Bannerman the Enforcer 2

by Kirk Hamilton

  So they quit town soon after and that night made camp in a high-walled canyon split by a swift-flowing river. As they sat around the fire, smoking, Reno poked at the embers, pulled out a twig to touch to his cigarette end and said, casually, “Thirty miles is all.”

  Lem snapped up his head and Jiminez and Mundy looked at Sven Johansen as he tamped tobacco into his battered old pipe. The Swede frowned as he looked up.

  “Thirty mile?” he queried. “We have not that far to go, Reno ... Twelve, that is all.”

  Reno Slade looked at his brother and there was a question in his eyes. Lem hesitated and then nodded slowly. Reno’s thin lips lifted in a crooked smile and he turned his gaze to the Mexican and Chet. Jiminez sighed and pulled out his knife, beginning to hum quietly to himself as he pared his fingernails. Chet Mundy chewed at his bottom lip, still frowning.

  “You’re wrong, old man,” Reno said abruptly to Sven. “It’s thirty miles to the place I’m talkin’ about.”

  “Oh? I thought you meant my ranch …”

  “No, I’m talkin’ about the Indian Territory. About thirty miles to the north ... no law there. A man can get away with anythin’. Even murder. He can hole-up there as long as he likes until things cool down and it’s safe for him to come out.”

  Sven frowned. “Bad place, Reno. Very bad.”

  Reno grinned amiably. “Only if you don’t know your way around ... and I do.”

  “You? You have been there? What is this you say, Reno?” Sven was uneasy now, seeing the grim faces of the other three, sensing that something was wrong.

  Reno glanced at Mundy again and the man nodded curtly. “I don’t wanta go to no Injun Territory, though,” Mundy added. “I got other plans.”

  Reno shrugged. “Up to you, amigo.” He turned to the puzzled Swede. “What I was tryin’ to say, you square-headed son of a bitch, was that we figure we got more use for that twenty thousand dollars than you!”

  Reno snatched a blazing brand from the fire and hurled it at Sven as he spoke and the Swede instinctively lifted an arm to ward it off as it whooshed towards him. At the same time, Reno Slade lunged across the fire and rammed his shoulder hard into Sven, knocking him off balance. The other three started to get to their feet as Reno grappled with the big Swede. But Slade had not realized the power and the strength in the work-toughened rancher and Sven gave a roar and lunged to his feet, shaking Reno from him effortlessly. The others started to move in and Sven went to meet them, big gnarled fists knotted up and ready to hammer the robbers.

  Reno cursed as he hit the ground and yelled at the others to get the Swede. But they were not finding it easy. The big man was smashing them back with those horny hands and blood flowed and skin was scraped raw, but it wasn’t Sven Johansen’s.

  Reno swore and dragged his gun out of its holster, stalking the rancher, trying to get a swing at his head. But Sven kept moving, circling, meeting the rushes of the men with damaging blows, looking for some weapon he could snatch up and use against them. Jiminez, his mouth bleeding and a tooth broken, lunged in with his knife and he bared his teeth as the blade sliced into Sven’s flesh. The Swede reeled and slowed but he was not mortally wounded. He sidestepped to the left as Jiminez slashed at him again and Reno was waiting to clip him across the top of the head with his gun barrel. Sven grunted and staggered but, though his knees buckled, he did not go down. He turned, slamming out with an arm and knocking Reno sideways as the man raised the gun for another blow. Lem and Mundy grappled with Sven and Jiminez circled, knife at the ready. The Swede twisted and turned and hit out with elbows and fists and boots and he had the men almost shaken from him when Reno came in, thin lips compressed, eyes glittering savagely as he raised the gun butt and brought it down in a vicious blow. It thudded solidly against Sven’s skull and drove him to his knees.

  Lem rammed his knee into the Swede’s face and as he stretched out, Mundy stepped in and kicked him in the kidneys. Reno shoved the Mexican aside and pushed his brother and Mundy back as he knelt beside Sven and rolled the man over onto his back. Reno shoved the gun barrel into the dazed manss face. He cocked the hammer back slowly, deliberately, and when it clicked into the full-cock notch, he saw awareness return to Sven’s bleeding face.

