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They came out of the mountains, a tight-riding bunch just like a breath from the past in their blood-stiff, stained and reeking buckskins. They all wore beaver tail caps, and their hair was shoulder-length, their features almost completely hidden behind bushy, matted beards. They were the Buckskinners, and they robbed and often killed to get what they wanted.
But now it seemed that they’d gone into the kidnapping business, and the husband of the beautiful woman they’d abducted was very specific about what he wanted Yancey Bannerman and Johnny Cato to do about it.
If possible, they were to save his wife. But one way or the other, they were to kill the Buckskinners—every last one of them.
BANNERMAN 41:
THE BUCKSKINNERS
By Kirk Hamilton
First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd
Copyright © Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
First Digital Edition: April 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 – Race the Bullet
When the metal-clad butt of the Winchester cracked against the skull of the guard standing by the old mission ruins, Johnny Cato knew by the sodden sound it made that he had killed the man.
He wouldn’t lose any sleep over it, but he was annoyed that his judgment was out so much: he had only meant to knock the guard cold. Well, one more bandido wouldn’t be missed in this northern part of Mexico which had suffered long and terribly under their rule.
But it might make it a bit harder for him if he was caught. Harder for him, and for Yancey Bannerman.
His pard was somewhere in those ruins, disguised as a Mexican, tied up with another gringo whose name Cato didn’t know. His main interest was Yancey. If he didn’t get him out of there before sun-up, it would be a firing squad at best for the big Texan, or a day or two of indescribable torture at the hands of the bandits. It depended on how the leader, El Solo, the Lonely One, felt. Many lives had depended on this man’s whims over the years, including several Mexican government officials’. The bandit had been driven out of the south but now had made his fortress in the north and had begun sorties across the Rio into the United States, mainly Texas.
That immediately brought him into conflict with Governor Lester Dukes, who wouldn’t stand for Mexicans raiding and pillaging on Lone Star soil. Protests to the Mexican Government had no effect: in fact, at that period the government seemed to be changing every other week. So Dukes figured there was only one thing to do: take steps himself to rid the world of El Solo.
The Rangers had several skirmishes with the bandidos but ran into trouble south of the Rio and had to retreat in order to avoid an international incident. That left Dukes’ Enforcers, the elite band of special trouble-busters, responsible only to Dukes himself, tough men, dedicated, in many ways men beyond the law or at least a law unto themselves.
Yancey Bannerman was the governor’s top man, Johnny Cato his friend’s sidekick. Dukes figured he couldn’t send two better men.
But there had been a betrayal and Yancey had fallen foul of El Solo’s guards and somehow that other gringo had been involved but Cato wasn’t yet sure how. He aimed to put a bullet in the man or slip a knife between his ribs if he could when he busted out Yancey.
The first step had been to get rid of the guard on the northern side of the mission ruins, near the remains of the tower where Yancey was tied up. Now that the man lay dead at his feet, Cato leaned down, took the serape from the body and draped it across his shoulders, tucking the edges into his trouser belt. Then he jammed the big, broad-brimmed sombrero on his head and worked the well-oiled lever of the Winchester. The lever had an oversized ring with a trip mechanism that allowed him to empty the full eight shots of the tubular magazine simply by working the crank up and down. It could fire as fast as a Gatling gun, though was only accurate at short range. But Cato figured he would only be shooting at close range and fire-power was more important than accuracy in this case. He also eased the butt of the heavy revolver at his hip in the holster that was strangely high and canted base-forward. It was a radical new approach to fast-drawing which Cato had had to devise after injuring his arm in a machete fight months earlier. i And the gun was special, too, firing eight forty-five caliber bullets as well as a twenty-gauge shot shell.
With these weapons, Cato figured he ought to be able to make the dozing Mexicans think they had been hit by a Ranger troop.
Leastways, that was the theory.
He moved through the shadows of the crumbling tower, keeping his head down, walking softly, alert for any other guards. He hadn’t seen any more from his hideaway in the rocks up the mountain slope but he had only been able to properly view two sides of the tower. Now, he rounded a corner and almost bumped into a dozing bandit who started guiltily awake and opened his mouth to yell a challenge.
Cato smashed the rifle barrel into the man’s broken teeth and then, as he fell, bloody-faced and moaning, clipped him under the ear with the up-swinging Winchester butt. He caught him in his left arm and lowered him gently. But the man’s rifle fell with a clatter and Cato froze, crouching, Winchester ready to blaze away.
There were a few grunts and stirrings amongst the other bandidos and, though he crouched there for what seemed like an hour but was only a minute in reality, no one challenged him. He let his breath hiss out slowly and then, watching the sleeping forms within the crumbling tower walls, eased slowly around to the wall where he had last seen Yancey tied up when he had watched through his field-glasses from the slope. As he moved, he counted the men in their blankets on the more or less level floor inside. Five. Plus the two guards, that made seven.
Cato stopped dead in his tracks, ears straining. There had been eight men ride in here with the prisoners. Eight! And he could only account for seven ...
