Bannerman the Enforcer 9

by Kirk Hamilton

  “You what? Judas! You think I’d kill my own brother?”

  “You threatened him,” Lindeen said swiftly. “Lot of folk heard you when you were riled about that gun being stole.”

  Lang Huckabee paled a little more as a number of men in the crowd around the office door confirmed this.

  “Hell—it wasn’t the way Lindeen said,” Huckabee breathed weakly as Yancey took his arm and nudged him towards the door leading to the cellblock.

  Lindeen, smirking a mite, got the keys, and led the way into the passage. He put Huckabee into the last cell nearest the rear door. Yancey and Cato paused by the cell containing the two snoring cowpokes, lying in a tangled heap on the flagged floor.

  Cato held his lamp higher.

  “Only one of them cowpokes wearin’ a gunbelt—and the holster’s empty.” He looked levelly at Lindeen.

  “Yeah, I took his gun away just a little while back. They were cuttin’ up rough in the street.”

  “Where is it?” Cato asked quietly. “His gun.”

  Lindeen frowned, hesitated a second, then gave Cato a sour look and stalked to the front office. The Enforcers followed swiftly. Lindeen went to a desk drawer, pulled out a six-gun and slapped it on the desk. It was a spare one he had confiscated from another cowpoke some weeks earlier. He raked bleak eyes from Cato to Yancey.

  “Satisfied?”

  Yancey said nothing. Cato picked up the gun and examined it closely in the lamplight. Then he nodded and handed it back to the sheriff. Mel Huckabee’s body had already been removed.

  “Well, we’ll be going. We’ll look into this again in the morning,” Yancey said.

  Lindeen nodded. “I’ll sleep here tonight. Just in case.”

  “In case what?” Cato asked from the doorway.

  The sheriff shrugged: “Just in case. Close the door when you go, will you?”

  He sat down and swung his boots onto his desk, reaching to turn out the lamp. Then he pulled his hat over his eyes and folded his arms across his chest.

  Yancey followed Cato outside and quietly closed the door after him.

  “What you reckon, Yance?” Cato asked as they strolled back towards their hotel.

  Yancey shrugged, scrubbed a hand down his jaw and looked at his pard.

  “You tired?”

  Cato frowned. “Some, why?”

  “Nothing. You go on ahead and turn in. I’ll be along shortly.”

  “Hold up. What you got in mind?”

  Yancey smiled faintly.

  “Go get your beauty sleep. You need it.”

  Then, laughing quietly at Cato’s good natured rejoinder, obscene though it was, he turned down a side street a few buildings from the law office. Cato shrugged and continued on towards the hotel.

  ~*~

  Chet Lindeen waited until well after midnight before he stirred from his position at his desk. Stiffly, he swung his legs to the floor and sat up in the chair. He straightened his hat and stood stretching the kinks out of his muscles.

  He looked around the darkened office and groped his way to the window that overlooked the street. There were some lights in a saloon, at the back of the building, their glow just discernible through the front windows. There was also a light showing upstairs and Lindeen’s lips pulled into a tight, thin line.

  That saloon man would kick in an extra fifty bucks: he knew he was supposed to keep the whores’ rooms shut after midnight. Lindeen would make sure he paid for the privilege of operating after hours.

  He sniffed, hitched up his gunbelt, took his keys then went into the cell block and unlocked Lang Huckabee’s door. He stood back as he swung it open.

  “C’mon, Huckabee. You’re awake. I can see that much.”

  Lang Huckabee, sprawled on his bunk with his hands clasped behind his head, sat up slowly, his eyes glittering in the faint light that spilled through the cell’s high, barred window. It sheened off the barrel of Lindeen’s Colt.

  “What’s this, Lindeen?” he asked a mite hoarsely.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m lettin’ you go, is all.” The sheriff jerked the gun barrel impatiently. “Come on out here.”

  Huckabee slowly walked out of the cell with his hands half raised and his eyes on the gun.

  “I don’t believe this,” he said.

  Lindeen laughed briefly.

  “Suit yourself. But there’s the door to the yard. It’s unlocked. Go ahead. I ain’t gonna stop you.”

