Bannerman the Enforcer 46: Call Me Texas

By Kirk Hamilton

The girl saved Yancey Bannerman’s life when he got involved in a shootout with bank robbers. Afterwards, when he asked her for her name, her only reply was, “Call me Texas!”
She had the look of a killer about her, and as it turned out she was indeed on a killing trail, determined to find and kill five men who had committed a truly dreadful crime. Every other thought and feeling had been burned right out of her. Now she only existed to ride and kill.
Against his better judgment, Yancey decided to join her and guide her through her manhunt. She was tough, and she was good with a gun, but she could be better, faster, so Yancey took it upon himself to refine her skills ... and when they finally reached trail’s end, he was right there beside her, allowing the girl called Texas to take her revenge in full ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Aug 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005492472

Kirk Hamilton

Kirk Hamilton is best known as Keith Hetherington who has penned hundreds of westerns (the figure varies between 600 and 1000) under the names Hank J Kirby and Brett Waring. Keith also worked as a journalist for the Queensland Health Education Council, writing weekly articles for newspapers on health subjects and radio plays dramatising same.

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The girl saved Yancey Bannerman’s life when he got involved in a shootout with bank robbers. Afterwards, when he asked her for her name, her only reply was, Call me Texas!

She had the look of a killer about her, and as it turned out she was indeed on a killing trail, determined to find and kill five men who had committed a truly dreadful crime. Every other thought and feeling had been burned right out of her. Now she only existed to ride and kill.

Against his better judgment, Yancey decided to join her and guide her through her manhunt. She was tough, and she was good with a gun, but she could be better, faster, so Yancey took it upon himself to refine her skills … and when they finally reached trail’s end, he was right there beside her, allowing the girl called Texas to take her revenge in full …

CALL ME TEXAS

BANNERMAN THE ENFORCER

By Kirk Hamilton

First Published by The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd

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

First digital edition: September 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.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Published by Arrangement with The Cleveland Publishing Pty Ltd.

Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books

Series Editor: Ben Bridges

Chapter One – Trail Scum

The big man with the Sharps buffalo rifle spat a stream of brown tobacco juice onto the rock in front of him and stood up slowly, his uniform jacket flapping loosely in the breeze that gusted in across the wasteland.

He took one more look through the Army field glasses and let them dangle round his neck by the rawhide thong as he turned to the others lounging in the hollow.

They’re comin’, he growled, wrenching off another chaw with big, stained yellow teeth.

The six men in the hollow stood up, dusting down their Army uniforms, buttoning jackets. One man, just under six feet, slim, narrow-waisted with a wedge-shaped torso showing even beneath the thick woolen jacket, ran a hand around his clean-shaven jowls as he watched his men getting ready. He wore gold lieutenant’s tabs on his jacket’s shoulders. Wolf-lean, he grimaced as he fought to do up the top button, moving his neck uncomfortably to the unaccustomed grip of the collar.

Line up, he said.

The men shuffled together into a ragged line. All were clean-shaven, neat, their hair recently trimmed. Their horses, further back down the hollow, wore Army saddlecloths—and their saddlebags bore their Company designation—5/11—which meant they were Troop Eleven in the Fifth Cavalry, Montana Territory.

Their jackboots were dusty but clean otherwise and there was no scuffing. Rifles were a mixture of Army-issue Trapdoor Springfields, Winchesters and, of course, the lookout’s big Sharps. The lieutenant carried a Winchester and there was a Colt Peacemaker in the buttoned-down holster riding high on his left hip, tilted forward a little. The troopers wore similar holsters, and the leather gleamed from much polishing.

Atten-shun! bawled the lieutenant and the man with the Sharps hurriedly tagged onto the line of men who snapped ramrod stiff at the order. The slim officer ran his eyes over them, pointed to a bullnecked man who had a short scar on the left side of his jaw. Button up that collar, Stacey.

Hell, Kane, I’ll choke! the man protested and, if any of the others thought it strange that a trooper should address his officer by his given name instead of ‘sir’, they didn’t give any sign.

The lieutenant sighed. Okay. Guess you are kind of bustin’-out at that. Stay in the middle. I want this squad to look all spit-an’-polish as we come up. Remember your trainin’. Keogh’s a stickler for Army regulations an’ he won’t be lookin’ so closely if we ride in like we’re comin’ straight out of The Book. We go in slovenly, an’ he’ll be lookin’ for faults to complain about. He ran his chill blue eyes down the line again and nodded. Okay mount up and let’s ride. Indian file, behind me, you in the middle, tryin’ to look inconspicuous, Stace.

Got it, Kane, the bullnecked man said.

