Bannerman the Enforcer 12

by Kirk Hamilton

  Erik nodded, still angry. “Thank you, Smoky. I think I will stay around camp today. Just in case he decides to come back.”

  “Don’t think he will, but it might be a good idea just to be on the safe side, I guess. The rest of us’ll go see if we can find them buff you saw the other side of Broken Ridge last night—You be okay?”

  “Yes, I will be fine,”

  Erik watched the hunters ride out, followed soon after by the skinners with their wagons. The wrangler worked on his horses and two men were busy folding salted hides and placing them in the crude lever press, making them up into ricks of ten hides apiece before tying-off, and loading into the transport wagons.

  He walked across to the hide tent where Blue Dove sat with her mother. The fat old Indian woman looked like death: gray-faced, drawn, even black semi-circles showing under her eyes. Her belly was covered with a huge mound of herbal and mould poultices, gathered and prepared by Blue Dove and the other Paiutes who worked in Fargo’s camp. They had pulled the lips of the wound together with thorns, covered it with moss from a certain tree, and then packed on the poultices. The older woman simply lay there, moaning occasionally, once in a while joining with her daughter in some spiritual chant.

  The young girl looked up with a start as Erik’s shadow fell across her. She had been so intent, that she had not heard him approach, though he had been standing watching for several minutes.

  “How is she?” he asked quietly.

  Blue Dove gave him a worried look, clasped her hands on one side of her head and rested her cheek against them, closing her eyes briefly.

  “Sleeping?” asked Erik. “But she was—chanting a moment ago.”

  The girl smiled faintly and nodded. He guessed he had a lot to learn about Indians, as did most white men. Even though sleeping, it seemed Woman Bear knew just when to accompany her daughter with the singing prayers.

  Blue Dove stood in front of him, looking up into his face soberly, her eyes warm. They seemed to search his features, noting every line, every blemish, every single pore of his skin. She said something in a low voice, in Paiute, and he smiled shaking his head.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying, Blue Dove.”

  She made a series of gestures, pointing to herself, her mother and the wound in the belly, then to Erik and to the river. Finally, her face taut, she gestured in the direction Bodine had gone. She stepped forward, put her arms around him and hugged him tightly but briefly before stepping back. He smiled.

  “I think I understand. You are thanking me for what I did at the river?” She nodded eagerly, smiling shyly. “There is no need. I was glad that I arrived in time.”

  Her face sobered and her warm eyes studied him again. He watched, fascinated and puzzled as she pulled the rawhide thonging at the top of her dress and then let it fall around her ankles. She stood naked before the startled Viking and held out her arms. His lips parted and his breath hissed.

  “You—you’re a very beautiful woman, Blue Dove,” he said huskily, running his eyes over her coppery, willowy body. “But—you don’t have to do this. Truly. There is no need to—reward me. Here.”

  He stooped and picked up her buckskin garment, held it out to her. Frowning, she took it slowly and clutched it to her, lowering her eyes, flushing. He took her chin in his hand and forced her head up again so that he could look into her face.

  “There is no need to feel ashamed. You are truly beautiful. I am not—rejecting you. It’s just that it’s—not necessary. Perhaps, after your mother is better, we might take a moonlight stroll or two and by then I might know a few words of Paiute and I can explain better.”

  She gave him a fleeting smile, still uncertain, then pulled on the buckskin dress. He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  “I’ll be just outside if you want me.”

  Outside, he blew out his cheeks and shook his head, wiping sweat from his face. Perhaps he was foolish not to take what was offered; maybe he had insulted her by refusing. But it was simply not his way. He did not want to feel obligated like that. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the company of women at times, but there was an innocence about Blue Dove, a simplicity that he didn’t feel easy about. He would have felt as if he had merely taken over from Connor.

  He adjusted the hat Fargo had given him, fitted with Steve Dann’s concho-studded hatband, and walked across to watch the men heaving at the lever of the hide press.

  Seven – Bodine

  Matt Garrett had managed to keep well ahead of his men. He hadn’t had any idea of double-crossing them when he had made his break from the gunfight in Nacomie; he had merely figured that, as always, it was every man for himself.

