by Neil Hunter
The blow might have killed a lesser man. The force behind it, slamming down between Bodie’s shoulders, hurled him across the shadowed stable. He smashed into the plank wall, spinning off it to fall face down on the dirt floor. He lay stunned. For long seconds he was utterly helpless. Then life began to drift slowly back into his numbed mind, and Bodie’s survival reflexes took over.
Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a huge shadow moving across the stable floor. His attacker moved on silent feet, lightly for such a big man. But light or not he was almost up to Bodie, and that left him hardly any time at all.
Bodie rolled, twisting over onto his back. And looked up into the scarred, brutal face of Beth Arling’s mulatto bodyguard — Mantee. Seeing the mulatto’s huge, powerful frame, Bodie realized he would be in trouble if he didn’t do something quickly, and something positive.
His right hand slid down to the heavy Colt holstered on his hip, fingers closing over the butt. Bodie lifted the gun, easing back the hammer. Yet before the Colt was leveled Mantee had lunged forward, his left hand sweeping round in a brutal curve. He caught hold of Bodie’s gunhand, twisting cruelly. The gun slid from Bodie’s fingers, slithering off into the shadows. Still holding Bodie’s gunhand Mantee yanked him off the ground, pulling the manhunter towards him. Bodie sensed Mantee’s intention. He knew he couldn’t allow himself to be encircled by Mantee’s huge arms.
Bodie allowed Mantee to pull him close, then just before the mulatto swept both arms around his body, Bodie reached down and closed his fingers over the handle of his sheathed knife. Slipping it free he brought it up from his left side, the blade glittering in the early light. The blade cut through Mantee’s shirt and sank into the flesh of his right side. Hot blood spurted from the wound as Bodie shoved hard, twisting the knife as it penetrated deep. Mantee grunted. His right hand lashed out, catching Bodie across the side of the head, a solid blow that knocked Bodie back across the stable. Mantee, the knife still protruding from his side, lumbered across the stable. His great hands reached out and caught hold of Bodie’s shirt. He swung Bodie with all the ease of a child lifting a doll, releasing him at the apex of the swing. Bodie was literally thrown across the stable. He was brought up short by the wall again, his body bursting with pain. Dragging his feet under him Bodie lurched upright, ducking beneath Mantee’s lunging fists. Bodie drove a hard right into Mantee’s stomach. The mulatto grunted and hammered his fist down across the back of Bodie’s neck, spilling him to the floor again. Before Bodie could react Mantee had bent over him, his huge hands closing around Bodie’s neck. Mantee dug in his thick fingers and began to squeeze. Almost immediately Bodie began to choke. The pressure on his neck was tremendous. He couldn’t breathe and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he blacked out. He thrust out his right arm, fingers groping the air, seeking something, anything he could use as a weapon. At first there was nothing. Then Bodie’s fingers brushed something hard. He reached again and closed his fingers around the object. It took precious seconds for him to realize what it was. He had hold of the handle of his knife, still jammed in Mantee’s body. The handle was slick with blood. Bodie gripped the handle tight and yanked. The blade slid free from Mantee’s body, drawing a spurt of blood. The moment he had the knife in his hand Bodie thrust the upturned blade above his head. He was hoping desperately that the blade might find the vulnerable flesh of Mantee’s throat. It was a wild hope, but it was all Bodie had. He thrust and kept thrusting, jabbing at the unseen, empty air above his head, not knowing how near or how far he might be from his intended target.
And then the keen blade struck something solid. Bodie struck again, putting all his remaining strength into the blow. There was a soft, moist sound, the knife sinking into something fleshy. A deep, shuddering moan burst from Mantee’s lips. A hot wetness dribbled down the side of Bodie’s face. And Mantee’s hands were drawn away from his neck. Bodie lunged forward, dragging his feet under him, struggling to draw air back into his starved lungs. He could hear Mantee behind him moaning softly like some hurt animal, stumbling about across the stable floor.
