Bannerman the Enforcer 8 Read online

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  CONTENTS

  About A Man Called Sundance

  One – Guns in Amarillo

  Two – Bloody Dollars

  Three – Enemy Guns

  Four – Deadly Trails

  Five – The Man Called Brandon

  Six – The Scheme

  Seven – The Only Way Out

  Eight – Hell and Texas

  Nine – Rio Renegades

  About Kirk Hamilton

  The Bannerman Series

  Copyright

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  Few men deserved a bullet more than the man called Sundance. But his killer unwittingly set in motion a chain of events that few could have foreseen. A man named Brandon had been about to hire Sundance for a mystery job. When he got wind of it, Texas Governor Lester Dukes was determined to find out just what it was. So he called in Yancey Bannerman, with orders to go undercover, and posing as Sundance, blow whatever crooked scheme it was wide-open.

  Yancey and his gun-swift partner Johnny Cato, met violence at every turn and almost died on the Mexican desert they called the White Hell. But the real shock was still to come … when Bannerman discovered just who Brandon really was.

  BANNERMAN 8: A MAN CALLED SUNDANCE

  By Kirk Hamilton

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

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

  First Smashwords Edition: July 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.

  One – Guns in Amarillo

  He had been swamping down whisky since early morning and by noon he was ripe for trouble. Most folk in Amarillo, Texas, didn’t know he was a man called Sundance, but those in the saloon barroom could see that he was in a mean and ugly mood and names don’t much matter at a time like that.

  The wise ones downed their drinks and got out of there before any kind of a fracas started, but the barkeeper, the swamper and the house gamblers, not to mention the negro piano-player and the two red-eyed, painted women had no choice. They had to stay.

  Sundance lurched to his feet, big and slab-bodied, lank black hair dangling around his ears from under his pushed-back hat. His eyes were mean and gray like hoarfrost on a winter’s morning and his iron jaw jutted aggressively. He only wore one gun, a Peacemaker with a smooth black wood butt and a brass backstrap that contrasted with the dark wood. The holster was greasy with neat’s-foot oil and the belt carried twin rows of cartridges. It must have weighed twenty pounds but it sat easily on his slim hips and somehow looked just right, a part of the man, custom-made and deadly.

  He flicked his eyes around the room as the last of the drinkers hurried out. The barkeep looked away swiftly and grabbed some glasses to polish, half turning his back but standing so that he could keep an eye on Sundance in the mirror. The pianist licked his lips and started hammering out a tinny tune. The women sat boredly at a corner table while the two housemen riffled through packs of cards. But all motion ceased as Sundance started to walk across the big room. The negro’s fingers trailed off the piano keys and his eyes bugged a little as the tall man lurched towards him and pointed to the keyboard again.

  “Play!” Even the single word was slurred.

  The negro started to play again, and in his nervousness, hit several wrong notes. Sundance scowled.

  “I said play a tune, damn it! If I want to hear a jumble of notes, I can do that myself. Like this.”

  His clenched left fist smashed several times onto the keys, shaking the piano as discordant notes rang out through the barroom. The negro cringed back in his battered chair, looking gray.

  “Now play me a proper tune! ‘The Union Forever’!”

  The negro’s eyes widened and he glanced swiftly at the staring women and then to the gamblers. No one said anything, but they didn’t like the idea of that rousing Yankee war song being played here. Yet who was to argue with Sundance? The gunfighter’s hand rested on his gun butt now as he waited. The negro licked his lips, coughed and then started to play, very softly. Sundance cuffed him across the ear.

  “Louder, damn it!”

  The pianist slammed out the notes and Sundance nodded in time, left hand moving with the rhythm.

  “... ‘Hoorah, boys, hoorah!’” he bawled suddenly, then looked at the women. “Come on. Don’t just sit there. Get up here and sing!”

  They looked at him nervously and both waited for the other to speak up. Finally, the redhead said in a squeaky voice, “We—we dunno the words. That’s a Yankee song.”

  “And what in hell’s wrong with that?” Sundance snapped. “Best goddamn song there is.” He threw back his head and bawled out the first line of the chorus again, nudging the negro to accompany him. “’The Union forever, hoorah, boys, hoorah!’ And them’s my sentiments exactly. The Union forever’.” He spat on the floor looked challengingly at the two frozen housemen. “Hell with Johnny Reb country. And greasers, And Bible-thumpers! And all scum south of the Mason-Dixon Line!”

  One of the gamblers, a man named Lord, forced a laugh. “Hey, man, the war’s been over twenty years! You ain’t tryin’ to start another one, are you?”

  Sundance lurched across and the negro breathed easier now that attention was someplace else. He started to rise from his chair, preparing to slip away when the opportunity offered.

  Sundance stopped in front of the table where the gamblers sat, his cold eyes boring into them both, settling on Lord.

  “Yeah,” he said flatly. “Yeah, I am aimin’ to start another war. Whyn’t you try and stop me, Reb?”

  Lord licked at his lips and forced a grin. “Well, you see, I ain’t actually a Reb. I’m from Virginia, originally ...”

