Bannerman the Enforcer 3

by Kirk Hamilton

  The Home of Great Western Fiction!

  The cold-blooded murder of rancher Abe Summers led to a surprising discovery—a long-lost treasure of Spanish reàls, escudos, doubloons and pieces of eight!

  Abe’s land-grabbing neighbour, Nathan Cross, wanted that treasure all to himself, and was prepared to have his hired gun, Lang Brodie, kill to get it.

  But then Governor Dukes got involved, and quickly discovered that the coins were only half the story. There was something else still waiting to be unearthed, a treasure of far greater value than the coins ...

  So Dukes sent his two top Enforcers, Yancey Bannerman and Johnny Cato, down to the Sabine River country to help Abe’s college professor daughter find ... The Guns of Texas!

  BANNERMAN 3: THE GUNS OF TEXAS

  By Kirk Hamilton

  First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

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

  First Smashwords Edition: February 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

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

  Chapter One – Old Spanish Coins

  Abe Summers was no longer young but he was a tough old codger. He owned a thousand acres of Texas up on the wild Sabine River and he had fought man and Nature for every inch of it and was prepared to go on fighting anyone or anything that tried to take a blade of grass away from him. Anything wearing the Summers brand—the Bar S Bar—he was prepared to fight for, be it a pickaxe with a broken handle or a prime steer, alone if necessary, or backed by his men.

  This day, in the summer of 1878, Abe found he had to do his fighting alone. And the odds were two to one.

  Rustlers. A pair of wide-loopers venting his brand on a small bunch of steers he had been trailing since sunup. He had figured they had wandered off singly or in pairs at first, following lush grass up into the foothills of the Spanish Peaks, but, when the sign had come together he had suspected someone was tossing a wide loop. He was close enough to have gone on back to the ranch house for reinforcements at that stage, but Abe didn’t aim for people to think just because his hair was silver-gray that he couldn’t handle a chore like this. He had taken on seven rustlers once, in his heyday, and he had a reputation, he figured, one he had to keep up. In any case, he was genuinely unafraid of tackling two armed rustlers.

  They were no novices, that was for sure, the way they worked so smoothly together, in the remote arroyo in the hills where he found them. They had built themselves a lodge pole corral, utilizing two walls of the arroyo to make the work easier. One arm of the fence they had slung across the arroyo in such a way that when an animal was turned loose after having the brand changed, that fence, and the rear of the arroyo, effectively kept the steer penned up. Abe was willing to bet it wasn’t the first time this arroyo had been put to such use.

  It was pure luck that he found it. He had lost the trail miles back and had been on the point of turning back to the ranch when the breeze had brought to him the muffled, plaintive bellow of a grounded steer, and the stench of burning hair. He squinted into the hot blue sky and, though the rustlers were making use of the smokeless ilnya brushwood for the fire, he spotted the heat currents writhing up out of the hidden arroyo. There was nothing wrong with his old gray-blue eyes.

  He went in on foot, leaving his sorrel ground-hitched at the foot of a brush-clad slope. He was using an old brass-framed ’66 Winchester with top ejection and open-back breech. It had served him well over the years and he saw no sense in paying good money for the steel-actioned ’73 with the blued sideplate, when the old ’66 could still throw lead just where he wanted it to go. He made the top of a rise that hid the arroyo and there he lay amongst the hot rocks and lizards whilst he watched the rustlers at work. His eyes squinted down and his gnarled hand tightened around the Winchester when he recognized one of the men. He was a half-breed known as Mesquite and had been hanging around town these past few weeks, doing odd jobs, mainly for that damn snide cattle agent, Nathan Cross.

  The ’breed had arrived in Tyler’s Landing in a canoe that had several bullet holes in it, about three weeks back. Someone claimed Mesquite had a bullet hole in him, too, but no one knew for sure. One man had tried to find out but had been prodded into going for his gun and Mesquite had shot him dead with a single bullet, placed squarely between the eyes. After that, the ’breed was left alone, but it was common knowledge that Cross’ strawboss, Lang Brodie, had been seen in a huddle with Mesquite at a back table in the saloon on several occasions. Abe Summers wouldn’t even be surprised if Nathan Cross had put Mesquite and that other rooster up to rustling Bar S Bar cattle. The agent had wanted the place badly enough for a long time and had offered to buy out Abe every couple of months for the past two or three years.

