Bannerman the Enforcer 12

by Kirk Hamilton

  But they were wrong. Bodine, instead of running for the far exit of the canyon, had lifted his mount up a steep, sandy slope and into a natural rock fortress. Here he laid his Colt across his forearm, beading the defile where it entered the area through a cramped passage between the rocks.

  As the first rider appeared—it was Shelley—Bodine dropped hammer and the Colt bucked, the spurting cloud of gunsmoke momentarily blotting out his target. But when it cleared, he saw Shelley hanging over to one side of the saddle, clinging desperately to the horn. Bodine wished he had his rifle, but he had dropped it the previous night and his Sharps was still on his packhorse, miles away, hidden in a dry wash. He triggered again as the hunters scattered and Shelley went down. His mount turned to run and jammed the narrow passage as the rest of the hunters tried to come forward. He fired into the melee of rearing, whickering horses and cursing men. Then he spun his mount and keeping the rocky stand between himself and the others made his run for the canyon’s exit.

  He thundered through the widening canyon mouth and ran his mount out onto the plains, immediately swinging to the north and back into the foothills. He climbed fast and, halfway up the rise, hipped to look back. Two riders were coming after him, hard on his trail; they looked to be Fargo and Erik Larsen.

  Bodine swore. He wasn’t about to make a stand where there was so much cover offering to the hunters. They could spread out and, while one kept him busy, the other could make his way up through the brush to nail him. His horse was tiring and the only way left for him now was up. Damn! If only he had his rifle, he thought, he could at least take a couple of long shots. He would only waste lead, trying to hit them with his six-gun.

  The Viking and Fargo set their mounts up the steep slope, catching glimpses of Bodine as he appeared near the crest. Fargo dismounted once, figuring where Bodine would have to appear from a clump of rocks that were fringed with brush. But it wasn’t firm enough and it quivered in the breeze just as he beaded and fired.

  A fraction of an inch’s movement at the barrel end of the rifle was magnified into yards at the target; the heavy lead projectile smashed down a small sapling five feet to Bodine’s right. The man simply jumped his horse for the next thick line of bushes, lashing wildly, and disappeared from sight.

  But the shot with the Sharps had frightened Bodine; he knew Fargo was a marksman and that the Viking was no slouch with one of those big guns, either. Once he cleared the hills and rode out onto the plains, they could bead him at their leisure, up to a mile away, and stand a chance of picking him off. He cursed the impulse that had made him circle back in the hope of seeing how much wreckage lay around the camp.

  He spurred his tiring mount onwards, mind racing, figuring his best trails.

  By sticking to the hills, he managed to stay ahead of the hunters, and he led them a long and grueling chase through the brush and timber and rocks. He was a man of the wilderness and covered his trail well. While Fargo was capable of tracking him no matter what trick he pulled, it all took time and Bodine drew slowly ahead.

  The old hunter figured out his sign and direction, but the killer managed to stay out of sight—and ahead. Then, around noon on the second day, Fargo signed to Erik to rein down. The old hunter stood in his stirrups, shading his eyes, looking down from the top of the butte where he sat his mount, to the plains below.

  “Will you look at that, boy!” he called, pointing.

  Erik saw it: the biggest herd of buffalo he had ever seen. There must have been close to two hundred and fifty, maybe even three hundred beasts down there, browsing over belly-deep grass in a valley between the hills.

  “Goddamn! I never knew this valley was here,” Fargo said. “And will you just look at them buffalo. Why, boy, I reckon we could really clean up here, make up for what we lost in the fire and the stampede. We could move camp in here and get us some real fine skins. Just look at the curl on the hair on the shoulders of the buffs. It’s mighty healthy, boy. No mange or bald patches like the plains’ beasts. We could get nearly every last one of them and come out of the season with a mighty fine profit.”

  “If Bodine would let us operate,” Erik pointed out.

  “Well, I figure he’s on the run now and he’ll keep on now he knows we aim to kill him if he shows his nose around our camp. Why waste time chasin’ him in these hills when we could be nailin’ them beasts down there? Shelley’s no good with that bullet that smashed up his shoulder, so I can send him in to Bowie and he can find a couple of hunters givin’-up mid-season like a lot of ’em do, who’ll mebbe be interested in workin’ for a shootin’ wage. What do you say, Erik?”