Pulling himself upright by one of the stall posts Bodie turned, his eyes seeking Mantee. The mulatto was in the center of the stable, on his knees, his hands raised to his face. Mantee’s hands and arms were covered in blood. So was his face. The blood was oozing heavily from around the blade of Bodie’s knife, which was buried deeply in the mulatto’s righteye socket. The razor-like blade had penetrated Mantee’s eyeball, destroying it completely, slicing its way into the inner cavity. As Bodie turned in his direction Mantee closed his hands over the handle of the knife and yanked it out of his flesh. A gout of blood erupted from the wound.
Mantee stared at Bodie with his good eye. He seemed to be grinning through the bloody mess covering his face. He held up the knife and began to move down the stable.
Bodie backed off. He drew level with the stall he’d used for his horse. The horse was busy with the feed Bodie had forked into the trough only minutes before. It paid no attention to what was going on around it.
Damn! The pitchfork. Where the hell had he put it? Bodie backed up against the next stall. He heard something slither along the wooden partition and out of the corner of his eye he saw the long handle of the two-pronged pitchfork, disturbed by his contact with the stall, sliding towards the floor.
Bodie threw a swift glance in Mantee’s direction. He saw the mulatto pause, head cocked to one side, and then, as if anticipating Bodie’s thoughts, Mantee lunged forward, knife held before him, slashing at Bodie’s body.
Bodie turned in at the stall, dropping to one knee, hands reaching for the pitchfork. He took hold, began to turn, bringing the two shiny prongs up in a glittering arc. He sensed Mantee’s huge bulk rearing over him, the mutilated face red with blood, and then he thrust the pitchfork up at his body.
The prongs ripped deep into Mantee’s taut throat, one bursting out of the back of his neck. The moment he felt the prongs penetrate Bodie began to push, driving Mantee back, shoving hard. Mantee fought the terrible push of the cold metal buried deep in his flesh. Then he was pushed into a corner of an empty stall, and there was nowhere else to go. He dropped the knife and curled his fingers round the handle of the pitchfork, desperately trying to remove the offending prongs from his throat. He began to twist and jerk his great body from side to side, but all he managed to do was to worsen the effect of the prongs. The edge of one prong severed the main artery and blood began to spurt from the wound in his throat.
Bodie let go of the pitchfork. He moved away from Mantee. The man was as good as dead. Searching the stable floor Bodie found his gun. Checking it he put it away.
He caught a slight sound by the stable door and turned. It was Angela. She came into the stable, her tired face registering shock when she saw the state he was in.
“Bodie…what’s happened?” she asked, and then her gaze was drawn to the silently struggling figure of Mantee, locked in his death throes. “Oh…God…Bodie!”
“He was waiting for me,” Bodie said. “You know who he is?”
Angela was silent for a time. “Yes, I know who he is.”
“Well?”
“He’s called Mantee. He’s a bodyguard. For ... for Beth Arling!”
Bodie didn’t say a word. He scooped up his hat from the floor and made for the door.
“Bodie, where are you going?” Angela asked, knowing the worst was still to come.
“I’m going to see a lady about a mulatto,” Bodie snapped.
“Bodie…please!” Angela called.
He stopped, looked back over his shoulder. “Angela, something stinks about all this! I’m going to find out what.”
“I’m sure Raymond isn’t mixed up in it.”
Bodie’s stare was bleak. “The hell you’re sure,” he said, and turned away.
He walked away from the house. He hated having to do it, because he knew that the truth, if it happened to be the truth he expected, was going to hurt Angela badl
y. But there was no nice way round it. If Angela’s brother was mixed up in some scheme, and Bodie was damn sure now that he was, then there was no way she could be protected from that fact.
He made his way down the hill towards High Grade. The sun was barely showing over the horizon. If the rest of the day went the way it had started, Bodie figured it might have been better to have stayed in bed.
Chapter Thirteen
At this early hour High Grade was pretty well deserted. A few stragglers were weaving their way home — or to whatever constituted home. In one or two windows lamplight gleamed, either from latecomers just going to bed, or from early risers. High Grade lay silent, locked in that drawn-out time which is neither night or day.
