Bannerman the Enforcer 46

by Kirk Hamilton

  It was inevitable that sooner or later they would find the canyon where the Svendborgs were working their gold ...

  Erik had been fed and changed and was sleeping in his bed in the back of the Conestoga. The savory smells of breakfast still hung in the air as Emily Svendborg pulled on a pair of old mud-stained canvas work trousers and tucked in the tails of her checked shirt that had a couple of buttons missing on the front. As there was only herself and Lars she didn’t worry too much when she was unable to find a safety pin right away. She decided that the shirt would be good enough to work in for the day while she helped Lars pan for the rich gold down by the stream.

  He was already at work, knee-deep in the rushing, brown waters, groping up to the elbows under a small rocky overhang, expert fingers feeling by touch for the rounded smoothness of gold nuggets. He cried out as she arrived and began to wade out to him. He held up both fists. Yellow glinted between the fingers of each hand.

  “It is truly here, Emily!” he called.

  Then a heavy rifle shot thundered and filled the canyon with reverberating noise and Lars Svendborg was flung back six feet, the front of his chest smashed in, a glittering shower of gold falling from his convulsing hands. Water sprayed up around his body as it struck and rolled in the sluggish current. Emily was still stunned by the abruptness of the gunshot and Lars flying backwards. The scream of shock was still rising to get out of her throat as Lars bobbed to the surface, face-downwards, a cloud of blood spreading around him.

  Then her scream tore loose and its piercing tones flailed the canyon walls as she floundered forward, straining to reach for Lars’ body as it floated away. She splashed out waist-deep, managed to catch one of his boots and sobbed as she threw herself backwards, pulling his big, still body back towards her. She heaved and floundered and splashed and hauled him back into the shallows, not noticing or caring that one of her breasts had fallen free of the work shirt and was fully exposed.

  She rolled Lars over onto his back, getting his shoulders wedged on the bank and knelt beside him, sobbing, seeing the terrible wound in his chest, the bubbles of blood frothing out of one corner of his slack mouth. His eyes were open and staring, dulling rapidly. A harsh rattle way back in his throat was the only sign that some spark of life still burned within him.

  “Lars! Lars, my darling!” she sobbed, stroking his wet face. “Oh, my God, what’s happened?”

  Her mind was so numbed that she hadn’t even wondered who had fired the shot or where it had come from. All that penetrated her reeling senses was the fact that her husband was close to death ...

  “Well, damn me, it ain’t a kid at all, men, it’s a woman, an’ a damn fine one at that!”

  She snapped her head up at the thick voice above her and stared at the sneering, beard-shagged face of Laramie Kane as he leered down at her from his horse. Denver rode up, the big Sharps rifle still smoking slightly from the shot he had fired into Lars. He ran a tongue across his lips as he feasted his eyes on Emily.

  Suddenly, she was aware of her exposed breast and swiftly covered up, a chill twisting up her belly, cutting through the shocked fear she had felt at the certain knowledge that Lars would be dead in a few more minutes. She backed out into the stream a little as three more riders appeared, lining up in a short half-circle on the bank behind Lars, where he lay sprawled, coughing his life away in a thickening red stream.

  Emily’s legs would barely support her. She almost fell, floundered, and when she lurched upright again, the shirt had ripped more. She could do little more than hold the wet cloth across her breasts. If she released it, she would be exposed to these leering men.

  “Wh-who-?” she began teeth chattering, not entirely from the cold stream water. “My husband! He’s—dying ...?”

  “Aw, hell, you mean he ain’t dead yet?” Kane said and wrenched his eyes away from the girl to look down at Lars who was rolling his head feebly from side to side. He made a clucking sound. “You’re out of practice, Denver. You just missed nailin’ him dead-center.”

  Then the Peacemaker appeared in his hand and, horrified, Emily screamed her husband’s name and hurled herself futilely towards Laramie Kane as the outlaw shot Lars through the head.

  She fell on her face and pushed to hands and knees in the shallows, retching, sobbing, reeling, one word far back in her brain keeping her conscious: Erik! Erik! Erik! She had to stay alive, no matter what she endured, so that she could care for the baby. If only he remained asleep, and didn’t cry, attracting attention ...

