Bannerman the Enforcer 42 Read online

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  Big John Early was getting married, and he wanted Yancey Bannerman to act as his best man. The bride-to-be was Conchita Morales, beautiful daughter of a Mexican cattle baron. Things looked good for Big John.

  But the next time Yancey and his saddle partner Johnny Cato rode into Del Rio, where Big John was sheriff, they found a town gone wild, and Big John himself little more than a washed-up drunk. Something bad had happened in the intervening weeks, and the two Enforcers were determined to find out exactly what. But first they had to sober John Early up … and drunk or sober, Big John was now a dangerous man to be around.

  That left them with only one option, and it was a whole lot tougher than it sounded. They had to tame the tall hombre!

  BANNERMAN 42:

  TAME THE TALL HOMBRE

  By Kirk Hamilton

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

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

  First Digital Edition: May 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 – “Stop the Enforcers!”

  Steve Burdin tightened his grip on the rifle as he hipped in the saddle. He looked out across the plains and swore savagely as he spotted the thin spiral of dust.

  “Goddamn Enforcers are still comin’!” he said aloud. He craned his neck and looked around a tall, spiked boulder that hid five other riders. “Hold back a spell. Bannerman and Cato are still trailin’ us!”

  One of the horsemen dismounted and edged around the rock, staring out across the plains. He was Slim Burdin, Steve’s young brother. He was mean-eyed and tight-lipped. He rested his right hand on the butt of the six-gun holstered on his hip.

  “Sure it’s them, Steve?”

  “Has to be! No one else would be loco enough to be out there in this kinda heat. It’s Bannerman, all right. Knew he didn’t give up easy, but I figured we’d throwed him when he didn’t show yes’t’y.”

  “Reckon that’s Cato with him?”

  “Sure. They’re always together. They likely spread out and scouted round till they came across our tracks round that saltpan. Must’ve figured that was a false trail we laid.”

  Steve Burdin swore again. “Damn Bannerman’s eyes! This ain’t the first time he’s hung on like a burr under my saddle. Chased me clear down to Mexico City once and it was only that the governor of Texas recalled him for some other deal that I was able to get away. It was two years before I dared show my nose north of the Rio again.”

  Slim’s mouth tightened in a bitter line. “That I know, big brother. ’Cause I was in the State Pen most of that time, servin’ out a sentence you should’ve been sharin’.”

  Steve threw him a hard look. “I’ve told you more’n once to quit bringin’ that up. What’s more important is that it looks like Bannerman’s gonna dog us way south of the Rio again.”

  “If we ever make the damn’ Rio,” Slim growled. “He’s likely telegraphed ahead for the Rangers to watch the border.”

  “I doubt if he’s had time to do that.” Steve slipped his rifle back into the scabbard under his right leg and scrubbed a hand around his stubbled face. “We got to stop them Enforcers or we’re never gonna be able to sleep with both eyes closed again, Slim.”

  “That ain’t tellin’ me anythin’ I don’t already know!”

  “Quit the smart remarks.” Steve rolled his eyes towards the boulder that hid the other riders from sight. “Looks like a bonus is in order.”

  “Huh? We don’t get a helluva lot out of the loot as it is, Steve, not with six of us to share it.”

  Steve Burdin smiled thinly. “The promise of a bonus, then,” he amended quietly and Slim caught the wink he tipped him and nodded slowly in understanding. Then Steve carefully rode his mount around the edge of the boulder and Slim followed afoot. The other riders were nondescript owlhoots in trail-stained, ragged clothes, looking unwashed and smelling of horses, sweat and wood-smoke. Steve Burdin thumbed back his hat and sighed as he shook his head slowly. “Well, looks like the time’s come at last.”

  “I’m for makin’ a stand,” said Hunk Barron. “Like I said we shoulda done way back at Presidio. Country was ideal for ambush then. We could’ve nailed ’em an’ been rid of ’em by now.”

  Steve Burdin nodded soberly. “Yeah, you said that, Hunk, an’ I gotta agree it looks like I should’ve listened. But we’re into some mighty rugged country right now, with plenty of shelter for a bushwhacker who knows his business.”

