Bannerman the enforcer 1.., p.1
Bannerman the Enforcer 15, page 1
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CONTENTS
Title Page
About the Book
Copyright Page
About the Author
The Bannerman Series
About Piccadilly Publishing
One – Tables Turned
Two – Split Trails
Three – Escape
Four – Caplock
Five – Avenging Gun
Six – Operating Cash
Seven – Blood Money
Eight – Bounty Hunters
Nine – Justice Done
Johnny Cato followed a vengeance trail with one single purpose in mind—to kill the outlaw who’d brought his entire world crashing down around his ears. It turned the deadly custom-built handgun/shotgun they called the Manstopper into a reckless killing-machine as he tore a bloody trail right through Texas. And it put him at odds with the man one he could always rely on—his partner, Yancey Bannerman.
Now, with a young child’s life in the balance, Johnny faced a stark choice. If he didn’t cool his kill-crazy temper pronto, he’d have face Yancey across a smoking six-gun …
BANNERMAN 15: MANSTOPPER
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 2018
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 – Tables Turned
Yancey Bannerman was sure he had the Guthries and their bunch trapped when they rode into Half Moon Canyon. He figured that if they rode on down into the narrow section of one of the canyon’s ‘horns’ there would be no place for them to go and, even though he was only one man against five, he could keep them pinned down until help arrived.
That was the way he figured it. But they outsmarted him.
It seemed as if they were riding towards the entrapping, narrow ‘horn’ section of the canyon and Yancey, eager to close off this assignment after so many weeks of hard trails and gunsmoke, grew just a mite careless. He was weary, hadn’t slept in forty hours, and his reflexes weren’t as sharp as they usually were. The sorrel was near-jaded too, and, though he urged it across the canyon to the one place he could hole-up and pin down the Guthries, it didn’t respond quite fast enough. The extra seconds he had to spend getting it moving almost cost him his life.
There was an open stretch of about ten yards to be covered; no problem for a galloping horse that was tolerably fresh. But, the sorrel was staggering and slow-moving and halfway across it stumbled. If it hadn’t, Yancey would have had his head blown off. As it was, the bullet laid a red streak across his left cheek and clipped the lobe of his ear. Blood sprayed onto his dusty shirt shoulder as he instinctively threw himself to one side, snatching at the butt of the heavy Winchester ’76 rifle that rested in the saddle scabbard. A second shot smashed into the rifle butt and slivers of the burr-grained walnut stung his hand as he snatched it back and rolled out of the saddle. The horse whinnied, and plunged, but he didn’t know if it was just frightened or if it had been hit. Then the ground slammed into him and the breath gusted out of him. He landed on his shoulders and somersaulted onto his belly. Squirming around, he dragged out his six-gun and looked swiftly about for cover. Sand kicked into his face and another bullet sent a fist-sized rock flying before ricocheting away with a savage buzz.
Yancey was right out in the open here and he cursed the Guthries for turning at this point to make their stand. Likely it was Frank who had thought of it. The others, his twin brother, Tag, included, would have ridden on until the canyon narrowed too much for them to move and by the time they figured there was no way out, it would have been too late. But Frank Guthrie was the smart one of the twin outlaw killers. He must have realized the trap they were riding into. Now he had neatly turned the tables on Yancey and if the Enforcer didn’t move fast—and soon—he would be shot full of holes.
Yancey didn’t waste his lead right now. Bullets spattered around him and as soon as there was a lull, he gathered himself and made a zigzagging, pounding run for the rocks part-way up the slope, where he had been heading in the first place. His horse had already run out of sight. He heard someone yell and then the killers’ guns opened up and the bullets flew around him. Some ricocheted off the rocks ahead and the flattened lead discs slashed and planed through the air around him. He made the first of the rocks and went over it in a headlong dive. He hit harder than he meant to and grazed his head on a rock. It knocked his hat off and lights burst and whirled behind his eyes as he skidded into another, larger rock that slammed against his ribs.
Panting, doubled up in pain, Yancey squirmed around and dragged himself a little higher and around behind an even bigger rock. Four bullets peppered it but he was safely behind it by then. He knelt and laid his sights on one of the outlaws who was making a run for higher cover. The big Peacemaker boomed and the man pitched headlong in mid-stride. He crashed and rolled back down the small slope. He landed on his back and didn’t move.
Yancey ducked as his shelter was raked with a withering fire. Hunkered down while the bullets flew, he looked around him, at the same time, dropping the used shell from his Colt’s cylinder and replacing it with a live cartridge shucked from his belt. Four to one now and he had to even-out the odds a little. He was on his own. He had sent a telegraph from the last town, Cannon Hill, to his sidekick, Johnny Cato, but didn’t know if he had received it. Or, even if Cato had gotten the message, if he would be in a position to respond to the call for help. And, even if he was already on his way, there was no way that Cato could know Yancey was pinned down in Half Moon Canyon halfway across the San Blas Desert.
What it meant was that he was on his own. If Cato turned up to help—and in time—then it would be a bonus, a very fortunate one.
