Bodie 1

by Neil Hunter

  He rode out, and once clear of Anderson’s Halt he cut off to the southeast, heading for the San Gabriel and an isolated water halt on the Austin-Fort Worth railroad.

  Chapter Ten

  Bodie picked up the gleaming twin tracks of the railroad on the morning of the second day out from Anderson’s Halt. It was the 24th. He cut down out of dry hills and let his horse make its own pace. The sun had already curved its fiery way into the sweep of blue sky overhead and was hammering down on the desolate Texas landscape. A wind was beginning to drift in through the brush. lifting gritty dust, rattling the brittle vegetation.

  He had ridden hard from Anderson’s Halt, stopping for only the briefest rest the night before. Now, as he neared the place he knew only as Tower 6. Bodie alerted himself. He drew his rifle from the scabbard and laid it across his thighs, one hand close to the lever. Somewhere up ahead of him, and not too far, was the tower where the tram from Austin would stop to take on water. If Bodie’s thinking was correct, there would be more than water waiting at Tower 6.

  There would be a group of men who were ready and willing to kill to gain the shipment being transported to Fort Worth.

  Time drifted by in a sultry haze. The wind increased, lifting more dust, sending writhing coils scudding across the sun baked earth. Bodie rode with the minimum of effort, conserving his energy. Excessive movement in this climate was a sure and certain way to lose the body’s natural moisture. A man could easily sweat himself dry. Dehydration could set in fast. Too many men had died through that kind of foolishness. Bodie had no intention of becoming one of them.

  He saw the smoke first. Dark smudges against the blue sky. The wind caught it and tore it into ragged patches, lifting it high over the parched, empty land.

  Bodie checked his horse, easing it away from the tracks. He took it through the thick brush and along a dry creek bed, keeping his eyes on the drifting smoke.

  Then he heard the first shots.

  Sharp, urgent sounds rattling out from behind the thrusting rise of ground before him. He slid from the saddle, dragging his horse into the concealment of high brush. He tied the reins to a tough root, checked his rifle, and moved off in the direction of the shooting.

  He crawled the last few yards, eyes narrowed against the drifting dust. On the crest of the rise he settled himself, and looked down on Tower 6. There wasn’t much to it. Just the high, trestled framework supporting the round wooden water tank. The long canvas flume hung on a weighted chain. That was Tower 6.

  On the track beside the tower stood a motionless train. A steaming locomotive, black smoke rising from the sooty stack, coupled to a half dozen boxcars and a caboose.

  The sliding doors of one boxcar were open. Bodie could see armed men clustered around the opening.

  On the ground beside the caboose a still figure clad in the uniform of a railroad conductor lay in the twisted sprawl of death, blood staining the upturned back. A second man, in oily overalls, was slumped down beside the locomotive, hands clutched tightly over the bloody wound in his stomach.

  Bodie watched the activity below with grim satisfaction. His guesswork had proved to be correct. He had already recognized Morgan Taylor and Jim Tyree, two of Reefer’s men. There appeared to be at least six men down there, so it seemed that Reefer had hired a few extra guns to make up for the missing Largo and Kendal.

  Even as Bodie watched he saw a tall, muscular figure step from the shadowed interior of the open boxcar and jump to the ground. Shaggy haired and unshaven, there was no concealing the broad features of Hoyt Reefer, his face set in a hard scowl. The renegade gestured to his men and said something which Bodie couldn’t catch.

  A couple of Reefer’s men climbed into the boxcar and began to slide long, narrow wooden cases to the open door. Bodie smiled. That was it. Cases of rifles. Probably there would also be boxes of ammunition. There were enough weapons down there to keep the Comanche and their Kiowa allies equipped for a long time. The knowledge angered Bodie. Out and out killers were bad enough. But Hoyt Reefer’s brand of business had a foul stench clinging to it. There was something sick about a man who could trade in human lives the way Reefer did. Because that was what his dealing in guns meant. The guns were sold to the Indians who would use them on Reefer’s own kind. Men, women and children would die at the hands of the Comanches. All through Hoyt Reefer’s doing.

  Bodie levered a round into the Winchester’s breech and settled the rifle against his shoulder. It was time he went to work. Time he started to earn the bounty he’d ridden so far to collect. And killing Hoyt Reefer and his bunch would be a real pleasure!

