Bannerman the Enforcer 12

by Kirk Hamilton

  “Again I owe you my life, Smoky,” he said.

  “Owe me nothin’,” Fargo gasped, struggling to make his words heard over the rising thickness in his throat. “You’re—you’re ...” He stopped, coughed and convulsed, his chin flooding red. When the spasm passed, his eyes were dulling and he lifted a hand briefly. “Adios—Tejano ...”

  Erik sighed heavily as he stood up and glanced towards Richards. Then he looked at Yancey and the Enforcer spoke quietly.

  “Let’s bury the dead and move on into Bowie, Erik. Garrett won’t stick around town long. He’ll be wanting to get out after the Matador money.”

  ~*~

  Bowie was a corner of hell.

  There were many such corners throughout the West at that time, but Bowie was worse than most simply because it was in a land beyond the law. Not only was there no law in the town itself, but the territory surrounding it was without law. Men who came there, were usually on the dodge or up to no good. Even the buffalo hunters, when they came in at end-of-season, or just for a rendezvous, were hell-raisers.

  Bowie was like the old rendezvous towns of the mountain men of a few decades ago: the places where such legendary giants as Jim Bridger and Jeremiah Johnson would meet, tangle with Wildcat Aimes and Grizzly-Bear Shackleton; maybe they’d get drunk with One-Eye Hunnicut, or Breed Morgan, or unsheath knives against some of the Indians in for trading.

  Bowie had grown some since the days of the mountain men and the trappers but it was still a dirty, sprawling town by a loop of the Red River with the buildings scattered all over the slope above the river itself. The streets were more like pastures—dusty, grassless ones, to be sure—with buildings hovering around the edges. Though it was not unusual to find a lone cabin or whorehouse stuck in the middle of a thoroughfare—travelers either went around it, or through it, and if they went through, it cost them plenty.

  Murders were common enough not to make more than passing conversation and brawls went entirely unnoticed except for the actual combatants, or if there happened to be some bets laid on the side. Guns and knives settled most arguments; women, too, ended up with cut throats if they fleeced a man and were caught at it.

  Yancey and the young Viking rated hardly a second glance as they rode into this little slice of hell on their foam-flecked mounts, their clothes and features showing obvious signs of hard travel. Erik rode with the heavy Sharps across his saddle. His eyes were hard and cold, as they had been since he had seen Blue Dove’s body. He had said little along the trail and Yancey had left him to his own thoughts.

  There were a dozen saloons and whorehouses to choose from in Bowie and Bodine and Garrett could be in any one of them. So Yancey and the Viking split up, making a time and place to meet afterwards. If one or the other located the men, the deal was for the finder to hunt up the other for back-up. Yancey had a gut feeling that Erik would not do this. If he found Bodine, he would charge right in, vengeance-bent.

  The Enforcer watched the young Viking start looking down one side of the street and then he headed for the livery. He figured that Garrett wouldn’t stick around long; he would be itching to pick up that bank money. So the man would likely want a fresh horse, or another packhorse, anyway. He found the liveryman to be a one-legged hombre with a bad scar on one side of his head that roughly resembled the shape of a horseshoe and he figured- this man had tangled with some savage mustang at sometime in his past. The man’s eyes were stony and unfriendly as they regarded Yancey.

  “Lookin’ for a pard of mine. Two, matter of fact.”

  The man said nothing.

  “Names of Garrett and Bodine. Garrett’s about six-four, built with shoulders like your stable doors, totes a gun very low on his right thigh. Bodine’s a buffalo hunter and wears buckskins, and a beard you could burn all through winter to keep you warm.”

  He waited. The stableman wasn’t even interested. Until Yancey dropped a double-eagle gold twenty-dollar piece on the bench beside him. Then he slowly lifted his eyes to Yancey’s face, one hand covering the coin but not picking it up. Yet.

  “Pards of yours, you say?” he grated.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “But it ain’t true. No one pays out twenty dollars just to find a pard in a town this size. You stink of the law to me.”

  “How’d you like to smell gunsmoke?” Yancey offered. Then he whipped out his Colt and rammed the muzzle under the man’s nose as the stableman reared back. “Close up?”

