Bannerman the Enforcer 46 Read online

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  The girl saved Yancey Bannerman’s life when he got involved in a shootout with bank robbers. Afterwards, when he asked her for her name, her only reply was, “Call me Texas!”

  She had the look of a killer about her, and as it turned out she was indeed on a killing trail, determined to find and kill five men who had committed a truly dreadful crime. Every other thought and feeling had been burned right out of her. Now she only existed to ride and kill.

  Against his better judgment, Yancey decided to join her and guide her through her manhunt. She was tough, and she was good with a gun, but she could be better, faster, so Yancey took it upon himself to refine her skills … and when they finally reached trail’s end, he was right there beside her, allowing the girl called Texas to take her revenge in full …

  CALL ME TEXAS

  BANNERMAN THE ENFORCER

  By Kirk Hamilton

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

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

  First digital edition: September 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.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Chapter One – Trail Scum

  The big man with the Sharps buffalo rifle spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the rock in front of him and stood up slowly, his uniform jacket flapping loosely in the breeze that gusted in across the wasteland.

  He took one more look through the Army field glasses and let them dangle round his neck by the rawhide thong as he turned to the others lounging in the hollow.

  “They’re comin’,” he growled, wrenching off another chaw with big, stained yellow teeth.

  The six men in the hollow stood up, dusting down their Army uniforms, buttoning jackets. One man, just under six feet, slim, narrow-waisted with a wedge-shaped torso showing even beneath the thick woolen jacket, ran a hand around his clean-shaven jowls as he watched his men getting ready. He wore gold lieutenant’s tabs on his jacket’s shoulders. Wolf-lean, he grimaced as he fought to do up the top button, moving his neck uncomfortably to the unaccustomed grip of the collar.

  “Line up,” he said.

  The men shuffled together into a ragged line. All were clean-shaven, neat, their hair recently trimmed. Their horses, further back down the hollow, wore Army saddlecloths—and their saddlebags bore their Company designation—5/11—which meant they were Troop Eleven in the Fifth Cavalry, Montana Territory.

  Their jackboots were dusty but clean otherwise and there was no scuffing. Rifles were a mixture of Army-issue Trapdoor Springfields, Winchesters and, of course, the lookout’s big Sharps. The lieutenant carried a Winchester and there was a Colt Peacemaker in the buttoned-down holster riding high on his left hip, tilted forward a little. The troopers wore similar holsters, and the leather gleamed from much polishing.

  “Atten-shun!” bawled the lieutenant and the man with the Sharps hurriedly tagged onto the line of men who snapped ramrod stiff at the order. The slim officer ran his eyes over them, pointed to a bullnecked man who had a short scar on the left side of his jaw. “Button up that collar, Stacey.”

  “Hell, Kane, I’ll choke!” the man protested and, if any of the others thought it strange that a trooper should address his officer by his given name instead of ‘sir’, they didn’t give any sign.

  The lieutenant sighed. “Okay. Guess you are kind of bustin’-out at that. Stay in the middle. I want this squad to look all spit-an’-polish as we come up. Remember your trainin’. Keogh’s a stickler for Army regulations an’ he won’t be lookin’ so closely if we ride in like we’re comin’ straight out of The Book. We go in slovenly, an’ he’ll be lookin’ for faults to complain about.” He ran his chill blue eyes down the line again and nodded. “Okay mount up and let’s ride. Indian file, behind me, you in the middle, tryin’ to look inconspicuous, Stace.”

  “Got it, Kane,” the bullnecked man said.

  The others broke ranks and ran for the horses. They mounted swiftly and a minute or so later, Lieutenant Kane led them out of the hollow, around the rocks that the tobacco-chewing man had used as a lookout, and onto the edge of the wasteland.

  Far out across the plains, glaring here and there with the oval of saltpans, they could see the moving, ragged black line of the escort and the lumbering bulk of the wagon in their midst.

  Kane glanced behind, made sure that his men were ramrod stiff in saddle, then gave the signal to lift to a canter. He rode at the head of the line, legs almost straight down in the long-set stirrups in the approved Army manner—men grew less tired from long, punishing patrols this way. His back was stiff, shoulders squared away, arms bent at the elbows which were tucked in close against his lower ribs. His campaign hat was set squarely on his head. The ‘troopers’ wore kepi caps with the squares of linen buttoned over their necks to give some protection from the hot desert sun.

  They were a patrol right out of The Manual and they rode directly for the wagon and its escort, their mounts lifting a small pale cloud of dust and alkali.

  Counting as he rode, Kane nodded in satisfaction. Nine men. Two at the wagon’s tailgate, two in the driving seat, a man either side, two out front with the officer leading in front of these. The approved ‘Escort Pattern’ as prescribed in The Book. Kane smiled faintly. That was Captain Keogh: predictable, a ‘regulation’ man, a stickler for orders. Qualities that had helped him along with his career.

  These same qualities were about to get him killed ...

  Keogh saw the line of riders cantering in across the flats and immediately lifted a hand in the ‘halt’ signal. The wagon creaked to a halt; the escort riders reined down, stayed in their allotted positions. Keogh, out front, slid his field glasses out of their polished leather case on his saddle and put them to his eyes.