  “Hold up,” said a one-eyed man named Deadlight, the empty socket watery and rimmed with trail dust. “Who are you sayin’ should stay behind an’ bushwhack Bannerman an’ Cato? Huh?”

  “Why, hell, all of us,” Steve Burdin said, showing some surprise. “You din’ think I was gonna suggest we separate now, this close to the border, did you?”

  “I was just wonderin’, that’s all,” Deadlight admitted.

  “Be loco to do that,” Slim Burdin said. “Them Enforcers could take one or two men while they was eatin’ breakfast and not lose a drag on their smokes. No, we gotta all make the stand an’ make sure of ’em both.”

  The others agreed and Steve Burdin laid out his plan. He reckoned to make the ambush in three stages: Deadlight and Hunk Barron on this ridge, but holding their fire until the Enforcers had passed over and were on their way down the slope. On the rise beyond, the other two outlaws, Cantrell and Ryker, would be waiting. The Burdins would be behind high cover, one each side of the slope.

  The Enforcers would be caught in a crossfire from six rifles. There could be no chance of escape for the governor’s men this time.

  Once their bullet-riddled bodies were lying sprawled on the mountain slope, the outlaws would band together again and head for Del Rio, making it the last stop before they slipped across the border into Mexico.

  “And there’ll be a hundred dollar bonus to the man who first nails Bannerman,” Steve Burdin added. “Cato’s no slouch, but Yancey Bannerman’s the toughest man in Texas and I want to make sure he’s ready for a pine box and a headboard before I slip over the Rio. I want to be able to sleep nights without havin’ to worry when that son of a bitch is suddenly gonna appear standin’ by my bed with a cocked six-gun in his hand.”

  The promise of the bonus brought murmurings from the four outlaws and Slim Burdin feigned interest to lend the offer authenticity.

  The men saddled up to get in position and Steve personally supervised the crossing of the ridge so that no one skylined as they went. Then he crossed himself, saw Deadlight and Hunk Barron into position, and rode down the slope with his brother, Cantrell and Ryker. He picked out rocks for them to shelter behind and saw them settled, then turned to Slim.

  “Right. You get into position somewhere over on that slope and then I’ll circle round and hole-up in that ring of boulders just below that stand of burned trees. You likely won’t see me till the shootin’ starts, but I’ll be there. I might be a shade higher than the boys on the ridge, so I’ll signal when I spot the Enforcers startin’ up the far side. Got it?�
��

  Cantrell and Ryker nodded and, as the two Burdins rode off, Ryker called, “Keep that hundred buck bonus, handy, Steve. I aim to make it mine!”

  Steve Burdin lifted a hand in acknowledgement and he and Slim rode down into the hollow and around the base of the hill. When they were out of sight of the others, Steve reached out and nudged Slim who was starting to turn his mount towards the high trail.

  “Where you goin’?”

  Slim frowned. “Get a high position so’s we can sweep the slope.”

  Steve smiled crookedly. “Like hell you are, amigo. You an’ me are headin’ straight for Del Rio. We’ll pick up provisions and then cut straight down into Mexico.”

  Slim seemed puzzled. “But—ain’t we gonna wipe out the Enforcers first? I mean, I know that’s hogwash about the bonuses, but I figured we’d be stayin’ to lend a hand ... ”

  Steve was shaking his head and grinning;

  “You don’t get it, do you brother? Look, we leave the others to take care of the Enforcers. They might nail ’em and they might not. Two-to-one-odds ain’t anythin’ that’ll faze Bannerman or Cato. But if they get killed, fine. If they shoot their way past Deadlight an’ the others, then we ain’t gonna be anywheres around when they do. We’ll have a mighty long lead that they just can’t cut. Once we’re in Mexico, I can spread a few pesos in the right places an’ Bannerman’ll never get more than ten feet south of the Rio.”

  Slim looked dubious. “But you said we gotta make sure he’s dead or we’ll never be able to rest.”