  Then, when he had managed to clear town with a whole skin and the others hadn’t followed, he had thought, “To hell with them; let them get out their own way.” Meantime, he would take advantage of the break he had been given and head out alone into the buffalo country.

  This he had done, crossing the Red River two days previously. Only then did he realize what a task he had ahead of him. Out here were hundreds of square miles and scattered across them were maybe half a dozen buffalo hunters’ camps. They were many miles apart and he wasn’t even sure that Erik had come all the way with Fargo. There was a good chance that he had, otherwise Garrett wouldn’t be here now, but there was no guarantee he would find the young Viking. His face was grim at the thought.

  He would find him, though, wherever he was. The man was toting around a fortune, or the key to one, in his hatband—if he still had Dann’s hat, of course. Damn it, there were too many ‘ifs’ to be considered. So he put them out of his head. He was riding to locate Erik Larsen and that’s exactly what he aimed to do. It might take him a while, but he would do it—and he would get that Matador bank loot and it would be the bright lights for him.

  He came to the first of the hunters’ camps, a big one run by two brothers named Cahill and they told him, at gunpoint, that they hadn’t seen Smoky Fargo this season, but they had heard of some trouble out to the west concerning a man named Connor and an Indian girl. They had known that Connor worked for Fargo during past seasons so there was a good chance he had worked for him again: which could mean that Fargo’s camp, if he had one, was somewhere west.

  They did not invite Garrett to light-and-eat and they refused to sell him any food or ammunition, but they did allow him to water his horse and to fill his canteen at their waterhole.

  Then they watched as he rode away and, for miles, Garrett saw a rider observing him from distant hilltops. He guessed they were making sure he got clear of their hunting territory without poaching.

  They needn’t have worried; he wasn’t interested in the damn dumb beasts. Too much like hard work, hunting buffalo for a living, he reckoned.

  But, a day later, when he looked back and saw two riders on a hilltop along his back trail, he frowned. He must be clear of their territory now, surely. They couldn’t still be dogging him—unless they had recognized him, recalled his identity, and now were tracking him, hoping to claim the bounty that rode his shoulders.

  By Judas! That was a possibility, Garrett reckoned, and he immediately cast about for a good place to rig an ambush. He found an ideal location in a dry wash, behind a jutting slab of sandstone. He tethered his horse at the base of the slab, out of sight of the trail, naturally, and then climbed up the rock, settling in a natural seat scooped into the rock by the high winds. From there, he could see the riders, too, and they were definitely looking for tracks; his tracks. He levered a shell into the rifle and waited.

  When the riders came into the dry wash just this side of sundown, he recognized them; Charlie and Pete, two of his own men. Pete had a bloodstained bandage around his head and Charlie’s left hand was buttoned into his shirtfront. The shoulder bulged with padding and he guessed that the man had been wounded. Matt Garrett started to lower the rifle, easing down the hammer, figuring to make his presence known. Then he stopped: why the hell should he? He
was making out all right. He could trail the Viking alone; and these two were wounded, anyway; they wouldn’t be a hell of a lot of good to him.

  Garrett threw the rifle to his shoulder, beaded fast and fired. Pete jerked and went over the rump of his horse in an untidy somersault. The animal bucked and whickered and ran off. Charlie reined his mount aside as the second rifle bullet streaked past his face, snatching at his own gun. He got out his Colt and fought the prancing horse, triggering across his body as he spotted the puff of gunsmoke up on the sandstone slab. His lead sprayed orange-colored dust from the slab and screamed away. Charlie made a run for the far end of the dry wash, twisting in the saddle to shoot at the drygulcher.

  His mouth dropped open as Garrett showed himself briefly, beading him with the rifle. He recognized his boss and yelled the man’s name, reining down.

  “Matt. It’s me. Charlie.”

  Garrett stood up as Charlie turned his panting horse, gun down at his side. The outlaw boss suddenly braced the rifle butt into his hip and triggered. Charlie’s face was blank with shock as the bullet thudded into him and knocked him flying from the saddle. The horse whinnied and ran down the wash, going out onto the plans, hard on the heels of Pete’s mount.