  The Winchester blasted flame, smoke whipping away from the muzzle as the wind caught it. Down below one of Reefer’s men, bending to ease a case of rifles to the open door of the boxcar, was flung brutally against the thick frame of the door, his skull bursting apart in a shower of blood and bone and brains. As the lifeless corpse slumped to the floor of the boxcar a second shot came. Morgan Taylor, who had snatched his gun from his holster at the sound of the first shot, gave a shocked grunt as a bullet ripped through his left hip. Taylor went down in a welter of spurting blood, his drenched trousers also wet from urine from his relaxed bladder. He fell in a crumpled heap, falling back against one of the boxcar’s wheels.

  The moment he’d fired his second shot Bodie got his feet beneath him and ran, crouching low, yards to the left. Reefer and his men were alerted and they would be spreading apart, finding cover, seeking the source of the shots. Dropping to the ground again Bodie peered over the rim, a grim smile etched across his face.

  He watched as Hoyt Reefer and his men ran for cover. One of them was making for the slope from where Bodie was doing his shooting. Bodie let the man get a few yards up the slope before he shouldered the Winchester and drove three quick shots into the unprotected body. The man screamed once, a high sound that trailed off in a wet gurgle as rising blood burst from his mouth. He twisted to one side and tumbled back down the slope, kicking and twitching against the savage pain inflicted by Bodie’s three bullets.

  A gun opened up from below, bullets whacking into the slope just below the rim. Shortly, other guns joined in. Bodie rolled away from his position and moved along the rim in the other direction, thumbing fresh cartridges into the Winchester.

  He heard a sudden rush of escaping steam from the stationary engine. As he flopped down in a fresh position he caught a quick glimpse of an overalled figure on the locomotive’s footplate. The engineer, still alive, was making the most of the sudden distraction and was pulling out all the stops in an attempt to move his train. He succeeded too. The entire train gave a sudden lurch, couplings clanging noisily. The big driving wheels on the locomotive spun, showering bright sparks before traction was gained, and then the train rolled forward.

  Morgan Taylor, barely conscious, felt the support at his back move. Through the fog of pain engulfing his body he experienced a jolt of fear. The train was moving! He was lying right up against the wheels too. Taylor made a vain attempt to roll clear. But the collar of his jacket had become hooked over one of the big nuts securing the wheel to the boxcar’s axle. Taylor screamed once as the rotating wheel lifted him. Helpless, he was raised bodily. The top of his head smashed against the underside of the boxcar, splitting open his skull as if it was nothing more than a flimsy eggshell. Blood streamed down over Taylor’s face. Still alive, Taylor flailed about in agony. As the wheel twisted him higher his collar ripped, freeing him. Taylor slumped to the ground and flopped back across the steel rail of the track. He had time for a fleeting awareness of where he was before the next set of wheels ran over him. The wheels spun his body over and over, leaving behind a long, grisly trail of pulped flesh, bone and greasy entrails.

  Pulling back from the rim, which was exploding under the impact of repeated volleys of shots, Bodie made for a pile of eroded boulders. He was within yards of the rocks when he caught the drum of hooves. He realized he wasn’t going to make the cover of the rocks and turned tow
ards the rim of the slope.

  Horse and rider burst into sight over the rim in a shower of dust and stones. Bodie had a blurred image of the rider, hatless, black hair streaming back from his wild-eyed face. The man’s mouth was wide open in a yell of fury. He reined his horse round savagely, cutting in at Bodie, driving the horse forward. Bodie had no time to level his rifle. He saw the looming bulk of the horse leaping at him and thrust himself off to one side. Fast as he was Bodie felt the solid smash of the horse’s hindquarters against his chest. The impact hurled him to the ground, his breath ripped from his lungs. He let himself roll, felt the Winchester tom from his grasp. Coughing and spitting dust from his mouth, Bodie dragged his feet under him, lunging upright, his right hand going for the Colt on his hip. He felt the familiar texture of the wood grips. Slid the heavy gun free, easing back the hammer as he half-turned, seeking the rider.

  A gun blasted nearby. The bullet burned a bloody furrow across Bodie’s left side. He ignored the pain, continuing his turn, and saw the rider. The man was struggling to settle his frisky horse and bring his own revolver to line up on Bodie.