  ‘My God!’ she marveled to herself. How could she possibly think so clearly about Erik when she had just seen Lars killed in cold blood and was facing—God knew what ...

  Still on her hands and knees, Emily, her hair plastered to her head and face, mixed with sand and mud, looked up, sobbing, a pitiful figure.

  A female figure ...

  Laramie Kane was already dismounted. He waded out towards her and she thrust to her feet, staggering, trying to get away. Kid Ringo and Boots Stacey laughed as they put their mounts into the stream behind her, blocking her escape that way. Denver and Buck Gentry had dismounted now, too, and were advancing from the sides.

  Kane reached out for her, grabbed at her loose shirt as she tried to lunge away. The material ripped and she was left naked to the waist, shivering, staring wide-eyed as she clasped her arms over her front.

  Ringo walked his mount forward and the animal nudged her from behind. She staggered into Kane’s waiting arms. He held her tightly as she fought and kicked and screamed and tried to punch him. Effortlessly, he lifted her and flung her up on the bank where she fell, the breath jolted out of her, beside the dead Lars.

  Then Kane walked up to her, straddled her, towering above her, as he reached down and grabbed the waistband of her trousers and jerked hard.

  She found enough breath to let out one piercing scream that echoed from the canyon walls.

  It had been a long, hard trail, but the end was in sight now, thought Yancey Bannerman as he put his chestnut up out of the draw.

  He hipped in saddle momentarily to look back and saw Cato on the big-chested gray having a little difficulty on the talus of a slide. But the mount got its footing at last and Cato kicked with his heels, urging it onto the narrow trail and rode up beside Yancey. They both walked their mounts behind some juniper brush and Yancey pointed to his right.

  “That must be the arroyo Hardiman mentioned. I can see trees beyond so I guess that’s the stand of timber he was talking about that helps screen the entrance to the canyon.”

  Cato had to stand in the stirrups to see but, after a brief examination, he nodded slowly.

  “Has to be it, Yance.” He settled back and pulled out the massive Manstopper gun. It was built on the frame of a top-break Smith and Wesson double-action and Cato snapped the action open now, checking that he had a full load of eight forty-four cartridges and one shot shell in the big smoothbore chamber in the center of the cylinder that was really an extension of the shot barrel. He snapped the gun closed and eased it back into the holster. “The Magowans ain’t gonna be easy to take, Yance. And we dunno for sure they ain’t recruited a bunch of hard cases yet. You want to cut into Amarillo and get a wire off to the Rangers, I’ll stay here an’ keep an eye on their hideout.”

  Yancey shook his head. “Be the smart thing to do, I guess, but remember Hardiman said there was a rumor already going round that we were looking for the Magowans and they could be alerted. We have to move in fast now, don’t give ’em a chance.” He smiled thinly. “Besides, they won’t expect just the two of us to tackle ’em.”

  Cato still looked a mite dubious.

  “I’d be happier if I knew how many there were. Been a few weeks now since Dukes set us out on this trail. The Magowans might have a dozen hard cases on their payroll by now.”

  “Hardiman didn’t think so,” Yancey pointed out. “Fact, he thought most of the hard hombres down this way were steerin’ clear of the Magowans because they’re rea
lly bad medicine. Got too many dodgers out on ’em, too many lawmen and bounty hunters after ’em. Hardiman’s a man who knows what he’s about, Johnny. He can assess a situation pretty good, and he’s usually right with what he comes up with. I figure we can take the chance and go on in.”

  Cato scrubbed a hand down his jaw and then shrugged. “Well, guess there’s not much choice in the matter, anyways. We’re this close.” He heeled his gray forward. “Let’s go see. No sense in palaverin’ any longer.”

  He rode on ahead and Yancey set the chestnut after him.

  Over the years of working together they had developed working methods that no longer required detailed discussion or, in many cases, not even a series of signals between them. A given situation called for an approach that had worked well in the past, perhaps with some adaptation to the specific moment. In general, they had perfected working methods that were about as safe as they could be when there were bullets flying and their lives at stake.

