Bodie 1

by Neil Hunter

  ‘Dana, how good are you with that carbine?’ he asked, the germ of an idea growing in his mind.

  Dana didn’t take her eyes from the slope she was watching. ‘Give me a clear shot and I’ll hit whatever’s in my sights!’ There was no glib tone to her voice. She was simply stating fact. Bodie believed her.

  ‘If I can get the feller up on the rim to show himself again - can you take him?’

  ‘Just try me, Bodie.’

  ‘I aim to, lady, so don’t you make a fool of me!’

  Dana turned slowly, resting the Spencer across the carcass of the horse. She eased back the hammer. Glancing at Bodie, her green eyes glittering with feline anticipation, she said: ‘You going to sit there all day, Mister Bodie?’

  Bodie allowed himself a wry smile. He half-rose, stepping out from the cover provided by the dead horse. A feeling of complete nakedness swept over him as he took a quick step forward, hoping that he was giving a convincing exhibition. Another step, then a third, and he was out in the open, as unprotected as a fly on a bare wall. Bodie wondered fleetingly if he’d done the right thing. But it was too late for quitting now. Come on, he swore angrily under his breath. Show yourself, you contrary son of a bitch! And then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement on the ridge. Sunlight glinting on the menacing rifle barrel. Bodie experienced a strong desire to turn back for the cover of the dead horse. Instead he kept moving forward, making for the base of the slope. With every passing second, each one stretching to what seemed an eternity, Bodie anticipated the crash of a shot, the sudden burst of pain, the paralyzing shock. Nothing came. From the ambusher’s rifle - or from Dana’s. What the hell was she playing at? Surely she’d had time to fire! Maybe all she’d told him had been fantasy! Jesus, maybe she didn’t even know how to operate the damn rifle! He was going to look a real . . . !

  The flat, hard sound of the shot caught him unaware. Bodie felt his body tense, waiting for the bullet to hit. But then the realization came. The shot had come from behind him. From Dana’s Spencer! Bodie threw a quick glance up towards the ridge and saw the ambusher slither over the edge, rolling, bouncing, tumbling, helplessly down the sandy slope. He hit bottom with a sudden smack, his head twisted at an odd angle. Even from where he was standing Bodie could see the pulpy hole the Spencer’s bullet had blown through the man’s chest and out between his shoulders.

  He turned, seeing Dana, a wide smile on her bruised face, standing up Bodie waved her down. He hadn’t forgotten that there had been two of them. The brief look he’d had at the face of the man Dana had just shot had confirmed him to be Tyree. That meant Hoyt Reefer was still alive and free, and if he was around he could show himself at any moment.

  He spotted a flicker of movement partway up the slope behind Dana. Saw a dusty figure step out from behind a half-buried rock, rifle already lifting. Bodie knew the face. He’d seen it too many times on posters ever to forget it. Hoyt Reefer! The man who had led the bunch of renegade killers Bodie had been tracking down.

  ‘Dana, get down!’ Bodie yelled. He lunged forward, bringing his rifle up as he moved. She had stared at him for a second or two. Fragments of time that were far too long. Hoyt Reefer’s rifle blasted a gout of flame.

  Dana’s smile vanished in a wide-eyed look of pure terror as Reefer’s bullet ripped through her body. It went in just at the top of her right shoulder, angling downwards to emerge from her left breast in a burst of bloody flesh. The front of her shirt was drenched in blood as she flopped forward across the carcass of the dead horse. Her face twisted round towards Bodie and he could see the blood gouting from her slack mouth. Her body twitched in the ugly spasms of approaching death.

