Bodie 1

by Neil Hunter

  Bodie went to his horse. He knew that he was at risk here. The last thing he needed was a Comanche raiding party on his trail, especially now that he’d gone and killed one of them.

  He was about to mount when there was a soft hiss of sound. Something ripped cruelly across the muscle of his left arm, drawing blood. Bodie glanced up. Only yards away was another Comanche. This one carried a bow and he was in the act of notching a second arrow. Bodie knew that he wasn’t going to outrun any arrows. There was no place to go. His only way to avoid being impaled lay in the holster on his right hip. Bodie realized what would happen if he used his gun. But he also knew what would take place if he didn’t stop the Comanche with the bow. And there was no time to consider the matter.

  Bodie thrust himself away from his horse, hitting the ground on his shoulder, rolling and coming up firing. His first bullet took the Comanche in the left shoulder and burst clear in a pulpy spray of flesh and blood. His next shot hit the Comanche in the chest, snapping the upper ribs before sloughing on to tear the heart apart. The Comanche went over backwards, arms and legs thrown stiffly apart in shock.

  Making a grab for the dangling reins Bodie hauled himself into the saddle, yanking his horse’s head round and ramming his heels in. The animal gathered itself and made a run for the low hills a distance away. Bodie forgot about Reefer’s men. He forgot about the $20,000 bounty. Right at that moment nothing mattered except putting some distance between himself and the Comanche camp just below the ridge. Bodie knew that when two dead Indians were found his life wouldn’t be worth a wooden cent if the Comanches got their hands on him. He had seen victims of Comanche torture and they were sights that stayed with a man for a long time. They were things that nightmares were made of. Bodie had no wish to become one of those nightmares.

  He rode hard and fast, knowing that he needed the distance, yet also aware that he was doing the one most fatal thing a man could do out here. He was pushing his horse to the limit. The rugged terrain, the constant, brutal heat, the lack of water. All were reasons why he shouldn’t ride his horse the way he was. The spur to urge him on, though, was too strong to resist.

  Bodie put his horse up the lower slopes of the hills. He could feel it begin to labor as the slope became steeper. He risked a halt, dragging the horse round so that he could check his back trail.

  And felt a hard jolt of fear in his gut.

  Far below him, but moving steadily towards the hills, were four Comanches on wiry ponies. Bodie watched them for a moment. Then, a silent decision made, he dismounted and pulled his Winchester from the saddle-scabbard. He edged along the slope until he found a wedge of flaking rock rising out of the earth. Settling behind it Bodie used the top of the rock as a rest. He levered a round into the chamber and sighted on one of the oncoming Comanches. The range was slightly over one-hundred-and-fifty yards. Well within the range of the Winchester. Bodie had owned the rifle for a good few years and he had it shooting as true as any weapon around. He eased back on the trigger while he aimed, holding back on the final fraction of trigger-pull. For long seconds he held his target in the sights, then touched the trigger. The Winchester cracked solidly, lifting as the bullet sped from the barrel. Bodie jacked another bullet into the chamber. Below, his target jerked suddenly in the savage aftermath of a .44 caliber rifle bullet ripping through his stomach, then slid from the back of his pony.

  The other Comanches reined in their ponies. They began to argue amongst themselves as to what to do next. In the scant seconds that passed Bodie fired another shot and put down a second Comanche. This one flopped to the ground, screaming in pure agony, his right eye blasted away by Bodie’s bullet, the ruined socket streaming blood.

  The remaining Comanches turned their ponies away. One decided he couldn’t leave behind his wounded comrade and rode back to help. Bodie let him reach the wounded Indian, then shot him off the back of his pony with a bullet through the head. The Comanche rolled back off his pony, hitting the ground on the back of his neck. Bone snapped and the Comanche’s head sagged to an odd angle.

  One Comanche remained. He made no attempt to return. He kept riding until he was well out of range, then reined in and sat waiting for more warriors to join him.

  That was how Bodie left the place. With three Comanches down, one standing watch, and more than likely the rest of the raiding party coming to join the fight. Bodie didn’t stop to find out. He climbed back into the saddle and rode on.