He stepped swiftly to his left, acting by pure instinct, and the cleaving machete blade caught the loose folds of the serape slashing the cloth, jerking it almost from him. The rifle muzzle rammed hard against the belly of the eighth man and Cato was sure he saw the twin whites of the man’s eyes as they widened in the certain knowledge that he was a breath away from dying. Then the rifle bucked and roared, muffled by the man’s body. The guard was blown back three feet and his scream cut sharply across the night, bringing the bandits up and out of their blankets, reaching for their guns.
Cato went down to one knee, the Winchester lever working and shot after shot blazing from the muzzle, hammering, roaring in a deadly tattoo, cutting through the group and sending bodies flying in several directions. His magazine was empty and he dropped the hot rifle as the Mexicans who had survived started shooting back.
Lead slashed through the dark and the big sombrero was ripped from his head even as he threw himself forward, the special Manstopper revolver sliding into his hand. He triggered at a man who ran at him, screaming curses in Spanish. The man’s legs swept up and forward as he was hit in the head and went over as if jerked by a wire. There seemed to be three more at least alive and well enough to fight. Their lead whined about Cato as he rolled
over the adobe wall and spurts of dust spewed up. He landed on his knees, brought the Manstopper up in both hands, using his thumb to slip-shoot, nailing one man dead center in the chest, another somewhere in the body, bad enough to drop him to one knee.
The third man was lunging for a corner and Cato thought he was trying to make a run for it. But then Yancey Bannerman’s deep voice bellowed through the din from out of the darkness of the corner to his left.
“Shotgun, Johnny!”
Cato’s left thumb swiftly pushed down the barrel selector on his gun, changing the firing pin to the lower underslung shot barrel with its shell held firmly in the center of the over-sized cylinder. Even as he saw the man spin towards him, triumphantly grinning as he brought up the shotgun, Cato dropped hammer, bracing his wrists against the recoil which was lessened by special ports cut in the fore-end of the gun’s muzzle.
The shot shell thundered and the Mexican was lifted like a bundle of rags in the wind, slammed back against the adobe wall. The shotgun exploded as nerveless fingers released the hammers, but the charge was directed harmlessly upwards. The dead man fell on top of the gun and there was a sudden silence dropping over the mission ruins like a door closing.
Cato’s ears, though, were still ringing, as he slowly stood up and called quietly:
“Yancey?”
“To your left, pard. Two of us. Me and Howie Pepper. I think he could be hit, the way he’s moaning.”
“He’ll be hit dead center when I walk across there,” Cato said grimly. “That all the bandits?”
“Yeah—if you got the guards.”
“I got ’em.”
Cato reloaded as he walked forward, the Manstopper being a top-break action. He pushed the spring-loaded ejector rod, spilling out the spent cartridges and replacing them deftly in the dark. He pulled out the used shot shell and replaced it with a fresh one from a shirt pocket. By the time he stood above the two dark shapes in the corner, the Manstopper was reloaded and the hammer clicking back to full cock stopped the prisoner beside Yancey from moaning.
The man turned a narrow, fear-ridden face upwards as the muzzle of Cato’s gun came down within a foot of his head.
“No!” he gasped hoarsely.
“Sidewinder!” Cato growled.
“Hold up, Johnny,” Yancey said quietly. “No need to kill Howie.”
“No? From what I figure, he led you into this trap.”
“Got caught up in it himself. Howie and me are old friends. Selling someone out comes like second nature to him. We’ve done each other a few favors in the past and I walked in here deliberately.”
“You must’ve been loco!”
Yancey shrugged. “Knew it was the only way I could get close to El Solo.” His teeth flashed white in the darkness as he grinned. “Knew you’d be along like a troop of cavalry, too. That one you blasted with the shot barrel of the Manstopper was El Solo. Mission accomplished, Johnny, old pard, so cut us loose and let’s go on home to Texas.”
Cato holstered the Manstopper, drew his curve-bladed hunting knife and slashed Yancey’s bonds.
“How about me?” Howie Pepper groaned hoarsely. “Aw, come on, Yancey! You ain’t gonna hold it agin me, are you? Like you said, we done each other a few favors. I reckon you must owe me one by now.”
“Reckon mebbe I do,” Yancey said and nodded to Cato. “Cut him loose. We’ll take him with us.”
“Gracias, Yancey! Muchas gracias, amigo!” breathed Howie Pepper.
Cato scowled. “You’ll have to ride double,” he said. “I didn’t bring a bronc for you.”
“Grab one of the bandits’ mules,” Yancey replied, cutting Howie Pepper loose. “Where you hit, Howie?”
“Left side. Bleedin’ like a stuck hog!”
Cato spat. “We better move, Yance. There could be others around.”
“There are. Big bunch due in by daylight.”
“Judas! Why in hell didn’t you say so?” growled Cato. “Let’s go.” He hesitated as Yancey hauled Pepper to his feet and the man moaned, grabbed at his wounded side, half-doubling over. “We’d be better off leavin’ him.”
“Howie’d only tell ’em which way we went,” Yancey said, offering Pepper a shoulder for support. “Howie don’t go too strong on loyalty.”
“Be much better if we leave him then.” Cato placed the muzzle of his gun against Pepper’s head. “And he don’t have to be left alive.”