  The moment Reefer’s rifle had fired Bodie leveled his own Winchester. He triggered one shot that missed, but which passed close enough to Reefer to startle him. The renegade, his unshaven face darkened even more by his wild scowl, yanked his weapon round and worked the lever frantically. His finger was just beginning to ease back on the trigger when Bodie fired a second time. The bullet clipped Reefer’s left arm, gouging a raw furrow through the flesh. Reefer grunted, jerked wildly on the trigger of his rifle, sending a bullet into the dirt at Bodie’s feet. Bodie launched himself forward, hitting the ground belly down, rolling off to one side before he thrust his rifle out and up at Reefer’s body. He touched the trigger, felt the rifle jerk as it fired, then saw Hoyt Reefer step back as the bullet punched a ragged hole in his side. Blood began to spread across Reefer’s shirt. Before the renegade could react Bodie fired again, then put four more bullets into Reefer’s twisting body. Each bullet tore its own bloody hole. Reefer’s front was drenched in pulsing scarlet. He made a supreme effort to fire his own weapon, yet again. Bodie, up on one knee, took what seemed to be a terrible deliberation over the last shot. When it came the sound rolled out along the dry creek bed, echoing briefly before fading to silence. The bullet took Hoyt Reefer just forward of his left ear, the angle of the shot taking it up through his skull, into the sensitive, delicate mass of the brain. Reefer’s body, already dead, took a final step forward down the slope, lost all control and plunged face down in the blood-spattered sand.

  Bodie stood up slowly, gazing about him. He reloaded his Winchester and then went across to where Dana lay across the dead horse. He eased her down to the ground. She was still breathing, though very faintly. Bodie opened her shirt and examined the wound. He knew at a glance that there was nothing he could do for her. The bullet had done too much damage during its flight through her body. The left breast had been mutilated badly and there was too much blood still flowing from the body.

  Dana’s eyes opened slowly and she stared at Bodie from the green depths. Finally she recognized him and tried to smile. ‘Hey Bodie...I got him...for you. Just like I said I would!’

  ‘Never doubt a lady’s word,' Bodie said.

  She nodded slowly. ‘You get...the...other?’

  ‘Hoyt Reefer? Yeah, he’s dead, Dana.’

  Dana sighed deeply, screwing up her bloody face in agony. ‘We’re all dead then, Mr. Bodie,’ she murmured.

  Bodie figured she was rambling, but when he glanced down at her a few seconds later he realized what she had meant. Her eyes were closed and her faint breathing had ceased.

  Hell, Bodie thought, she was right. They are all dead.

  Except you, he told himself. He stood up and stared about him. Wasn’t that always the way? They always ended up dead. He was always left alive - but alone. Always alone!

  Chapter Thirteen

  He buried Dana as well as he was able, covering the shallow grave he’d dug with his bare hands with heavy stones. A waste of a life, he thought, walking away from the mounded earth. But at least she’d got her revenge, and that could mean a lot to someone who had been badly hurt. Later he located the remaining horse that had belonged to the renegades. He wrapped Reefer and Tyree in blankets and draped them across the horse’s back, tying them down. After that he made a small fire and cooked himself a quick meal, brewed some coffee.

  He would ride Dana’s mount, and lead the horse carrying the stiffening corpses of Reefer and Tyree. San Antonio lay a good two day’s ride away. Bodie settled himself in his saddle for a steady pace. He wasn’t in any kind of hurry.

  A couple of hours later he realized that he was not alone after all. The feeling had been lurking at the back of his mind ever since the night he’d been disturbed in his camp. And there had been the strange killings too. The fact that he had been put out of action before Kelly’s murder. The more Bodie thought about the separate incidents the more certain he became of some kind of conspiracy. Awareness of it made little difference if he was in the dark as to the reason behind it all. And that annoyed Bodie. He liked to have his problems out in the open. In clear daylight where he could see just who was set against him.

  He began to take careful notice of his surroundings. The feeling of being shadowed grew stronger. Bodie knew without having to actually see them, that there was more th
an one. Outwardly he rode casually, making no sudden moves to warn his unseen adversaries. Beneath the surface his mind and body seethed with activity. Eyes moved back and forth, searching every shadow, checking every hollow, following every dusty ridge. His ears listened for a warning sound, tiny, whispered intonation. His very being was primed, rigid, taut. He knew that whoever these people were they wanted him dead!

  Dead and buried and forgotten!

  The sun rose higher in the shimmering sky, the pulsing orb drawing the very life from the parched earth. It reached its apex and hovered, as though waiting for some event to take place before it began the long westward slide into night.

  Bodie eased his horse across a sandy slope dotted with tangled mesquite. Solitary cacti dotted the terrain, poised and oddly menacing as they posed against the far-distant haze of the horizon.

