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“Yancey Bannerman is a homicidal maniac!” said the Texas Ranger. “He’s killed two of my men, slugged a couple, and another man was wounded at the stables. He’s also stolen horses, not to mention taking hostage the daughter of one of your top-ranking senators. Hell, the man has to be stopped at all costs.”
The truth of it was that Governor Dukes’ top Enforcer was a sick man, suffering from headaches caused by an old scalp wound. But that didn’t change the facts.
Dukes turned his lined and weary face to Yancey’s best friend and fellow Enforcer, Johnny Cato.
“Find him, John. I don’t care how you do it—but track him down.”
Cato nodded soberly. “Yes, sir.”
Dukes looked at him steadily for a long moment, then added quietly, “And when you find Yancey, John … I want you to kill him.”
BANNERMAN 45: DEATH RIDES TALL
By Kirk Hamilton
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Digital Edition: August 2020
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.
One – Hardcase
The first hint that all was not well with Yancy Bannerman came when he got involved in a fight over a drink in the Cottontree Saloon, Austin, Texas.
Yancey was just past his mid-twenties, a big, tall fellow whose easy-going ways belied his tough reputation as Governor Dukes’ top trouble-buster and head of the State’s Special Enforcer Unit. He was fast with a gun, fancy with his fists, pretty good with a knife, and he could hold his own with a rope against the best of the Red River cowhands, though he didn’t quite come up to the high standard of the Rio Grande punchers, the best ropers in the world.
But, for all that, plus his reputation for bringing in his quarry, dead or alive and through hell or high water, Yancey was a likeable hombre with a lot of friends. Not just in Austin, where Enforcer headquarters was in the governor’s mansion on Capitol Hill, but all over Texas and most of the United States for that matter. He could drink with the best and though he didn’t live for liquor, he could down redeye by the bottle. And he could paint the town red, as he did on several occasions, usually in the company of sidekick Johnny Cato, the man who carried the deadliest weapon in the West at that time, a gun known as the Manstopper.
When it came to women, Yancey was a mite more circumspect, for he had a relationship going with Kate Dukes, the governor’s daughter. In many ways it was a frustrating affair, for Kate had sworn to her mother on Mrs. Dukes’ deathbed that she would never marry as long as her father lived, and she would devote her life to his care and well-being, for Lester Dukes had a chronic heart condition. At times this got Yancey down so badly that he’d go and cut loose with Cato, who never needed any excuse to kick up his heels.
Even when drunk, Yancey’s temper rarely flared. There were things that could send him into a fury though, like that night at the Cottontree.
It happened so fast that Cato blinked and stared open-mouthed. They were at the bar when four cowmen came in after a hard day on the range, still smelling of sweat and horses. One of the cowmen, a beefy fellow who sidled up beside Yancey, lifted a thick arm to thumb back his hat from his sweat-matted hair as Yancey was lifting his shot glass of whiskey. The elbow of the cowpuncher hit Yancey’s arm and the drink spilled. That wasn’t all. The heavy glass rim slammed Yancey’s lips against his teeth. In a crowded saloon, it was one of the many hazards a man had to expect, especially on a Saturday night when range men were in town.
Cato expected Yancey to cuss some, maybe growl a little at the big puncher, and then forget it.
But not this time.
Yancey spat out his curse, all right, but then he whirled around, grabbed the beefy puncher by the shoulder and spun him into position for a left hook in the belly. The puncher gasped and started to double over, sending his jaw into Yancey’s right uppercut. The puncher flew back half across the bar, his eyes glazing.
If Yancey had stopped then, Cato wouldn’t have thought much more about it. But Yancey didn’t. He hit the man in the face with two looping blows, sending him staggering along the bar, his flailing arms sending bottles and glasses flying as men scattered. The puncher’s companions were yelling angrily, wondering what had provoked the big man with the sledging fists.