The others broke ranks and ran for the horses. They mounted swiftly and a minute or so later, Lieutenant Kane led them out of the hollow, around the rocks that the tobacco-chewing man had used as a lookout, and onto the edge of the wasteland.

Far out across the plains, glaring here and there with the oval of saltpans, they could see the moving, ragged black line of the escort and the lumbering bulk of the wagon in their midst.

Kane glanced behind, made sure that his men were ramrod stiff in saddle, then gave the signal to lift to a canter. He rode at the head of the line, legs almost straight down in the long-set stirrups in the approved Army manner—men grew less tired from long, punishing patrols this way. His back was stiff, shoulders squared away, arms bent at the elbows which were tucked in close against his lower ribs. His campaign hat was set squarely on his head. The ‘troopers’ wore kepi caps with the squares of linen buttoned over their necks to give some protection from the hot desert sun.

They were a patrol right out of The Manual and they rode directly for the wagon and its escort, their mounts lifting a small pale cloud of dust and alkali.

Counting as he rode, Kane nodded in satisfaction. Nine men. Two at the wagon’s tailgate, two in the driving seat, a man either side, two out front with the officer leading in front of these. The approved ‘Escort Pattern’ as prescribed in The Book. Kane smiled faintly. That was Captain Keogh: predictable, a ‘regulation’ man, a stickler for orders. Qualities that had helped him along with his career.

These same qualities were about to get him killed ...

Keogh saw the line of riders cantering in across the flats and immediately lifted a hand in the ‘halt’ signal. The wagon creaked to a halt; the escort riders reined down, stayed in their allotted positions. Keogh, out front, slid his field glasses out of their polished leather case on his saddle and put them to his eyes.

Dog me, he exclaimed half-aloud. A mounted patrol. I wasn’t told to expect a reception committee.

No one said anything, even if the others had heard his quiet-spoken remarks. The troopers knew from past experience that you didn’t speak unless addressed when Keogh was in charge of a detail, payroll escort duty or no.

Keogh still held the glasses, lifted them to his eyes again and studied the riders as they drew rapidly closer. The escort soldiers exchanged bored looks. They were dusted white with alkali powder, and all their equipment was the same. They knew there would be no sleep for any of them tonight until their rifles gleamed and their uniforms were brushed down, the buttons, if necessary, polished. ‘Crazy’ Keogh would see to that ...

As a precaution, Keogh said suddenly, louder, "unship your rifles to the ‘ready’ position ... now!"

From long training, the escort moved as one, their Trapdoor Springfields slanting across their chests, thumbs on the big curled steel hammer spurs, ready to cock and fire at the given order. The wagon driver was the only man who didn’t hold a gun: he still had the reins in his hands and watched tensely as the strange riders came in.

Keogh watched them through the field glasses, holding the instrument in one gloved hand. The other had unbuttoned the holster flap and he rested his hand on the butt of the Army-issue Remington.

By Godfrey, they’re from the Fifth! he exclaimed. I can read their saddlecloths. Eleventh Troop. He frowned. Strange. We’re right on schedule. No real reason to come looking for us, surely ...

One of the guards at the wagon tailgate stifled a short laugh, winked at his nervy companion.

Like hell! he whispered hoarsely. They ain’t been paid for three months at Fort Rogers! Reckon they’re gettin’ a mite anxious!

Silence! snapped Keogh, lowering the glasses and hipping in saddle to glare at the man.

Then the riders reined down at a signal from the lieutenant at their head and Keogh was impressed with the way the troop came to a halt as one. The officer rode slowly forward and threw him a snappy salute.

Captain Keogh, sir?

I am Keogh.

Lieutenant Kane from Fort Rogers, sir. Captain Hall sent me out to meet your detail, sir. We’ve had some Indian activity this past week and the captain feared they might attack your detail, sir, mistake the wagon for one carrying arms or ammunition.

Keogh frowned, running his eyes over Kane’s immaculate dress. He flicked his gaze to the others and frowned slightly.

I see, he said slowly. You’ve come all the way down from the fort to escort me through the danger area, I presume?

That’s right, sir. So, if my men may fall in alongside yours, I’ll ride by you and show you a way around the trouble spot.

Keogh looked at Kane levelly. You have written orders to this effect, of course.

Well, no, sir. There wasn’t time for that. Cap’n Hall, sir, he just said get on out there and meet that payroll escort and bring ’em in before the Cheyenne hit ’em. Things were kind of—wild, sir. We’d just been hit by the Injuns and ...

Keogh nodded but he didn’t shift his gaze—or the hand that gripped the butt of the Remington.

Very considerate of the captain. Just one thing, Lieutenant—