  “No more foolin’ about, squarehead!” Reno gritted. “We want that money. We know it’s in your saddlebags, but I just want you to know we’re takin’ it, savvy? We’re takin’ the lot .”

  Sven’s eyes widened and he shook his head but then Reno dropped hammer and the Swede was blasted back against the ground. Reno stood up slowly and looked at Jiminez. “You and Chet drag him down to the river and throw him in, Jimi. Current’ll carry him well away by mornin’ ... C’mon, Lem.” While Sven’s body was being disposed of, the Slades went to Sven’s saddlebags and ripped them open, eagerly. Chet Mundy and Jiminez came hurrying back from the river, stopped when they came into the camp and saw the Slade brothers standing amidst the wreckage of Sven Johansen’s saddlebags and bedroll. Lem was glancing through some papers and Reno stood there cursing.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Mundy.

  “Not there,” Reno growled.

  Mundy and Jiminez exchanged glances and Mundy stepped forward swiftly, grabbing Reno’s arm. “What you mean not there? Damn it, Reno, you tryin’ to pull somethin’ ... ?”

  He dropped his hand to his gun butt.

  “Ease up, Chet,” Reno growled. “Look for yourself. He wasn’t carryin’ the money with him.”

  “How is this?” the Mexican asked, dismayed.

  “I dunno ... we went through his bags, ripped ’em all up as you can see but ain’t a damn sign of it…”

  “Hell! You were too damn quick on the trigger!” Mundy said. “Should’ve waited till we got our hands on the dinero before blowin’ his brains out!”

  “This is why he never had it with him,” Lem said suddenly, waving the paper he had been reading. “It’s a letter from the agent confirmin’ that he’s deposited twenty-one thousand dollars to Sven’s bank account by draft. It can be picked up in the Fort Worth bank, but only by Sven or his wife, or someone carryin’ a letter of authority from them.”

  “You murderin’ maniac!” Mundy snapped at Reno. “Now you’ve killed him and we can’t even get our hands on the money!”

  Reno looked dangerous and he stepped back, hand dropping to gun butt, but Lem swiftly stepped between them.

  “Ease up, ease up!” Lem growled, glaring from one man to the other. “Things ain’t as bad as you think.” All eyes turned to him as he waved the paper again. “Mrs. Johansen can write ... I don’t see any reason why she can’t write one of us a letter of authority to pick up that dinero at the bank.”

  They stared at him, letting his words sink in.

  “This is possible?” asked Jiminez.

  “Sure. Long as we can—uh—persuade her to write that letter,” Lem answered.

  “I reckon that won’t be any hard task,” Reno said grimly. His eyes raked the others. “Anyone figure different?”

  No one did.

  “Fine. We better turn in ... make an early start, for the Johansen spread in the mornin’. Then, pretty soon, we’ll be in Indian Territory and safe from the law.”

  Chapter Two – Anya

  Yancey Bannerman stood in the Fort Worth saloon and drained his third glass of beer. He watched the big-shouldered buffalo hunter climbing the stairs to the balcony. The rails and steps shook beneath his tread and his bloodstained hands were already clenched into fists. Yancey stepped back from the bar, leaned against the wall and began to roll a cigarette. From there he could see the doors of some of the rooms opening off the balcony up there and the buffalo hunter stopped on the top step, squinting at the crude numbers painted on those doors. Then, spotting his target, he stumbled forward. He was already half drunk.

  Yancey winced and the barkeep ran out from behind the bar to investigate the splintering noise from above. It was caused by the buffalo man kicking in the room door. There foll
owed a wild animal-like roar and Yancey tucked his rolled cigarette into his shirt pocket as the hunter charged into the room. His entrance was followed by a woman’s high-pitched scream and more splintering. Soldiers lounging around the bar showed some interest now, stepping back as Yancey had done so they could see better.

  A disheveled girl, half naked, clutching the remnants of her clothes to her breasts, legs bare to the hips, ran out onto the balcony, screaming for the barkeeper. The man had already snatched up a long-handled bung-starter and was charging up the stairs. More splintering and the sounds of shattering glass came from the room as the barkeep reached the balcony and shoved the yelling girl roughly aside. She stumbled against the rail, turned to yell abuse at the barkeeper and exposed her bare backside to the suddenly yelling and cheering bunch of soldiers below.

