Bannerman the Enforcer 17

by Kirk Hamilton

  Yancey nodded with a faint smile. “Sounds kind of familiar. When do I start?”

  “Kate has you booked on this evening’s train.”

  The early Spaniards had called it a river and, because of the numerous pebbles glinting wetly in the sun like silver conchos, the name shown on their crude maps had been ‘Rio Conchos’. They made a camp there, in a bend of the narrow watercourse, by a shallow ford with a pebbly beach rising to a height that could be used as a lookout in case of hostile Indians. Over the centuries, the campsite had been used many times, by men of many nationalities, and someone had eventually thrown up a crude adobe and shingle shelter and sold food and drink to travelers. From that lone building, the town of Conchos had grown.

  The town wasn’t very big; in fact, it didn’t even have a lawman, and that factor attracted a certain type of man. There was agitation at one time to elect a sheriff but the nominee had been found with a bullet in the back of his head and another man who had offered to take the oath had had his house burned down. His wife and child had only just managed to escape. He quit Conchos right after that, as did most of the decent citizens who had wanted law and order in their town. Now there was still no law, but it kind of suited the citizens and, with the railroad now to the south, Conchos was left pretty well isolated.

  That suited Jake Edge and his men. From here, they could swoop on the immigrant trails, robbing and murdering and plundering, and know that here was a safe refuge for them afterwards. Rangers had come in from time to time and raided the place, but though there were bloody pitched battles, outlaws filtered back slowly to the same old place, rebuilt and spawned more evil.

  At this time, Jake Edge was boss of Conchos and he and his men swaggered through the mean streets. Wise folk stepped aside. Those who wanted to challenge their authority were usually found floating face down in the Rio Conchos, carried away by the sluggish current. No one had to make the effort of burying them that way.

  Trains were Jake’s specialty. He enjoyed planning a train robbery and always managed to get to the engineer’s cabin and take over the controls for a wild ride whenever the robbery was carried out. Some said—in a whisper of course—that he was still a kid at heart where trains were concerned and that, if he hadn’t taken the outlaw trail he more than likely would have been a train engineer. But, if Jake’s eyes lit up whenever he could get to the controls of a locomotive, they stayed deadly cold and suspicious most other times. Like now, as he watched the three riders putting their mounts slowly across the river ford.

  Jake was sitting on the porch of the cabin which also served as a courthouse, for he ruled the owlhoots of Conchos with an iron fist, conducted ‘trials’ of men who broke his strict rules and handed down penalties that ranged from missing a day’s grub to hanging. Two of his men sat with him, one either side. Jake kicked the man on the left in the ankle and pointed to the leather-bound brass army telescope on the floor beside him.

  Putting the instrument to his eye, Jake adjusted focus swiftly. His men stood up, picking up their rifles from against the wall, aware that they should have spotted the approaching riders first and wondering just how Jake would punish them. He would, they knew that. He mightn’t do it right away, but he’d do it sometime. Jake Edge had a long memory.

  “Jethro Kidd,” Edge growled in his grating voice. He lowered the telescope, squinting as the riders approached. “Arnie and Hackamore are with him ... Looks like they’ve had trouble.”

  The guards exchanged uneasy glances. If Kidd had an unfavorable report to make, Edge would take it out on them. Their future didn’t look any too bright, one way and another.

  The riders dismounted in front of Edge’s place but didn’t come up the steps until he had given them the nod.

  “Howdy, Jake,” Kidd greeted, leaning on the rail. “I got what you wanted in Austin ...”

  “You got somethin’ I didn’t want too,” Edge cut in harshly, bringing Kidd and his companions up stiffly. Edge gestured to their battered features. “You got yourselves in some kind of trouble. And I said don’t do anythin’ to draw attention to yourselves, right?”

  Kidd shuffled his feet awkwardly. “Was a personal argument, Jake.”

  The words were smashed back into Kidd’s teeth by the barrel of Jake Edge’s six-gun as the outlaw lunged up out of his chair, striking savagely. Kidd went back down the steps with a clatter, mouth bloodied, spitting out broken teeth, including the gold eyetooth. The other two, Hack and Arnie, cringed back but Edge was focusing his anger on Kidd. He lifted the six-gun, notched back the hammer to full cock.

