by Neil Hunter
Bodie twisted his body away from the bar, starting to rise to his feet. For a drawn-out moment the saloon was devoid of sound. Almost to his feet Bodie caught the faint double-click of a gun being cocked. He reacted instinctively, placing the sound as he threw himself across the floor. Even as he allowed his body to roll he was snatching his Colt from its holster, thumb dogging back the hammer, bringing the gun round on its target.
The other man’s gun blasted first. The bullet hit the floor where Bodie’s body should have been. It ripped up a long sliver of wood. Then Bodie triggered his first shot. He saw the bullet strike the man in the chest. It slammed him back against the bar where he threw out his left arm, grasping the edge of the bar to hold himself on his feet. His face was twisted with pain. Blood burst from the wound and soaked the front of his grubby shirt. Even so the man tried to loose off another shot. This time Bodie fired first. His bullet, angling up from floor level, hit the man under the chin, ripped its way through his skull and tore off the top of his head on its way out.
There was a scramble of noise off to Bodie’s right. He jerked his head round in time to see one of the Lutz brothers roll across the top of the bar and vanish from sight behind it. There was a sudden splintering of glass, followed by the oiled click of gun-hammers being eared back. Realization hit Bodie with the force of cold water in the face. The bartender’s scattergun! Most probably a sawn-off double-barrel shotgun loaded with heavy shot. A deadly, close-quarter weapon with devastating power. Bodie didn’t wait. He judged where the man was behind the bar and put two shots through the paneling. There was a yell of pain.
‘Son of a bitch! Here’s yours, Bodie!’
The man came up yelling, taking an instant to locate Bodie, then more precious seconds as he attempted to line up the shotgun. Bodie didn’t wait. Held two-handed, his Colt blossomed flame and smoke as he fired. His bullet took the man between the eyes, blasting a fist-sized hole in the back of the skull. Blood and brains and hair-matted flesh clung to the mirror behind the bar. As he fell back the shot man’s fingers jerked the triggers on the shotgun. Both barrels erupted with a solid crash of sound. The double charge gouged the polished top of the bar, then struck one of the Lutz brothers who was climbing painfully to his feet. The man received the spreading charge in the face and chest. His lacerated body, streaming blood from the terrible wounds was thrown across the saloon floor, where he lay flopping around in agony, his blood spreading across the dirty floor in long, bright fingers.
Bodie climbed slowly to his feet. He touched his fingers to his bleeding cheek. Deep stabs of pain began to flare over his body. He heard somebody groan. It was the man he had hit with the beer glass. He was slumped at the base of the bar, bloody hands cupped against his face. Congealing blood hung from his hands in thin streams.
The saloon doors burst open. The marshal stepped inside. He stared round the silent saloon, shaking his head at the bloody state of the place. His gaze finally came to rest on Bodie as the man walked across the saloon towards him. Bodie looked a mess. There was blood down one side of his face, more of it soaking his coat and shirt. His Colt was still in his right hand. The marshal was on the verge of saying something when he caught sight of the look in Bodie’s eyes. A cold sensation grew in the marshal’s gut and he remained silent. He never knew just how close he had come to dying at that moment. Bodie had made himself a promise that if the marshal so much as uttered one word, he would use the remaining bullet in his gun to blow the man’s brains out.
And Bodie always kept his promises. Especially the ones he made to himself!
Chapter Three
Lyle Trask arrived two days later. By then Creel had worn out its excitement over the bloody gunfight between the Lutz brothers and the man called Bodie. It wasn’t as if the Lutz clan had been very popular anyway, people were quick to point out. A hard bunch of greasy-sackers, more than one opinion determined. The dead Lutz brothers were quickly buried. The wounded one had his face sewn up and returned to the ranch to recover and to brood in silence. The town of Creel talked the subject out and returned to normal. The only physical reminder of the incident was the lone, silent figure of Bodie. He went about his business, bothered no one, and expected to receive the same treatment. He got it, because nobody in Creel had any desire to become involved with the man who had taken on the four Lutz brothers and walked away with no more than a couple of bruises and a cut cheek.
Precisely at noon, Lyle Trask’s private train pulled into Creel’s tiny depot, shunted onto the short spur line running beside the main track, and waited in solitary splendor while one of Trask’s minions walked up into town to summon Bodie.
Bodie was in the hotel dining room eating his lunch. He listened in silence to what Trask’s man had to say, then carried on eating.
‘Don’t you understand what I’m saying?’ the man snapped. He was a hard faced, cold-eyed individual, dressed in a well cut gray suit. His shirt was white, starched. Short cut dark hair clung tightly to his square head like a cap. ‘Mr. Trask wants to see you now, Bodie!’
Bodie sighed. He put down his fork, swallowed the meat he was chewing, and raised his eyes to meet those of Trask’s man.
‘You ain’t talkin’ to Trask now, sonny, so don’t try to impress me how tough you think you are. Now, you’ve passed on your message. I suggest you trot off back to Trask, tell him how clever you’ve been, and go sit in a corner until he tosses you a bone. That’ll give me time to finish my meal before I come to see him.’