  Abe had no intention of selling, least of all to Nathan Cross, a man he had good cause to hate and distrust.

  The fact that it was Cross’ man down there with a running-iron made Abe mad and he moved around to settle himself more comfortably for his opening shot. But he was careless and his boots loosened a small pile of stones and they clattered as they rolled back down the slope.

  He had never seen two men react so fast, as did Mesquite and his pard. As the first stones clattered they simply dropped the hot running-iron, releasing the steer they were working on and, not even glancing towards Abe’s position, made a lunging dash for the fence rails where their horses were saddled and waiting with trailing reins. They wasted no time trying to draw their guns or take pot-shots. They hit those rails, ducked through and flung themselves into leather, urging their mounts into a run with only one foot in stirrup.

  Abe’s Winchester ’66 barked three times in swift succession and Mesquite’s pard did not make that other stirrup. The man was sprawled across his moving mount’s back when Abe’s bullet hit him between the shoulders. He continued on across the racing animal, cartwheeling and landing spread-eagled on the ground, unmoving. Abe shifted his aim and blasted at Mesquite, but the ’breed was firmly in his saddle and stretched out along his horse’s neck, urging it to speed. Abe’s lead passed over the rustler, missing by a scant couple of inches. Abe swore, levered, got to one knee, the foresight leading the rustler’s mount slightly, taking steady aim.

  Mesquite slipped half out of the saddle, using an Indian trick, sliding across the saddle so that he hung by the far stirrup, his mount’s body between him and the marksman. But he not only hung there; he had his Colt out now and he leaned under the racing animal’s arched neck and triggered as Abe fired.

  The old rancher staggered as lead hit him in the right side and sent him spinning to crash backwards into the rocks and then down the slope, his Winchester’s brass flashing as it spun from his hands. He rolled and grunted and coughed in the dust, hands pressed against his bleeding side.

  Below in the arroyo, Mesquite’s mount had broken stride and faltered as Abe’s bullet slammed into its body. Mesquite knew it was badly hit and dropped off, lighting hard and bouncing and rolling, thrusting frantically out of the way as the big horse went down in a thrashing, somersaulting crash. Mesquite banged his head against a rock and he saw
stars and whirling lights as he continued to skid across the ground. But, as soon as he stopped, the ’breed shook his head, staggered to his feet and, Colt dangling down at his side, stumbled away into the brush ...

  Abe Summers hadn’t had a bullet wound in ten years and he had forgotten the agony that even a minor one could cause. Blood flowed from this wound and, through the rip in his shirt he could see the flesh laid open as if with a knife blade. There was a segment of brilliant white amongst the raw flesh and he knew it was the bone of one rib. By Harry, he thought, a fraction of an inch more to the left and he would be coughing up his lungs! He had been damned lucky. But he couldn’t let that lousy ’breed get away with it!

  The old rancher stuffed his bandanna over the wound, pressed it tight against the lacerated flesh and pulled himself to his feet with the aid of the rock that had stopped his slide downslope. He leaned against the hot, rough granite as the world spun and he felt a wave of nausea surge through him. Cursing old age, he pushed off the rock, stumbled down to where his rifle lay glinting in the sun and stooped to pick it up. Dizziness hit him like a hammer blow and he fell to his knees. He let his head hang as he pressed his hands against the earth, panting, coughing a little. Abe moved one hand, wrapped it around the brass frame of the rifle and bared his teeth as he got one knee under him and thrust upright. He swayed and it saved his life.