  “Goddamn turncoat! Fence-sitters. You’re worse’n a Rebel dog!” He spun abruptly and the women later swore they didn’t see his hand move, but the Colt Peacemaker roared and the negro, who was tippy-toeing towards the batwings, let out a yell as a bullet ripped into the floorboard near his foot. Splinters flew and the black man jumped back a full yard, crouching, staring with bulging eyes at the gunman.

  “Stay put, you!” snarled Sundance. “Was your kind started the war in the first place! Got my whole damn family wiped-out, on account of you no-accounts!” He laughed briefly. “How you like that, huh? ‘On account of you no-accounts!’” His voice hardened. “I don’t hear you laughin’, mister!”

  The negro forced a laugh and Sundance whirled abruptly, the Peacemaker roaring again. The women screamed as the barkeeper slammed back, his face blown away, the scattergun he had sneaked up from under the bar exploding with a thunderous detonation and shattering one end of the counter. Glasses and bottles fell from the shelves as his body jarred into them.

  Sundance turned to look at the gamblers, catching them as they started out of their chairs. Lord had a hand halfway under his coat and Sundance grinned tightly.

  “Go ahead and reach for it, Reb! But it better be somethin’ appetisin’, ’cause whatever you bring out, I’m gonna ram down your throat!”

  Lord swallowed and
let his hand fall back to his side. The other gambler lifted his hands shoulder-high. The negro stood in his frozen position, jaw trembling. And that was the tableau that Deputy Morgan Lorrance saw over the tops of the batwings as he ran up onto the boardwalk, townsmen crowding behind him.

  Sundance heard the murmuring outside though he wasn’t facing that way. He moved across to put his back to the bar. From there, he could watch the gamblers, the saloon girls and the negro, as well as see the batwings. He saw Lorrance’s head and shoulders but couldn’t yet see the star pinned to his vest because of the height of the batwings.

  “You want to come in, mister?” Sundance invited the young deputy.

  “Guess not,” Lorrance told him. “But I’d like you to come on out. Without that gun.”

  Sundance laughed. “You would, huh?”

  “I would. What d’you say?”

  “How about this?” Sundance fired. A wooden slat in the batwings shattered and dust flew and Lorrance jumped back. The townsmen behind him scattered. The bullet had set the doors swinging and through the gap, Sundance spotted the star on Lorrance’s vest. His mean eyes narrowed. “Aah, I see. You’re the law, huh? Mebbe I should’ve put that slug clear through you then.”

  Lorrance was shaken by his close call, but he set his jaw and eased open one of the batwings slowly. He was white, nostrils flaring and later, someone said he was shaking, but he didn’t quit. He was the only law in town at the moment and he figured he had to take on this drunken gunslinger, no matter what. He was scared, but he didn’t let it stop him. He cleared his throat and spoke quietly to the gunfighter.

  ‘'Come on. mister. Don’t make any more trouble for yourself. Just holster that gun and walk out here and we’ll talk things over.”

  “Judas, kid, you sure got gall! No brains, but plenty of gall. Guts, too. But I guess you dunno who I am, do you?” He raked his eyes around the room and then looked beyond Lorrance at the crowd of onlookers who were ready to run again at the first sign of violence, and yet didn't want to miss any of it. “None of you Johnny Rebs would know me. This ain’t my stampin’ ground. But if you was up north, in God’s own country, you’d know me and you’d shake in your boots when my name was mentioned, which, by the way, is Sundance. Just Sundance. Nothin’ before or after. And if I was a man who needed to keep records, I reckon these here smooth black wood butts on my Peacemaker would be lookin’ kinda poorly; all notched-up to mark the fellers who’ve gone down under my gun.” He squinted at Lorrance. “You heard tell of me, Deputy?”

  “Mebbe,” Lorrance said. “Kind of recollect the name. A little.”

  Sundance flushed and his face sobered. “A little! You bein’ smart with me, kid?”

  “No. I seem to recollect readin’ somethin’ about you, but it was a spell back and I don’t remember it all. But, makes no nevermind, Sundance. I still want you to come on out.”

  “You come in after me, Deputy,” Sundance invited huskily, lifting his left hand and crooking his index finger. “Come on. Come get me. But, soon as you take one step through them batwings, you better reach for your gun.”

  Lorrance stiffened, aware that the eyes of the townspeople were on him now. He glanced at the folk inside and saw that none of them had moved. They were too frightened to, he guessed.

  “Lisien, I don’t want this to get down to a gunfight,” he said and flushed deeply when he saw the crooked grin on Sundance’s face.

  “I’ll just bet you don’t, lawman!”

  “What I mean is, there don’t need to be any more shootin’. No sense in either of us gettin’ hurt …”

  “I won’t get hurt,” Sundance cut in confidently.

  “One of us has to,” Lorrance went on doggedly, easing the batwing closed a few inches, hoping it would screen the slow movement of his right hand as he inched his gun up out of leather. Sundance had made no move yet to put away his own Peacemaker. “If it gets to gunplay, I mean. But there ain’t no need for that. You put your gun away and I’ll come in if you want, but we can talk like sane men and get this straightened out. What d’you say, Sundance?”