  So, Cato had taken the lead this time as they rode through the arroyo. According to their informant, the stand of timber beyond would be a good place to locate a guard—or an ambush.

  Yancey figured when they cleared the arroyo, he would branch left while Cato veered slightly right. This would give them two approaches to the timber and a guard there would have to divide his attention and his fire, make a decision which one to take first. The other would move in fast ...

  But this time, they were wrong. The Magowans had set up their ambush in the arroyo itself.

  Cato, being in the lead, rode smack into it. The guns opened up in a ragged fusillade and the big gray reared up, pawing the air, blood spurting from its neck and chest and body. Cato was knocked out of the saddle though he wasn’t fatally hit. His body struck the ground hard with a puffing of dust and he had enough consciousness left in him to roll desperately out of the way of the falling horse.

  The animal crashed down beside him so close that Cato disappeared from Yancey’s sight. The big Enforcer didn’t know whether his pard had been crushed under the flailing carcass or not.

  But he wrenched the reins of the chestnut to the left, slid the Winchester out of the saddle scabbard and threw the rifle to his shoulder. He saw the powder smoke spurting out of the rocks at the far end of the arroyo, placed three fast shots along the top. Rock dust sprouted and the bullets whined in ricochet. A man momentarily appeared as he ducked between the rocks. Yancey’s rifle spat instantly and he heard a grunt, then saw a man’s boot jammed between two rocks. The bullet had knocked the man down and it looked like he had been hit fatally.

  Another gun was blazing to the right and Yancey, still forking his chestnut, holding on with his knees, swung the rifle and emptied the magazine at the place. Then he dropped the rifle and, Colt in hand, leaned out of the saddle, holding to the horn with one hand, taking his weight in one stirrup, shooting beneath the arched neck of the flying horse. A man was standing up to bead him better. Yancey’s Colt bucked twice and the man’s head snapped back and he disappeared from sight.

  He slid back into saddle, hauled rein, spun the chestnut and ran it for the cover of some tall rocks not far from where he could now see Cato lying face down and still, one leg caught under the carcass of the dead horse.

  Above the panting of his own animal, he heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs and he spurred the chestnut forward, up and out of the arroyo on one side.

  He was in time to see four riders going lickety-split into the timber. He was sure a couple of the men had been waiting down in the trees and that only two had ridden in from the arroyo. There were two mounts he would know again if he saw them: a paint and a buckskin with a large black smudge around the base of its tail, tapering up towards the saddle.

  Yancey didn’t waste ammunition on them. He reloaded his Colt and rode back down into the arroyo and dismounted beside the dead gray.

  He knelt swiftly beside his partner and felt for Cato’s pulse in his neck. The smaller Enforcer opened his eyes and looked at him.

  “Quit sittin’ on my goddamn leg, will you?” he gasped. “You’re too blamed heavy!”

  Then he passed out and Yancey grinned in relief, began to dig away the soil under Cato’s pinned leg so as to free it.

  “Have you out of here in no time, amigo. You’ve got a slug in the side someplace. Have to get you into Amarillo to a sawbones. After that, I’ll go after the Magowans again.”

  Chapter Four – “Call Me Texas!”

  Amarillo was two days’ ride and Yancey was kind of surprised that the Magowans didn’t come after him and attempt to finish him off.

  He travelled warily, taking precautions that proved unnecessary; they didn’t show, so he figured they must have had other business elsewhere. Cato was shaping up tolerably well. The wound in his side was shallow, but the bullet, skidding along the rib, had ripped open a lot of flesh and blood had flowed copiously. It was still seeping slowly despite all Yancey’s efforts. He had warned Cato that if it started up again the only way he would be able to stop the blood flow would be by cauterization, a process neither wanted to go through.

  Yancey wasn’t sure about the small Enforcer’s leg: it could be busted. The bone was certainly severely bruised and Yancey had splinted the leg to be on the safe side.