  “Dog me,” he exclaimed half-aloud. “A mounted patrol. I wasn’t told to expect a reception committee.”

  No one said anything, even if the others had heard his quiet-spoken remarks. The troopers knew from past experience that you didn’t speak unless addressed when Keogh was in charge of a detail, payroll escort duty or no.

  Keogh still held the glasses, lifted them to his eyes again and studied the riders as they drew rapidly closer. The escort soldiers exchanged bored looks. They were dusted white with alkali powder, and all their equipment was the same. They knew there would be no sleep for any of them tonight until their rifles gleamed and their uniforms were brushed down, the buttons, if necessary, polished. ‘Crazy’ Keogh would see to that ...

  “As a precaution,” Keogh said suddenly, louder, “unship your rifles to the ‘ready’ position ... now!”

  From long training, the escort moved as one, their Trapdoor Springfields slanting across their chests, thumbs on the big curled steel hammer spurs, ready to cock and fire at the given order. The wagon driver was the only man who didn’t hold a gun: he still had the reins in his hands and watched tensely as the stra
nge riders came in.

  Keogh watched them through the field glasses, holding the instrument in one gloved hand. The other had unbuttoned the holster flap and he rested his hand on the butt of the Army-issue Remington.

  “By Godfrey, they’re from the Fifth!” he exclaimed. “I can read their saddlecloths. Eleventh Troop.” He frowned. “Strange. We’re right on schedule. No real reason to come looking for us, surely ...”

  One of the guards at the wagon tailgate stifled a short laugh, winked at his nervy companion.

  “Like hell!” he whispered hoarsely. “They ain’t been paid for three months at Fort Rogers! Reckon they’re gettin’ a mite anxious!”

  “Silence!” snapped Keogh, lowering the glasses and hipping in saddle to glare at the man.

  Then the riders reined down at a signal from the lieutenant at their head and Keogh was impressed with the way the troop came to a halt as one. The officer rode slowly forward and threw him a snappy salute.

  “Captain Keogh, sir?”

  “I am Keogh.”

  “Lieutenant Kane from Fort Rogers, sir. Captain Hall sent me out to meet your detail, sir. We’ve had some Indian activity this past week and the captain feared they might attack your detail, sir, mistake the wagon for one carrying arms or ammunition.”

  Keogh frowned, running his eyes over Kane’s immaculate dress. He flicked his gaze to the others and frowned slightly.

  “I see,” he said slowly. “You’ve come all the way down from the fort to escort me through the danger area, I presume?”

  “That’s right, sir. So, if my men may fall in alongside yours, I’ll ride by you and show you a way around the trouble spot.”

  Keogh looked at Kane levelly. “You have written orders to this effect, of course.”

  “Well, no, sir. There wasn’t time for that. Cap’n Hall, sir, he just said get on out there and meet that payroll escort and bring ’em in before the Cheyenne hit ’em. Things were kind of—wild, sir. We’d just been hit by the Injuns and ...”

  Keogh nodded but he didn’t shift his gaze—or the hand that gripped the butt of the Remington.

  “Very considerate of the captain. Just one thing, Lieutenant—”

  Kane looked at him quizzically, arching his eyebrows. “Sir?”

  “You and your men are immaculately dressed, according to regulations ...”

  “The captain insists on it, sir,” Kane said with a touch of pride.

  “Yes, yes, of course, quite right. But, it beats the hell out of me how you managed to ride all the way down from Fort Rogers, and yet pick up so little alkali ... Your equipment positively gleams, as if it’s just been wiped over and polished ... That, of course, would not be possible, would it, if you had obeyed orders and ridden directly here, non-stop ...?”

  Kane swore under his breath: he might have known Keogh would find something wrong, no matter how careful he was.

  “We did stop, sir,” he admitted slowly, gesturing behind him. “On that butte. And while I scanned the wasteland for your troop, I had my men clean up and ...”

  Keogh instinctively glanced towards the indicated butte.

  In the space of a breath, Kane’s Peacemaker was in his hand and blazing, blasting Keogh out of the saddle, his head hanging by a thread of flesh and skin, throat torn out by the heavy .45 slug at close range.

  The abruptness of the killing stunned the escort troopers. During that brief hiatus, Kane’s men brought out their own guns and started shooting. The wagon team horses dropped as Kane shot the animals behind the ears. The driver lurched upright and tried to leap from the seat. Lead caught him in mid-air, sent his body spinning. The man beside him didn’t get off a shot. He was half upright when the bullnecked Stacey pumped three shots into his chest.

  The troopers were grouping now, the heavy Springfields booming thunderously. But they were only single-shot weapons and, though they were adept at fast reloading, the troopers didn’t have a chance against the repeaters of the raiders.

  The man with the Sharps rested the heavy fore-end over his bent arm and dropped hammer. The massive .58 caliber slug blew a trooper from his saddle and the man screamed as he went down under his horse’s hoofs. The troopers had handguns out now as the raiders rode around them, pumping lead into their ranks. One of Kane’s men was knocked clear out of the saddle by a man swinging his empty Springfield by the barrel, the steel butt crushing the raider’s skull like an egg. But the trooper’s victory was short-lived: Kane himself shot him through the spine and he went down convulsing. Another raider jerked and grabbed at his saddlehorn, sagging and clinging on tightly as his racing mount jolted him from side to side.