  “That’s right. If these four nail him, our worries are over. If he gets by, with or without Cato, I got some friends amongst the border bandidos’ll guarantee he don’t get past ’em. We’ll be deep into Mexico, anyway, by that time. Head for the Gulf, and catch a schooner north. We can be in Boston in a couple weeks, livin’ it up while the search goes on for us down here.”

  “Now that sounds better,” Slim allowed, smiling. “But we gotta be careful the others don’t spot us slippin’ away or we’re the ones’ll be caught in the crossfire.”

  Steve lifted his reins. “Just follow me, little brother. The others’ll only be watchin for Cato and Bannerman. You an’ me’ll be long gone before they realize it. An’ that won’t be till they’re tradin’ lead.”

  Both Burdins laughed as they turned their mounts and headed down a weed-grown but easily discernible trail winding away between the barren hills.

  Behind them oblivious to the Burdins’ treachery, Deadlight, Barron, Cantrell and Ryker waited for the two Enforcers to show, each outlaw dreaming of that extra hundred dollars.

  Yancey Bannerman reined down his dust-and-sweat-streaked dun and held up a hand that stopped his companion a few yards to the left.

  Johnny Cato looked puzzledly at Yancey but knew the big Enforcer was stopping for good reason. Slowly, Cato, a good six or seven inches shorter than Bannerman, put his roan up beside Yancey’s.

  “What we got?” he asked, hand resting on the butt of the massive gun in the angled-forward holster on his right hip. It was a twin-barreled, top-break Special called the Manstopper, that had been built by Cato himself. He was an expert gunsmith and had made the Manstopper so that it fired eight .44 caliber cartridges from the oversized cylinder, and, from the smoothbore barrel slung underneath, a .20 gauge shot shell.

  It was the deadliest weapon in the West at that time.

  Yancey Bannerman, beard-stubbled, red-eyed from long trails, nodded towards the ridge now towering above them in the sawtooth hills and lifted his canteen from the saddlehorn.

  “Sun flashed off something on the ridge just outside the shadow cast by that needle rock.”

  Cato arched his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t’ve figured we were that close, after the trail they laid out into that saltpan.”

  Yancey took a drink then lowered the canteen and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No dust hangin’ in the air. I’d say they rode up onto that ridge couple hours ago or more. Likely spotted our dust cloud out on the plains and decided to hole-up and bushwhack us.”

  “How many you figured the Burdins would leave? One man? Two?”

  “Two most likely. Steve never did mind how many men he sacrificed. But you can bet he won’t be there, nor Slim. Steve Burdin’s the kind who likes to run so’s he can live to fight another day.”

  Cato wiped his face with a damp neckerchief: “Tell you, Yance, I’d be happy to settle down to a good old-fashioned shootout just to finish this job once and for all. Damn’ heat’s gettin’ to me.”

  “Be gettin’ to them up there, too. I’d say the shadow of that boulder ain’t touched that ridge for at least an hour.”

  He kneed his mount forward and Cato started his own horse, riding alongside.

  “How you figure to play it?”

  “Ride on like we haven’t spotted ’em,” Yancey said. “But keep your eyes peeled Johnny. There’ll be more than one man, you can bet on it ... Don’t ride close together. And, Johnny: try to keep one alive long enough to answer a few questions, huh?”

  Cato arched his eyebrows innocently. “As if I’d overlook that!”

  Yancey smiled faintly and moved his mount on a little ahead, eyes swiveling around constantly under the shade of the wide hat brim. He lifted a hand and eased something in his shirt pocket that was pressing into him uncomfortably. He knew it was the folded letter from his sister Mattie in San Francisco telling him the old man, Curtis Bannerman, was poorly again.

  Yancey was sober now as he rode, eyes scanning the ridge as he and Cato climbed slowly up the trail. This kind of dry air would likely do old ‘C.B’, as his father was called, a lot of good. Be kind of strange if his father was ordered out West by the doctors. He hated the Frontier, although he had investments out here in cattle ranches, land, railroads, timber leases and mills. But he mainly hated it because it had enticed his youngest—and now only—son away from the Bannerman financial empire.