  Suddenly, the barkeep’s body came hurtling back across the balcony, cannoned into the rail and catapulted over to drop down into the saloon with a thud. He lay there, groaning, and the girl ran along the balcony, dropping her clothes now, entirely naked but ignoring it, rattling a door at the far end, wanting only to get away from whatever violence was happening in her room. She disappeared through the door and slammed it behind her as another body came hurtling out onto the balcony. Yancey had no trouble recognizing Johnny Cato as the small man lit on his back and rolled to the edge where the broken rail sagged dangerously. The balcony shook under the heavy, stomping tread of the wild-eyed buffalo man. He stalked out, a shattered chair held high above his head, aiming to slam it down onto Cato. The small man rolled as the chair descended and, while the hunter was off-balance, he got to the top of the stairs, snatched up a broken piece of rail and hurled it like a spear at the big buffalo man. The hunter slammed it effortlessly aside and charged at Cato, who missed his footing and, with a yell, came tumbling and clattering down the stairs into the saloon. He lay there dazed as the hunter came thudding down like some unstoppable juggernaut.

  Yancey thrust off the wall and stepped forward to help Cato to his feet. The smaller man squinted at him, wiping blood from his mouth.

  “This is one time I wish I was as big as you!” he panted. “How about lending a hand?”

  Yancey looked towards the descending buffalo hunter and slowly shook his head. “Sorry ... it was you who tied his gal up when you knew he was due in town.”

  “Hell, I didn’t figure to be so long. She didn’t want to let me go.”

  Yancey gestured towards the hunter who had reached the foot of the stairs and was stalking forward. “Take it up with him, Johnny.”

  But before Yancey could step back out of the way, the buffalo man grabbed his shoulder in a massive hand, squeezed so that Yancey figured he could feel the bones grating together, and yanked him back, casually slapping him across the side of the head. Yancey hurtled back against the wall, the impact driving the breath from him. Through a red haze, he saw the buffalo hunter reaching out for Cato and the smaller man backing off, reaching behind him for a chair or any other sort of weapon. He found a chair and swung it up and down savagely. The hunter took the blow on his massive forearm, staggered a little but kept coming. Cato dropped the remains of the chair and vaulted behind the bar.

  Yancey figured he was in this now, after that hefty blow to the head, and he charged in, hurling himself at the hunter, his arms going around the man’s huge hips; shoulder ramming into his kidney area. The force of the dive carried the hunter forward to slam into the bar edge and Cato, behind the counter now, swiftly grabbed a bottle of whisky and smashed it over the hunter’s skull. The man blinked and roared as the spirits stung his eyes. He screwed calloused knuckles into his face, trying to clear his vision as Cato leapt atop the bar and jumped on his back, locking his legs around the thick neck, clubbing his fists and slamming them down onto that bullet head. The hunter spun and shook, trying to dislodge his rider and Yancey stepped in, belted away at the solid midriff, his nostrils assailed by the stench of stale animal fat and blood stiffened buckskin. Still half-blinded, the hunter struck out with his massive fists. One caught Yancey a glancing blow on the side of the jaw and he staggered back six feet: he reckoned he would have had a busted jaw if it had taken him full force. The hunter reached up above his head and grabbed Cato’s shirtfront, plucking him from his shoulders and hurling him over the bar all in one motion. Cato bounced off the wall beside the mirror, his boots sending bottles cascading to the floor, and he fell back onto the bar top, skidding most of its length. Some of the soldiers rushed to pick up the rolling bottles of whisky and brandy and scuffles broke out. Before Yancey had properly regained his balance and started back after the giant hunter, there were several other minor brawls going on.

  Yancey grabbed the buffalo hunter’s shoulder, spun him half about—it was all he could manage with a man as big as that—and hit him as hard as he could on the jaw. He hurt his knuckles and winced as the man’s head turned on his shoulders and he staggered. Yancey followed through swiftly, hammering and sledging at the big body and the man was off-balance for a second. Cato grabbed up a stone whisky jug and smashed it down over the bullet head. The hunter’s knees buckled and he grunted, starting to fall, but grabbing at the bar’s edge and not going all the way down. Yancey kicked the man in the belly but he only grunted and started to get back to his feet. Yancey shook his head in disbelief: no man could take punishment like that and come back for more. But it was happening before his eyes and he began to back off as the hunter ignored Cato now and turned his attention to Yancey.