  Garrett smiled faintly and climbed down from his sandstone slab.

  Pete was dead as they come. Charlie had a spark of life in him but wouldn’t last long. Garrett went through their pockets, took what money they had and items he could use, then mounted his horse and rode through the wash, lifting the animal to a gallop and heading west.

  With any luck, the next day he ought to catch up with the buffalo hunters’ camp and he would soon find out if Erik Larsen were there or not.

  And if he hadn’t been so cold-blooded, if he had waited and spoken with Charlie and Pete, he might have learned that Yancey Bannerman and Buck Richards were also on his trail.

  ~*~

  By the time that Yancey and Richards came to the wash there was barely any life at all left in Charlie.

  The outlaw had managed to crawl into the shade of some rocks but he was bleeding badly from the chest wound, internally, as well as externally. He had blood covering his chin and lips when Yancey and Richards hunkered down in front of him.

  “Know him?” Richards asked.

  The Enforcer nodded.

  “Charlie Birch. Garrett’s explosives’ man. Pete Hope was his offsider.”

  “Wonder who drygulched ’em?”

  “Mebbe Charlie can tell us.” Yancey gestured to the wounded man who had opened his eyes; the lids seeming very heavy. The eyes themselves seemed glazed, without the power of focus. “Charlie—Yancey Bannerman. Who nailed you?”

  Charlie was a long time speaking and when he did, he gasped for water. Richards brought a canteen but hesitated before handing it down to Yancey. “Waste of water, ain’t it?” he whispered.

  Yancey threw him a bleak look and snatched the canteen. He tilted it against Charlie’s blood-caked lips. The outlaw coughed. Fresh blood trickled down his chin. His breathing was ragged, rattling in his throat.

  “G-Garrett,” he gasped finally.

  “Garrett shot you?” Yancey asked in surprise. Then he nodded slowly. “Guess he don’t aim to share that Matador loot, huh?” Charlie nodded once. “Which means he’s on the trail of the Viking. You know which way he was headed?”

  Charlie said nothing for a spell and then his left arm lifted a few inches off the ground, moved slightly and fell back across his thigh. He pointed with one finger. Yancey followed the direction.

  “West? Garrett headed west?”

  Again Charlie managed a nod.

  “How far ahead of us is he? A day? No? Half-a-day?” Charlie nodded twice. “Okay. All we can do for you, Charlie, is to bury you decent a little later on.”

  Charlie stared at him with his strange eyes and his head fell forward in a final nod. He still breathed, but it wouldn’t be for much longer.

  “Come on. Let’s go,” Richards said, making for his mount. He frowned as he set boot to stirrup, seeing that Yancey hadn’t moved. “Aw, hell, you’re not really stickin’ around for him to die so’s you can bury him, are you?”

  “Told him I would.”

  “Hell, that was just to make him feel a bit better, wasn’t it? Judas! He’ll never know, Bannerman.”

  Yancey stared hard at the sheriff.

  “No, but I will.”

  “I don’t have to stick around.”

  “Up to you. Just keep your eyes open when you come to a dry wash or a brush-choked draw. Garrett might be waitin’.”

  Richards hesitated, his jaws clamped tightly. Then he took his boot out of the stirrup again.

  “Okay, I guess two sets of eyes are better than one.”

  Yancey said nothing as he sat back and listened to Charlie’s breathing growing shallower.

  ~*~

  Bodine didn’t aim to let either Erik Larsen or Smoky Fargo get away with kicking him out of the hunting camp and making him wait till end-of-season for his share of the hides. They were taking away Connor’s share, too, and giving it to the lousy-Indians. That sure stuck in his craw.

  So did the beatings he had taken at the young Viking’s hands. It had galled the hell out of him to be knocked cold by a greenhorn, that way. And all over a damn Indian wench. Too bad Connor hadn’t cut her throat.

  But Bodine would square the account.