Yancey stepped after his quarry and hammered his right fist into his midriff again. The man’s knees buckled and he started to slide forward, his eyes rolling. Yancey hooked him twice to the jaw and stretched him out. But he wasn’t quite finished; he drove a boot into the man’s ribs.
It was just too much for the other cowpunchers. One ripped out a blistering curse that startled even the whores in the corner, then he jumped at Yancey with both fists hammering. Yancey took a glancing blow on the side of the head, smashed the man’s guard aside and pistoned a straight right into the middle of the ranny’s face.
Blood spurted as the man’s nose broke with a crunch. Yancey grabbed a handful of his hair and slammed his head against the bar. Cato, worried now, threw his arms around Yancey.
“Yance! What’s wrong, man? Are you plumb loco?”
Yancey broke Cato’s grip, whirled, picked up his friend bodily, one hand on his belt and the other at his throat, then he used Cato’s swinging body to drive back the remaining two cowpokes who came at him in a rage. Suddenly Yancey let go of Cato and his flying body sent the cowmen crashing down. They untangled themselves and Yancey was waiting for them in a crouch, his fists cocked, teeth bared and a strange wild light in his gray eyes.
“Come on!” he said between clenched teeth, his fingers wriggling an invitation. “Come on, you sons of bitches!”
The two cowmen got to their feet and charged Yancey, their heads down and fists swinging. Yancey calmly kicked one man in the groin. The man doubled over and fell to the sawdust on his face, writhing and moaning.
The last standing man battered Yancey’s guard aside, slammed away at him with clubbed fists, then butted Yancey in the face. The big Enforcer took the punishment without giving an inch, wound up his right hand and drove it up into the cowman’s chest. The force of the blow sent the man staggering back. He skidded along the bar, clawing at its edge for support. He managed to get a grip and hung there, semi-conscious, strangled sounds coming from his mouth.
Yancey walked to the man casually and clubbed down his fist on the man’s hand gripping the zinc edge of the counter. The man gave a little yelp and fell onto his side. Yancey bared his teeth and drew back a boot.
Then Cato’s wiry body slammed into him and drove him hard against the bar edge. Yancey spun to face his assailant. He didn’t seem to recognize his sidekick as Cato held up a placating hand.
“Yancy! Ease up, man! You got ’em all beat! No need to kill ’em!”
Now the already stunned patrons of the Cottontree witnessed something none had ever thought he’d live to see, not the way Yancey Bannerman and Johnny Cato had been friends. The big Enforcer stepped away from the bar and right-hooked the smaller man in the midriff. Ca
to was lifted off his feet by the blow. Yancey then clubbed him to the floor and stood over him. For a moment the men at the bar thought Yancey was going to stomp Cato in the face, but then he scowled, wiped the back of a hand across his bloody mouth and walked off, shoving men aside on his way to the batwings.
He slammed open the doors and the crowd on the boardwalk jumped out of his path. On the street he stopped dead, frowning, and was almost run down by a buckboard. The driver yelled a curse at him but Yancey didn’t seem to hear. He wrenched his hat off with his left hand and rubbed at his eyes, shaking his head. Then, staggering a little, as if he had had too much to drink, Yancey made his way to the Lone Star Hotel.
Yancey and Cato kept a suite of rooms at the Lone Star, though they had quarters in the governor’s mansion on Capitol Hill.
The next morning, Yancey awoke and stumbled to the wash basin. He poured water from the jug and splashed it onto his face, then looked in the mirror. Scrubbing a hand over his jowls, he decided the stubble was short enough to leave until the afternoon. He winced as his hand touched his mouth. Leaning closer to the mirror, he pulled out his lower lip and examined the small cut inside it.
He dressed slowly and looked at his hands. The knuckles were puffy and bruised. Before buttoning his shirt, he examined his ribs and found a few bruises. Then he pulled on his trousers and boots and, buckling on his gun rig, went to the door that opened into Cato’s bedroom.
It was locked.