  It was hell riding double, with Cato’s leg stuck out at such an odd and awkward angle, and his slim body doubled-over in the saddle, but it was the only way out of the canyon country. There were times when Yancey dismounted and led the chestnut with Cato sagging in the saddle.

  By the middle of the second day, the small Enforcer was showing signs of fever and delirium.

  This forced Yancey to slow his pace and he knew then there was no chance of reaching Amarillo by sundown as he had originally planned. He camped out on the high plains and spent most of the night tending Cato as the man raved and thrashed about on the blankets. The violent movements set the wound to bleeding again and Yancey was forced to heat the wide blade of his hunting knife to red heat and then hold the glowing metal against the bullet-torn flesh.

  Cato screamed and would have jerked upright except for Yancey’s weight holding him down, his big hand pushing against his chest. The reek of burning flesh turned Yancey’s stomach and Cato passed out. But the bleeding stopped and Yancey was able to catch a couple of hours’ shuteye before sun-up.

  He was mighty weary when he walked his mount into Amarillo and started looking for a doctor’s shingle. If he hadn’t been so tired he might have noticed the horses tethered to the hitch rail outside the Shotglass Saloon. Amongst them was a paint and a buckskin with a smudge around the base of the tail, tapering up towards the saddle ...

  He found a doctor’s place in a side street leading off the main plaza and manhandled the semi-conscious Cato inside. He waited a spell for the medico to make a cursory examination and he was in the midst of a long, jaw-dislocating yawn when the sawbones came back into his parlor.

  “You look like you need some rest yourself, son,” the doctor opined.

  Yancey nodded, rubbing a hand around his stubbled jaw. “Kind of tired, doc. What’s the verdict on Johnny?”

  “Well, you did a good job of cauterizing that bullet wound. Only treatment you could’ve given it out there. I don’t think I’ll even suture it, you’ve sealed it off so well.”

  Yancey nodded impatiently. “His leg? Is it busted?”

  The doctor pursed his lips. “It’s fractured, I’d say. Hairline break. You immobilized it, which was just as well or he might be on his way to being crippled. But he’ll have that leg in plaster for a couple of months at least.”

  Yancey swore, then sighed. “Well, it could’ve been worse, I guess. How soon before he can be moved, doc?”

  The medico looked at him sharply. “Moved? Where?”

  “Austin.”

  The doctor pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Long way. We don’t enjoy the best of transport arrangements, either. Is it necessary to move him?”

  Yancey knew Du
kes would want his Enforcer to have the best and the Austin Infirmary, thanks to the Governor, was the best equipped hospital in the Southern States.

  “Yeah, it’ll be best if he can get back to Austin, doc.”

  “Well, I’d say a week at the very earliest, but I’d prefer to leave it for ten days, two weeks.”

  “That should be okay. Well, thanks, doc, you let me know the cost ...”

  “You go get yourself some rest, young feller, or I’ll be treatin’ you, too, when they carry you in here on a door. You’re dead on your feet.”

  Yancey had no argument with that and left the medico’s, picking up his horse’s reins outside and plodding wearily back to the plaza. He crossed it towards the wide double doors of the livery and then stopped dead at a flat sound like a hammer striking a pine plank. It was swiftly followed by another, then another.

  The Enforcer recognized the sounds as gunshots coming from inside a building with closed doors.

  An instant later, the doors of the bank across the way burst open and four men charged out, one turning to blaze three fast shots back into the building.

  Yancey was standing between the raiders and their horses tied up outside the saloon. Even as the men ran towards him he recognized the Magowan brothers from wanted dodgers and knew now why they hadn’t taken time to finish him and Cato off along the trail: they had been on their way to rob the Amarillo Bank.

  The Enforcer slapped his hat across the rump of his chestnut and his right hand palmed up the Peacemaker as the leading robber lifted his smoking gun to snap a shot at him. Yancey’s gun roared and the man jumped into the air, sat down awkwardly, arms and legs going out at odd angles and tilted slowly onto his side, dropping his canvas sack of bank loot. The raiders then turned their guns towards Yancey as they scattered, still running for their mounts, one man going far out to one side.