Bannerman the Enforcer 17

by Kirk Hamilton

  He didn’t get more than twenty yards before his horse was shot from under him. He catapulted over the arched neck and hit hard in the dust, rolling, losing his pistol. Stunned, but determined to go down fighting, he staggered to his feet, wishing he had a saber like the officers, and whipped out his hunting knife which, while not being ‘regulation’ could be carried by individual soldiers if they wished. But two bullets smashed into him: one in the hip and the other across his ribs. He spun around with the impact and went down hard, dropping his knife, semi-conscious, body ablaze with pain. The world spun and his greatest fear at that moment was that he would be scalped alive by the Indians ...

  Every one of the soldiers was either dead or wounded now, and this included the men who had been driving the wagons. There was only desultory gunfire from inside the pass and then the attackers moved in from both ends at once. They rode fast and fearlessly, shooting down at the wounded, riding clear over them until there was no more resistance.

  The only man still alive and in uniform in the pass was the corporal. Someone had figured him as already dead and so he was left in his agony lying face down in the dust while the attackers moved amongst the wagons.

  They cut the teams loose on the supply wagons and tipped the vehicles over onto their sides, enjoying the destruction, yelling wildly, smashing open boxes of stores and letting bolts of material flutter in the wind. But while a half-dozen of the painted men did these things, there were two others who moved through the wagons more seriously, looking inside under the canvas, not finding what they wanted and moving on. And then they came to the second last wagon in the column.

  They tore open the flap of the canvas cover and there, strapped down to a heavy platform in the middle of the wagon-bed, was what they had come after: a brand new Gatling gun, surrounded by boxes of ammunition and spare magazines.

  One man turned to the other and grinned, tearing off his headband and feather, wiping a hand across his face and smearing the paint in streaks of smudged color.

  “What’d I tell you, Jake?” grinned Jethro Kidd. “Huh? What’d I tell you? Now, a Gatling gun’s just got to load the odds in our favor!”

  Jake Edge nodded slowly, using the canvas to wipe some of the paint off his own face. He wore no smile of victory; he was already planning just how he could use this addition to his armory ...

  “And one other thing, Jake …” Jethro Kidd added, wanting to make sure he was well and truly back in Edge’s favor. “With this here ‘Injun’ raid on the wagon train, the army’ll bring more men to this area, leaving fewer available to get on that gold train from Horsehead Crossing ...”

  “I know that,” Edge growled and shoved Kidd roughly aside. “Get this unhitched and on the way back to Concho, while I find some water to scrub off this mess. Hell! I even stink like an Injun!”

  He moved away and Kidd let out a long breath, looking at the heavy Gatling gun. It was going to make them all rich!

  “Well, they weren’t Indians, that’s sure enough the truth,” Johnny Cato said, as he finished reading the report Governor Dukes had handed him. He slid the papers across the desk towards Dukes. “No attempt to scalp the dead men or even to come back and cut ’em up, which Kiowas always do, same as the Apaches. And it ain’t like Indians to pass up all that grub and bright-colored cloth.”

  “They didn’t pass up the Gatling gun, though,” Dukes said quietly.

  Cato frowned, pulled the report back towards him and began scanning through the pages swiftly.

  “You didn’t miss it first time round, John,” the governor said, “It’s not in there. But take my word for it, there was a Gatling gun in that wagon train … In a special wagon, covered up. That wagon was found in the river just north of the pass where the attack occurred. We recovered it, but found no gun. And it hadn’t sunk to the bottom, because the bolts that had held it to its platform had been unscrewed. And all the ammunition and spare magazines were missing.”

  “Then that’s the reason for the raid,” Cato said. “They wanted the Gatling gun. In which case, it could’ve been Injuns after all.”

  Dukes frowned. “How so? You just said yourself they didn’t do any of the things Kiowas usually do ... No mutilations!”

  “Yeah. But maybe they didn’t do those things just so we would think it was white men dressed up,” Cato pointed out. “I mean, if you knew a bunch of Injun renegades had their hands on a Gatling gun, Governor, what would you do?”

