Bodie 5

by Neil Hunter

  Fran caught herself, face flushing. “Was I on my soapbox? Well, there’s no reason you shouldn’t know, Bodie, I am involved. My uncle, Amos Skellhorn, is the man leading the fight against the Major. He’s been fighting Butler for years over all kinds of things. It’s no secret that the Major has had his eyes on the Kittyhawk for a long time. But there isn’t a thing he’s ever been able to do. Every spread on the Kittyhawk is legally owned, right down to the last blade of grass, by each man who runs an outfit. If the truth were known, it’s probably the Major who doesn’t have legal title to all the range he’s taken.”

  Somewhere in the building a clock chimed softly. Fran glanced up, startled, rising from her seat.

  “Heavens, I’ve got work to do!” She snatched up an apron from the table and tied it about her waist. “I’ll show you the room upstairs and then get ready to open up. As soon as I can I’ll bring you something to eat”

  “Don’t worry about me,” Bodie said.

  “When I close up we can decide what’s best for, you.” Fran stopped speaking for a moment, her eyes raking Bodie’s face. “You do trust me? Don’t you, Bodie?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. He lifted the cup he was holding. “When somebody can make coffee as good as this you can’t do anything but trust them!”

  Chapter Eight

  From the window of the small bedroom above the restaurant Bodie was able to observe the nightlife of Elkhorn in comparative comfort. He’d only been up there for a half hour when Frank Lowery rode in. Lowery was accompanied by an older man - probably in his early fifties - who carried himself as if he had a steel backbone. There was something in the manner of the man, the way he looked about him, the brusque motion of his hand when Lowery asked a question, that told Bodie he was looking at Howard Butler - the Major himself.

  By the time Lowery and the Major arrived back in town, the initial fuss over the shooting at the jail had died down. Contrary to what Bodie had expected, there was little organized search for him. Bodie had watched the body of the deputy called Rick being carried out and taken away up the street. Shorty, his arm in a temporary bandage and sling, eventually came out of the jail with the doctor. Together they vanished into the darkness. That seemed to leave the third deputy - Vinnie - on his own. He appeared in the doorway of the jail with a couple of tough-looking characters who took the rifles he handed them, gathered their horses from the hitch rail and mounted up. Vinnie gestured in various directions and the two riders moved off up the street After that things got fairly quiet again, and nothing of much interest occurred until Elkhorn’s law returned.

  Lowery and the Major dismounted and went inside the jail. The heavy door to the office closed and stayed closed. Bodie would have given his right arm to have been a fly on the office wall at that time. Whichever way the story was told, Frank Lowery was going to come out of it looking a damn fool. And that wasn’t going to add to his fondness for Bodie. The man hunter grinned into the dark room. The hell with the whole bunch, he thought. I hope they all have a bad night!

  The Major stayed in the jail for over an hour. He finally emerged, slamming the door shut, and striding across the boardwalk. In the saddle he rammed his heels into his horse’s sides, causing the animal to pull against the reins. For a moment it seemed as if the animal might overcome its rider in the struggle. But the Major, by sheer will power and brute strength, hauled the animal’s head round, and held the trembling horse motionless. He sat there for a moment, as if daring the horse to question his will again, then jabbed in his heels and rode off up the street, into the pool of darkness that lay beyond the jail.

  That seemed to be that, Bodie decided. He moved away from the window and sat down on the edge of the soft bed. He unbuckled his gun belt, hanging it over the back of the wooden chair standing beside the bed. He made sure that the Colt and the knife were both easy to get at. He leaned the Winchester against the wall on the other side of the bed.

  Stretched out on the bed he let the silence envelope him. Below he could pick out the muted sounds from the restaurant. He found himself thinking about Fran Skellhorn. When he’d seen her earlier, while he’d been eating, he hadn’t given her more than a passing acknowledgement. Her ready grin had concealed her true personality. Bodie had seen her as little more than a gawky, not-too-beautiful young woman. His second meeting with her had dispelled those impressions. Fran Skellhorn had an agile brain inside that head of hers, and there was more to the girl than might be initially apparent. On a more basic level he found himself wondering why he found himself attracted to her - because he’d realized that he was. She had an open manner liable to frighten off many men - those who preferred a woman to be totally subservient, without the kind of abrasive quality that Fran Skellhorn possessed. Maybe it was that part of her that Bodie liked.