‘The hell I will, you son of a bi ... !’ The man’s hand moved towards the gun he wore in a shoulder-holster.
‘Be sure you’re going to kill me if you pull that thing out,’ Bodie said evenly, ‘because the minute I see it I’m going to blow your goddam brains all over this room!’
The man hesitated, staring fixedly at Bodie, and realizing that he was going to be in trouble if he carried the matter further. He let his hand ease away from his coat. What the hell, he thought, I’ve done what Trask ordered. I’ve given Bodie the message, it’s up to him now. He backed off a couple of steps, turned abruptly and strode out of the dining room and on out of the hotel. It was only when he paused on the boardwalk that he became aware of the sweat beading his face. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face angrily. Though he would never have admitted it to a living soul, the man called Bodie scared the hell out of him. There was an air of menace emanating from Bodie, a silent, invisible warning and it said don’t come too close, don’t push too hard.
Bodie, meanwhile, carried on with his meal. His appetite had waned a little. He was angry at the minor confrontation with Trask’s man. There was never any escape, he thought. No matter where a man went, there was always some hardnosed bastard trying to shoulder his way through life. They never asked, they always demanded. Never waited until something was offered. Their way insisted that they took. They went through life believing they had the edge over everything and everybody - until the day the hammer fell, and then they lay back and screamed bloody murder because they had got hurt.
Finishing off his meal, Bodie left the hotel. He took a slow walk through town and as the last of Creel’s buildings fell behind him, he cut off towards the rail depot. A dry wind, coming in off the flat Texas plain, lifted gritty dust that hissed through the bleached grass sprouting up between the rail ties. Bodie stepped across the main track, his eyes fixed on the squatting bulk of the train waiting on the spur line.
Trask’s locomotive, gleaming in black and maroon, fronted a long, richly decorated Pullman coach. At the rear of the coach was a wide observation-platform. As Bodie neared the platform, a tall Negro, wearing a white jacket, stepped through the door and stood waiting.
‘Mr. Trask is waiting to receive you, sir,’ the Negro said.
Bodie stepped up onto the platform and followed the Negro inside. He was led through the coach. The interior was plushly decorated. Inlaid wood panels lined the walls. Thick carpet covered the floors. All the fittings we
re of highly polished brass. The very air was redolent of wealth, of high-living. To Bodie it was stifling. He was not impressed by the trappings Lyle Trask surrounded himself with.
The man himself was a surprise. Lyle Trask, though dressed expensively, did not completely fit with the decor. He was a tall, solidly-built man who carried his years well. Women would have called him handsome. His blond hair, framed a strong, tanned face. Blue eyes. An easy, friendly smile. He came across the coach to take Bodie’s hand in a powerful grip, dismissing the Negro with a curt movement of his head.
‘Sit down, Bodie. Would you like a drink? Cigar?’
Bodie sat, watching the man as he filled heavy, cut-glass tumblers with fine, mellow whisky. Mr. Trask, Bodie told himself, is trying too damned hard.
‘Did you enjoy your lunch?’ Trask asked pleasantly. He handed Bodie a glass, settling himself in a leather armchair facing his guest.
‘I managed to,’ Bodie said.
‘I’m afraid you rather upset Teal,’ Trask said, smiling again.
‘That’s tough,’ Bodie said. ‘He’ll get over it. The way he acts it’s something he’ll have to live with. I’ve learned it’s a fact of life, Mr. Trask. You push somebody, then nine times out often they push back.’
Trask took a drink. ‘The way I hear it you’ve been demonstrating that very philosophy yourself. I’m referring to the run in you had with the Lutz brothers.’
‘It would have happened sooner or later. They chose sooner,’ Bodie stated, his tone indicating that he had no more to say on the matter. ‘Mr. Trask, I don’t need the bullshit. If you’ve got business to discuss let’s get to it!’
Lyle Trask’s face stiffened for a fraction of a second. He revealed in that instant that he was not used to being spoken to in such a manner. He expected subservience and most probably got it from the people he employed. But he quickly covered his inner anger, telling himself that this man Bodie was not like the everyday employee who jumped at each snap of his fingers. Bodie might jump, but it would most likely be to bite the very finger snapping at him.
‘Very well, Bodie, let’s talk business.’ Trask stood up and crossed to the large oak desk positioned at the far end of the coach. He picked up a sheaf of papers and returned to his chair. Leaning forward he handed the papers to Bodie.
‘I’m sure you recognize those faces.’
Bodie glanced through the sheaf of ‘Wanted’ posters. He knew them all.