Bodie paused outside the saloon, his eyes raking the shadowed windows on the upper floor. This was the place. The sign over the boardwalk porch said it all: THE ARLING PALACE. It was the saloon he’d been in the day before. Where he had met and hired Hal Benteen. And where, on his way out, he had realized that he was being watched. A young woman with blonde hair standing at the balcony rail. Behind her two men, in the shadows. Figures he hadn’t been able to identify then. But now Bodie was sure. Sure that one of those men had been the mulatto, the man called Mantee. And that the other had been Angela’s brother. Raymond Crown.
He stepped up onto the boardwalk and pushed in through the swing doors, his boots echoing on the plank floor. The saloon was empty, most of the lamps turned down. The room looked bigger now, cold and almost bleak.
A faint sound caught Bodie’s attention and he glanced across the saloon. Behind the bar stood a lonely figure. A bartender, half-asleep, resignedly wiping the top of the bar, clearing away the spillages of the night’s business.
“We’re closed,” he said sullenly, not even looking up at Bodie’s approach.
“I didn’t come looking for a drink,” Bodie told him.
Something in his tone made the bartender raise his head. He stared at Bodie, noting the fresh bruises on the manhunter’s face.
“If you want doctoring you chose the wrong door, mister!”
“Keep up the smart talk, feller, and you’ll be the one needing the doctor,” Bodie said. “Now just tell me which is Beth Arling’s room and we’ll part company on a friendly basis.”
The bartender put down the glass he was wiping. He carefully folded the cloth in his hands and placed it beside the glass.
“The boss don’t like being disturbed, he said. “Especially at this time of day.”
“I don’t give a damn what she doesn’t like,” Bodie snapped. “And I ain’t too bothered whether you tell me where she is. I’ll find her even if I have to kick down every door in this place!”
The bartender’s face stiffened. “One of the tough ones, huh?” he muttered, his left hand reaching under the bar, starting to lift out the loaded, sawn-off shotgun he kept there for just this kind of occasion.
“No,” Bodie said in reply. “Just the toughest!”
His right hand snaked across the bar as the black muzzles of the shotgun appeared. Powerful fingers knotted themselves in the loose front of the bartender’s shirt. Bodie dragged the man halfway across the bar, driving his left fist full into the bartender’s surprised face. The sound of the blow was loud in the empty saloon. The bartender gave a stunned gasp as his lips were smashed back against his teeth, blood welling from torn flesh and gums. His eyes glazed over and he lost interest in the entire episode. Bodie snatched the shotgun from his hand, shoving the bartender away from him. The man sagged back against the loaded shelves at the rear of the bar, slithering to the floor in a cascade of dislodged bottles.
Bodie moved away from the bar, heading for the stairs. He broke the shotgun, saw that it was loaded and snapped it shut again. He had almost reached the stairs when a door at the end of the bar opened and a bleary-eyed figure lurched into view.
“What the hell is all the racket about, Ed?”
Bodie swung the shotgun up and jabbed the muzzles against the man’s stomach. “Ed’s off duty, feller,” he said. “Looks like you’ve been elected.”
The man scrubbed at his sleepy eyes. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked.
“You the bouncer in this dump?” Bodie asked, taking in the man’s hefty build and the broken-nosed, scarred
“Yeah! What’s it to you?”
“Just that if you don’t tell me what I want to know I’m going to bounce you all the way out of town!”
The bouncer grinned, his lips peeling back to reveal crooked yellow teeth. “Who says so?” he asked.
Bodie reversed the shotgun and smacked the bouncer across the side of the jaw with the butt. The man stumbled back against the wall, cursing softly, pawing at the bloody side of his face.
“Not polite to keep asking questions,” Bodie said. “You could get hurt!”
“Son of a goddam bitch,” the bouncer grumbled. “What makes you figure you can go round slugging me?”
“That’s easy, feller,” Bodie told him. “I got the gun. You want to argue some more?”
The bouncer raised a big hand. “Back off,” he said. “I ain’t that stupid!”
“Make me believe you by telling me where I can find Beth Arling.” Bodie suggested.
The bouncer’s eyes flicked from Bodie’s face to the menacing shape of the shotgun. He ran his tongue over his lips suddenly gone dry.
