Bannerman the Enforcer 12

by Kirk Hamilton

  “Easy now, boy. He’s finished. We’ll throw him out of the camp. He can pick up his share of hides when we rendezvous at Bowie at end-of-season. You done good, Viking. Real good. Handled it just right.”

  Erik was pleased and he gave Fargo a faint smile as he reached down and helped the still-shaking Indian girl to her feet. She was covered by the damp dress: her mouth was swollen from the punch Bodine had given her and she spat on the semiconscious hunter as he lay on the ground.

  Erik wondered how she would react when she found out about her mother.

  Six – The Wild Bunch

  There was a renegade town near the Red River Crossing called Nacomie. Slowly, bit by bit, law and order was encroaching on it; where once it had been the exclusive stamping ground of outlaws there were now decent folk settling there, going into business, starting to homestead the land surrounding the town. Because of its position, at the gateway to the Red River country, Nacomie was prosperous and the business folk had made enough from their profits to elect and hire themselves a sheriff.

  He kept the peace tolerably well, though he didn’t go hunting trouble unnecessarily. If some known outlaws rode in, he allowed them to stay a spell, until they had had sufficient time to complete their business, and then, if they didn’t show any sign of moving on, he went and braced them. The fact that he was still walking the streets of Nacomie testified to his prowess with a gun. His name was McBride and he was an ex-Ranger.

  When the Garrett bunch rode into town on their way out to the Red River country, McBride took one look and knew he wouldn’t be able to ask them to move on. There were too many of them for one thing; for another, they were killers. For a third, he had just received Wanted dodgers on them for the Matador bank robbery and now Garrett had extra charges against him for escaping from custody in Seymour and suspicion of murdering a young doctor in some distant hills out on the Brazos.

  They were a dangerous bunch to have around town and McBride wasn’t about to go up against them alone. But he could use the reward and he knew there was a troop of Rangers not too far away. They had been through the town only the day before, on roving patrol. The captain had been an old pard of his and McBride knew they were headed south and west.

  So, he slipped out of town while Garrett and his men strode into the saloon, and rode at breakneck speed until he came to the Rangers’ camp by a river bend. He told the captain about the Garrett bunch and the Rangers saddled swiftly and commenced the ride back along the trail to Nacomie.

  By the time they got there, the Garretts had taken over the saloon and there was one hell of a racket coming from behind the batwings: laughter; singing; piano music; cussing; the sounds of breaking glass; the thud of fists, and splintering wood. A man was hurled bodily through the batwings into the street where he landed flat in the dust and sprawled unconscious.

  The Ranger captain deployed his men and, with McBride at his side, yelled on the Garretts to come on out. McBride swore: it wasn’t the way he would’ve handled it, not with all those townsmen inside, not to mention the whores. Innocent folk were bound to get hurt; well, at least it wouldn’t be on his conscience.

  The Garretts’ answer, of course, was a shotgun blast, swiftly followed by a racket of small arms fire. A store window shattered under a hail of lead; splinters flew from doors and the edges of the boardwalk. A wooden horse trough suddenly started spurting water in arcing jets from several holes.

  The Rangers and McBride poured lead back into the saloon and there were wild screams and the cries of men asking what the hell was going on. Glass tinkled musically. Boots thudded and skidded as folk ran for the upper floor.

  The Rangers crashed their way in from the rear and the captain stood up, urging his men in the street to close in from the front, simultaneously. Then he spun completely around and fell on his face beside McBride, unmoving. The sheriff turned him over and saw that he had been shot squarely between the eyes. McBride leapt up and charged the saloon with the yelling Rangers.

  Before they reached the saloon, the bullet-pocked batwings crashed open and a townsman was shoved across the walk screaming not to shoot, throwing the aim of the charging Rangers. Two outlaws burst out after him and their guns hammered. Two more Rangers went down, writhing, and McBride recognized Garrett. He tried to bead the outlaw boss and triggered but, as he did, the second outlaw, Arnie, stepped into the line of fire.