  He had drifted off into half-sleep, his body taking the opportunity to catch up on some of the rest he was denying it. Then his deep rooted instincts warned him something was different, and Bodie came awake instantly, snatching the Colt from its holster, hammer going back, loud in the silence.

  And that was it.

  The silence. Complete, almost a physical sensation, reaching out to envelope him.

  Bodie sat up, listening for a moment. Then he relaxed, easing the hammer down on the gun. Damn fool! He shook his head. The reason for the silence was below him. In the deserted restaurant. Deserted because Fran had closed up for the night, locking the doors behind her last customer. Bodie swung his feet to the floor, working some of the stiffness out of his body as he stood up. He moved to the window and checked the street. Empty except for a couple of stragglers wending their way home. He eyed the jail. Even the office light had been extinguished. The building was in darkness.

  There was a soft tap on the door. Bodie crossed the room and opened it. Fran Skellhorn stood there, framed by the landing light, a tray in her hands.

  “I’ve brought you some coffee,” she said. “And a plate of sandwiches. I hope you like cold beef and homemade pickle.”

  “Sounds fine,” Bodie said, taking the tray from her,

  Fran closed the door and went to peer out of the window. “I saw the Major come and go. Seems they aren’t too concerned about finding you.”

  Bodie, pouring himself some coffee, glanced up. “I don’t reckon that’s the end of it.”

  Turning from the window, Fran folded her arms, watching him eat. “It might sound funny, Bodie, but it’s a little unsettling to have a man up here. This used to be my room. I…I’ve only ever had one other man in here.”

  “You make it sound like you regret it.”

  She smiled. “No. It’s just that it was a long time ago.”

  “No friends nowadays?”

  “One or two people I know.”

  “Nobody special?”

  Fran shook her head, her eyes revealing the inner yearning. “Not in that way,” she said. “There was - but things change, and people - and then I had to take over the restaurant when my mother died. It doesn’t leave much time for socializing.”

  “You expecting to keep the place going forever?”

  A bitter smile edged Fran’s mouth. “You only get so many chances in life, Bodie. Like I said - mine didn’t work out. Who knows, maybe it was my fault.”

  “He run off with somebody else?” Bodie asked directly.

  A brittle gleam shone in Fran’s eyes. “Yes, damnit! Does it show so obviously?”

  He glanced up at her. “What?”

  “My inability to attract a man!”

  “Hell, no, Fran,” Bodie said. “You got no call to say that about yourself.”

  “Don’t try and fool me, Bodie. I’m no raving beauty and I don’t have enough grasp of the spoken word to sparkle with wit and conversation.”

  “You reckon that’s a good enough excuse to bury yourself behind a kitchen stove for the rest of your life?”

  Fran stared at him, as though a truth had just dawned on her. “Is that what I’m doing? Maybe you’
re right, Bodie.” Then she sighed, shoulders slumping. “I said I lost my chance. So I have to live with it” She hesitated, reluctant to take her point to its natural conclusion. “But living with it isn’t always easy. I’m a healthy woman and it’s a lonely life sometimes, Bodie…and I think you could be in the same situation too. So you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

  Bodie didn’t speak. There was no need. He could appreciate her position, and he was sympathetic with her situation. It had to be harder for a woman. Much harder.

  Fran crossed to the door and left the room quietly.

  Bodie sat alone in the semi-darkness with his tray of food and his dark thoughts.

  Later he had a quick strip-wash with the water Fran had left for him in the tall jug on the dresser. Dumping his clothes on the chair beside the bed he slid under the cool sheets. He lay for a while, listening to the soft sounds of Fran moving about in one of the adjoining rooms. Then even that noise ceased. Bodie settled down, sleep drifting over him slowly.

  He heard the door of his room open. Bodie reached out and grabbed the Colt, swinging it in the direction of the door, his finger easing back the hammer. Then just as quickly he relaxed and lowered the gun.