  “I’d be inclined to send an army troop after them post haste, before they had time to assemble the gun and learn how to shoot it ...”

  “Sure. But if you thought it was only renegade whites …?”

  “Well, I’d certainly leave no stone unturned to track them down,”

  “But there wouldn’t be quite the urgency, huh?”

  “Probably not quite so much …”

  “No, you’d figure the white men were likely gonna run the gun down to Mexico or somewhere, not use it against your army right away, like redskins would ...”

  “I’m beginning to see your point, John ... But the fact remains, there’s one new Gatling gun missing. I was sending it into the southwest so that more men could be released for duty elsewhere. I didn’t want it made public at this time. You’ll have to track down that gun for me, John. And fast. If the Indians have it, there could be a full-scale war started before Yancey has a chance to negotiate that treaty. I know some of the Kiowas don’t want peace ... Any more than some of our own people.”

  Cato stood up, nodding. “I’ll get out to the Fort Marlow area right away, Governor. There’s an outlaw hangout not all that far to the north. A town called Conchos …”

  “I know of it,” Dukes said grimly. “It’s high on my list to wipe off the face of the earth as soon as this trouble is settled. It has festered long enough on the body of Texas.”

  “I’ll head out there,” Cato said. “It’s the kind of place a man can pick up the information we need. I’d be obliged, sir, if you could arrange things so that a few wanted dodgers with my face on ’em get circulated around the area before I get there ...”

  Dukes nodded, got up and thrust out a bony hand. He gripped briefly with Cato.

  “I’ll see to it, John ... And good luck to you. Now, don’t take any needless risks. If you can track down the Gatling gun, get word to the army at Fort Marlow and let them handle it from there.”

  Cato nodded and turned towards the door. Dukes watched him go, his lined face sad: he knew he could well be sending Cato to his death on this mission ... He rubbed gently at the center of his chest, wincing a little, shoulders bowed with pain.

  Four – West of the Pecos

  Little Flower, or Ruth as the missionaries had named her, was one of the most handsome women Yancey had ever seen and that included Kate Dukes. But Kiowa maidens were noted for their beauty and grace so he wasn’t too surprised.

  They were in the big room back of the sutler’s store in the fort at Horsehead Crossing. Soldiers stood around one wall, stiffly at attention, carbines down at their sides. Captain Grant was at one end of the line, watching Yancey at the table in the center of the room where he sat with Red Dog and the Indian girl. Across the room, in a bunch, silent, menacing, were about a dozen of Red Dog’s warriors and advisers. Two of these never for an instant took their gaze off Yancey and Grant knew that any hostile move on the big man’s part would earn him a split skull from a tomahawk. The rest of the Indians watched the soldiers and Captain Grant.

  Yancey looked squarely at Red Dog, a muscular broad faced Kiowa in his late forties, with war scars on his arms and hairless torso. He was wearing eagle feathers in a mandan head-dress, with a fur cape and small polished buffalo horns fixed to it. It designated him as chief of the Kiowas, and was a concession to the treaty talks: normally he would have worn a full-feathered war bonnet with tail. The bear claw necklace around his thick neck was heavy, the long claws red-tipped and of massive size. It denoted him as a man of superior bravery, for the b
ear that had belonged to those claws must have stood nearly nine feet tall when it reared up on its hind legs, Yancey figured. He turned to the serene-faced girl, who wore a buckskin, beaded robe, her hair in the traditional pigtails, with silver concho ear-rings and a porcupine-hair headband with a single red and blue hawk’s feather at the back.

  “Little Flower ... or Ruth ... Tell your father his bravery as a warrior and his stature as a chief were never in doubt. But, today, it is his wisdom we wish to see.”

  She held Yancey’s gaze a long moment and then moved her dark eyes to her father’s expectant face and spoke briefly. Red Dog turned his gaze on Yancey and was silent for a long time. A soldier coughed and earned a frown and menacing look from Captain Grant. Red Dog spoke only a few words.