  The Viking looked up the slope and then out from the butte across to the other hills and the timbered folds and knew that they could continue here for a week and still lose Bodine. Fargo was right: they should get down among that herd and grab what hides they could. They had Bodine on the run, anyway.

  ~*~

  It was true; Bodine had only thoughts of escape and he kept his weary mount going through the ranges. He wanted to get to his pack animal and get his rifle. But when he did finally reach the hidden wash where he had left the animal, he couldn’t find it. The sign was easy enough to read: Indians. A small bunch of renegades, most likely, and they had located the animal, and had taken his supplies and heavy rifle. Bodine swore and cussed and kicked at the torn burlap bags that were all that remained of his packs.

  It looked like he would have to take a trip all the way into Bowie now and get himself another rifle. Then he would come back and finish Erik Larsen.

  He whirled suddenly, hand streaking to his gun butt, at a sound in the brush off to his left

  “Leave it!” snapped a cold voice and Bodine eased his hand away from the six-gun. “Grab some air!”

  The buffalo hunter lifted his hands shoulder-high, squinting into the brush where the voice came from. Then a man walked his horse out, sitting the saddle easily, his rifle covering Bodine.

  “Best drop that gunbelt,” the rider ordered, gesturing with the rifle barrel.

  But Bodine was squinting up at the tall rider.

  “Matt, Matt Garrett?” he asked.

  The outlaw stiffened, frowning, his mouth tightening.

  “Hell, it’s me. Hank Bodine!”

  Garrett looked closely, the rifle still covering the other man.

  “By hell! It does look like you beneath all that hair.”

  Bodine chuckled.

  “Grew me a beard after that little—upset—we had with the law down in Amarillo. I hear they got a dodger still out on me for that.”

  “Yeah they have. But it’s in the name you were usin’ at that time—what the hell was it again?”

  Bodine grinned.

  “You always was a careful cuss, Matt. You know damn well it was my own name I used.”

  Garrett allowed himself a small, crooked smile.

  “Just checkin’,” he said, putting up the rifle at last and dismounting. “That beard and all that wild hair sure disguises you well.”

  They shook hands.

  “What’re you doin’ way out here?” Bodine asked. “You still running your wild bunch?”

  Garrett shook his head. “About all gone now. Things went kind of wrong on a deal at Matador.”

  “Not the way I heard it. You got away with twenty thousand bucks.”

  “Yeah. But we had to separate when the Rangers hit us. Steve Dann had the loot on a packhorse. We didn’t meet up till a couple of weeks later and Steve got himself killed before he could tell us where he hid it.”

  “Judas! That’s lousy luck!”

  “Mebbe I can put it right. Leastways, that’s what I’m doin’ out here—with a couple of lawmen on my trail, too, but I think I’ve shaken ’em for a spell. At first I thought you was one.”

  Bodine laughed harshly.

  “Be a cold day in hell if ever I tote a badge.”

  Garrett laughed, too.

  “I reckon. It’s a long story, but it all hinges a
round a feller named Erik Larsen havin’ picked up Steve’s hat by mistake and—what’s wrong?”

  “That goddamn Viking’s one of the reasons I’m on the run in these hills! But I don’t aim to vamoose until I get another crack at the greenhorn!”

  “He’s around here? You know where to locate him?”

  “I reckon.”

  “He still wearin’ a hat with a bunch of silver conchos on the band?” Garrett asked anxiously.

  “He sure is. Leather hat that Fargo made him, but he took the band off the hat he was wearing when he first arrived.”

  Garrett relaxed visibly.

  “Well, now, looks like we’ll be able to help each other, Hank. You know these hills and we ought to be able to hide out a spell from the law, and we both want to get our hands on this Larsen hombre. Should work out well.”

  “Won’t be easy gettin’ to Larsen. Old Smoky Fargo watches over him like a mother hen with her chicks.”

  “Then all we got to do is figure out a way to separate ’em, get Larsen out on his own. Oughtn’t to be too hard.”

  Bodine looked suddenly thoughtful and then a slow smile spread across his hairy face. “By Godfrey, Matt. I believe I got the answer already. I truly believe I do.”