  Soft lamplight from the landing outlined Fran’s tall figure. She had loosened her thick hair, allowing it to hang down her back. Gently she closed the door as she slipped into the room, padding across the floor. The bed creaked softly as she lowered herself down beside Bodie, drawing the covers up to her neck. He felt the smooth firmness of her naked hip and thigh against his body.

  “All I want is a few hours, Bodie,” she said out of the darkness. “No strings. No recriminations. Not even a thank you. Just the time between now and morning...”

  Her warmth roused him as she turned her body to him, hands reaching out to touch him, fingers trembling. Bodie held her gently and Fran gave a low cry that might have been relief - or even fear - as he ran his hands across and down her naked back, over the swell of her buttocks, caressing the long, tense thighs. She twisted over on to her back, pulling his face down to hers, soft, moist lips parting beneath his. Bodie cupped his hands over the soft breasts, fingers teasing the rising nipples. Fran squirmed against him, lifting her strong hips. A sharp, expectant gasp came from her as she became aware of his risen hardness thrusting against her flat stomach.

  “Oh, Bodie,” she whispered in a voice that betrayed her aching loneliness. “It’s been such a long, long time.” And then she eased apart her thighs for him. Bodie guided himself to the heated moistness, carefully entering her until Fran relaxed enough for him to penetrate fully. Then she let out a long, shuddering groan, arching her strong thighs over his hips. She began to thrust her hips and buttocks up off the bed, straining violently as if she needed to get Bodie even deeper inside her. In the darkness of the room, out of the closeness of their coupling, rose a hoarse, ragged expelling of breath. The sound came from Fran’s lips, deepening and strengthening as she approached a rising climax. As the spasm took her the husky breathing ceased. Fran threw back her head, the taut flesh of her face glistening with sweat, mouth open to release a long, much welcome cry of pleasured relief. The sound lingered, floating in the shadows above the gently creaking bed, and soon there was no sound at all.

  Chapter Nine

  “There’s my uncle’s place.”

  Bodie followed Fran’s finger. He could make out the shape of a long, low house sheltering in the leafy shade of tall trees. As Fran set the team in motion, taking the buckboard on along the trail, approaching the ranch, he was able to see that Amos Skellhorn’s place was more than just a small outfit. The ranch buildings were well built, cleanly painted, the whole place organized and self-sufficient. It was obvious why Skellhorn had refused to move out and why he had refused financial compensation. Money couldn’t buy what had gone into this outfit. The man’s life had built the place. There was his sweat and probably his blood, too, in the ranch, and asking a man to put a price on it was like asking him to put a price on his newborn child.

  As they rolled into the yard fronting the house the door swung open and a tall figure stepped out, the sunlight glinting on the barrel of the rifle held in large, work-hardened hands.

  “Uncle Amos,” Fran called. “You put that thing down now. This is a friendly visit.”

  Amos Skellhorn lowered the rifle, striding across to the buckboard, a wide smile on his brown, craggy face. He wore a thick, dark beard that covered the lower half of his face but which failed to hide the still-healing bruises marking his cheeks. As Skellhorn reached the buckboard he stared past Fran, his wary eyes raking Bodie’s face closely.

  “Who’s he?” Skellhorn asked.

  Fran stepped down off the buckboard. She touched Skellhorn lightly on the shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “He is a friend,” she said. “His name is Bodie, and he’s come looking for Jody Butler and some of his partners in crime.”

  “Crime? What crime?” Skellhorn asked, puzzled.

  “Murder,” Bodie said. “Butler and three of his friends killed a man back in Pine Ridge a while back. I’ve come to take ’em back there.”

  Skellhorn digested the information for a moment. “You taking ’em dead or alive?”

  “The way feelings are between them and me I can’t see it being anything else but dead. When they see me they’ll know they ain’t about to get a second chance - not after what they did to me the first time we met - and I ain’t about to go sending invitations out before I start shooting.”

  “Bodie, I’m beginning to like you,” Amos Skellhorn said. “Come on inside, the both of you, and we’ll talk over some coffee.”