  Mesquite’s Colt roared from the top of the slope but further along from where Abe had fallen. The lead whipped past his head and he swung the rifle up, butt braced against his hip, lever blurring as he jacked a fresh cartridge into the breech. Mesquite was drawing a second bead when Abe Summers fired and his bullet slapped dust from the brim of the ’breed’s hat. It was close enough for Mesquite: he turned without firing, and ran back down the far side of the slope.

  Abe didn’t fire after him. Instead, he went in a stumbling run for his horse, gasping with the pain in his side, blood staining shirt and the top of his trousers as well. He had a time getting his boot into the stirrup and had to maneuver the horse so he could stand on a small rock and then throw his leg across the saddle. As soon as he settled he let out a ‘Ya-aaah!’ and kicked with his heels. The animal jumped forward and Abe rocked in leather as the horse raced up the slope. As soon as he topped the rise he spotted Mesquite down in the brush, running in a zigzag line towards the river.

  Abe fought the horse to a standstill atop the rise, threw the rifle to his shoulder and got off a snap-shot. The bullet ricocheted from something down there but it didn’t hit or stop Mesquite. The ’breed plunged away into thicker brush and Abe swore, spurring his mount down the slope. He crashed it headlong into the brush, ducking and weaving in the saddle, biting now on the rein ends, as much to leave his hands free to work the rifle as to keep from yelling out with the pain of the bullet wound. Where there was a clearer space he stood in the stirrups and he spotted Mesquite but didn’t fire. Once he had the man’s direction, Abe dropped back into the saddle, took the reins in one hand and raced the horse across at an angle. He rode in like an avenging angel, teeth bared now, rifle loaded and cocked.

  Mesquite heard him coming and kept running even as he turned, bringing up his six-gun. His eyes widened and he snapped a hurried shot, turned and threw an arm across his face to protect it as he ran through the screening brush onto the gravel flats leading to the river shallows. He stumbled in the gravel and heard the thunder of the horse’s hoofs. He turned but the animal was upon him and he caught a brief glimpse of Abe Summers’ grim face as the man swung the rifle barrel at him. Mesquite threw up an arm but the barrel slapped it aside and the heavy iron caught him a numbing blow across the temple. The ’breed went down hard and had enough sense to roll swiftly away from the hoofs that slammed down within inches of his head. Gravel stung his face as he squirmed around on his belly and dragged his six-gun around.

  Abe Summers’ horse had splashed out into the river shallows and the old rancher fought it around one-handed, leveling his rifle even as the animal turned. He snapped a shot at Mesquite and the bullet threw gravel into Mesquite’s face. The man winced and his own shot went wild. Then spray fanned out from under the hoofs of Abe’s horse as the rancher spurred it back and Mesquite knew he would be ridden into the ground this time. He brought up his six-gun and triggered, twice, three times.

  Then he froze with the knuckle of his trigger finger already whitening. The horse was slowing, turning, to stand panting with trailing reins. Startled, Mesquite looked back the other way and saw Abe Summers sprawled face-down in the shallows of the river.

  He pushed to his feet, thumb keeping the gun-hammer back to full cock. Then he walked slowly forward, but Summers didn’t move and he saw the brass frame of the Winchester glinting under the water. Then the image was blurred by a spreading red film of blood and, when he stood over Abe’s body, he saw that it came from a bullet hole torn in the side of the rancher’s neck.

  Mesquite sighed, holstered his Colt and looked down at the dead rancher. He shoved at him with his boot toe but there was no life left in Abe Summers. Mesquite nodded in satisfaction, waded out a few feet and reached down to get the ’66 Winchester. He picked up the rifle and worked the lever, ejecting the last two shells in the magazine. He examined the rifle closely. A fine old piece. A good cleaning and oiling and it would be as good as new ...

  He started to turn away to wade back to shore when he saw something else glinting under the water. He thought it was a piece of the rifle that had fallen off and, frowning, stooped to grope for it. He picked up the gleaming object and frowned when he looked at it, turning it slowly between his fingers.

  It was gold: an old gold coin with the coat of arms of Old Spain on the back: a Jerusalem Cross dividing twin castles and rampant lions, the insignias of Castile and Leon. The other side of the coin held a shield with a fleur-de-lis in the center, mint marks either side with the date: 1776.