  He heard the soft, nervous sound of a horse blowing through its nostrils. The sound was abruptly cut off and Bodie could imagine a rough hand being clamped across the animal’s muzzle. The sound had come from somewhere off to Bodie’s right. It was all the warning he needed! Snatching his rifle from its place on his saddle, Bodie kicked his feet free from the stirrups and rolled off his horse’s back. He threw out a hand to break his fall, letting his body curve and roll. He heard the sudden blast of a shot. Gritty sand misted the air around him as his horse, alarmed by the shot, broke into a wild gallop. It went down the slope, dragging the other horse with it.

  Bodie got his feet under him and ran, crouching as low as he could. He had seen a deep hollow in the ground ahead of him and that was where he was heading. The flat smack of gunshots followed him. He heard bullets whack the ground around him. Nothing touched him until the instant before he reached the edge-of the hollow.

  He felt the bullet rip its way across his back, then bite deeper through the fleshy part of his left arm, just below the shoulder. The impact of the bullet spun him round. Bodie went over the rim of the hollow and hit the slope near its base, some ten feet below. He struggled to his feet, ignoring the burning pain in his back and arm. He could sense the wetness of blood running down his arm, soaking his shirt, but he didn’t have the time to do anything about it.

  At the far end of the deep hollow lay a mass of tangled thorn and mesquite and brush. Bodie ran towards it. There was no way of telling just how deep the heavy brush might go, but it was the only chance he had of gaining any kind of cover. He plunged into the thick brush, paying no mind to the vicious thorns clawing at his clothes and the flesh beneath. A few scratches were preferable than a bullet in the back. Above the dry rattle of the brush as he forced his way through Bodie heard raised voices. They must have seen him go over the edge of the hollow. It wouldn’t take them long to figure out where he’d gone. Once that happened they would pick up his trail and start to track him again. It was a turnabout, Bodie thought wryly - the stalker being stalked! But they weren’t going to find him patiently sitting and waiting for the end.

  Hell, no!

  Whatever it was they wanted they were going to pay dearly. In blood.

  The tangled, knotted forest of brush and thorn seemed to spread forever. Here and there canebrakes rose out of the intertwined mass of brush. Dwarf trees grew alongside tornillo and blackjack, a green canopy over Bodie’s head as he moved on through the maze of vegetation. The Mexicans called this green hell the brasada. The great islands of thorny brush could go on for miles. It was easy to get lost in such places. In cattle country the brasada was a favorite place for the wandering longhorns. The steers loved the cool shade offered by the greenery and once in there it was no mean feat to get them out.

  The brasada was also home to the javelina, a vicious, bloodthirsty wild hog that had little respect for any living creature. Armed with razor-sharp tusks and enviable speed, the javelina would charge a man without hesitation. It had a nasty disposition and a habit of attacking without a moment’s warning.

  Crouching in the shadow of some thick scrub Bodie listened to the distant sound of his pursuers. The mass of the brasada bad the irritating effect of breaking up sounds, making it difficult to pinpoint where a given shout originated. Bodie sat back and let the sounds come closer. Somewhere he could hear a man on a horse. The brush crackled and popped as the heavy bulk of the horse pushed its way through. Bodie heard the man swear as sharp thorns ripped his flesh, drawing blood. Peering into the twisted mass of vegetation Bodie spotted the approaching bulk of man and horse. He rose to his feet and moved forward, coming to a natural break in the brush, and as Bodie stepped into the open on one side the rider broke through on the other.

  They saw each other in the same moment. The rider, a broad, squat man with a full belly hanging over his belt, dropped his reins and tried to lift the rifle he was carrying in his left hand. He was far too slow. Bodie’s Winchester swung up, blasting flame and smoke. The rider let out a hurt yell as Bodie’s bullet ripped a chunk of flesh from his left shoulder. Blood began to soak the rider’s grubby blue shirt. Bodie’s rifle cracked again. The rider’s head was jerked round by the terrible force of the bullet. A shower of blood streamed down over the rider’s face, clogging his eyes. Not that it made any difference, because by the time he hit the ground the rider was dead.