  “What’ve you got in mind, Lindeen?” Huckabee asked suspiciously.

  “Nothin’. I just don’t want you around foulin’ things up for me any further. Look, your brother’s dead. Nothin’s gonna change that. I’ll see he gets a decent burial. You just light out and there’ll be no more problems, savvy?” Huckabee ran a tongue across his lips.

  “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

  “What’re you talkin’ about? I’m lettin’ you go. If I wanted to kill you, I could do it easier in your cell. Now, go on. Vamoose.”

  “I’m going to be shot down while ‘trying to escape’—Isn’t that it?”

  Lindeen’s eyes slitted.

  “Smarter than I figured, Huckabee. Well—you want it here? Or you want to take a chance runnin’ outside? Mebbe I’ll miss in the dark.” He chuckled. “Mebbe.”

  Huckabee was breathing fast as he stared at the lawman. Then he started to shake a little.

  “I ain’t got all night,” Lindeen snapped.

  Lang Huckabee moved towards the passage door. He paused with his hand on the latch and looked back.

  “How you gonna explain about me getting out of the cell?” the Winchester man asked hoarsely.

  “You let me worry about that. Git.”

  Lindeen raised the gun threateningly. Huckabee lifted the latch abruptly and swiftly dodged out into the night, slamming the heavy door after him. He pounded across the dark yard, preferring to take his chances on the run. He stumbled over some crates, rolled in tangled weeds and bounced to his feet, just as the sheriff got the door open and a wedge of light spilled into the jailhouse yard.

  Huckabee pounded towards the rear fence. It sagged in one part and he wondered if he could clear it in a flying leap. He used to be pretty good at high-jumping ...

  As he streaked towards it, gathering his body for the leap, the first shot hammered out and he heard the zip of the bullet tearing the air as it passed his ear. It thudded into the fence ahead and he was forced to veer away. The sheriff fired again and this time the lead burned across his ribs, sending him stumbling and staggering. He tried to keep from falling but he had too much momentum. He cannoned off the fence and spilled in a heap among the weeds.

  Through a haze, he saw Lindeen running across the yard towards him, his gun coming up for the killing shot, and he knew he had lost his run for life.

  “Hold it, Lindeen.”

  Huckabee was as startled as the lawman as Yancey Bannerman’s deep voice came out of the darkness by the gate in the fence. He snapped his whirling head around and saw the Enforcer stepping into the yard. He couldn’t believe it when he saw that Yancey’s gun was still in its holster.

  The crooked sheriff skidded to a halt, swinging his gun towards the sound of the Enforcer’s voice.

  “It won’t work, Lindeen. You’ve got a witness to murder now.”

  “He’s tryin’ to escape,” the sheriff panted.

  “You’re letting him go so you can kill him,” Yancey replied. “It's an old trick, Lindeen. I figured you’d pull it.”

  Lindeen brought up his gun swiftly and Huckabee couldn’t swear later that Yancey’s right hand even moved. But before the hammer on Lindeen’s Colt had dropped, there was a blazing six-gun in the Enforcer’s hand—and the sheriff staggered. Lurching and fighting to keep his balance, Lindeen tried to bring up his gun.

  Yancey shot him again and Sheriff Chet Lindeen went down thrashed wildly in the weeds then gradually lay still.

  Huckabee, shaking and holding a hand against his bullet
-burned side, clambered to his feet and stumbled towards Yancey as the Enforcer started to reload his smoking gun.

  “Th—thanks, Bannerman,” the Winchester man gasped. “You—you’ve squared it all away this time.”

  The Enforcer looked at him in the faint light, his face sober.

  “Not quite, Huckabee ... I gave my word I’d get that rifle back for you. It’s the Governor’s property so I’ll still do that. And now that we’ve bought into the deal, we have to run down Brett Hallam and his crew. But you’re lucky to be alive, feller. Just remember that. And stay out of things from now on. Leave it to Johnny Cato and me, savvy?”

  Huckabee stared, his face drawn with pain. Finally, he nodded slowly.

  “It’s all yours,” he croaked.

  Seven – Wild Country

  At last the journey was getting into gear again, Kate Dukes thought as she settled into her seat in the passenger car of the train.