  “Tell me about it!” he grated.

  Kidd’s face twitched. He knew he was but a hair’s-breadth from death when Edge got that crazy look about his eyes. “Feller I knew from way back …” he stammered, dabbing at his mouth with a bandanna as he sat in the dust.

  “Hombre who ear-marked me, name of Cato. I kept it personal, Jake, honest. No one got any kind of hint that I was tied-in with you.” He appealed to Hack and Arnie. “Ain’t that right, fellers?”

  Hack and Arnie swallowed as Edge flicked his eyes towards them. They nodded slowly.

  “How come you all got busted up?” Edge asked.

  “Cato had a pard. Big hombre, strong as a grizzly. Took us from behind with a chair ... Left us alone afterwards, though. No law involved. While the barkeep was tallyin’ up the damages, we slipped out of town.”

  “Which means you already had what I wanted, but you stopped off in a saloon instead of lightin’ a shuck back here pronto!” Edge cracked.

  Kidd was shaking his head slowly. “Only wanted a drink for the trail, Jake! Honest!”

  As Edge thought it over, Kidd made a tentative move to get to his feet. Encouraged when Edge didn’t stop him, he stood up, swaying, dabbing at his smashed mouth. Edge still held the cocked gun on him.

  “Well!” Edge roared abruptly, making all three of them jump.

  “Uh ... the gold’s being shipped out from Pecos next Friday mornin’,” Kidd stammered. “Gonna be an army guard as well as the Express men. How many depends on what kind of Injun trouble there is along the Pecos at the time ...”

  Edge pursed his lips. “Might be we can stir up some. Keep them army boys busy. It’ll make things tougher, with them drawin’ cards.”

  “Got somethin’ else that might kind of even the odds, Jake,” Kidd said eagerly, hoping to get back into Edge’s good books. “Bit of information I picked up in that saloon before I ran into Cato.”

  This last was a lie, but Kidd figured it wouldn’t hurt any to make out he hadn’t been wasting his time altogether in the saloon.

  Edge slowly lowered the hammer on his Colt and put the gun back into its holster. “Let’s hear it.”

  Encouraged, Jethro Kidd told him his news and waited eagerly for Edge’s reaction.

  Three – Red Raiders

  The Texas and Western was a privately-owned railroad and the cars and facilities on its trains were plush and of a higher standard than those found on most of the big company-owned railroads. Nevada Jim Butcher, the man who owned the line, had made his fortune in silver in Virginia City before the war and had managed to hang onto it during the conflict. He had outfitted a wagon train with a veritable private army to guard it, and had set off across the states for Texas, aiming to pour his fortune into the fast-emptying coffers of the Confederacy.

  But Indians and renegades and traitors amongst his own men had put paid to that idea. Beleaguered on a high canyon overlooking a bend of the deep-flowing Arkansas River, Nevada Jim had reckoned that no one was going to profit from his hard-earned silver. He had driven the three wagons containing the fortune off the cliff and had seen them plunge beneath the green waters of the Arkansas. Then, wounded, and not intending to be taken alive by his attackers, Butcher had leaped into the river. He was carried away by the swift current, washed ashore near a Confederate camp and cared for. By the time he recovered, the war had been lost and he saw that no amount of money could save the
Confederate States ...

  Surviving the armistice, which, in many ways, was nearly as bloody as some of the wartime battles, Jim Butcher had returned to the bend of the Arkansas with an Englishman he had met on his travels, a man who had worked as a salvage diver all around the world, raising sunken treasure ships. It had been child’s play for the diver to recover Butcher’s silver from the river, though it had taken three months, working in secrecy. That Englishman was now rich beyond his wildest dreams and Jim Butcher owned a sizeable portion of the state of Texas and ran his own railroad.

  Yancey Bannerman thought briefly about the Texas and Western’s history as the train rolled on beside the winding Pecos River, west of Styles. Another day and he would be in Pecos and he would have to make his first moves on the treaty.

  Kate Dukes had told him that last night in Austin, after dinner, while they strolled through the magnolia gardens of the mansion’s grounds, that there was a lot more at stake than Yancey knew.