‘Jim Tyree. Lee Kendal. Morgan Taylor. Jesse Largo. And the leader of the bunch - Hoyt Reefer,’ Trask said, identifying each face as Bodie exposed it. ‘The authorities have been trying to get their hands on Reefer’s bunch for years now. They have failed every time. Because of that failure, Reefer and his gang have been free to terrorize at will. They rob and murder, they destroy what they can’t use. Nothing is too risky for them. Nothing too low. I think it is time that Hoyt Reefer and his gang were wiped out. That’s why I asked you here. I think you are the only man who can do it, Bodie. And I’m willing to pay you $10,000 on top of the money being offered for the gang. If you add up the various amounts you’ll find the total is also $10,000. That would be $20,000 in all, Bodie. Just for delivering five dead outlaws!’
Bodie glanced up from the posters. He looked Trask in the eyes, wondering what was going on in the man’s mind Whatever it was nothing showed on Trask’s face.
‘I get the feeling there was a message in the way you said dead outlaws.’
‘You felt right, Bodie. Dead outlaws. No prisoners. Just corpses. Brought first to me.’
Bodie’s reaction was simple and direct. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Did you ever think, Bodie, that for a man like me there comes the day when I find I’ve reached the top? I’ve run out of things to buy and sell. I’ve built all I want to build. But I still have ambitions. One I’ve had for a long time. To go into politics. Right now I’ve reached the stage in my life where I can realize that ambition. I have the money. I have the contacts, too. And I have a certain amount of influence.’
‘How does Hoyt Reefer’s bunch fit in?’ Bodie asked, already forming a picture for himself and anxious to see if it fell in line with Trask’s reasoning.
‘I’m sure I don’t have to enlighten you on the need for law and order in the territory. Law enforcement agencies are having a hard time. It’s a case of too many criminals, too much territory and not enough lawmen.’ Trask smiled apologetically. ‘I don’t wish to appear disdainful, Bodie, but if there was enough effective law there wouldn’t be any need for your kind.’
Bodie drained his whisky. ‘You won’t hurt my feelings, Mr. Trask. It’s all been said before. You’re all the same. You don’t like me. A lot of you hate my guts. I’ve been called all the dirty names in the book. But when it comes right down to it, Mr. Trask, you still need me. Somebody has to clean up the horseshit. Your kind don’t like getting your hands dirty, so you pay me to do it for you. Trouble is you still complain about the stink. It’s one of those things about horseshit - it sticks. So we’ve all got to put up with the smell until somebody figures out a better way to clean up the mess.’
Trask refilled their whisky glasses. Returning to his seat he leaned back against the padded rest. ‘A speech like that, Bodie, could get you into politics.’
‘No thanks,' Bodie said. ‘Ain’t no profit in changing one dirty game for another.’
Trask ignored the remark. ‘I think by now you’ll have formed a picture of why I want to hire you. When I commence my campaign for the forthcoming elections, I shall be using as my platform the need for stronger law enforcement. The territory needs to be made safe for the growing communities. Lawlessness must be put down. I intend, Bodie, to make that my prime concern. And to prove my capabilities to the voters I intend to give them Hoyt Reefer and his gang. Not alive. Not behind bars, where clever lawyers can use the law to free them so they can carry on with their brutal ways. When I offer Reefer’s bunch they will be stone-cold dead. And that will mean a damn sight more to the voters than all the other airy promises they’ve been handed so many times before.’
From what he’d already heard Bodie could see Lyle Trask going far in politics. The man had the right kind of appeal. He would use the deaths of Hoyt Reefer and his gang as emotional rungs in the ladder that would lift him to the top of his particular tree. The voters would see Trask as a powerful force in the cause of law enforcement. As Trask himself had said, actions would speak louder than words. The voters would look at the dead outlaws and see physical proof of Trask’s promises. Not empty air but direct results. And Trask would see to it that the whole campaign revolved around his bodies not boasts election platform. Trask would stand a pretty good chance of being voted in, especially by the electorate of this part of the country. Texas had always been strong on the hard line when it came to law and order. The whole history of the territory had been one of direct action. Texans were noted for their lack of patience with the long-winded vocalizer. They would rather get on with the job themselves, being particularly aligned to the notion that actions speak louder than words. Texas was a big country. It contained a few people in comparison to its size. That meant there were a lot of families who might have to ride for a couple of days before they saw their neighbor. It created self-sufficiency in every man, woman and child. Look after your own came first. And there were enough distractions to put that philosophy to the test. If it wasn’t the Comanches and their Kiowa allies, it was Mexican bandits jumping the border. Then there were the white renegades, a lot of them still on the run from the war and so set in their ways they didn’t know anything except stealing and raping and killing. The Western expansion was creating problems too. There were range wars over grazing land. Over rights to water. The cattlemen fighting the farmers. Fighting the railroads. Fighting each other. As Trask had said, law enforcement was a big issue, and any man who showed willing in the cause of expanding the way for peace was liable to become a popular vote-catcher. And with Trask it would only be the beg
inning. Once he had his foot in the door he wouldn’t be happy until that door was the one to the Governor’s mansion.
‘Well, Bodie? Have I been wasting my time and yours?’
Bodie allowed a thin smile to curve up the corners of his mouth. ‘For what you’re paying, Mr. Trask, you can take all the time you want.’