  The gunfighter’s eyes were narrowed as he looked at the deputy. The half-open batwing was at such an angle that he could see through the slats, and he saw the lawman’s stealthy movements as he worked his Colt very slowly out of leather. Then Sundance grinned, spun his Colt around his finger by the trigger-guard and let it drop expertly back into the holster. He lifted both hands out from his sides.

  “How’s that?” he asked, smiling.

  “That’s fine. That’s real sensible. And now we …”

  Lorrance broke off, wrenched the batwing back, his right hand lifting his Colt the rest of the way out of leather. He only had the length of the barrel to go. Even so, Sundance’s gun blasted before the Colt was in line and wood splinters flew as the two bullets punched through the batwings. Morgan Lorrance grunted as the lead slammed into him, driving him back across the boardwalk and into the street, townsfolk scattering. He staggered, dropping his gun, clawing at his chest, coughing a ribbon of blood as he dropped to his knees.

  Sundance strode forward, straight-armed the swinging batwings open and put another bullet into Lorrance’s head. The lawman slammed down into the dust and the gunfighter spun back into the barroom at a slithering movement and a gasp from one of the women. Lord had tried to get his hideaway gun out from under his coat and Sundance bared his teeth as he drove his last shot into the gambler, the impact lifting the man onto the card-table, which collapsed under his weight. The other man hurriedly grabbed handsful of air and the women cringed back, white with fear.

  The gunfighter swiftly stepped out of the doorway and, back to the saloon wall, thumbed fresh loads into his smoking Colt. He glanced over the tops of the shattered batwings, but there was no one in sight out there, only the dead lawman in the street. He smiled faintly as he faced the remaining gambler and the women.

  “That action’s made me kind of thirsty again. Let’s see if you can pour drinks as slick as you can deal cards, you four-flushin’ son of a bitch!” He jerked the gun barrel and the gambler hurried behind the bar, stepping over the body of the barkeeper. His hands shook badly as he reached for a bottle of whisky and a glass. Sundance shifted his gaze to the two women. His lips moved faintly, leeringly.

  “I got me other appetites, too, now I got the smell of gunsmoke and blood in my nostrils. Neither of you looks much to me, so I’ll take you both together.”

  The women said nothing and didn’t move as he turned to take the glass of whisky from the gambler. He drank swiftly, held out the glass for a refill.

  “That hombre the sheriff or a deputy?” he asked.

  “Deputy,” rasped the gambler.

  “Where’s the sheriff?”

  “Took a prisoner to the Territorial Prison. But he’ll be back.”

  “When?”

  The gambler shrugged. “Any time now, I guess.”

  Sundance downed his second drink, took the bottle from the man’s hands. “Well, when he gets here, you tell him I’ll be in my room upstairs, with company.” He glanced towards the worried women. “So he better knock before he tries to come in. Savvy?”

  “Yessir,” the gambler said, nodding emphatically. “I’ll tell him.”

  Sundance curled a lip at him, hit him lightly across the face with the gun barrel, just hard enough to graze the skin. The man stepped back, sucking down a deep breath. Sundance turned his back on him contemptuously and gestured to the stairs, nodding to the painted women.

  “After you, ladies,” he said harshly.

  Slowly, the two women started to move towards the stairs, not taking their eyes off the gunfighter. They reached the stairs and began to go up them. Sundance laughed, pulled the cork from the whisky bottle with his teeth and spat it out. Then he tilted the bottle to his lips and started up the stairs, his Colt still in his right hand.

  No one made any move to stop him and, outside in the street, a small knot of men were gathering
around the dead body of the deputy.

  ~*~

  Lila Lorrance came into the house wearily. She had been out to the south pasture again this morning and there were more calves dead; torn apart by the prowling wolves. The fence had been repaired so often that there was more old wire than barbed strands. There was just no way that she could afford another fence and it wasn’t likely that the bank would lend her any more money. Not with the already outstanding mortgage which was almost due.

  She had been unable to meet more than a few of the payments and the interest was getting out of hand, or so the manager had told her. He wasn’t a man who minced words and he wasn’t a man who would grant extensions on overdue mortgages. That was why the bank’s head office had put him out here in ‘poor man’s county’ as it was becoming known around Amarillo. The bank owned a goodly portion of the county because of foreclosing on mortgages. And now it looked like they would own another few hundred acres, for she couldn’t possibly meet the payments now.

  She had been depending on those calves to bring a good price on the market and now they had been wiped out by the wolves. It was a vicious circle, she thought, angrily. She needed money to build a new fence, in order to keep out the wolves so they wouldn’t kill the calves which she needed to sell so she could meet the mortgage payment, so she could approach the bank again for more money to build the fence she needed to keep the wolves away from the calves ... and so on.

  It was getting Lila down. She and Morgan and their mother had come out here with nothing but high hopes. They had chosen their land and she and Morgan had cleared it, side by side, and even their sick old mother had helped when she was able. They had proved-up, built the cabin and then, when they looked like having a good season had approached the bank for a loan. At that time, the future looked good and Morgan had proved himself a good worker, going into the hills and rounding-up mavericks to form the nucleus of a herd. It had impressed the bank and they had unhesitatingly loaned the Lorrances the maximum amount.