  There were no special cars available for her on the train as it panted at the siding in Hillsboro, but that suited Kate. She had never liked the special treatment and all the fuss that accompanied it when she travelled. She would rather just use a false name for security and travel like anyone else.

  But her father, like all politicians, had made many enemies over the years and she knew the security of special rail cars and Ranger guards was necessary in most cases. But she got tired of it and all the restrictions that went with it. Even her father was irritable and impatient at times with all the precautions considered necessary when he was travelling.

  This time, she was relatively free of them all. The car had other passengers but there were four seats that had been reserved for her and the two Rangers. Seats either side were empty so that she was isolated to some degree from the other passengers, but Kate was able to watch the children running up and down the aisle and to see the little human dramas as the journey progressed; of husbands and wives arguing, having a falling-out, or taking the opportunity to sit close and hold hands.

  Kate liked people; she liked them around her and she liked to observe them. So she was looking forward to the last part of the long journey down through Waco to Austin for more than one reason. It had been a wearying couple of days but suddenly everything seemed set for the train to pull out of the Hillsboro siding and make its way along the spur track to the main line south. The express car from Marlow had been hitched on, just behind the passenger car where Kate sat, and passengers had been successfully transferred from the original train. The Rangers had bought some food and it looked like being a non-stop run to Waco.

  After a short delay there, it would be straight down to Austin and home—and Yancey Bannerman.

  Kate smiled to herself as she heard the guard on the platform call the time-honored: “Booooooaaaarrrrd.”

  A moment later the locomotive’s whistle hooted, there was a swift rhythmic hollow panting and then a steady, booming blast as the train rolled forward slowly, shackles clanking as they took up the slack.

  The tiny siding buildings slid past the windows and in a few minutes Hillsboro had fallen behind and the train was gathering speed out on the flats, whistling insanely, the cars beginning to rock and sway.

  It seemed the engineer, too, was in something of a hurry to make the journey south.

  Kate settled back in the seat, enjoying the crisp breeze that blew against her face through the open window. She had a newspaper and the new Montgomery Ward Catalogue to read, but for the moment she left the items resting on the seat beside her.

  She just wanted to think about Yancey. It would be so good to see him again.

  ~*~

  Montana was weary and dusty and dirty as he pushed his near-jaded mount back through the twisting canyons and passes of the hills beyond Waco. He had been on the trail for days and hadn’t taken time to wash or shave. If he didn’t watch it he would be stinking as much as Brett Hallam, he mused.

  He was looking forward to a plunge in the creek near the bunch of caves where the outlaws had their hideout. He would have to scrub the layers of dirt from his flesh with coarse sand but it would feel way better when he had finished. And he would have clean clothing to dress in. Montana might not wash frequently, but he took his bath once a week and he was a man who couldn’t abide bodily dirt: it was why he never stayed too close to Hallam.

  That scouting trip had kept him from his weekly bath and he was a couple of days overdue. He reached inside his shirt and scratched at his greasy hide as he entered the last draw then waved at the armed guard standing on top of a boulder.

  The man recognized Montana, waved back, then sat among the smaller rocks clustered together on top of the main one. Montana rode in, passed two more guards then came into the canyon of caves where a few outlaws sprawled in the warm sun or groomed their mounts. One man—and he knew it would be Hallam—was cleaning his guns.

  Montana dismounted by the corrals and off-saddled. Each man was responsible for his own guns and horses: there would be no one to groom the weary animal. He would have to leave it until he had reported to Hallam.

  He climbed up the slope, stumbling some and stifling a yawn. The other outlaws came drifting across as he dropped onto a rock beside Hallam. The outlaw chief merely looked at him expectantly, ignoring Montana’s obvious trail-weariness.

  “Well?” Hallam demanded impatiently.

  Montana shook his head.

  “Couldn’t find out much about Dukes and his daughter. He’s in Austin, though there’s talk of him headin’ out to San Antonio for some kind of shindig they got organized—anniversary of The Alamo or somethin’. Far as I can figure, Kate Dukes is stayin’ with an aunt up in Philadelphia.”

  Hallam stared at him and then spat.