  Dry grass rattled under the hooves of Bodie’s horse as he took it across a flat meadow, edged with tall trees. At the far side a shallow creek glinted in the sunlight. The water looked cool and inviting but Bodie rejected the invitation to stop. He put his horse through the water at a dead run. Silver spray rose, soaking horse and rider. Then he was across, thundering up the grassy rise of the ground, into the shadow-dappled gloom of the trees. Hoof beats were muffled by the carpet of leaves for the time Bodie drove his horse through the trees. Abruptly he was clear, the hammer-beat of the sun striking him with stunning force. He leaned forward across the horse’s lathered neck, coaxing it on, well aware that his life depended on the animal’s stamina.

  He rode north for a time then began to swing east. Something at the back of his mind, maybe the animal instinct he often depended upon, told him it was the way to go. Overriding his survival instinct, demanding attention, his mind could not fully ignore the purpose for which he had come out here to the Llano Estacado. Hoyt Reefer and his gang. And that instinct determined his line of travel. If he was wrong he would try again. Circle and pick up tracks. But if he was right, and if he managed to shake off the pursuit of the Comanches, then he would once again take up his trail. Bodie had built up a deadly reputation as a hunter of men. There were no half measures in his profession. Bodie was the best. It was not affectation. Simply an awareness of his capabilities. It earned him the respect of some, the envy of others, and the hatred of many. It had even earned him a title, often used when men spoke of him. Never in his presence. But Bodie had come to hear of it, and though he never acknowledged it, the title remained. When men came together to talk and the subject turned to bounty hunting there was always one name at the forefront of their conversation.

  That of Bodie!

  The hunter of men who didn’t understand the meaning of the word failure. The man who, it was said, would trail a man clear to hell and fight the Devil himself for the bounty!

  Bodie - the man they called The Stalker!

  Chapter Six

  During the shadowed hours of the night Bodie lost the pursuing Comanches.

  He had maintained a strong lead throughout the day, and as the sun went down he had drifted into a wide, barren stretch of volcanic rock. The lava beds, a frequent sight in the parched badlands, were sterile relics of a long-ago period when the earth had been young. Thrown up during the violent upheavals of the earth’s formation, they remained as mute reminders of creation: black, hard, lifeless masses of fissured rock. Formed into twisted mazes, tunneled and crevassed, scoured by the dusty winds, seared by the brutal sun. Changed and ripped asunder by physical and climatic changes that had taken place thousands of years ago . . .

  Bodie had led his weary horse into the lava. Stumbling, cursing his own weariness, eyes aching from the day-long glare of the sun, he had drawn his horse deeper into the lava, seeking some remote place where he could rest. In his haste to get away from the Comanche camp Bodie had left his canteen behind. Now he was parched. Mouth dry. Throat aching from reflexive swallowing. He longed for a taste of cool water. But the longing only made the lack of water harder to bear. Without thought he brushed the back of his hand across his mouth, wincing at the pulse of pain from cracked, dry lips. He tasted the salty tang of blood on the tip of his tongue.

  Easing his way down a ridged slope Bodie found himself in a dim, cavern-like place. He moved in deeper, aware of a pleasant coolness in the air. Pausing he listened, picking up the distant echo of trickling water. He moved on, going further into the cave
rn. The undulating ceiling was no more than four feet above him. The light was fading fast when he rounded a bend and saw before him a shaft of pale light coming down a natural chimney in the rock. The light illuminated the shimmering water in a wide, deep basin. The source was some spring deep in the rock. Bodie could see the silver bubbles rising to the surface of the pool.

  Dropping the reins and letting his horse fend for itself, Bodie bellied down and took a mouthful of the water. It was icy cold and was the sweetest water he’d ever tasted. He drank sparingly, well aware of the penalties for swallowing too much water after a forced deprivation. Bodie pulled off his hat and tossed it to one side. Leaning right over the pool he plunged his head in, rinsing the gritty dust from his face. He sat up shedding water like a dog. Brushing back his thick dark hair Bodie picked up his hat, knocking the dust free before he jammed it back on. Climbing to his feet he went to where his horse stood, its head down in the water. He took a little of the food remaining in his saddlebags, threw his blanket roll down, and ate.

  As the light coming down through the rock gradually faded Bodie unsaddled his horse and secured it. Then he rolled up in his blankets and settled down for the night. He kept his handgun with him beneath the blanket. His rifle was propped up against the rock close by. He was certain he had lost the Comanches, but it didn’t cost him a thing to stay careful. He went to sleep knowing that his horse would warn him if he had visitors.

  He saw no one. Bodie might have been the last man alive during the next two days. After leaving behind the lava beds he had made wide sweeps back and forth across the empty land, looking for sign. During the afternoon of the first day he picked up day old tracks. They had been made by two horses. It seemed he might have been right about the two white men he’d spotted back in the Comanche camp. He followed the tracks and they led him to a small ranch nestling in well-watered land close to the Brazos.