  When Fargo and the others had kicked him out of the camp he had driven his mount and the packhorse at top speed. savagely, taking out his frustration and anger on them. He had run them until they were ready to drop and then whipped them on some more until he wanted to call a halt. He had camped by a creek for a couple of days, stewing, figuring out ways to get back at Fargo and young Larsen. If he could include the Indian gal and the fat mother, so much the better.

  His decision made, Bodine had checked through his supplies and figured he had enough to last him for another week. He could camp out, keep an eye on the hunter’s camp, see what they were doing and where they were shooting. There would be an opportune time for what he had in mind; he just had to recognize it, that was all. And when he did, he would square it all away with a single blow.

  No greenhorn was going to make a fool of Hank Bodine. And live to brag about it.

  He had figured at first that he might simply pick off the Viking as he rode out of his shooting stand: a Sharps had a tremendous range and a good marksman could hit his target at almost a mile if he had a clear view. Somehow, though, it had seemed a little too easy; he wanted to be closer, to see the fear and suffering on Erik’s face—Fargo’s too, not to mention the Indian girl’s.

  Then he thought of a plan. Something that would fix them all; it wouldn’t be quite as satisfactory as getting them alone, one at a time, and making them suffer but it would achieve the same results and that was what counted.

  He left the creek and rode in a wide circle to the north, making a swing south the next day. A few more hours’ ride and he would be back in position where he could watch the camp.

  ~*~

  Woman Bear was winning her battle; she was slowly making progress and her wound was beginning to heal: her strength amazed the white men; Fargo reckoned many a tough and rugged buffalo hunter would have succumbed to a wound such as the big Indian woman had sustained.

  Blue Dove at last ended her incantations and chanting and returned to her job of skinning and scraping the fat from the hides. At night, she sat outside her tent, after giving her mother supper, and worked on the calf hide, fashioning a winter jacket for Erik. He watched her chew the hide inch by inch, softening it, then rub the inside with a bloody mixture of deer brains and lye, afterwards rubbing in herbs to kill the rancid odor. He was surprised at how supple and soft the hide became. She measured the garment against his lean, hardened frame from time to time and he took the jokes of the other hunters as he stood there, modeling the coat.

  The Indian girl brought him food and coffee, too, and she removed his
boots at the end of the day, rubbed animal fat into them to soften them, and make them more comfortable to wear. If it rained, she took his clothes and dried them over a smoky fire in her tent. She even cleaned his Sharps rifle for him while he cast lead projectiles with Fargo and learned how to reload the long brass shells with black powder.

  All the buffalo hunters loaded their own cartridges: it was too expensive to throw away the empty cases after using them. Each complete cartridge in the .58 caliber for the Sharps rifle cost twenty-five cents. When a man could use up to a hundred such cartridges a day, it made a big hole in any profits; but reloading cut the cost down to a few cents each.

  They were finding larger herds of buffalo now without having to go so far afield: it was as if the beasts were coming in from the great plains, congregating in areas where it was a simple matter to set up shooting stands.

  Bodine, up in the hills, noticed this, too, and swore when he realized the men in Fargo’s camp were going to come out of this season tolerably rich men. That is, those who lived.

  He saw a heavy dust cloud down in a fold between the grassed hills fringing the hunting area and he rode to the ridge, halting just below the skyline, dismounting, and going over the top on all fours. Below him, was a large herd of buffalo; he estimated them to be more than a hundred. He was damned if he could figure why so many beasts were coming around but all that really mattered was that they were there.

  Bodine waited till just on sundown. The hunters had gone back to camp by then for the light had not been good enough for shooting this past hour. He wet a finger, held it up, testing the direction of the night wind that inevitably blew in across the prairie. Bodine smiled faintly; it was in the right direction.

  The bearded hunter rode around the base of the hills, came slowly and cautiously into the fold between the ranges in the last of the crimson sunset’s glow. He squatted in the knee-high, golden grass and took out a tin of vestas. Pulling up a handful of the grass, he twisted it together to make a torch, held it low down, and touched a vesta flame to it. The grass flared and he set the flames at the base of the grass. He ran along the fold and darted across its full width. By the time he had reached the other side, the grass was blazing and this end of the fold was actually a wall of fire.