  Bodie ran towards the dead man’s horse. The animal, startled by the gunfire and the smell of blood, backed off. In his haste Bodie made a wild grab for the trailing reins. His abrupt movement made the horse bolt. It crashed off through the brush, tearing its sides on the vicious thorns.

  ‘Over there! He’s over there! Dammit, I heard the goddam shooting!’

  The voice was close. Bodie thumbed fresh bullets into his Winchester, noting that they were the last ones in his pocket. He moved towards the dead man, preparing to check his pockets. Then a shot crashed out. The bullet ripped through the brush, splintering tall canes, showering Bodie with needle-like slivers.

  ‘I see him! Over here, you assholes!’

  Bodie turned and plunged out of the clearing, deep into the clawing, thorny depths of the brasada. He felt something gouge the side of his face. Felt hot blood stream down his check from a laceration. Behind him he could hear the heavy crash of a horse being forced through the thick brush. The animal was making its protests heard, but its rider drove in his heels, yelling wildly at the top of his lungs.

  ‘Hey, hey, you sons of bitches! I got the bastard on the run! Look at him go!’

  That was the moment when Bodie stopped running, turned on his heels, and shot the yelling, grinning man out of the saddle. Bodie’s bullet hit him chest-high, spinning the man off to one side. He smashed bodily against an upthrust growth of cane he had just ridden his horse through. There was a moment’s silence and then a long, terrible scream of agony as the man’s body slid down onto snapped-off spears of cane. The needle points of splintered cane penetrated the soft flesh, pushing deeper as the weight of the man’s squirming body bore him down. The screaming died off in a wet gurgle as blood rose in the dying man’s throat.

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’

  ‘Harry? Damn you, Harry, where are you?’

  Smiling grimly Bodie eased his way deeper into the brasada. Maybe now they would think twice before they came again.

  He moved-through the thick brush for long minutes. When there were no more sounds he took time to rest. On his heels he gently exercised his arm, feeling the soft pulse of pain. The wound needed seeing to, but there was no chance of that out here. He reached across with his right hand, carefully probing the ragged tear in his flesh. His fingers came away sticky with congealing blood. Only now did he feel a slight sickness, reaction to the damage done by the bullet. He stayed where he was, making the most of his chance to rest, giving his weary body an opportunity to recover.

  He had been right about one thing. The bastards certainly wanted him dead. If the chance arose he wanted to get one of them alive. There were questions Bodie needed to ask. Like who wanted him dead. And why. He had enemies, of tha
t he was acutely aware. Who amongst them might suddenly decide Bodie needed killing? A faint grin edged his mouth. Knowing his enemies as he did that could cover them all!

  Bodie jerked upright, blinking his eyes. Damn! He rubbed his face. He’d almost drifted into sleep. The heat of the sun, sifting down through the green canopy, hung over him like a smothering blanket. Bodie licked his dry lips. He thought of his canteen, hanging from his saddle. It might as well have been a thousand miles away the good it was going to do him. Shading his eyes with his hand Bodie squinted up through the canopy of greenery over his head. He watched the sun for a moment, then slumped back, frowning. There were too many long hours before darkness. He wasn’t going to be able to sit back and wait for the dark.

  His ears caught a faint rustling m the brush off to his left. Bodie snatched up his rifle and edged back into the brush at his back. He heard the sound again. A dark shape emerged from the crisscross shadows deeper in the brush. Bodie made out the tall shape of a dark-skinned half breed. Clad in faded, tight Levi’s that molded themselves powerful, muscled thighs and knee-high Apache moccasins, his lithe body naked from the waist up, the breed edged from the brush. He paused, bright, keen eyes searching, head cocked as he listened. Bodie judged him to be part Apache and part Mexican. Black hair and glittering obsidian eyes. High cheekbones. The lips thick and flat below the hook nose. The breed’s only weapon, apart from the knife tucked down one of his moccasins, was a Winchester with a cut-down stock and a short barrel.

  Bodie knew the odd looking rifle well. He also knew its owner.

  The breed was known as Silverbuck. His name had come from his insistence in being paid in silver dollars for any work he did. Like killing a man. Or two men. Or however many men needed killing. Silverbuck never complained. He was good at his work. A silent, deadly, unfeeling killer for hire.