  It was a lonely place, miles from anywhere, owned and run by three brothers named Brock. Or it had been. Now there were only two of the brothers still living. The third lay in a fresh grave. Bodie rode in to face a shotgun welcome and realized he was going to have to tread carefully until he had convinced the men holding the deadly weapons that he meant them no harm.

  ‘You keep both your hands in sight, mister!’ Clem Brock snapped, moving to one side of Bodie’s horse while his elder brother, Henry, walked slowly round to the other side.

  ‘Convince me you shouldn’t get both barrels through your belly an’ maybe I’ll ease off this trigger,’ Henry suggested. His broad face bore the livid marks of a recent beating. One eye was almost shut, the pupil barely showing. The flesh around it was swollen, purple and yellow. His lips were split and puffy.

  ‘I’m looking for two men,’ Bodie said. ‘Seems you might have found ’em first.’

  Clem eyed him warily. ‘You the law or somethin’?’ he asked.

  ‘Or somethin’,’ Bodie told him.

  The elder one cleared his throat and spat. ‘Goddam bounty hunter! You want to bet me I’m wrong, Clem?’ He inched the shotgun closer to Bodie. ‘Maybe I still should blow you out the saddle!’

  ‘What’s eating you, friend?’ Bodie asked.

  ‘Far as I’m concerned you ain’t no better than those two bastards who killed Will,’ Henry Brock yelled. ‘Bunch of animals is all!’

  ‘Easy now, Henry,’ Clem Brock said. He lowered his shotgun. ‘Look, mister, I were you, I’d move on. We don’t need any trouble. I figure we had enough the last couple of days. You’ll have to excuse Henry. Those two ... well they roughed him up pretty bad. Then when they shot down Will . . . it hit Henry awful bad.’

  ‘I’m just after them,’ Bodie said. ‘I’m not looking for anything else. ‘

  ‘Then get the hell off our land, mister,’ Henry yelled. He gestured violently with the shotgun, his face darkening with anger. ‘Go peddle your goddam business some other place!’

  Without another word Henry Brock turned and stalked off towards the low, adobe and timber cabin.

  ‘Just answer me one question,’ Bodie asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Those men. You hear any names?’

  Clem Brock nodded. ‘I recall hearing one call the other Largo. That’s all I can tell you.’ He glanced towards the fresh grave. ‘Now ride out, mister, ‘fore Henry works

  himself up to bein’ in a shootin’ mood!’

  ‘What were they after?’ Bodie asked gently, not prodding because Clem Brock wasn’t in the mood to be pushed. Clem Brock started to lift the shotgun then changed his mind. He lowered the weapon, shoulders sagging. ‘What the hell! You want to know what those bastards killed for? I’ll tell you, mister. Two goddam horses is all! They’d ridden their mounts to a standstill an’ wanted fresh ones. When we didn’t agree they pulled guns on us. One of ’em beat up on Henry, an’ when Will got mad enough to try somethin’ the one called Largo Just shot him down!

  ‘Figures,’ Bodie said.

  ‘Sounds like’ you know ‘em well.’

  ‘I know ’em. Those two belong to Hoyt Reefer’s bunch. I trailed ’em from a Comanche camp where they been selling guns.’

  A wild look showed in Clem Brock’s eyes. ‘Bastards! I wish I could get my hands on the sons of bitches!’ He stared hard at Bodie. ‘It true what Henry said? About you being a bounty hunter?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You aim to bring those bastards in alive?’

  Bodie smiled mirthlessly. ‘Far as I’m concerned they’re dead already,’ he said.

  Clem Brock nodded in satisfaction. ‘When you kill ‘em, mister,’ he said, ‘make ‘em feel every shot.’

  Bodie reined about and moved off across the yard, away from the ranch, picking up the trail left by Reefer’s two men.

  Mid-morning of the following day he came in sight of his quarry. To be precise he sighted the place where they had temporarily gone to ground. It was no more than a sprawling old trading post, stuck down in the middle of nowhere. A long, low adobe building. A couple of smaller huts, Off to one side stood a rickety corral, the fence posts bleached white, dried out and split. Dotted about the place were various oddments from dismantled wagons, empty barrels, half-rotted boxes. At one end of the main building was a stack of empty bottles. A pile of rotting food was black with wildly buzzing flies. A faintly sweet smell, that of decay, hung over the place. As Bodie rode in he spotted a couple of mangy dogs lurking in shaded corners. A few scrawny chickens paraded across the hard-packed dusty yard. Passing the corral he looked over the horses and spotted two wearing brands on their hips in the form of large letter B inside a circle. It was the same brand he’d seen on cattle near the Brock ranch.