  Arnie went down hard and rolled, squirming onto his stomach, bringing up his Colt and blasting at McBride. His lead took the sheriff in the side and as he dropped to one knee, McBride triggered again. Arnie crashed back, his boots drumming briefly. The sheriff stayed on one knee, sobbing in pain, feeling the blood spilling over his hand, the burning agony spreading through his body. He looked up through the red haze blurring his vision at the sound of thudding hoofs.

  Then he threw his arms protectively across his head as Garrett raced a mount out of an alley, thundering down on him. McBride’s body was hurled several feet and he rolled and skidded to come to rest against the edge of the boardwalk. The remaining Ranger at the front, dived beneath the swinging batwings and rolled inside, gun blazing wildly. A bartender yelled as lead clipped his ear and he dived for the floor.

  A whore running up the stairs screamed as a bullet took her in the back and her body fell and rolled and clattered down the stairs. Guns hammered from all round the room, and there were more pounding hoofs out in the street. It was another ten minutes before the gunfire ceased and the folk of Nacomie took stock of the toll.

  All but two Rangers were dead and these two were both wounded. Seven townsmen had died and four others were wounded, plus a whore who had had her ring finger shot clean off by a ricocheting bullet. Three outlaws lay dead and, though there had been others wounded, they appeared to have escaped. It had been a clumsy effort all round and it was just as well McBride was dead: the townsfolk would likely have strung him up if he had lived for initiating such slaughter.

  But what concerned the escaped outlaws most was not their wounds—some serious, some minor—but, that in the melee, and general confusion, Garrett had escaped alone.

  They knew enough about their boss to realize that if he got to Erik Larsen first and grabbed that concho-studded hatband, he wouldn’t hang around to share the Matador loot with them.

  So they rode hell-for-leather for buffalo country, not bothering to take too many precautions about their trail.

  This made it mighty easy for Yancey Bannerman to pick it up after he had hit Nacomie and been told about the big gunfight only a half-day earlier. The townsfolk, of course, didn’t know—or care—that Garrett was separated from the main body of outlaws. As far as they were concerned, Garrett had been among those who had escaped; that was all they were interested in. The wounded Rangers were being cared for but there were no reinforcements available to send up after the wild bunch.

  Yancey stayed only long enough to have a meal, replenish his supplies, and then he moved out along the trail in the direction taken by the fleeing outlaws. He found their tracks without even having to dismount from his horse and he rode fast for the remainder of that day, camped among rocks after sundown, planning on going a mite more cautiously come morning, for some of the tracks had been showing up pretty fresh. He guessed maybe a couple of the more seriously wounded outlaws were dropping behind.

  He was right. Not an hour after sunup the following morning, he found a dying man propped up against a tree without food or water or even his gun. His ‘pards’ had dumped him because his wound had been slowing them down. They had left him to die and the man’s legs had already been badly bitten by prowling night animals. He had been gutshot.

  He coughed violently when Yancey pressed his water canteen to his lips, but his eyelids fluttered open and he stared into the big Enforcer’s face.

  “Name’s Bannerman. I’ve seen your face on Wanted dodgers. Bergmann? That your name?”

  The man continued to stare for a spell, then, very slowly nodded. Yancey took a q
uick look at his wound and then hunkered down beside the man with a sigh, shaking his head as he thumbed back his hat.

  “Sorry, Bergmann. You’ve caught a bad one. Nothin’ I can do for you. But maybe there’s somethin’ you can do for me.”

  The man merely stared, breathing raggedly, weakly, his chest rising and falling, eyes glazing and staring off into the distance.

  “I’m not after Garrett. I mean, if I come on him, I’ll nail the sonuver if I can, but I’m headed out for the buffalo country and I hear that’s where your bunch were goin’, too. I want to know why. I’ve got a friend out there and I’ve a hunch Garrett is goin’ after him, but I don’t know why. My amigo’s name is Erik Larsen. The Viking, they call him most everywhere he goes. D’you know why Garrett is headin’ out to buffalo territory?”

  Bergmann stared at him for a spell then closed his eyes. But he nodded very slightly. Yancey waited, offering him more water. The man drank but it made him sick. Finally, he looked at Yancey again and the Enforcer had to lean down and place his ear almost against the man’s lips to hear what he was saying. “Viking’s—hatband—belonged to Steve Dann—got—got location of—bank money—on concho—Dann’s dead.”

