Bannerman the Enforcer 9 Read online

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  CONTENTS

  About Mad Dog Hallam

  One – Guns for Sale

  Two – Bank Job

  Three – The Governor’s Men

  Four – Bounty

  Five – Long Memory

  Six – Showdown

  Seven – Wild Country

  Eight – The Train

  Nine – Hostage

  The Bannerman Series

  Copyright

  About Kirk Hamilton

  It all started with a very special gift … a gold-plated, silver-inlaid Commemorative rifle, specially made on the express orders of the Winchester Family for presentation to Lester Dukes, Governor of Texas. But when the rifle was stolen, Yancey Bannerman and Johnny Cato set out to track down the thieves. The mission wasn’t official—they were doing it as a favor to Winchester’s representative, Lang Huckabee. Before it was over, however, good men and bad would die wholesale, the Governor’s daughter, Kate, would find herself in the clutches of a homicidal madman … and death would claim one of the heroes who went after … Mad Dog Hallam.

  BANNERMAN 9: MAD DOG HALLAM

  By Kirk Hamilton

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

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

  First Smashwords Edition: August 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 ~ *~ Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  One – Guns for Sale

  No one knew it at the time, but when the noon train pulled into Waco, Texas, that crisp fall day, the town would never be the same again.

  Maybe a dozen people stepped down at the siding and one of these was Lang Huckabee. He was an ordinary-looking man of average height and weight. His clothes were sober—mostly browns and charcoal gray—and he was clean-shaven to the point that his skin looked pinkish, almost babyish. But he was a man in his thirties and had been around the west a long time

  He wore no side arms—none that were obvious, anyway—and he moved with quick, precise motions as he snapped his fingers at one of the railroad men on the siding. The big, uniformed man in a greasy old cap ambled across.

  “Yeah?”

  Huckabee reached into a vest pocket and pulled out a half-dollar coin and held it out towards the man.

  “My trunk’s in the luggage van. It’s leather with my name on it—L. Huckabee. Winchester Arms Company. The trunk has four wheels at one end. I wish you to upend it onto these wheels and take it—and the carpetbag you will find beside it—to ...” He paused and produced a small oblong card and read it at arm’s length. “... the Lone Star Hotel on Custer Street. And the half-dollar is yours.”

  The big man took the coin and looked at it critically.

  “That’s four blocks down, mister. If that trunk’s on wheels, it means it’s heavy. A half-dollar don’t seem like enough to me.”

  Huckabee gave the man a cold look.

  “I may look like a tenderfoot, amigo, but I have been travelling the frontier long enough to know the fair price for toting bags less than two blocks.” He smiled thinly. “You see, I have been here before and I happen to know that four blocks walking would place you out on the alkali flats beyond town.” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Now, come. I have things to attend to and I wish to be settled in my room and cleaned-up by two this afternoon.”

  The big man scratched at his greasy hair beneath his cap.

  “Well, I ain’t sure what you’re sayin’, mister, but I guess I’ll go get your trunk and tote it down to the Lone Star. You comin’?”

  “No, my friend. I will trust you to deliver my trunk as instructed. For, if you don’t ...” He broke off and gave the man a thin smile. “But you look honest enough. Just take them to the hotel and tell the clerk to put them in the room reserved for Mr. Lang Huckabee.”

  The big man, Conroy, shrugged and found himself touching the peak of his cap in a brief salute as the other turned away, tugging down his vest, straightening his brown Derby hat, then striding purposefully towards the depot exit.

  In the luggage van, Conroy threw baggage aside and finally located the big trunk. There was a huge carpetbag beside it bearing Huckabee’s name and Conroy upended the trunk with a grunt. As it settled onto the four small wheels he blew out his breath in surprise. It was way heavier than he had expected. He examined it and found it was heavily padlocked—with a second, built-in lock.

  Conroy was a very powerful man and, just out of curiosity, he tried to lift the trunk, using his thighs to take its weight. He only managed to lift it a couple of inches off the floor.

  “Hell almighty,” he breathed, sweat beading his face. “Must have a blacksmith’s shop in there.”

  The carpetbag, too, was heavy, but only a little more than would normally be expected. Huckabee claimed he had been to Waco before, but Conroy couldn’t recall seeing him and he had been working the railroad depot for some time.

  He wheeled the trunk onto the depot platform, set the carpetbag on top, then pushed the luggage towards the exit, whistling softly between his teeth. He wondered idly if Lang Huckabee were any relation to the President of the Waco First National Bank, Mel Huckabee. It wasn’t that common a name ...

  But it was of no real interest to Conroy as he struggled to keep the trunk wheels on the uneven boardwalk. He was already looking ahead to his lunch hour when he would be spending that half-dollar in the bar of the Wagon Box Saloon.

  ~*~

  As it happened, Conroy was right in thinking that Lang Huckabee was related to Mel Huckabee of the First National.

  They were brothers and hadn’t seen each other for nigh on three years, when Lang had passed through Waco with the 1876 model Winchester rifle fresh from the factory.