  “My father said his wisdom alone is not enough,” the girl replied in her smooth, husky voice, quaintly accented as she spoke the English taught to her by Spanish missionaries who themselves spoke the alien tongue with a heavy accent. “You, too, must show wisdom or there will be more killing.”

  Yancey sighed, nodding. He knew Red Dog was referring to the ugly reception he had received at the fort. Hemp Carswell and his men, with a dozen others, had ridden out from Pecos town, jeering and yelling and spitting at the Indian Chief and his retinue as they filed through the gates of the army post. Their hatred was naked for all to see. Yancey reckoned even a blind man could tell it needed little to spark violence and killing.

  “Red Dog is right,” Yancey admitted quietly. “Tell him it will be better if the treaty terms are discussed with the Great White Father himself ... In the capital ...”

  The girl’s eyes blazed. “You don’t have to talk that half-childish kind of English to either me or my father, Mr. Bannerman. He knows what a governor is: a chief as he is a chief. You do not have to speak down to him!”

  “Well, I wasn’t meaning to,” Yancey said, a little taken aback. “It just seems to be a term applied to white leaders by all Indians, that’s all ...”

  “Not all Indians, Mr. Bannerman,” she snapped. “Give us credit for some intelligence!”

  Yancey started to speak again but she turned to her now tensed father and spoke rapidly and at length. When she had finished, Red Dog bored his glittering gaze into Yancey and he figured he had wrecked all chance now of getting the chief to Austin. The man’s dark, broad face was impassive, but his eyes were angry and Yancey waited for him to stalk out of this initial meeting. Red Dog, not taking his eyes off Yancey, spoke quietly, briefly. The girl translated:

  “My father had intended all along to travel to Austin to discuss the treaty with Governor Dukes ... He was given to understand that someone would be sent to make the arrangements and to see that he travelled in safety and comfort ...”

  “Well, sure, that’s why I’m here, but we can get some of the preliminary terms figured out now ...?”

  “I have not yet finished, Mr. Bannerman!” she cut in sharply and Yancey sighed. He saw now why Dukes had told him Little Flower was an unusual woman. Indian women rarely spoke in the presence of a white man, certainly never held a place of importance at a meeting. Usually they only got close enough to a meeting to bring in food for the men.

  Ruth remained silent for a long minute and Yancey knew she was enjoying her power over him. And the other white men. “My father wishes to remind you that if any harm should come to him, then the whole of the southwest will erupt into full-scale war and no quarter will be asked for or given. The Kiowa Nation would not rest until the scalp of Governor Dukes himself hung from the medicine lodge ...”

  Grant and the soldiers stirred a little but the Indians remained impassive and unmoving. Yancey looked steadily at the girl.

  “Red Dog said all that in those few words?” he asked. Very briefly, her gaze wavered, and he knew he had been right. She had embellished whatever her father had said. He looked at her warily. A woman to be reckoned with, right enough. He figured she was going to drive a mighty hard bargain with the treaty ...

  It seemed she wasn’t going to answer him now. He glanced at Captain Grant. “When’s the next train leaving Pecos for Austin, Captain ...?”

  Grant cleared his throat, standing stiffly. “Be a cattle train tomorrow ...”

  Yancey made an impatient gesture. Hell, that would be all the insult needed, to suggest hooking Red Dog’s car to the rear end of a cattle train. He saw Ruth stiffen, her lips compressed as she glared at Grant.

  Grant cleared his throat again, a long, hacking sequence of coughs. He flushed, ears turning beet-red.

  “I—er—wasn’t suggesting you take the cattle train, Mr. Bannerman, merely mentioning it. Only other train within a reasonable time is the gold train on Friday morning …”

  Yancey frowned. “Gold train?”

  “Well, we call it that, though it ain’t a special run,” Grant explained. “Just that, from time to time, there’s a heap of gold mounts up in the army safe here, brought in by miners from the hills around the Pecos Valley. Every now and then there gets to be too much for the fort’s responsibility, so we ship it out in a special express car. Wells Fargo supply guards and I usually send along some men if I can spare them ...”