“Hell! I—I won’t be no trouble!” Pepper breathed, his voice trembling. “Honest, Yance! You—you get me back to the border. That’s all I ask. Just to the border. I’ll make my own way after that and I’ll—I’ll square away with you sometime. I swear it!”
Yancey smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Your word’s not worth a helluva lot, Howie, but we’ll get you to the Rio, all right. Might be I’ll have a use for you sometime.”
“You won’t regret it, Yance!”
“He better not,” Cato muttered. “Or you won’t live to see him do it.”
Pepper nodded and, limping, hand pressed into his side, he moved along beside Yancey as the big Enforcer went to the spot where his weapons had been placed by El Solo.
Minutes later, all three faded into the night, Cato carrying his cocked rifle in both hands, scanning the darkness for enemies.
He knew they might yet have to race a bullet to the border if El Solo’s second bunch got on their trail by sunup.
Two – Buckskin Raid
Dolores Dysart’s Mexican ancestry showed in her deep golden skin, full red lips and flashing dark eyes, as well as in the gleaming black hair that fell to her shoulders in natural waves. As she examined the imported red mahogany chiffonier in the Houston furniture store, she smiled and her eyes flashed as she looked at the tall, expectant salesman standing by.
Behind her, only feet away, two hard eyed, unsmiling men in range garb stood, hands on the butts of their low-slung six-guns, eyes moving restlessly around the store. The biggest one was Slocum, his pard, Gant. They had only one job: to act as bodyguards to Dolores Dysart.
Borden Dysart, her husband, was one of the biggest landowners and richest cattlemen in Texas. He was thirty years older than Dolores and, even though she was his wife, he tended to regard her as another of his many possessions and as such, she had to be protected and watched over so that she might give full value for whatever Dysart had invested in her. In Dolores’ case, it was considerable: a dowry to her parents in Mexico City; paying for her younger brother to attend medical college in Spain; many fine pieces of jewelry, each selection being purchased as an investment; an extensive wardrobe of fine clothes; two Arab blood stallions, not to mention her own retinue of maids and attendants in the main ranch headquarters outside of San Antone.
No one was quite sure what Dolores had to give in return for all this, but everyone in Texas—and beyond—knew that Borden Dysart never spent a cent unless he figured on getting at least two cents in return.
Gant and Slocum watched now as Dolores turned that warm, winning smile of hers onto the salesman and saw by the man’s eyes that he was ready to do almost anything for her.
Almost.
“I will take this piece,” Dolores told the man in her husky voice. “For—one hundred dollars.”
The smile suddenly froze on the salesman’s face. “Uh—Mrs. Dysart! The price is one-hundred-seventeen dollars.”
“That is the price to anyone else, si,” Dolores agreed sweetly. “But this is for Borden Dysart. He pays cash for everything. You must know that by now. And he expects a discount. Seventeen dollars is not unreasonable, I think.”
“Er—I’m afraid it is, ma’am.” The salesman was nervous and glanced briefly at Slocum and Gant who knew better than to buy into something like this. Dolores enjoyed these little conflicts with business folk and they had learned long since that she did not like them interfering in any way. The sales clerk now cleared his throat noisily and pulled out pad and pencil. Dolores waited patiently as he scrawled down some figures a
nd his lips moved as he did his calculations. “One-hundred-thirteen-fifty is the best I can do by way of discount, Mrs. Dysart. And even then I’m cutting my own commission some.”
Dolores shook her head. “No. Not good enough, I’m afraid.” She nodded to the two bodyguards. “We will go to Leddermann’s Emporium on Marshall Street.”
The sales clerk’s jaw dropped as Dolores adjusted her small hat and picked up her skirts, starting to move away.
“Ma’am! Uh—hundred-twelve. Honest, it’s the lowest I dare go.”
Dolores stopped, giving some thought to the matter. “You stand the shipping costs to San Antone?”
The salesman looked stunned. “Ma’am! I won’t get a—a cent commission if I agree to that!”
Dolores shrugged. “Then I shall give my custom to Leddermann’s and if they are more—amenable—I’m sure my husband will take all his business there in future.”
The salesman sighed and threw up his arms in defeat. “I will make arrangements to have the chiffonier suitably packed and shipped to San Antone, Mrs. Dysart.”
Dolores’ smile widened. “Thank you. Now—while I am here, I think I will look over your dining suites as well. We’re refurnishing at the ranch, you see, so it was rather fortunate that you agreed to my offer on the chiffonier, don’t you think?”
The sales clerk’s legs felt like water. By God, she was right! He would have lost his job if his boss had learned that Dolores Dysart had refurnished with goods bought from the opposition.
The man was sweating profusely as he hurried after the smiling woman as she critically examined the furniture offered, humming quietly some Spanish song that no doubt reminded her of home.
Down the street from the furniture store and around the corner in Houston’s red light district, was the Big Momma Gaming House. That was all that went on there, gambling in all shapes and forms. Drinks were served to the players on request but there was no bar and only waiters to bring the drinks or food to the tables. Big Momma Judd didn’t employ women. She had a half share in the whorehouse three blocks down and that was enough involvement in that kind of thing for her.
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