  There was a sagging hitch rail outside the main building. Bodie eased out of the saddle, looping his reins over the rail. Glancing over the top of his saddle he saw a door in one of the smaller huts swing open. A naked Mexican woman appeared. She leaned casually against the doorframe, watching Bodie. There was an expression of utter boredom on her brown face. Tangled black hair hung thickly across her shoulders. As Bodie emerged from behind his horse the woman stretched, yawning, large, well-shaped breasts quivering with her movements. Then she reached down and lazily scratched at her matt of black pubic hair. Her gaze met Bodie’s and she stared at him defiantly.

  Smiling to himself Bodie reached the door and pushed it open. He stepped into a room that ran the length of the building and took up a great part of its width. A press of stale air reached Bodie’s nostrils as he took a quick glance about him. The room was an untidy mess. A conglomeration of store and saloon. Goods were stacked haphazardly in every available foot of space, piled on shelves, even hung from the ceiling. Further along the room a bar had been built from thick planks placed on the top of large barrels. Shelves behind the bar held bottles and glasses. A couple of tables and a number of chairs stood in a clear section of floor.

  Bodie made his way down the bar. He had already spotted the figure behind the counter. A huge, bald-heade
d man, who was watching Bodie’s approach with open hostility. He leaned against the edge of the bar, arms braced on the scarred top, his great hands spread flat.

  ‘You want somethin’?’ the man asked, his tone indicating that Bodie’s answer ought to be in the negative.

  Bodie glanced about him, taking note of the doorway at the far end of the bar. He turned his attention to the surly bartender.

  ‘Could be,’ Bodie said.

  The bartender’s fleshy face twitched with agitation. ‘Then make up your mind, bucko, ‘cause I ain’t standin’ here waitin’ for the daisies to grow!’

  ‘The two fellers who rode in on the Circle-B horses. They still here?’

  The bartender’s reaction was immediate and violent. His left hand swept up from the bar, powerful fingers fastening on Bodie’s shirt. Yanking the man hunter towards him the bartender wrapped his other arm round. Bodie’s neck, hugging him tightly to his barrel chest. Bodie felt his throat constrict precious air being cut off.

  ‘Hey, Eddie! In here! We got trouble!’ The bartender’s voice bellowed his alarm with enough force to rattle the bottles on the shelf behind him.

  Bodie, half-dragged across the bar, struggled to maintain some kind of balance. He was at a distinct disadvantage but by no means helpless. He realized he wasn’t going to break the grip of the powerful arm about his neck, which was expected of him. So he used all his strength to swing his body all the way across the bar. He caught the bartender unaware. The big man went backwards, smashing into the bottles stacked shelves behind him. Bottles splintered, spilling liquor. The bartender gasped as keen slivers of shattered glass drove into the flesh of his lower back. The sudden pain caused his grip to loosen slightly, giving Bodie a chance to gulp in quick breaths of air. The moment his feet touched the floor Bodie made a grab for his holstered Colt, but the bartender’s free hand slapped the gun from Bodie’s fingers as it came from the holster. At the same time he regained his crippling hold around Bodie’s neck, throwing his other arm around Bodie’s body. Bodie felt his ribs move under the pressure, and he knew that if he didn’t do something fast he was going to be crushed. He kicked out at the edge of the bar behind him, getting enough force to shove the bartender up against the shelves again. More bottles were dislodged, smashing as they hit the floor. Bodie threw out a hand, fingers searching blindly. He slid his hand along a shelf, felt the sharp bite of broken glass. Ignoring the pain he thrust his hand against the shelf again. He touched the cold shape of a bottle and closed his fingers over the neck The bartender became aware of what he was doing and lunged away from the shelves. He rammed Bodie’s body up against the edge of the bar, bending him back against the natural curve of the spine. Cold sweat broke out on Bodie’s face as pain flared up in protest. He gripped the bottle tight in his fingers and struck it on the hard edge of the bar. The bottle bounced off the hard wood. Bodie struck a second time. The bottle broke, splintered glass exploding across the bar.