  “Sounds like the, ideal train,” Yancey said. “We need one that’s well-guarded ...”

  “And white men will certainly guard their gold!” the Indian girl cut in with a trace of bitterness. “But I agree, Mr. Bannerman. The Friday train sounds ideal. And we remind you again that if——”

  “No need to remind me of anything, ma’am,” Yancey broke in shortly. “I know what’ll happen if I don’t see you and your father arrive safely in Austin.”

  “Very well. We understand each other, I think.”

  She stood, spoke briefly to Red Dog who stood also, his eyes holding to Yancey’s face. He spoke quietly to the girl.

  “What did he say?” Yancey asked.

  The girl looked at him coolly. “He said you are a man with the look of eagles ... It is a high compliment from a Kiowa, almost an accolade when it comes from a chief such as Red Dog.”

  “Thank your father for me and tell him that Governor Dukes, too, has the look of eagles. That he wants only peace and a fair division of land for the Kiowas.”

  The girl frowned faintly as she looked into Yancey’s face, one Indian trait the mission hadn’t managed to change. They put great stock by seeing a man’s eyes when he spoke and his facial reactions to words.

  “I think you mean that,” she said quietly. “You are different to the usual politicians ... We will return Friday morning.”

  “Can’t we discuss the treaty in general before then?” Yancey asked.

  “Friday morning, Mr. Bannerman,” she repeated, and the Indians filed out of the room.

  Yancey and Grant watched them go, the soldiers still standing stiffly. From outside came catcalls and yells of abuse and Yancey knew Hemp Carswell and his rabble were still out there to harass the Indian group.

  “Get out there, you men, and make sure Red Dog gets safely on his way!” Grant ordered. His men and the soldiers left on the double. Grant mopped his face with a kerchief. “Goddamn! Tension’s worse than before a battle. Think you’ll pull it off? The treaty, I mean?”

  “Dukes will be fair. But it won’t be a popular decision if he lets the Kiowas have the Pecos Valley.”

  “Guess that’ll include the hills around it, huh?”

  “Reckon so.”

  Grant nodded slowly. “There’s still a lot of gold up there. No line is gonna stop these hombres from around here goin’ after it.”

  “It’ll be your problem to stop ’em,” Yancey said. “Right now, I could use a drink ... Like one?”

  “I sure would,” Grant said feelingly and they left the room.

  The Gatling gun lay in several parts in the back room of the log cabin Edge had assigned for its storage.

  Jethro Kidd squatted by the heavy barrel assembly, squinting at the mounts, trying to see how they fitted onto the foot-plates and
the tripod stand. Jake Edge leaned against the door jamb, picking his teeth with a sliver of wood.

  “Ain’t no goddamn use to us in pieces like that,” Edge said harshly. “Why in hell didn’t you make a note of the parts when you took it to pieces in the wagon?”

  Kidd looked up, shrugging and sighing. “Didn’t figure there would be any trouble assemblin’ it again. We can get it onto the cradle but it won’t traverse. And the damn crank won’t work.”

  Edge used his shoulders to thrust off the woodwork and casually walked over, looking down at the gun’s parts. Without breaking stride he suddenly lashed out and his boot took Kidd against the side of the head. He rolled clear across the cabin, smashing into the log wall. Kidd lay there, shaking his head. Edge stood over him and flicked the sliver of wood he had been using as a toothpick into his face.

  “Get that gun in one piece and workin’, mister ... Today’s Sunday. I want it ready for a trial shoot by sundown on Wednesday. If it ain’t ... well, we’ll attend your funeral on Thursday mornin’.”

  Edge turned and walked out. Kidd got slowly to his feet, dabbing at his bleeding nostrils. He looked at the scattered gun-parts and cursed, kicked the tripod’s legs savagely. At first it had sounded like a good idea, getting a Gatling gun. Then, to transport it back to Concho, they had had to dismantle it. Now no one could put it together again.