  Yancey didn’t get it all at once. It took him several tries over a period of a quarter-hour, but he eventually assembled the pieces of information. So his hunch had been right: Garrett was after The Viking. It looked to him as though Erik had somehow got hold of Dann’s hat or hatband by mistake: which probably meant that he didn’t even know Garrett was after him. He would be easy prey to a man like Garrett if he weren’t even on his guard;

  Yancey figured he had two choices: he could go and nail Garrett, or he could ride straight for buffalo country and try to find Erik before the outlaw did. It seemed to him that the only safe way was to nail Garrett first—and make sure the young Viking was out of danger.

  Bergmann didn’t speak again except once: he begged Yancey to kill him, to end his suffering. Yancey hesitated, then obliged the man with a single, accurately-placed shot through the heart. He buried him beside the trail and was leaning on the crude cross he had made when he heard the click of a horse’s hoof against stone. Yancey whirled, his Colt seeming to leap into his hand, as he crouched behind the grave’s mound.

  A rider was coming through the brush and trees, from the direction of Nacomie. He eased down the hammer and stood up slowly when he recognized the broken-nosed features of Buck Richards as the man rode out of the brush, rifle across his knees. He started to bring up the weapon when he saw Yancey standing with the gun in his hand but lowered it again as the Enforcer held the Colt down at his side. Richards walked his mount up and nodded to the new grave.

  “Which one’d you catch up with?”

  “Hombre named Bergmann. He’d been gutshot, left to die. I put him out of his misery, is all.”

  Richards arched his eyebrows and squinted at Yancey.

  “Wouldn’t’ve wasted the lead and powder myself.”

  Yancey merely stared at him.

  “Picked up your trail in Nacomie,” Richards explained. “Rode all night to catch up with you.”

  “I told you I didn’t want you along.”

  “Mebbe. But I don’t aim to let you take that reward money away from me, mister. Garrett’s mine. So’s Dann.”

  “You can forget Dann—he’s dead, according to Bergmann and he had no reason to lie. As for Garrett, if I nail him, it’s because I want to stop him gettin’ to Erik Larsen, not because I’m interested in the bounty.”

  Richards frowned. “He’s after Larsen?”

  Yancey nodded but didn’t explain further.

  Richards’ mouth was pulled into a tight line.

  “I hope he catches up with that Vikin’ sonuver first.” He touched his misshapen nose.

  “You’re one miserable bastard, aren’t you?” Yancey said flatly, coldly, his eyes boring into Richards. “Petty as hell. Well, you don’t ride with me, Richards, and if I sight you along my back trail, I’ll blow you out of the saddle.”

  Richards flushed.

  “You can’t talk to me like that. I’m a lawman doin’ my duty. You try to stop me and, Enforcer or no, you’re no better than an outlaw yourself.”

  “Just stay away from me,” Yancey gritted and turned towards his horse where it stood patiently with trailing reins beneath the tree.

  A rifle whiplashed and a short line of bark sprayed from the tree trunk, leaving a bright white scar. Yancey hit the ground fast, palming up his Colt. His horse whinnied. Richards jumped from the saddle and crouched behind the grave mound for cover. He ducked swiftly as several other guns opened up and lead kicked stone and gravel from the mound. Yancey spotted some gun flashes up the slope among the brush and snapped two shots up that way.

  “Who the hell is it?” yelled Richards.

  “Could be Garrett’s bunch. They might’ve heard the gunshot when I finished off Bergmann and sent someone back to take a look-see.”

  Richards worked his rifle’s lever, firing several times.

  “I reckon there’s five or six.”

  Yancey snapped a shot, trying to grab the reins of the horse, wanting to get at his rifle. He managed to snatch the leather and pulled the protesting animal in close as lead whined off the tree, showering him with bark. He pulled his Winchester from the scabbard just as the horse jerked away with a whinny and ran for the cover of some distant rocks. One of the outlaws took a couple of shots at it and he saw one bullet glance off the saddlehorn. Yancey threw the rifle to his shoulder and drew a swift bead, fired, levered and fired again.