  The inside of the house was up to the standard of the exterior. Amos Skellhorn led the way through to the large kitchen and indicated chairs they could use. He brought cups and a large pot of coffee. When he’d poured three cups and seated himself at the head of the table Skellhorn gave Bodie another long, searching look.

  “You hear about our problems?” he asked.

  Bodie nodded. “Only thing I can’t figure is why you’re just sitting back and letting them come to you. Why not take the fight to Butler? Give him a taste of what he’s handing out to you.”

  “Fran, I like this man,” Skellhorn said. “Hell, Bodie, I wish you were with us. I’ve been trying to get my people to do just what you suggest. But they reckon we’re doing enough by digging in our heels and refusing to let Butler intimidate us.”

  “A man like Butler understands one thing. Direct action. Ain’t no damn good just shaking your fist at him. You’ve got to let him feel it. Make him taste his own blood. Hurt him.”

  “He means what he says, Uncle Amos,” Fran interrupted. “Bodie hadn’t been in town long before Frank Lowery threw him in jail for asking questions about the Major.”

  Skellhorn threw a sharp glance in Bodie’s direction. “And you got out?”

  “It wasn’t hard.”

  “Lowery’s deputies tried to stop him. Two of them are hurt and Rick Jenner is dead.”

  “Well that’s one who isn’t going to be missed,” Skellhorn said. “Bodie, you play a hard game. Right now, though, I wouldn’t want to change places with you. The Major takes it pretty hard when a man working for him gets hurt. He’ll be in a hanging mood.”

  “That’s nothing fresh,” Fran murmured.

  “Oh?” Bodie asked.

  “By now you’ll have figured out the way Butler runs Elkhorn. Pretty much his way. And there are times when it gets a little rough. There’ve been a number of hangings over the past few years. All done by Butler’s so-called Regulators. Hell, the man must think we’re stupid. Everybody in the territory knows the Regulators are Butler’s men hiding under hoods. They’re nothing but a bunch of killers.”

  “Up to now they’ve only hung rustlers and horse thieves,” Fran said. “No trials. They just picked them up, rode into town and hanged them. It was terrible to see.”

  “I’ve got a feeling that’s what they have in store for
some of us on Kittyhawk Creek,” Skellhorn said. “Butler’s bound to make another move. And when he sees that what he’s doing now hasn’t moved us, he’ll try something else. And somebody is going to end up dead sooner or later!”

  “So let it be some of them and not you,” Bodie told him. “Next time you…”

  His final words were lost in the brittle crash of breaking glass as one of the windows at the front of the house shattered.

  Bodie grabbed his rifle and followed Amos Skellhorn through to the living-room. Glass littered the floor near the broken window and a large rock lay on the rug in the centre of the room.

  Stepping to the side of the broken window Bodie peered out and saw a straggling line of horsemen ranged across the yard. He counted nine of them, every man armed, and all of them wearing crude white hoods over their heads and shoulders.

  “Amos Skellhorn, step out here!” one of the hooded men yelled.

  Bodie glanced at Skellhorn, who was standing at the other window, his face dark with anger.

  “Comes a day when you’ve got to decide who’s running your life, Skellhorn,” he said.

  Amos Skellhorn hesitated, but only for an instant. And then he lifted his shotgun, driving the muzzles through the glass. Before the glittering particles had touched the ground Skellhorn’s shotgun exploded with heavy sound, a gout of flame and smoke erupting from one barrel.

  A hooded rider rolled sideways out of his saddle, the front of his shirt blossoming with spreading scarlet. The rider crashed to the ground and lay twitching in a pool of his own blood, his chest pulped to the bone by the devastating power of the shotgun blast.

  There was momentary confusion amongst the riders. It was obvious that they were not used to the idea of someone actually fighting back, and it had left them temporarily at a disadvantage.

  “Hit ’em!” Bodie snapped. “Now - while they’re thinking about it!”

  He thrust his rifle through the window and started shooting, raking the line of riders with a deadly volley. He emptied two saddles, his bullets tearing bloody gouts of pulped flesh from jerking bodies. A third rider skewed half out of his saddle, barely managing to stay on his horse, clamping a hand over the blood spurting wound in his shoulder.