The shooting stopped and Yancey didn’t hesitate. He had his new shelter picked out, a clump of four boulders, five yards up-slope, with an overhanging ledge above to protect him from overhead fire. Trouble was, he knew damn well Frank Guthrie would have already seen this as good protection and would likely have it covered. He was right; the four guns across the canyon hammered in volley after volley as he pounded for the boulders. Yancey kept his eyes on the clump, ignoring the spattering shots. He felt lead tug at his flying vest; something slammed hard into the earth almost directly beneath his left foot and sent him stumbling to one side. There were several savage buzzing sounds that made him flinch involuntarily. The breath burned the back of his throat as his legs and arms pumped, driving him up the soft-earth slope. The blood roared and pounded in his ears. He fell, face down, slamming into the earth. It was so sudden, without any warning at all, that, at first, he thought he must have been hit.
The outlaws likely figured the same thing for the firing stopped abruptly and in the pause, he got his legs under him again, thrust upright and hurled himself the last few feet, right through the opening between the rocks. He was inside and squirming around again before the shooting recommenced. Yancey lay there, getting his breath, letting his nerves settle, unworried by the lead spanging off the boulders. Then, when his breathing was more or less normal, he wormed his way to a triangle of light that showed where two boulders leaned together and he was able to get a fair view of the canyon.
Guthrie and his men were changing positions as he figured they would. They were climbing higher and two men were mounted. He picked them right away as Frank and Tag Guthrie, and he aimed and fired at Tag. His lead went close enough to take the man’s hat off and reveal his shaggy brown hair, but it didn’t touch Tag. All it did was make him rake his horse’s flanks with his spur rowels until the blood dripped, almost literally hurling the animal behind shelter. Frank threw his rifle to his shoulder and sent three fast shots at Yancey’s rock and then he, too, disappeared behind the ridge.
The other two men were afoot and were running fast for a lower section of the ridge, concentrating on getting behind cover. Yancey took careful aim at the first man and fired. The man spun around, clawing at his side, fell, but started to rise again. Yancey dropped him with one more carefully-placed shot. The other man was almost to the top when Yancey turned his gun on him, but, by then, the Guthries were in position and he ducked hurriedly as rifle bullets peppered his opening. Yancey rolled aside and flinched as two bullets came into his shelter and buzzed back and forth from the rocks before whining away. Damn! he cursed silently. He was in a death-box. If they kept putting their lead inside here, he could be cut to ribbons by the flying, flattened bullets as they ricocheted in series. And he knew that Frank Guthrie was a good man with a rifle, and well able to place his shots carefully.
He hadn’t made such a good move after all; in fact, he could have signed his death warrant by coming in here.
~*~
Johnny Cato was in a lousy mood as he rode into the town of Cannon Hill. Yancey’s telegraph had caught up with him in the nearby town of Saber Cut and he had cursed the luck that had delayed him there just long enough to be on hand when the wire had come, relayed down from Austin in code by Kate Dukes, the governor’s daughter. Yancey was in trouble and needed help. Well, he sure didn’t mind lending old Yance a hand. He just wished his old pard had chosen a more opportune time to ask for it.
Cato was in something of a hurry. He’d had a bad time not so long ago, posing as a rogue gun for Lester Dukes, the governor of Texas, so as to infiltrate a bunch of slavers and wetback-runners. It had cost him plenty, not just in physical suffering, but it had also lost him Marnie Hendry, the girl he had aimed to marry after the assignment was over. i The trouble was, it had been so hair-trigger a situation, that he had been unable to take the girl into his confidence and she had been deeply hurt by his behavior towards her ... all part of his cover. It had all been too much for her and she had left before he came back from the job, convinced that there was no future for them together. He had accepted this at first for, in truth, he couldn’t blame the girl. She had been through mental hell and he hadn’t been able to do anything about it. He had been disappointed when she had taken off like that and he had been drunk for three days.
Then Governor Dukes, believing he was doing the right thing and helping Cato, had found him an assignment to keep him busy. At first, Cato had been grateful: the need to concentrate had kept him from having too much time to think about Marnie. Then the assignment had come to an abrupt end. The man he had been after had confessed everything in writing and blown his brains out. Cato was left once more with time to think about the girl.
It didn’t take him long to figure out that there was really only one thing to do. He had to find her and at least try to explain, tell her that, if she would have him, he was still keen to marry her and make a life together. If she wanted, he would quit the Enforcers, and go back to gunsmithing in some peaceful town. He was pushing thirty-six, had had a wild and exciting life, so maybe it was time he thought about settling down. And the only woman he’d ever met who could put such thoughts into his head was Marnie Hendry. He’d be plumb loco to let her walk out of his life without making some attempt to get her back, even though she was ten years his junior.