  Mesquite at first felt the shock of discovery, then a surge of greed shook him. He looked down through the clear, amber-colored water, not moving his boots in case he muddied it up. He sucked in a deep breath.

  There were other coins glinting up through the river water at him, silver as well as gold. He threw the rifle up onto the gravel and dropped on his knees, hands groping feverishly among the rocks, plunging his head in the water.

  The reddish cloud of Abe Summers’ blood washed against his face as he snatched up the coins, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  Chapter Two – Tyler’s Landing

  There were several ways to get to Tyler’s Landing. Some travelers came upstream by riverboat; mountain men came down out of the Spanish Peaks by raft or birch bark canoe. Others walked and crossed the Sabine by the old hand-hauled ferry. Still others rode in by straggling trails. For Tyler’s Landing was a bustling place, a stopover for the river men and the prospectors and trappers who made a livelihood up in the hills; and it was a gathering-place for the cattlemen from surrounding ranches. It was also remote enough and open enough for men on the dodge to gravitate there, for there was no real law in Tyler’s Landing. From time to time a sheriff was hired when things got too much out of hand but, if he survived, he was usually paid-off as soon as things quietened down again.

  It was a fast-growing town and businesses were springing up there, recognizing its potential as a crossroads of trail and river. Even Lester Dukes, governor of Texas, was preparing to look the place over. It could well become a commercial center for North-East Texas, being on the state line between the Lone Star State and Louisiana. With the Sabine flowing down into the Gulf and the big Mississippi riverboats going further afield than they had ever done before, there seemed to be a lot of possibilities in Tyler’s Landing.

  Right now, Governor Dukes was busy at an official function in Dallas, opening the new university there. When the chore was over, he planned to visit Tyler’s Landing and spend some time there, examining its potential and a scheme put to him by his nephew from New Orleans, one Rupe Harwood, a man who ran a lumber
business and a fleet of big paddle-wheel riverboats. Dukes was accompanied by his two top Enforcers, Yancey Bannerman and John Cato. The two government operatives were acting as bodyguards on the tour and, while Cato accompanied the governor to Dallas, Yancey Bannerman rode on to Tyler’s Landing to check out the town and assess the townspeople’s feelings towards a visit by the governor.

  He also planned to make sure there were none of Dukes’ political enemies intending to cause any trouble during Dukes’ stay.

  A big man with wide shoulders and narrow waist, thick brown hair curling over his shirt collar, calm brown eyes endlessly searching and watching, Yancey made a commanding figure as he strode along the boardwalks at The Landing. His arms swung easily at his sides, fingertips lightly brushing the walnut grips of the Peacemaker Colt .45 holstered on his right thigh. The holster was plain, unadorned except for a single leather rosette where the tie-thong threaded through the base. It was the single-loop type of open-base holster, and there was never any need for Yancey to settle his gun into leather; he merely had to drop it in and it found its own snug place. A rawhide loop over the hammer spur held the gun firmly. A quick flip of the thumb could free that loop from the hammer spur and the Colt came out of leather with a smoothness that could never be achieved by a holster that had not been molded, as Yancey’s had been.

  It was a trick taught to him by his sidekick, Johnny Cato, one-time gunsmith from Laramie, whose reputation for converting cap-and-ball Colt pistols to cartridge models had earned him the nickname of ‘Colt’ Cato. The molded holster, together with Cato’s tuning of Yancey’s Peacemaker, had saved his life on several occasions.

  Yancey entered the Big River Saloon. The barroom was crowded with jostling men and Yancey’s nose wrinkled, for the place did not smell so good. There seemed to be a small crowd gathered near one end of the bar and he chose a section of the counter that was reasonably accessible, shouldered in and tried to catch the barkeep’s eyes. The man, big and gross and perspiring copiously, was listening intently to what a man was saying down there, a man who was the center of attention. Yancey waited patiently, for he had learned to wait.