  Nine – Trap

  Yancey reined down fast as the gunshot smashed out and rolled through the hills with slapping echoes. Hard on the heels of the first, came a second: another heavy explosion.

  The Enforcer hipped in the saddle as Richards rode up.

  “Sharps rifles. We must be close to the buffalo hunters’ camp now.”

  “About time,” Richards growled. “We been ridin’ for two days.”

  Yancey pointed to the northwest.

  “Figure they’re over there. Must be more flats beyond the hills or they’re down in a valley. Don’t find buffalo on the slopes, that’s for sure.”

  There were several more heavy gunshots as they rode through the hills, following the sounds. As they drew closer, they could hear the occasional bawling of a buffalo and then they came out onto the butte and looked down into a wide and long grassy valley where the buffalo grazed. There were maybe a dozen beasts lying on the ground already and it was easy to see the bright red splashes of blood against the brown hides of the downed animals.

  Yancey looked around slowly and saw the puffs of powdersmoke from the shooters’ stands on the slope of the hillside on the far side of the valley. He led the way around the butte and found a trail down that led to a fold in the hills which, in turn, opened out into the vast, hidden valley. Yancey and Richards were careful not to spook the buffalo as they made their way through the grass and put their mounts up the slope.

  There were two shooters that they could see, up on the top part of the grade, behind some rocks about ten yards apart. Their guns fired at fairly regular intervals—and each time a buffalo fell. They were marksmen, whoever they were, Yancey thought. Then the lawmen were spotted and Smoky Fargo stood up from behind his stand, waving them off angrily. Yancey took off his hat and moved it in a wide arc and kept riding up slowly, with Richards following.

  When they came up to the rocks, Fargo stepped out angrily.

  “Goddamn it! Don’t you have no more sense than to ride in on a shootin’ stand that way?”

  “What way?” Yancey countered. “I figured we came in nice and easy. We sure ain’t disturbed your herd.” He gestured and Fargo looked down into the valley and then nodded curtly.

  “Yeah, guess you’re right. Name’s Smoky Fargo.”

  “Yancey Bannerman. Sheriff Buck Richards. But I guess you know him.”

  “Yeah. Wasn’t quite sure. He’s a mite dirtier and hairier than when I last seen him.”

  Richards cursed and Yancey smiled.

  “Been a long trail. I’m looking for Erik Larsen.”

  “Figured that when I heard your name. He talks about you a heap. But we’ll get to that in a minute. What’s he want?” He gestured towards Richards.

  Yancey told Fargo swiftly of the mix-up and Richards’ claim that Eric was a member of the Garrett gang.

  “I aimed to find out for sure,” Yancey concluded.

  “Well, you just found out, ’cause I’m tellin’ you it ain’t so. And he damn well knows it.”

  “You were all mighty friendly in that cell,” Richards snapped.

  “Hogwash. We kept to ourselves, Erik and me; same as Garrett and Dann kept to themselves. When his bunch blew out the cell wall, we didn’t figure to stick around and wait for you to find another cell to lock us up in.”

  “You’ll be charged with escaping from custody.”

  “Forget that,” Yancey snapped. “I already told you not to push that line, Richards, if you know what’s good for you. You seen this Garrett around these parts, Fargo?”

  The old hunter showed his surprise.

  “Hell, no! What’s he doin’ up here? I figured him and his men were gonna collect the loot from the Matador bank robbery and high-tail it for the bright lights.”

  Yancey ran quickly through the story of Dann’s hatband and Fargo frowned. Then they all turned as the second shooter stood up from behind his rocks: he was a totally bald man with one leg in crude splints: Mort.

  “Herd’s startin’ to get jumpy, Smoky,” the man called. “We better give ’em a rest or they’ll stampede.”

  Fargo acknowledged with a brief wave, turned back to Yancey.

  “We ain’t seen Garrett but we got us some trouble with a feller named Bodine.” He told Yancey and Richards the story in brief outline. “Young Erik’s gone back to camp. He was shootin’ from the slope here with us but he busted a firin’ pin on his Sharps and he’s gone to put in a new one. We’ll ride back with you. Time we rested this bunch. Let ’em move along, grazin’ at their own pace, and then the skinnin’ teams can move in an take care of the downed ones. Come on, Yancey.” He threw a bleak look towards Richards. “You too, I s’pose.”