  Still in a crouch Bodie thrust his Colt forward, angling the muzzle up towards the rider’s body. The rider yanked his own gun round in the same instant and the two men fired together. The shots merged into one heavy blast of sound.

  Bodie threw himself forward the instant he’d pulled the trigger, landing on his left shoulder, rolling over twice, then throwing out his left hand to steady himself as he thrust the Colt out and up again, triggering two swift shots.

  His first shot had taken two fingers from the rider’s left hand, leaving behind a pair of mangled, bloody stumps. The final two bullets found their way into the man’s body just beneath the lower rib, tearing apart organs and muscles alike. One of them shattered the spinal cord just before it emerged from the base of the neck, a gush of mangled tissue gouting from the ragged wound. The rider fell back out of the saddle. He hit the ground on his face, but he was already beyond feeling any more pain.

  Bodie climbed to his feet, running to where he’d dropped his rifle. He snatched up the Winchester, continuing on towards the rim. A curse rose on his lips as he saw three horsemen spurring their mounts away from the railroad tracks. Bodie threw his rifle to his shoulder, aimed and fired.

  The closest of the three riders threw up his arms and toppled from his saddle. He rolled over a few times, made a futile attempt to get to his feet, then fell face down on the ground and didn’t move again.

  The remaining pair of riders didn’t even look back. They simply spurred their horses on, finally vanishing beyond a long ridge.

  Bodie checked the condition of the rider he’d taken out with the shot through the spine. The man was dead. He was not one of Reefer’s regular men.

  Making his way to where he’d tethered his horse Bodie mounted up and rode down the slope. As he neared each body he checked to see whether they were alive. None were. There wasn’t much left of Morgan Taylor to check. His mangled remains were stretched along yards of the steel rail. There was a lot of blood splashed around and big black flies were already hovering greedily over the pulped remains.

  Dismounting, Bodie walked to where the last man he’d shot was lying. Bodie’s bullet had gone in between the shoulders, splintering a rib on its way out. The man was lying on his stomach, blood soaking the ground beneath his body. He was still alive. Bodie turned him over and saw the gaping hole where the bullet had come out. With each breath the man took a bright flood of blood issued from the wound. Again the man was not one of Reefer’s known men.

  ‘Where’re they heading?’ Bodie asked when the man’s eyes flickered open. ‘Reefer and Tyree, mister! I want to know!’

  ‘Go...fuck yourself...!’ The man hissed through tight clenched teeth. A long shudder racked his body. He stiffened abruptly; sweat gleaming across his gaunt face.

  ‘I ain’t got all day, you son of a bitch! Now tell me where they’re heading!’

  ‘How the hell...should...I...I...know!’ The man’s body spasmed violently. He coughed and bright blood flecked his lips. ‘Goddam you, mister...I ain’t going to make it! I hope...you...rot in hell!’

  ‘Won’t we all,’ Bodie said and stood up. He knew that the man wasn’t going to tell him anything. There was no point in wasting time.

  ‘You goin’ somewhere, mister?’ the wounded man yelled.

  Bodie paused and turned to look at the man. ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘What about me? Shit, you son of a bitch, you can’t just walk off and leave me like this! I need lookin’ to! I need doctorin’.’

  ‘I ain’t no doctor,’ Bodie said.

  The man yelled out suddenly as pain rose in his chest. He raised a pleading hand to Bodie. ‘For God’s sake, mister, you got to give me something for this...this pain... please...please!’

  ‘Sure,’ Bodie said easily. ‘I’ll give something and you won’t ever feel a thing again.’

  He lifted his Colt and put two bullets through the man’s skull.

  ‘Now see what you done,’ Bodie muttered as the dead man flopped back on the bloody earth. ‘All that fuss made you panic and lose your head!’

  Chapter Eleven

  The engineer had halted the train about a quarter mile down the track. Bodie rode out to meet him, persuading the man to bring the train back to the scene of the ambush. With the engineer’s help Bodie loaded the dead bodies into one of the boxcars. In the caboose he found paper and wrote a note, addressing it to Lyle Trask.

  ‘Is that the Lyle Trask?’ the engineer asked.