  “Your father told me the future of the southwest depends on the treaty coming off,” Yancey said.

  “That’s the wider view, Yancey,” Kate told him, holding tightly to his arm. “But there’s a narrower one, perhaps a selfish one, though I can’t think of it that way.”

  Yancey halted by a small gazebo and they went in and sat down on the bench. He was puzzled.

  “You know what father’s like,” Kate said quietly. “How he worries about the affairs of state practically every minute of his life ... This treaty is something he’s had in mind for a long, long time, Yancey. It’s almost an obsession with him.”

  “But I had the impression it was something that had come up recently.”

  “No. He’s been working on it for years and only now can see any headway being made. He’s been working on the draft at all hours of the night, slipping out of his bed to do it ... Dr. Boles is very concerned about the strain he’s been under.”

  Yancey nodded. He had noticed that Dukes was looking more strained than usual.

  “Dr. Boles is afraid that if this treaty doesn’t work out father will react badly, might even—collapse ...” She stopped, overcome with emotion. He reached out and covered her hand with his.

  “Don’t worry, Kate,” he told her quietly. “I’ll do everything I can to bring this treaty off ... I’ll get Red Dog and his daughter safely back to Austin. If your father can’t finalize things from that point on, then no one can.”

  She squeezed his arm, clinging to him ...

  Now, Yancey watched the lush country sliding past the train window, hoping he hadn’t been too optimistic. There had been a leakage in the governor’s office and his enemies had been busy. Already word had spread through the train that Governor Dukes had dispatched a special agent to travel on treaty business and that he was on this train. Yancey had spotted a group of hard-faced cattlemen who were travelling back to Pecos. From the way they were looking at him he knew that they had him tabbed. He tensed as they stood up now and made their way down the narrow aisle towards him. There were four of them, tough, gun hung, with the gnarled hands and leathery faces of men who worked the range for a living.

  “You Dukes’ man?” the leader asked without preamble. He was big-shouldered, middle-aged and looked as strong as a bull buffalo. “The special agent?”

  “I’m representing Governor Dukes, yes,” Yancey answered amiably. He took his boots down off the seat opposite and gestured to it. “Have a seat and talk a spell.”

  A little nonplussed, the four men crowded onto the seat, then the leader changed his mind and stood again out in the aisle, swaying with the motion of the train.

  “We live in and around Pecos, mister,” the man said. “We’ve all lost families and land and stock to those bloody-handed Kiowas. And I’m tellin’ you right now, we don’t take too kindly to parlayin’ with ’em. Not if we have to give up our prime grazin’ land.”

  “Figure it this way,” Yancey said easily. “You give ’em some land, and you don’t have to fight for the rest. You don’t lose any more stock and your families will be safe. Sounds a pretty fair deal to me.”

  The big man snorted and one of the others spat out the window. “We hear the Injuns want the Pecos Valley.”

  Yancey shrugged, smiling faintly; trying to keep it friendly. “Sorry. Can’t discuss the details of the treaty.”

  “Goddamn it!” snapped one of the seated men. “It’s gonna affect us! Why in hell can’t you give us the details!”

  Yancey held up a placating hand. “Let’s get something worked out first, huh? Then will be the time to go into specific details.”

  “Specific details!” snorted the leader. “What kind of lawyer talk is that!”

  Yancey leaned forward. “Wouldn’t you rather have Red Dog on your side than against you?” He raked them with questioning eyes and saw at once that these men would never forgive the Kiowas for their past bloody raids. But he persisted. “Isn’t it better to assure a peaceful future for your families and their kids, than to go on fighting?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s better than that, mister.” The big man leaned down, his face cold. “It’s to wipe them red bastards off the face of God’s green earth; that’s what’s best of all, far as we’re concerned!”

  The others agreed in a chorus and Yancey knew it was pointless to try to argue with them.

  “All right,” he said. “That’s your view and I can understand it. But Governor Dukes has to do what he thinks is best for the whole state, though he surely won’t forget you people. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

  “Dukes is all right,” the big leader admitted grudgingly. “But he’s makin’ a mistake here ... And I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, walkin’ the streets of Pecos, mister, with some fancy treaty in your pocket!”