  The four men rode back towards the new campsite and Yancey could see immediately that something was wrong. The wrangler was kneeling beside what looked like a fat woman’s body in the center of the living area. There was blood on the ground. A man’s body was sprawled over a wagon and another Indian, one of the skinners, was sitting beside some scattered stores, tending to a bleeding arm.

  The wrangler ran to meet the riders.

  “What in hell happened?” Fargo demanded.

  “Two white men, boss,” the wrangler panted. “One was Bodine. They rode in, shootin’, after you’d gone out to the valley. Most of the skinners were out workin’ yesterday’s kill. There was only the four of us.” He waved around vaguely. “Five—including Blue Dove.”

  Yancey saw Fargo stiffen.

  “What about Blue Dove?”

  “They took her,” the wrangler gasped. “Seemed like that was what they wanted. They shot down old Woman Bear when she tried to stop ’em. They’d already gunned down Snow Wolf and Winged Crow. I—I ran for the brush, boss. I didn’t even have a gun.”

  “Never mind about that,” cut in Fargo hastily. “What happened to the gal?”

  “They took her off and Bodine said to Crow as he rode out, ‘You tell Larsen if he wants her, he can come and get her’.”

  “Judas!” snapped Fargo, his mouth grim. “And I sent him back for another firin’ pin. I suppose you told him?”

  The wrangler nodded nervously.

  “Didn’t know what else to do, boss. Woman Bear wasn’t quite dead and I was tryin’ to do what I could for her and Crow—Erik, he just took off like a curly wolf.”

  “With a rifle and no firin’ pin,” growled Fargo.

  “He left it here. He took Crow’s Colt and belt.”

  “At least, that’s somethin’,” Fargo said. “Which way’d he go?”

  The wrangler pointed out the direction but Yancey held up a hand as Fargo started to move off. He spoke to the Indian. “What’s this other hombre look like?”

  “Tall feller, well over six feet, I
reckon. Big, too. Like the side of a barn. Had mighty cold eyes and—”

  “Matt Garrett,” cut in Richards. “By hell, we can’t be too far behind him, Bannerman.”

  “Dunno what he’s doin’ with this Bodine,” Yancey said, speaking to Fargo, “but seems to me like this Indian gal has been taken just so Bodine can get Erik alone.” He snapped his fingers. “Of course. Then Garrett can get the hatband, too.”

  “Well, we better get after Erik, or all we’ll find is his corpse,” Fargo said. “Mort. You better stay here, you’ll only slow us down with that damn leg of yours. Shelley ought to be back from Bowie in a day or so with the extra shooters. Get ’em out to the valley and onto that herd. With any luck, we’ll be back by then—with Eric and Blue Dove.”

  But there was a flatness to his voice as he spoke the last words. Fargo was far from convinced that they were ever going to see either the Viking or the Paiute girl alive again, Yancey thought as they set off on the trail of Bodine and Garrett.

  ~*~

  Erik knew it was a trap, that he was riding to his death. But he had to make some attempt to rescue the girl. He only hoped that they would not harm her before he got to wherever they were waiting for him.

  Bodine and Garrett had deliberately left an easy trail for him to follow and it led dead into the timber of the hills fringing the buffalo plains, swung down through a fold in the hills, and dog-legged back towards the prairie again.

  Erik rode fast, his eyes alert, not only for sign of the kidnappers’ mounts and that of their prisoner, but also for ambush. The tracks led him into the heavy scrub at the base of the hills. To his right, the prairie rolled away and he spotted odd herds of buffalo dotting the green and brown grasslands. He would have thought that Bodine would have ridden right away from the buffalo country but the tracks took a wide loop that would bring him back to the edge of the Red River itself.

  And it was there that they waited.

  He saw the girl first. She was naked, her back to him, her slim body scarred with the red weals of a bullwhip, as she hung by her hands from rawhide tied to the top of a sapling. Blood had dried on her lacerated skin and had attracted flies. She moaned but she was only semi-conscious as she writhed, the rawhide thong biting into her wrists, making rivulets of blood flow down her arms.