  Bodie nodded. ‘When you get to Fort Worth send a telegraph message to Trask and tell him to come and pick up the bodies.’

  The engineer frowned, scratching his head. ‘What is he? Some kind of crazy man? He goin’ to have ‘em stuffed or somethin’?’

  ‘There’s a thought,’ Bodie grinned. ‘Just send the message I’ve written. Trask’ll do the rest.’

  ‘Sure.’ The engineer watched Bodie check his horse. ‘You goin’ after them two?’

  Mounting up Bodie settled in his saddle. ‘Seems that way, feller.’

  The engineer climbed up to his cab. As he set his train in motion he glanced off towards the south. The rising wind had lifted a veil of yellow dust across the land, and the hard riding man on the big horse had already been swallowed by the rolling mist. The trail led due south. Reefer and Tyree were heading for the border. Bodie was certain of that. He became even more certain when the trail began to drift off towards the west. Reefer intended to lose himself in Mexico for a while. His gang had been shot to pieces, leaving him with a solitary survivor. Reefer would want time to think. Time to hire on new men before he took up his business again. Mexico could provide a sanctuary while he rested. It would also provide him with the men to rebuild his gang. There would be plenty of hungry guns ready to join up with Hoyt Reefer.

  The hot wind tugged at Bodie’s clothing, sifting dust into his eyes and nose. It filtered through his shirt, causing his skin to itch. It got into his mouth and left a sour, pasty taste to linger through the long daylight hours. Through it all Bodie kept riding, doggedly stalking his prey, and never once losing sight of the faint trail left by them in their hurried flight.

  As darkness settled over the wide land Bodie found himself a place to camp. He tethered his horse and built himself a small fire. He didn’t have a damn whether Reefer could see it or not. He hoped the renegade could. It would remind him that he hadn’t been forgotten. That there was somebody on his back trail. Following him. Sticking like glue.

  Bodie fried himself a couple of thick slices of salt-bacon. He brewed up a pot of coffee. When he’d eaten his meal he cleared his gear away and sat back with a thin cigar. He could relax for a little time. Bodie made the most of it.

  Beyond his small camp the limitless landscape lay bathed in faint moonlight. The dry wind was still moaning across the rolling miles of emptiness. Dust rattled against mesquite and cat claw.

 
Bodie’s horse abruptly snorted, pulling back against its tether. The sound brought Bodie to his feet in a fluid movement, his Colt in his fist. He kicked dirt over his fire, plunging the campsite into darkness. Dropping to a crouch Bodie moved quickly to where his horse stood. He stroked the animal’s neck, soothing it with soft words, and all the while his eyes were searching the darkness. Something other than the wind had startled the horse. What though? Man or animal? Bodie eased away from his horse and took a slow, careful walk around his camp. He saw nothing and heard nothing. Even so he spent a good half hour searching. Finally satisfied he returned to his blanket beside the extinguished fire.

  If anyone, or anything had been outside his camp, there was no sign of any intruder now. Bodie knew enough to be certain that he was alone again. But something had been out there. He felt a slight, but growing irritation. Something was going on that he knew nothing about. And Bodie did not like that. He hated mysteries. Especially when they involved him. He was thinking now about the strange deaths of Jim Kelly and the girl called Sherry back in Anderson’s Halt. The odd way they had died still bothered Bodie. He’d been too involved up until now to give much thought to the murders. Now, though, with this mystery visitor, the subject thrust itself to the forefront of Bodie’s mind.

  Who had killed Jim Kelly? And Sherry? Why had they been killed? What was the connection between the two? Had it been because they both knew Hoyt Reefer? Bodie doubted that Reefer had been behind the killings. The renegade would have lost a good contact if he’d had Kelly blown apart. And anyway, Reefer had been long gone when Kelly died. And what about Sherry? As far as Bodie had seen, Sherry was nothing more than a saloon girl who liked men. He smiled grimly to himself in the darkness. Liking men had got more than one girl killed. In Sherry’s case he didn’t think that was the reason. There was more to it. Bodie tossed the problem back and forth in his mind, trying to find reasons. To answer questions he kept asking himself. He got nowhere. All he did get was tired. He drew his blanket round him and settled back. He slept lightly, his Colt in his hand under the blanket.