Yancey frowned. The door had never been locked before, not even when Cato was entertaining one of his lady friends. Puzzled, the big Enforcer lifted a hand to knock, then changed his mind. He entered the living room and crossed to the other door to Cato’s room. But that too was locked.
“Must have been someone real special in there this time,” Yancey muttered. He poked his head into the passage, called out for the houseboy and ordered coffee, bacon and eggs and corn muffins.
Before breakfast came, the door of Cato’s bedroom opened and Yancey started to smile as he looked up from the well-worn book he was reading, an old edition of Robinson Crusoe. But the smile died when he saw that Cato held his Manstopper at the ready and his face was badly bruised. Looking behind Cato, Yancey saw that a chair was jammed under the handle of the door.
“Judas, what’s going on?” Yancey asked.
Cato stared at him, holding the Manstopper. It was a heavy gun built on the frame of a top-break, double-action Smith and Wesson. It fired eight high-velocity .44 caliber cartridges from its top barrel and a twenty-gauge shotgun shell through the underslung barrel. There were muzzle-blast ports cut on either side of a ramped foresight to cut down recoil, and the butt had been specially carved and shaped to fit Cato’s hand. It was a gun that could literally blow a man in two and had done so several times.
“What the hell are you pointing that thing at me for?” Yancey demanded.
Cato frowned. “You all right?”
Yancey looked surprised at the question. “Why shouldn’t I be?” Then he smiled and held up his scarred fists. “You mean this? I guess we had ourselves quite a brawl last night, huh?”
Cato’s eyes narrowed. “You askin’ or tellin’?”
Yancey frowned. “What the hell’s wrong with you this morning?”
Cato stared at him steadily for a long moment, then he sighed and put the Manstopper in the metal-back holster molded to his hip, the base tilted forward and up, enabling Cato to draw the big gun in a fraction of a second. Cato crossed the room and stood before Yancey, shaking his head.
“You really don’t remember about last night?”
“I don’t,” Yancey said. “But I can see by your face and my hands that we must’ve got into a fight and my head’s poundin’ fit to bust, so I reckon we put away a heap of likker.”
Cato shook his head, looking worried now. “We only had four, five drinks apiece.”
“What? Well, I’ve got the father and mother of all hangovers! You mean four or five bottles, don’t you?”
“Drinks.” Cato spun a chair around and straddled it, staring steadily into Yancey’s face. “Hey, pard, you don’t recollect layin’ out four punchers last night? And then me?”
The big Enforcer stiffened. “You?”
“That’s right. You started in with the cowmen when one jostled your arm accidentally. You gave no warnin’ or nothin’. You just started swingin’ and kickin’. Like to’ve killed a couple of ’em. Then, when I tried to stop you, you dropped me. I’m tellin’ you, amigo, you went crazy last night. I never saw such a killer look in your eyes. It was like you didn’t see or even care who was in front of you.” Cato looked a little sheepish as he added, “Had me so worried I jammed chairs under my door handles.”
“Hell almighty, Johnny,” Yancey said slowly, a hand rubbing at his forehead, “what happened to me?”
Two – Decline
Next it was gambling.
Yancey Bannerman had never been much of a gambler. He liked an occasional game of poker for a few dollars, but he sat in on a marathon card game only when his duty as an Enforcer called for it. He had learned a few gamblers’ tricks once when he had to go undercover as a cardsharp, but he could live without poker.
Nor did any of the other games of chance have much appeal for him. Yancey took his fun with a few drinks, a girl on his arm if he felt that way inclined, and sometimes a good-natured brawl after which everyone shook hands and went to work on a bottle.
But he bought into a poker game at the High Ace in Austin that had been going for most of the day, though Cato tried to talk him out of it.
“Yance, this is a serious game. The house man is Slick Magee and you know the kind of reputation he’s got. He’s a four-flusher. Right now he’s gettin’ ready to make a killin’. You’d be loco to buy in.”
Yancey shook off Cato’s restraining hand and stepped forward as one of the players tossed in his cards and began to gather his few remaining chips.