  The man swallowed and his hard eyes narrowed. He looked from the gun to Yancey’s face.

  “Whatever I am,” Yancey told him quietly, “this deal is private. Don’t affect nobody in this town, except them two hombres I just asked about. And maybe you, if you try to get froggy with me.”

  The man nodded slowly.

  “Okay. But I get to keep the double-eagle.”

  “You get to keep it. Hurry up, damn you! Where are they?”

  “After they ordered a couple of mounts for sundown, they said they was goin’ to the Fiddler Saloon just a couple of doors down.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Noon.”

  Yancey pressed hard with the gun barrel.

  “You sit right where you are. If you’ve moved when I come back, I’ll shoot your other leg off, savvy?”

  The man nodded and Yancey picked up his crutch and hurled it high up into the hayloft to make sure he didn’t try to go out and warn the killers. Then Yancey ran outside and across the street and searched through the saloons until he found Erik Larsen.

  “Forget about lookin’ for ’em here,” Yancey told the Viking. I know where they’re gonna be come sundown. We can get them then. It’s only an hour away.”

  The Viking stared at him, frowning, and then nodded curtly. He followed Yancey out of the packed saloon and the big Enforcer whipped out his Colt and gun whipped a couple of drunken hardcases who wouldn’t move out of his way and who were spoiling for a fight. Outside, Yancey led Erik over to the livery and they found the sour-faced stableman hopping down the aisle, using the stall posts for support. He glared at them.

  “Where are the horses they ordered?” Yancey asked, hand on gun butt.

  The man hesitated and then pointed out two stalls about mid-way down on the other side of the aisle.

  “Okay,” said Yancey. “You hop back to your bench and sit there, and when they show, you tell ’em the horses are ready—and that’s all. Savvy? I hear you say one more word, I’ll blow a hole in your head you can drive a wagon through.”

  The man showed a trace of fear for the first time, nodded and hopped back to his bench where he sat down, folded his arms and stared at the dusty, straw-littered floor of the aisle.

  Yancey motioned to a stall opposite the two the man had indicated and he and Erik went in and hunkered down beside the wall. Yancey checked over his six-gun and Erik took out his Bowie knife, testing the honed edge with his thumb.

  “You gonna really knife-fight Bodine?”

  Erik lifted his eyes to Yancey’s face.

  “It has to be a more personal settling than with bullets, Yancey.”

  “Yeah, I guess I savvy that. But, like Fargo said, Bodine’s got the edge on you—he’s been fightin’ with Bowie blades for years.”

  “It will not be my first knife fight. I am a descendant of the Vikings, Yancey.”

  “Well, make no mistake about this one, Erik. That’s how it’ll be—and Bodine won’t worry any about rules. He’ll stick and slash and hack, just so long as he nails you.”

  Erik nodded. “I know, Yancey. I will gladly die as long as I can bury this blade to the hilt in his belly.”

  They froze as they heard voices approaching and Yancey eased up to the front of the stall, taking off his hat before looking out cautiously. He signaled to Erik: it was Garrett and Bodine.

  “You got our horses ready?” Garrett growled, his voice a little slurred.

  “They’re ready. Just like I said,” answered the stableman.

&n
bsp; Yancey saw the man make some frantic signs, indicating the stall where he crouched. He didn’t hesitate. The big Enforcer leapt upright and out into the aisle, legs braced, right hand hovering over his gun butt, startling the three men.

  The stableman lifted a sawn-off shotgun from the bench beside him. Garrett cursed, hand streaking for his gun butt. Bodine started his own draw and his eyes flew wide in astonishment as Erik jumped out into the aisle, too.

  Yancey’s first shot took the stableman between the eyes and he went over backwards off the bench, the shotgun blasting and tearing planks apart at the edge of the hayloft. The falling wood and showering hay caused Garrett to duck and his shot missed Yancey by a hair.

  The Enforcer dived for the ground, his Colt held out in front in both hands, thumb notching back the hammer in midair. As he hit he triggered and Garrett spun and made a staggering run for a stall. Yancey fired again, missed and turned his gun on Bodine who seemed frozen by the sight of the Viking.