  A man screamed up the slope and there was some sort of violent movement in the brush. An intense volley raked the tree and the grave mound. Richards rose to his knees and placed four fast shots into the brush. A man staggered out, fell, and rolled halfway down the slope. He made an attempt to get to his feet but Richards shot him again and this time he stayed down.

  Yancey saw some leaves moving and he beaded the area, moving the rifle barrel slowly, following the progress of the outlaw. Then he gently squeezed the trigger and the rifle bucked as it whiplashed and a man hurtled out of the brush, jerking convulsively. The shotgun he held exploded and another outlaw screamed and something like a bundle of bloody rags tumbled out onto the slope.

  The wounded man of course, wasn’t aware that he had cut down one of his pards. He was down on his knees now and trying to use the shotgun like a crutch to lever himself upright. Richards shot him through the head. The man went down on the spot and there was a sudden silence over the range; the fading echoes dying swiftly.

  Yancey and Richards remained where they were for several minutes. Then they heard the rapid beat of horses’ hoofs on the far side of the slope. It seemed that the outlaws had had enough and were making their run for freedom.

  The Enforcer stood up slowly, eased down the hammer on the rifle and glanced briefly at Richards as he started to walk over to where his mount was standing, quivering, among the rocks.

  “We better stick together for a spell, huh?” Richards suggested.

  Yancey didn’t pause in his stride but he nodded curtly.

  “Might be best,” he allowed, reaching out for his mount’s reins.

  ~*~

  Bodine was limping as he moved about the buffalo camp and gathered his gear, under the watchful eyes of Fargo, Erik and some of the other hunters. The Indian woman would live, through some miracle, and Blue Dove, her own experience pushed to the back of her mind, nursed Woman Bear in a hide tent near the salting ricks.

  Bodine, his arms full of his traps, paused in front of Erik. His bearded face was ugly in its natural state, but with the swollen, open gash across his forehead and the savage look in his eyes, Bodine looked positively murderous.

  “I won’t forget you, Viking,” he growled. “Connor was my pard. You’ll find that a man out here don’t set by idly and let some greenhorn kill his amigos and get away with it.”

  “On your way, Bodine,” Far
go told him with a jerk of his head, matching the movement of his covering gun barrel. “If you’re not out of camp in five minutes you’ll go draped over a hoss with another gash across your forehead to match that one.”

  Bodine turned his burning gaze to the buffalo hunter.

  “I won’t forget you, either, Fargo.”

  “Fine. Like I said, you get a share of the hides you already got. Pick it up in Bowie at end-of-season.”

  “I’ll take Connor’s, too.”

  Fargo shook his head.

  “Nope. That goes to the Injun gal and her mother. If Woman Bear had died, I’d’ve strung you up on the spot, Bodine, even if it was Connor who stuck her.”

  “Goddamn it. Fargo. You ain’t givin’ my pard’s share to no Injun slut.”

  Erik stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides.

  “That is correct, Bodine. He is giving the share to Blue Dove.”

  Bodine’s lips curled.

  “Like I said—to an Injun slut.”

  He dropped his bundles and his hand streaked for the knife at his belt as Erik lunged at him. The big-bladed Bowie knife slashed in a backward arc and the Viking jerked his head aside as the steel whistled past in front of his face. Then Fargo’s Sharps’ barrel got between them and rapped Bodine’s wrist solidly. He yelped and dropped the big Bowe-knife. Fargo shoved him roughly with the rifle, widening the gap between the hunter and the Viking.

  “Git while you still got a whole hide, Bodine.”

  Erik stood glaring and Bodine raked him with a bleak stare before picking up his gear and turning abruptly towards his horses. He strapped his gear onto the pack animal, mounted up and rode out of camp without a backward glance.

  “We ain’t seen the last of that hombre, unless I miss my guess,” Smoky Fargo said quietly, lowering his rifle and turning to Erik. “You walked right into that one, Viking. He was wantin’ to rile you so he had an excuse to go for that knife. If ever you tangle with him again, just watch him: he might seem to be draggin’ iron, but his other hand’ll be gettin’ out a Bowie. He’s sliced up plenty of men in the past. Damn good hunter, knows buffler better than they do themselves sometimes, but he’s mean and he’s a killer.”