“’Nough for me,” the man growled.
A tall, rangy fellow moved at the same time as Yancey. Together they grabbed the back of the vacated chair. Their eyes locked. The rangy man smiled.
“I believe my fingers touched the wood a shade ahead of yours, sir.”
“Like hell they did!”
The gamblers and others looked sharply at Yancey. Cato stiffened as he saw Yancey’s face. The Enforcer’s gray eyes were chill and narrow. His mouth was a tight line and his chin jutted out aggressively. The rangy man hesitated, then shrugged and released his grip on the chair.
“If you want to lose your money that bad, go ahead,” he muttered as he stepped back.
Yancey gave him a final cold stare and then dropped into the chair, spreading out his money on the green baize cloth.
The players nodded curtly to him. Three he knew and two were strangers. The house gambler, cardsharp Slick Magee, shuffled the pack and pushed it across the table to Yancey.
“New player cuts.”
Yancey picked up the cards and threw them over his shoulder, his cold eyes on Magee’s suddenly hard face.
“New player wants a new deck,” Yancey said.
“That was a new deck!” Magee growled. “I just slit the wrapper.” He looked around at the other players for confirmation and they nodded, their eyes on Yancey.
The Enforcer leaned forward, his face stony. “I didn’t see you slit the wrapper. Now call for a new pack, Magee, or you’ll be wearin’ an extra navel.”
Slick Magee paled at Yancey’s tone, but then he shrugged, lifted his left hand and snapped his fingers. The barkeep brought a new, sealed deck of cards and Magee pushed the deck over the table to Yancey.
The Enforcer smiled broadly as he tore off the wrapper and began to shuffle the cards. He handed the deck to Magee who shuffled them again and passed the pack back to Yancey for a cut.
Cato stood silently watching the game. Five hands were dealt and Yancey didn’t win one. Slick Magee won three, one went to a townsman and the other to a strang
er. The big Enforcer seemed to get more and more irritable each time he lost.
Cato leaned over his shoulder. “Yancey, how about a drink?”
“Sure, sure,” Yancey said, picking up the cards as they were dealt to him and fanning them out in his left hand. “Bring a bottle.”
“I mean a drink at the bar. Throw in your cards. This just ain’t your lucky night.”
Yancey’s head snapped up and he glared at Cato. “Get the hell away from me! I don’t need you puttin’ a jinx on me!”
Cato was startled. “Hell, man, don’t take it so seriously! It’s only a card game!”
“Then let me get on with it. Go get your drink if you want one. Just don’t bother me.”
Cato stood back, flushing, scrubbing a hand thoughtfully over his jaw as Yancey lost another hand and flung his cards down savagely, glaring at the winner, Slick Magee.
“You seem to be havin’ a damn good streak of luck, Magee.”
“It happens,” Magee said.
“Too damn often to you, if you ask me,” Yancey murmured.
Magee looked at him steadily. “You sayin’ somethin’, Bannerman?”
Yancey’s gaze drilled into the man. “I’m sayin’ whatever you figure I’m sayin’.”
Two of the card players suddenly gathered up their money, pushed back their chairs and left the table. The others seemed uncertain about what to do. Cato tensed, his eyes flicking from one man to another.
“I figure we better get the straight of this,” Magee said quietly. “I don’t like your hint that I’m cheatin’. If you figure I’m four-flushin’, Bannerman, come right out and say so. Then prove it or shut up.”
Yancey’s lips stretched across his teeth in a tight, mirthless smile. He placed his hands flat on the green baize cloth and said, “Magee, you’re a four-flusher. Always were, always will be as long as you live. Which may not be too much longer.”
Men scattered and Cato moved forward to head off trouble. Something was very wrong with Yancey’s behavior. This wasn’t at all like the easy-going Enforcer. Sure, he had his bad days and could be cranky at times like everyone else, but this was too much.
Bannerman the Enforcer 45 Page 1