  Erik let out a yell and ran down the aisle, with the big Bowie blade naked in his fist. Bodine started to draw his Colt and Yancey had to fire at Garrett who got off a shot that sent dirt into the Enforcer’s face. His lead punched through the thin stall partition and Garrett stumbled out into the aisle, a hand at his bloody face.

  Yancey shot him through the head and the man went down, convulsing briefly. Bodine got off a shot but he was unnerved by Erik’s wild charge and he missed. He started to bring his gun up again and Yancey fired. His lead smashed the Colt from Bodine’s hand and the man shook stinging fingers. Erik paused with the point of the Bowie against the man’s throat.

  “Pull your knife, Bodine,” he gritted.

  Bodine hesitated and Erik kicked him violently in the shins. The man yelled, staggered back and reached down to his legs instinctively. Then he snarled and snatched at the sheathed Bowie, suddenly charging forward, the blade reversed so that the cutting edge was uppermost.

  Erik dodged aside and kicked out at the knife-hand. His boot toe cracked against Bodine’s forearm. His hand jerked but he held onto the knife, slashing in a backhanded blow that almost caught the Viking as he lunged in.

  Erik whipped his head back and stumbled as he lost balance. Bodine struck like a rattler and Yancey sucked down a swift breath as the blade cut across Erik’s shoulder. The cloth ripped open as did the flesh beneath and blood flowed. Eric bared his teeth and tightened his grip on the Bowie even though damaged nerves were affecting his fingers.

  He backed off and Bodine went after him, confidently, crouching, the knife held out to one side and ahead. He made a feint and then lunged in, kicking the Viking’s legs from under him. Erik went down hard with a grunt and Bodine lunged down triumphantly, the knife raised for the killing blow.

  With a speed that Yancey could barely follow, Erik’s knife came up in both hands and he braced his arms to take the shock as Bodine ran straight onto the long, wide blade. The buffalo hunter grunted and then began to scream as Erik sat up slowly, implacably pushing the knife deeper into Bodine.

  Still holding the knife in Bodine, Erik got to his knees. His shoulders hunched as he gave a final violent heave and Bodine went backwards against the stall, still screaming and blood pouring from his mouth.

  Erik stood up and released his grip on the big Bowie.

  Bodine was pinned to the stall and he died writhing on the blade, slowly and painfully, the way he had killed Blue Dove.

  Erik, weary and weak-legged, looked soberly at Yancey who had just finished reloading his Colt.

  “Fargo was right,” the Enforcer said quietly. “The only word to describe you, Erik, is—Tejano.”

  The young Viking smiled faintly and clasped a hand against his wounded shoulder. There was a proud tilt to his head.

  About the Author

  Keith Hetherington

  aka Kirk Hamilton, Brett Waring and Hank J. Kirby

  Australian writer Keith has worked as television scriptwriter on such Australian TV shows as Homicide, Matlock Police, Division 4, Solo One, The Box, The Spoiler and Chopper Squad.

  “I always liked writing little vignettes, trying to describe the action sequences I saw in a film or the Saturday Afternoon Serial at local cinemas,” remembers Keith Hetherington, better-known to Piccadilly Publishing readers as Hank J. Kirby, author of the Bronco Madigan series.

  Keith went on to pen hundreds of westerns (the figure varies between 600 and 1000) under the names Kirk Hamilton (including the legendary Bannerman the Enforcer series) and Clay Nash as Brett Waring. Keith also worked as a journalist for the Queensland Health Education Council, writing weekly articles for newspapers on health subjects and radio plays dramatizing same.

  More on Keith Hetherington

  BANNERMAN 12: TEJANO

  By Kirk Hamilton

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

  Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  First Smashwords Edition: November 2017

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  The Bannerman Series by Kirk Hamilton

  The Enforcer

  Ride the Lawless Land

  Guns of Texas

  A Gun for the Governor

  Rogue Gun

  Trail Wolves

  Dead Shot

  A Man Called Sundance

  Mad Dog Hallam

  Shadow Mesa

  Day of the Wolf

  Tejano

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