  An escort trooper tried to ride off. He got less than thirty yards. A stocky outlaw named Kid Ringo beaded him and blew him off his horse. The animal raced on riderless. There were two wounded soldiers down on the ground, still fighting. Kane rode over one man with his horse and Boots Stacey leaned out of the saddle, shot the man through the chest. The second man lurched to his feet, gun coming up in a last desperate attempt to take one of the killers with him as he died.

  His finger squeezed trigger, but an instant too late. A thick bodied raider with red hair, Buck Gentry, put a bullet through the middle of his face.

  Suddenly there was silence.

  The wasteland pulsed with heat and gunsmoke and dust drifted away on the breeze. The reined-down horses snorted occasionally. The flat beats of the gunfire lost themselves in the immense badlands. Bodies were strewn all round the wagon with its dead team. The wounded outlaw moaned and slid from the saddle, both bloody hands pressed into his side. Kane glanced at him, rode across and dismounted, kneeling, holding his Peacemaker still.

  He examined the wound and stood up, shaking his head slowly.

  “You ain’t gonna make it, Mack.”

  The wounded man opened his mouth, eyes bulging, as Kane lifted his Colt and aimed. He shook his head violently, contorted face silently pleading. Kane spoke softly.

  “You know the rules. We can’t be slowed down or we’ll never get out of the alkali before some real troopers come ridin’ down from Fort Rogers to see what’s holdin’ up the payroll.”

  He dropped hammer dispassionately and turned back to the others, grinning as he reloaded.

  “Well, soldiers, you can get rid of these damn hot uniforms now if you want. Job’s done. All that remains is to off-load that dinero and head south.”

  The men shed the heavy woolen jackets, but most kept on the tight-fitting trousers. Two men changed into more comfortable whipcord work trousers while Kane and Denver climbed into the back of the wagon. They threw aside the mailbags and the cases of stores, stared down at the two iron-bound wooden chests with the heavy brass padlocks.

  They grinned at each other and then Kane shot off the locks. Inside were packed canvas bags with the ‘U.S. Army’ stencil marks on them. As Kane took them out, coins clinked. He untied one and gold gleamed back at him. Denver picked up a slip of paper in the bottom of the chest. He whistled softly.

  “Must be a heap of back pay here, Laramie?” he said, handing the paper to Kane. “You’re better at figures than me.”

  Laramie Kane glanced at the columns of figures and their total. He grinned and climbed to the rear of the wagon where the others waited now.

  “Those poor fellers at Fort Rogers!” he grinned, shaking his head in mock sadness. “They sure are gonna miss out on a lot of fun when they don’t get this payroll!” He paused and raked his glance around at his bunch of killers. “Ten thousand bucks, amigos! Ten lovely thousand! And with five of us still able to set a saddle, that means two thousand apiece. From each box!”

  He climbed down as the men catcalled and Kid Ringo loosed-off a couple of shots into the air.

  It had all been well worth it.

  Now, all they had to do was get across the badlands alive and head down south to the safety of Texas where they had their hole-in-the-wall.

  That was all they had to do.

  Chapt
er Two – Enforcers

  Kate Dukes, daughter of the Governor of Texas, hurried into her father’s study with the papers he had requested. She was a tall, slim girl with brown hair piled high on her head this day, exposing pale pink ears and gold wire earrings with tiny five-pointed stars, a gift from Yancey Bannerman, the Governor’s top Enforcer.

  Bannerman sat sprawled easily in a high-backed chair opposite her father’s desk, his long legs spread, fingers linked across his flat belly, hat tilted back on his head, revealing sweat-darkened hair, a lock of which hung across his forehead. His gray eyes softened and crinkled as Kate entered and he smiled at the girl. She answered the smile and set the papers on the desk in front of her father. Lester Dukes had been Governor of Texas for many years now and the strain of office, as well as a chronic heart condition had put deep, eroded lines in his wolfish face, made narrower by his Van Dyke beard and moustache. Thick silver hair was combed back over his ears and fell to his shoulders in heavy waves. His skin was sallow, a symptom of his heart condition, and his fine, long-fingered hands shook a little as he picked up the papers.

  He glanced at them and then flicked his gaze to Bannerman and the smallish man standing near his chair, smoking, looking out a window. This was John Cato, Yancey’s off-sider, a deadly Enforcer despite his small stature. He wore a heavy gun on his right side in a holster that tilted backwards where most men wore their guns, but with the butt jutting to the front.

  It was a specially-designed and steel-reinforced holster to allow him to get out the big gun known as The Manstopper in a hurry. The gun itself was Cato’s own design, fired eight specially-loaded forty-four bullets and, from a second barrel slung beneath the top one, a twelve gauge shot shell.

  He and Yancey Bannerman made a formidable team, handling special assignments too tough or too delicate for the normal channels of law and order, responsible only to the Governor himself.