  “Blast! Helluva ways off, that. I just had me a hankerin’ lately to start squarin’ things with Dukes. Well, that gal of his has to come back to Austin sometime. Maybe we can see she gets there—a piece at a time.”

  He bared his yellow teeth as he laughed harshly.

  Montana and the others showed their surprise.

  “Kinda dangerous messin’ with the Governor’s daughter, ain’t it, Brett?” asked a man known as Carver. “I mean, we’d have all hell break loose if anythin’ happened to her …”

  Hallam’s mad eyes cut the man short. He shuffled uncomfortably.

  “You all knew when you come to ride for me that someday I was gonna square away with Dukes for what he done to me,” he told them in a quiet voice. “That day’s fast approachin’. I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about Dukes since Lindeen come here and wanted that rifle back. I just don’t think I can hold off much longer without goin’ after Dukes. And I know the best way to hurt that old sidewinder is through his gal.” He raked his hard stare around the men. “Anyone want to ride out, now’s the time.” The men moved uncomfortably but no one made a move towards their horses. They knew no one rode out on Brett Hallam: he allowed them to get a few yards and then put a bullet in their backs.

  Montana cleared his throat.

  “Talkin’ about Lindeen,” he said, getting Hallam’s attention again. “He’s dead. Bannerman gunned him down in Waco day or so back.”

  Hallam swore: “That bastard. I s’pose Lindeen spilled his guts first?”

  Montana shrugged: “Dunno. But word is he shot Mel Huckabee to stop him goin’ to Bannerman. My guess is the Enforcers know the whole deal.”

  Hallam stood up, his face grim. Suddenly he swung the rifle and slammed the barrel across the side of Montana’s head, knocking him down the slope.

  “You stupid clown,” Hallam snapped. “Why in hell didn’t you tell me that first? Bannerman won’t quit just because he’s nailed Lindeen. He’ll come after us. He’ll want that rifle back for Dukes and he’ll want our hides nailed to the wall.”

  “He won’t find us, Brett,” Carver pointed out. “No one has since we been usin’ this canyon.”

  Hallam rounded on him so fast that Carver took a step backwards in alarm.

  “Banne
rman ain’t just anybody. An’ he’s got Cato with him. We can stay here, sure, an’ mebbe he won’t find us, but then again he might. He’s got the devil’s own luck and he don’t give up easy. But, to be on the safe side, we’re gonna light out an’ use one of the other hideouts on the other side of Waco. Maybe the one at Gunfire Creek. He’ll look in these hills first because Cato trailed Lindeen part-way here.”

  He waved his arm around at the men.

  “Start packin’. We didn’t come out of that Waco bank deal with much, so if we get a chance to make ourselves some more dinero on the way, we’ll take it.”

  Montana swayed to his feet. He was anxious to get back into Hallam’s good books. He knew how the man could hold a grudge and how vicious he could be.

  “There’s a train comin’ down from Hillsboro,” he slurred. “Been all kinds of hell on the track with landslides and so on. They’ve hitched an express car to it from Marlow. S’posed to be a lot of gold in it.”

  Hallam’s eyes sparked with interest.

  “Now that sounds like just the thing we need. And the railroad runs across the corner of the badlands not far from Gunfire Creek ... Yeah, amigos. I figure we might look into that train on our way across. Now, move. Pronto.”

  The outlaws hastened to obey while Brett Hallam stood hipshot on the slope, absently picking his nose while he thought of the best way to stop that train.

  ~*~

  Lang Huckabee stood beside his brother’s wife on the windswept Boothill just outside Waco, holding his Derby hat in his hands, listening with one ear while the preacher eulogized Mel. His sister-in-law was weeping and the kids were clinging to her black skirts, snuffling and bewildered by all the sad faces and tears.

  Most of the town was attending the funeral, in contrast to where a plain pine box rested on two planks across another open grave ten yards away. No one stood around the coffin that held Sheriff Chet Lindeen’s body: he hadn’t been a popular man and no one in Waco was really sorry that he was dead. He would be laid to rest simply with the briefest of prayers and only the gravediggers as witnesses. Already a cheap pine headboard was ready for erection bearing only his name and dates of birth and death.