of town, he figured. It would be interesting to see just how they aimed to go about it ...

  Banner fired a match on his thumbnail and ducked his head to light his cigarette. He used the light briefly to look at the calendar on the wall advertising Remington ammunition. Today was August 14 ... The army payroll job was pulled in Giddings three days earlier. Shouldn’t be long now before the hombre calling himself John Colt showed up somewhere along the border. In fact, he should show up in Condor and Banner had been expecting just this for the past twenty-four hours.

  But a job like that, with a big posse on a man’s trail, sometimes took a deal of working. It didn’t always work out as straightforward as a man hoped ...

  And Banner hoped this damn town wouldn’t find a way of getting rid of him before Colt showed up.

  Colt seemed to be in real trouble. He had pulled every trick he knew in an effort to shake off the posse but they were still on his back trail and seemed to be getting closer as the days passed. They were relentless and they sure must have themselves a damn fine tracker to keep on his trail this way. He had used Indian tricks that would have fooled other Indians, but it didn’t throw this posse. They had trailed him clear down across the Colorado and the old Western and Eastern Cattle Trails, out over the alkali until now he was almost within sight of the Nueces River. They had forced him more to the southeast than he had wanted and if he didn’t get out of this canyon country mighty soon, they would have him hopelessly lost in the brush-choked Brasada country.

  He would never get to the border then.

  They had picked up some more men along the way but others had dropped out, so that there were really no more in the posse than when it had started out. But now they had him more or less bottled-up in the canyons and Colt knew he had to make a stand of some kind before they got around and cut him off.