  Mel was surprised to see his brother being ushered in by one of his clerks and came around his desk with hand outstretched. There was a lot of backslapping, then Mel offered Lang a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs and broke out the office bottle of bourbon whisky. He filled two glasses, handed one to his brother, then lifted his own in a toast.

  “Success. To us both.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Lang said and sipped the golden liquid, smacking his lips appreciatively. “Hmmm ... Now that’s a quality a man doesn’t get in the saloon bar, I’ll allow.”

  “Imported from Kentucky,” Mel assured him, going back to sit behind his massive, polished desk. He was heavier than Lang but no taller; his breadth tended to make him appear shorter than he actually was. He was about five years older but looked ten years senior to Lang. Mel was balding fast and had only a few strands of brown hair plastered across his polished dome. Lang had ample black hair—as had their father—and it was thick and curly. Mel envied him that head of fine hair.

  However, he looked at his younger brother with a certain smugness, for he knew he was the most successful of the two by far.

  “And what brings you to our prosperous little town this time, Lang? Not more guns for sale, surely?”

  Lang knew his brother was digging at him but he didn’t mind. He was making a good enough living; what he earned in commissi
on for orders taken bought him the small luxuries that he wanted and he had invested his money in a ranch in the lush mountains of Utah and that was beginning to show a nice, tidy profit. Soon he would be able to leave the road and forget about selling guns and work his ranch full time. He might even find some woman willing to share the ranch with him.

  But he knew he looked only moderately successful compared to Mel, who exuded affluence with his hand-tailored pearly-gray suit and his gold rings and engraved gold pocket watch.

  “Yes, Mel, I’m here to sell more guns. Our new model. It is far superior to previous models and there are optional refinements that could even make it a serious rival for the Gatling gun.”

  Mel wasn’t interested in firearms but he arched his eyebrows at his brother’s words.

  “You mean—you can turn a rifle into a—portable Gatling gun?”

  Lang smiled faintly.

  “That’s over-simplifying things, but the end result would be a rifle that fires as fast as a Gatling gun with only a simple up-and-down-motion of the shooter’s hand.”

  Mel frowned, looking a little irritable. He didn’t understand guns and couldn’t picture what his brother was saying. So he waved the matter aside impatiently.

  “Well, that’s your business. I daresay you don’t savvy the workings of my job, so let’s just change the subject, shall we?”

  Lang shrugged and smiled faintly as he sipped some more of his bourbon. He enjoyed needling his big brother, as he had always done. But he had to go easy: he had a favor to ask.

  “Sure, Mel. How’s Louise? And the children?”

  “Fine, fine. As a matter of fact they’re all preparing for a holiday in New Orleans. I won’t be able to go with them—pressure of work—but I’m sending them across for a couple of months. I may join them later.”

  “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “You’ll come to the house for supper tonight, of course.”

  Lang nodded: “Be my pleasure, Mel—I see you’re checking your watch again. The first few times I thought you were just trying to impress me but I understand now. You’re busy.” Lang tossed down his drink and stood up. Mel didn’t deny that he was busy but his eyes hardened a little at his brother’s words. “But before I go, there’s one favor I must ask of you, Mel—”

  The elder Huckabee cocked his head quizzically, but, secretly, he was pleased that Lang was asking him for a favor: it never hurt to have as many people in his debt as possible, and that included family. There was always the chance that there would be a settling day.

  “If I can help, Lang, I’ll be only too glad to. What is it you want?”

  “I’d like to leave one of my guns in your vault overnight.”

  Mel’s broad shoulders stiffened a little and he frowned, but he said: “Well, I don’t see why not.” He paused. “One gun?”

  Lang smiled crookedly as he nodded.

  “A very special gun, Mel. A gold-plated, silver-inlaid Commemorative rifle, specially made on the express orders of the Winchester Family for presentation to Lester Dukes, Governor of Texas.”

  Mel paled though he tried to cover it by tossing down the remainder of his whisky. Lang frowned, not understanding why his brother should react that way.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Uh? Oh, nothing. Er—it’s just that I’ve got a big payroll and quite a lot of—other cash on hand to go into the vault.”

  Lang’s frown deepened.

  “There must be room for a rifle.”

  Mel hesitated and looked only briefly at his brother, glancing away almost as soon as their gazes met. He tapped thick fingers against the desk edge.

  “Well?” asked Lang impatiently. “Surely it’s just a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’—But if it’s the latter, I’ll want some justification, Mel.”

  Mel’s face colored.

  “I don’t have to justify any decision I make where it concerns my bank, Lang.”

  Lang made a placating gesture.

  “Okay, okay—let’s not argue. I thought it was a simple request, but if you can’t even find a corner of your vault where I can leave the damn’ rifle, I’ll just have to sleep with the thing under my mattress.” He gave his brother a hard look. “It’s been completely hand-made and the best engravers, and gold and silversmiths have worked on it. Worth in excess of five thousand dollars. So you can see why I’d rather lock it away.”

  The elder Huckabee nodded slowly. He looked drawn and a mite haunted as he lifted his gaze to Lang’s face.