  Cato hurriedly looked around for a heavy blunt instrument but turned back swiftly at a shuddering thud that shook the building. He was surprised to see the buffalo hunter stretched out on his face on the floor at Yancey’s feet. He blinked at his pard quizzically. Yancey shrugged, as puzzled as Cato.

  “Guess all the punishment suddenly caught up with him,” Yancey panted. “He just suddenly dropped cold.”

  Cato raised swollen and blackening eyes heavenward. “Muchas gracias,” he said fervently.

  Then, within a split-second, they were caught up in the wild brawl that had spread throughout the barroom, the army men slamming and hammering away at anyone and anything that stood upright. Furniture splintered and glass shattered and painted girls hung out of the upstairs windows above Cannon Street and yelled for help.

  Relief arrived in the form of an army platoon under a saber-wielding officer, who jumped on the bar top and roared his orders to his men who waded into the melee and efficiently broke it up.

  An hour later, a battered and bruised Yancey Bannerman and Johnny Cato stood in the Commandant’s office, bruises painted with arnica and cuts showing the yellow stain of iodine. Their clothes were torn and dirty and they looked a sorry pair. The Commandant seemed angry as he paced the small room overlooking the noisy parade ground outside.

  “Hardly the conduct I’d expect from two special officers of the governor, gentlemen,” he snapped. “I wish now that I had not offered you the facilities of the Post after you delivered those Special Orders yesterday. I should have urged you to leave on the Dallas stage last night.”

  “Don’t see that what happened should bother you ... with respect, sir,” Cato said thickly through puffed lips. “We’ll make good the damage.”

  “You’ll make good,” Yancey corrected the smaller man. “You started it by going with that gal.”

  “What could I do?” Cato asked innocently. “I tried to control my charm but guess some spilled over before I could stop it ... ”

  “All right, gentlemen, all right,” growled the Commandant. “We won’t worry about who is to blame, but the damages will certainly have to be paid for. Then I want you both to leave Fort Worth just as soon as possible ... No doubt Governor Dukes has more work for you in Dallas.”

  “Likely you’re right, sir,” Yancey said. “We’ve been travelling all over Texas for a month now, delivering the governor’s special orders in regard to the Indian Territory, ever since we brought back the Satterlee brothers
. Yours was the last set of orders and I figured we’d earned our night on the town. What happened in the saloon may be of some concern to you, but I must remind you that you have no jurisdiction over us.”

  The officer compressed his lips. He was not used to anyone answering him back. “You represent Governor Dukes and I’m sure he wouldn’t want you brawling like trail-hands in a bawdy house.”

  “You’re the only person in Fort Worth who knows we’re agents for the governor, sir,” Yancey pointed out quietly.

  “Be that as it may, I want you both out of town by sundown!”

  Yancey shrugged. “We’ll be gone by then.”

  The Commandant relaxed and his attitude changed.

  “You’re returning to Dallas? Or are you going back to Austin?” the army man asked.

  “Dallas,” Yancey replied. “The governor aims to stay around North Texas a spell to make sure the trouble stirred up by the Satterlees is under control.”

  The Commandant nodded; “Yes, I figured he’d be around a spell. Takes a personal interest in the welfare of his State ... Well, then, gentlemen, perhaps you can do me a favor?”

  He beamed a sudden smile at Cato and Yancey and the enforcers exchanged glances.

  “What is it you want us to do?” Cato asked doubtfully.

  The Commandant studied them briefly before replying. “I have a young lady from the East here. She wants an audience with the governor. I was going to send along an officer and a couple of enlisted men to escort her to Dallas, but, as you gentlemen are going there anyway ... ?”

  “Young lady, you said?” Cato asked, interested.

  “Now hold on a minute,” Yancey said, frowning a little. “The governor’s mighty busy at present, trying to make sure the Comanches don’t come raiding out of the Territory in retaliation for what the Satterlees did. He doesn’t have time to see some social butterfly who just wants to go back to Boston or New York and say she met the man who’s making things hum in the Lone Star State!”