  Yancey couldn’t ignore the threat and slowly stood up, as tall as the big leader, wider of shoulder and narrower of hips. He stared straight into the man’s eyes.

  “I’ve got a job to do and I aim to do it. Anyone tries to stop me will get a marker on Boothill.”

  The men were silent and the leader cocked his head to one side to look at Yancey. “Fancy yourself with a gun, do you, counselor? Well, let me tell you that there are some mighty fast guns in Pecos ... And if they ain’t fast enough well, then, there are those who can operate from where they ain’t seen at all ... You get me?”

  He shouldered roughly past Yancey before the tall troubleshooter could reply and the others got up and followed him down the aisle. At the door of the car, the big man turned back to face Yancey.

  “In case you want to report me to Dukes, the name’s Hemp Carswell ... Remember the name, counselor.”

  Yancey sat down slowly as they filed out. It looked as though there was going to be plenty of opposition to Dukes’ treaty ...

  The army wagons made their way through the pass in a slow, rumbling column, the men choking in their own dust, panting in the heat beating back off the walls of the narrow defile. Apart from the drivers, there was the sergeant of the troop and five soldiers. They rode half-dozing in their saddles for it had been a long trail and the heat was stifling, draining their energy.

  The orders had been not to draw undue attention to the wagons: as far as anyone was concerned, they were the usual supply vehicles heading for Fort Marlow, the army post on the fringe of Indian country, about halfway between San Angelo and Styles. But someone knew there was more to the wagons than the usual supplies of food and clothing for the sutler’s stores.

  On top of the cliff above the pass was a row of painted horsemen with feathers in their headbands and repeating rifles in their hands. Their faces and bare torsos were streaked with war paint and they wore buckskin trousers and beaded moccasins, leather armbands and bear claw necklaces. There were six of them and at a signal from their leader, they rode down the steep trail that would bring them out ahead of the wagons.

  In the pass itself, the wagons rolled on slowly, iron tires crunching stones and gravel, rumbling
noisily between the walls, effectively covering any sound made by the raiding party in their descent.

  The first inkling the soldiers had that there was anything wrong, was when the sergeant was shot out of his saddle, the heavy caliber bullet taking him right between the eyes. The driver of the following wagon went next, shot through the chest. He pitched over the side of his vehicle and the team plunged wildly but did not break: they stood, trembling, not knowing what to do, with the gunfire thundering through the pass.

  The soldiers yelled at the wagon drivers to get under cover and hunted rocks themselves. Ahead there were wild war-whoops mingling with the crack of repeating rifles. Bullets ricocheted savagely in the confined space. Men yelled and moaned. Another soldier went down, lung-shot, and coughing crimson spray over his sheltering boulder. A team bolted, the wagon rocking and swaying and bouncing dangerously, the horses wild-eyed, straining in the harness. But two Indians leaped out of cover and snatched at the trailing reins, throwing their weight onto them. A third jumped into the driving seat and stood on the brake lever, bringing the vehicle to a shuddering halt. But, just before it stopped completely, a wheel bounced up over a boulder and the tray tipped past the point of balance. The Indians leapt clear as the wagon tipped over and cases and bales of cloth spilled out.

  During the diversion, a corporal tried to get the remainder of the wagons and his men turned around and headed back through the pass. He was only halfway through the maneuver when there was a crash of gunfire from the other end of the pass, and a soldier spun to earth, kicking and gasping, with a bullet through the neck. Another crashed back, clutching at his shoulder. They were caught in a crossfire.

  The corporal yelled orders, standing in his stirrups, not really knowing what he was saying. He was young and inexperienced and there was nothing in the training manuals that covered this situation. A wagon became jammed side-on across the pass and the driver jumped down and crouched beneath the tray. Two more men ran to use the vehicle as shelter but the attackers fired at their exposed legs and all three went down, wounded. The corporal was desperate now and all he could think of was getting away for help. He jabbed the spurs into his mount’s flanks and lay low along its neck, running for the nearest end of the pass. He had his big army Remington pistol in his hand and thumbed back the hammer, firing wildly in the general direction of the rocks the attackers were using for cover.