  “Yes—I can see that. Well, you bring it on over and I’ll see it gets into the vault safely.” He forced a nervous laugh. “To be honest, I really don’t want the added responsibility—I mean, a gun for the Governor.”

  “Maybe he’ll give you a citation for taking care of it for him,” Lang said with a note of bitterness in his voice. Then he smiled broadly. “I’ll bring it across just before closing.”

  “To me personally,” Mel said, standing, still smiling fixedly. “And don’t forget that supper at my place.”

  “I’ll be there.” Lang nodded curtly and went out.

  Mel Huckabee sat at his desk for a spell, deep in thought. Then, abruptly, he heaved to his feet, took down his black fedora and brushed its crown with the sleeve of his jacket. He was mighty proud of that hat: it was the only one of its kind in Waco. He set it at a jaunty angle, inspected himself critically in a mirror, then went out.

  “I’ll be gone about an hour,” he snapped to his secretary-clerk as he left the building.

  Outside the bank, Mel Huckabee squared his shoulders and walked down the street with his customary swagger, inclining his head at greetings from the townsfolk, touching a hand lightly to hat brim for some of the women, with a fixed smile on his face.

  But it was replaced with a worried look when he stepped into the law office and confronted Sheriff Chet Lindeen. The lawman was tall and rangy, with hard eyes and chiseled features. He looked tough and he had the physique to back it up. He was rolling a cigarette as Huckabee came hurrying in and scratched a vesta across his desk top, touching the flame to the end of the paper cylinder. He flicked the burning vesta in Huckabee’s direction and laughed mirthlessly as the banker slapped it away irritably.

  Lindeen adjusted his holstered Colt to a more comfortable position on his hip and, leaving the smoldering cigarette dangling from his thin lips, clasped his hands behind his head.

  “What’s makin’ you so happy, Mel?”

  The banker dusted off a straight-back chair with a few flicks of a kerchief before sitting to face the indolent lawman across his cluttered desk.

  “My brother’s just arrived,” Huckabee said heavily.

  “The Winchester man? Yeah, I heard. So what?”

  “He’s got a special presentation rifle for the Governor, gold-plated or something, worth five thousand dollars—and he wants to put it in the vault. Tonight.”

  Lindeen paused as he drew in a mouthful of smoke, held it a moment and then blew it out in a gust as he swung his boots to the floor and took the cigarette from his lips. His eyes were narrowed.

  “I hope you didn’t make any fuss about it? I hope like hell you said okay as if it was the most normal thing to do, Mel?” Lindeen said between his teeth.

  The banker began to sweat despite the crispness of the day. He nodded vigorously, his eyes avoiding Lindeen’s. “Yes—I said—it was all right.”

  “But … ?” prodded the lawman, suspecting something from the expression on Huckabee’s face.

  Huckabee shrugged: “Well—it threw me a little as you can well imagine and ... ”

  “No, I can’t imagine why it should throw you,” cut in Lindeen harshly, shaking his head. “Why would a simple request for a favor from your own brother throw you, Mel?”

  His voice was dangerously soft and the banker moved uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Hell, you know,” he hissed, glancing towards the street door. He started to rise. “I better close this.” />
  “Sit down and leave it alone,” snapped the sheriff and watched narrowly as Huckabee slowly complied. “You damn’ fool. Why didn’t you just roll with it, say okay and let it go at that?”

  Huckabee wiped his kerchief over his damp face.

  “Because—it’s for the Governor. It’s not just a fancy rifle as a prize for some stupid drummer selling more than his competition. It’s a specially-made, gold-plated commemorative rifle for Lester Dukes. That's why it threw me off guard.”

  Lindeen smoked in silence for a while then said: “You’re a fool. You could’ve fouled-up the whole deal. Was your brother suspicious?”

  Huckabee opened his mouth to snap an emphatic ‘no’ but changed his mind: “Well—he seemed to think I was a mite strange, I suppose.”

  Lindeen swore.

  “How suspicious was he?”

  “Oh—I don’t think he suspected anything. He just didn’t like my hesitation.” He leaned across the desk swiftly. “Can you get word to Hallam that he’s not to touch the gun?”

  “You loco?” snapped Lindeen, glancing involuntarily towards the open door. “’Course I can’t. It’s too late now. And how the hell would it look if he didn’t touch a gun like that?”

  “It’s in a presentation case. He wouldn’t know what’s inside.” Huckabee sounded a mite desperate.

  “Anyone’d expect him to look, you jackass.”

  “But—it’ll mean the Rangers. Maybe Dukes’ Enforcers. We can’t afford to have them probing around up here, Chet. You know that.”

  “Yeah, that’s somethin’ I do know. But we can handle it. You leave it to me. Just forget the fancy gun and put it in the vault like your brother wants.”

  “Maybe I could lock it in a cupboard and say I forgot to put it away ... ”

  Lindeen gave him a pitying look.

  “He’ll put it in himself. He’ll insist on it. You do just as I say, Mel, and we’ll come out of this smelling like roses.”

  Mel Huckabee’s teeth tugged at his bottom lip. He screwed up the kerchief in his fat hands.