  Old Curtis had trained Yancey to be an attorney, sure he would join the Bannerman group of companies and one day take over control, for the other son, Charles or ‘Chuck’, had been an inveterate gambler, forever in scrapes and unfit to control the family wealth. But Yancey had opted for the West and the Frontier after getting a taste of its freedom and adventure when on a tour of Bannerman holdings.

  C.B. had never forgiven him and would not, ever. Chuck was dead now, but Yancey knew the Bannerman empire would never pass into his hands. It might go to Mattie, as she had been a pillar of support to the old man for years, but ...

  He had allowed his thoughts to wander too far for too long. He topped the ridge and started down the other side. Then the first rifle opened up and shot his dun from under him.

  Yancey, trained to a fine-honed state, even as he felt the animal shudder and start to go down, slid his rifle out of the saddle scabbard, kicked free of the stirrups and threw himself off on the side away from the shot. The second outlaw started shooting from that side and he saw the spout of dust kick up between his boots. He skidded and stumbled to all fours, allowed the natural angle of the slope to help him by throwing himself down, sliding in the loose scree, squirming and kicking his way in behind some rocks.

  Even as he worked the fast-shooting, oversized ring on the rifle’s lever, he saw Cato thundering over the ridge and cutting away at an angle, that would take him back over the crest again. But in the few seconds when he was actually on the face of the slope, his rifle, also fitted with the toggle-trip on the oversized lever, cracked in four swift shots that sounded almost like one prolonged roar. Rock dust spurted and a man lurched out of the shadow of the needle boulder at its base, clutching a shoulder, arm dangling as he retreated for better cover.

  Cato swung back over the crest and Yancey brought down the running bushwhacker with a carefully placed shot through the chest.

  The second rifleman opened up again and Yancey ducked as lead ricocheted around him. He squirmed in tighter and brought the rifle round, heard Cato’s gun
hammering over the ridge, some wild yelling and then a man burst from cover and headed down the slope, trying to outrun a line of bullets that kicked dust behind his heels. Cato, still mounted, came into view, his horse sliding down a steep part of the slope, rifle to his shoulder. As the hammer fell on an empty chamber the running man turned and brought up his own rifle, confident he had Cato cold.

  The small Enforcer had his empty rifle in his left hand and his right palmed up the Manstopper, thumbed down the toggle to ‘shot barrel’ and dropped hammer. The big gun rose up with recoil and the bushwhacker’s body was picked up by the charge of buckshot, torn this way and that like some rag doll in the jaws of a pair of wolfhounds, and then flopped back to the slope to lie still.

  Another man who would never answer any questions about the Burdins—or anything else, thought Yancey, starting to rise cautiously. Then a rifle smashed from behind and slightly above him and he slammed forward as lead burned across his shoulder.

  The Enforcer spun in mid air as he hurled himself forward, lending speed to the driving impact of the lead, twisted with a muscle-wrenching effort and fired his rifle one-handed. The lead spanged on a rock but it was enough to throw out the aim of the ambusher and the man’s second shot went wild.

  Then Yancey grunted as the breath was hammered from him when he landed belly down on the slope. Behind and below he heard Cato’s galloping horse, but he was concentrating on the man above. The rifleman got off two more shots and the second one blinded Yancey with rock dust. He clawed at his eyes, dropped his rifle, and rolled onto his left side, right hand dragging iron as he saw a man on horseback riding out of the rocks above and leaping the animal at him.

  The man had his rifle up to his shoulder, sighting, the horse coming straight at Yancey. The Enforcer’s Colt blasted a fraction of a second before the rider’s rifle. The man flung the rifle high into the air as his arms went up and the lead lifted him to his toes in the stirrups. Yancey rolled desperately aside as the horse skidded by and then a body struck him and crashed him back to the ground. He fought out from under, kicking the ambusher away, bringing around the smoking Colt barrel, hammer spur already slipping from under his thumb.