“What the hell,” he said with a shrug. “I can always find another job. Up the stairs. Along the balcony. It’s the last door but one.”
Bodie nodded. “Easy, wasn’t it? Just in case you get an attack of conscience, feller, you remember what I’m holding.” Bodie raised the shotgun a little. Just enough so that the bouncer got the message.
“Look, mister, I’m paid to throw out customers when they get drunk and cause trouble. The place is closed right now. And you ain’t drunk. And as far as I know you ain’t caused no trouble. So ...!”
“So?”
“So I’m goin’ back to bed. That’s where I’ll be for the rest of the day. An’ if I’m asleep I can’t hear nothin’ or see nothing’.”
The bouncer backed away from Bodie until he reached the door he had come through minutes before. He went into the room beyond, closing the door firmly. Bodie turned and carried on up the stairs. At the top he turned along the balcony, easing his way to the door the bouncer had described.
He didn’t waste time checking to see if the door was locked or not. A well placed boot splintered the wood around the lock. The door flew open with a crash, and Bodie was inside the room before it had struck the inner wall.
He was in a woman’s bedroom. It was obvious from the decor and the heady scent of perfume and powder. There was a woman in the big bed. Young and blonde. The same woman Bodie had spotted watching him from the balcony overlooking the saloon. There was a man in the bed beside her. Even on his initial look at the man’s face Bodie saw a likeness to Angela Crown.
The woman sat upright as Bodie burst in. She was dazed, her face drugged with sleep, the blonde hair loose and tousled. She was naked under the blankets, Bodie saw, as the bedclothes fell away from her shoulders, exposing her full, well-shaped breasts. For a moment she stared at him, her eyes blank. Then she seemed to snap into life, her gaze sharpening, awareness coming to her in an instant.
“Bodie! What do you want with me?”
Bodie smiled at her confidence. He pushed the door shut, keeping the shotgun trained on the bed as he noticed the man stirring sluggishly.
“I figured it was time we met, honey,” he said easily.
Beth Arling watched him intently. She wasn’t being fooled by his manner. Bodie waited as she pushed aside the bedclothes and swung her shapely legs to the floor.
“Mr. Bodie, you’ve caught me with my pants down, as the saying goes,” she said, rising to her feet, making no attempt to conceal her ripe nudity.
“Never was one for the formal approach.” Bodie let his gaze travel from her feet to the top of her blonde hea
d. “You should look good in black,” he said.
Beth Arling frowned. “What do I need to wear black for?”
“I figure you’ll be going to Mantee’s funeral,” Bodie observed.
Beth Arling’s face became ugly with shock and rage. For a long moment her whole body tensed, and then with a strangled cry she launched herself at Bodie, long fingernails slashing at his face.
“You killed Mantee!” she screamed.
Bodie eased his body to one side, avoiding her headlong rush, and in the same movement he swept up his left hand, slapping her across the face. The sound of the slap was like a pistol shot. Beth Arling was flung to one side. She lost her balance and sprawled across the carpeted floor in an inelegant tangle of bare arms and legs.
“He wasn’t good enough,” Bodie said. “So he’s dead and I’m here. And I want some straight answers to some plain questions!”
“He’s going to kill us!”
Raymond Crown was on his feet, dragging his pants on over his nakedness. He looked like a man who had suddenly found there was no place left to hide.
Bodie strode around the bed and caught hold of Crown’s arm. The man yelled in fear as Bodie dragged him to the middle of the room.
“You paid Kopek to kill your sister while she was on her way back from Ridgelow.”
Crown stared at him through frightened eyes. Sweat gleamed on the pallid face. A line of spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth.
“You son of a bitch!” Bodie said. He rammed the muzzles of the shotgun into Raymond Crown’s naked stomach, feeling the man cringe from the cold steel. “I want an answer from you, mister, or we’re all going to find out if you’ve got any guts inside your carcass!”
“I…I…for God’s sake, man, you can’t just kill me!” Crown’s voice rose to a shrill wail. “You have to listen…to me…”