He hadn’t even gone back to Austin. He had merely sent a wire to Dukes, saying he aimed to take some of the accrued leave due him. He had heard nothing against that idea and had been on Marnie’s trail when Yancey’s relayed wire had caught up with him in Saber Cut. He knew Yancey wasn’t the type to send out calls for help unless they were necessary and once again he found that it came down to him having to choose between Marnie and his job. But he didn’t hesitate for long. Marnie didn’t even know he was coming after her, so a few more days’ delay wouldn’t matter too much. But it made him mad, just the same: the first time in a week he had gotten onto sign of Marnie that was even warm and he had to leave it. But Yancey needed him and that was that.
Cato checked over his weapons: His twenty-six inch barreled Winchester ’76; his big-bladed Bowie knife, honed so sharp he could shave with it, and did; and finally, the Manstopper, the massive special handgun he had built on the frame of the old Colt Dragoon .44, the most powerful black powder handgun ever built ... until Cato designed the Manstopper. It fired eight specially-loaded .45 caliber cartridges from the fat cylinder, and there was a large, smoothbore barrel slung beneath the normal, eight-inch hexagonal .45 barrel. This fired the twelve-gauge shot-shell, held in a special chamber in the center of the cartridge cylinder and was operated by means of a toggle on the gun hammer. Cato was not a big man, only standing about five-eight, and he didn’t weigh any more than one hundred and forty pounds, but, apart from agility and an inbuilt fighting ability, the Manstopper more than evened the odds when he ran up against bigger, deadlier men. In fact, his small stature often worked to his advantage, for bigger men would dismiss him as not being very dangerous. There were a lot of them resting under headboards on various Boothills throughout the West who had realized their mistake too late.
Now, satisfied that his weapons were in top class condition as usual, making sure he had sufficient ammunition, Cato quit Saber Cut and rode hell-bent for Cannon Hill.
The town was quiet when he first rode in, but when he left, a bare half-hour later, it was in an uproar. Cato wanted to get to Yancey pronto; not only because he wanted to be free to carry on with his search for Marnie, but because Yancey’s wire had been delayed by going to Austin first and then having to be relayed on to him. By now, Yancey could have real trouble on his hands. When he had sent the wire, he was close to the Guthrie bunch and was afraid he would lose them once they started put into the San Blas Desert. Cato was a day behind schedule and he had to make up that time. He ordered a fast, fresh horse at the livery stables in Cannon Hill. While the stable hands hurried to cut out the blotchy brown gelding he had chosen from the corral out back, Cato cornered the livery owner as the man made out the bill-of-sale.
“Yancey Bannerman ... heard of him?”
The liveryman looked up, frowning, then shook his head. “Not from round these parts.”
“Big feller, six-two, hundred-ninety, two-hundred pounds. Brown hair, gray eyes, face’s got a few scars on it like he’s been in some scrapes, which he has. Would’ve been through here yesterday, I guess, maybe late the day before.”
“What was he forkin’?” the liveryman asked, looking thoughtful.
“Dunno.”
“Can’t help you then,” the liveryman said handing Cato his bill-of-sale.
Cato took the paper without looking at it, bored his cold eyes into the stableman’s face. “How about Tag and Frank Guthrie and their bunch?” he asked quietly. “Help me there?”
Cato saw right away that the man didn’t like that query. He began to fidget and wouldn’t look at Cato as he busied himself with some papers on his untidy desk.
“They’re outlaws, ain’t they?”
“You know it,” Cato said harshly. “And I hear tell that Cannon Hill folk look on them as somethin’ of heroes. Just because they drop by here from time to time and spread a little money around. Stolen money.”
“They’ve helped a heap of folk round these parts,” the man said defensively.
“Sure, by killin’ and, like I said, forkin’ out stolen dinero.”
“Lawman?”
“Sort of. Bannerman is, too. So, you withhold information on him and you’re in trouble, mister.”
“I’m in more from the Guthries if I say anythin’ to you!” the man replied, breathing heavily.
“I just wouldn’t take any bets on that,” Cato told him and he lifted the massive Manstopper and rammed the barrels under the man’s chin. He let him watch with bugging, near crossed eyes, as he flicked the hammer toggle and then notched it back to full cock. “Know what I just done? That there toggle opens the firing chamber for that underslung barrel, the smoothbore. There’s a twelve-gauge shot-shell in there, chock-full of buckshot, and it’ll spread your head halfway out into the street if I let the hammer drop. Now, no need to start shakin’ like that. Here, I’ll steady you ... that better? All you got to do is think about the Guthrie bunch and Yancey Bannerman some more. Then you tell me which way they headed when they quit this dump. But you do them things pronto, before I reach the count of ten, or your wife and kids’ll be weepin’ at your graveside tomorrow. If they can find enough of you to bury. One ... two ...”
Cato didn’t get past ‘five’. It took the man that long to swallow and get some spittle into his mouth to moisten his tongue. Then he bleated like a sheep as he said, “Hold up!”
Cato paused, waited, put a shade more pressure on the gun barrels.
“Yesterday. Just before sundown. They rode out into the San Blas.”
Cato thrust hard and brutally with the gun barrels. “Damn it, I know that much! Which direction?”
“N-north, north-west.”
“What lies out there? Some place the Guthries use to hole-up?”
The man swallowed. “Th-they’ll kill me!”
