by Neil Hunter
Towards midnight Bodie dragged himself from his blanket, shivering against the biting chill of the mountain air. Ride in his hand he crossed to where Rostermann sat with his broad back against a rocky outcropping.
‘Getting worried, Bodie?’ Rostermann asked.
‘No. Just can’t sleep thinkin’ about you missing your rest.’
Rostermann glanced up at the man hunter. ‘Bodie, if you were as good-looking as you are funny, you‘d be one hell of an ugly bastard!’
‘Yeah?’ Bodie nudged Rostermann with the toe of his boot. ‘Go and get yourself some sleep.’
Rostermann climbed stiffly to his feet and crept silently away. Taking the soldier’s place, Bodie laid his Winchester across his knees, staring off into the night-shrouded slopes.
In the pale light of the coming dawn Rostermann rolled out of his blanket and rekindled the fire. He put on a fresh pot of coffee, cooked a quick breakfast, and had it on the plates as Bodie came back into camp.
Silently accepting a mug of coffee Bodie crouched by the fire. He could feel Rostermann’s eyes on him. Finally he glanced across, smiling thinly.
‘So you were right,’ he said bleakly.
Rostermann’s reaction was a satisfied grunt. He thrust a plate at Bodie, who took it. They ate breakfast with the minimum of fuss, clearing away their gear as soon as they’d finished. Rostermann killed the fire, kicking dirt over it to make certain there wasn’t a single spark left. He joined Bodie by the horses, checking his saddle and gear. As he thrust his carbine back into the sheath, he peered across his saddle at the man hunter.
‘They’ll know there’re only two of us now,’ he said. His gaze rose and he scanned the rising hills, the distant peaks.
Sunlight was beginning to edge over the highest crests, spilling down the clefted rock faces, cleaving through the dark stands of timber on the higher slopes. Thin mist ghosted up out of the valleys and ravines, melting away as the warmth of the sun drove the night chill out of the crisp air.
Bodie eased himself into the saddle, gathering rein.
‘Ain’t us they’re bothered about as much as the horses and guns,’ he said.
‘We can end up just as dead,’ Rostermann grunted. He pulled his horse’s head round, falling in behind Bodie.
They cut off across open ground, urging the rested horses up the first slopes, letting the animals pick their own way across the rocky, loose surface. Full daylight was on them by the time they had reached the first crest of the section they were crossing. The ground leveled out and they found themselves faced by a high-sided canyon.
Sheer rock walls arced up for hundreds of feet. The canyon was wide, close on a quarter of a mile, the dusty ground littered with fallen rocks that ranged from mere pebbles all the way up to house-sized monoliths.
Rostermann moved in his saddle, taking the weight on one hip as he surveyed the canyon.
‘One hell of a place to get caught with your pants down,’ he remarked, voicing Bodie’s own thoughts, 'Ain’t no other way through,’ Bodie told him. He leaned forward and slid his Winchester from the sheath.
Unfastening the flap of his holster Rostermann took out his .45 caliber Army-issue Colt. With practiced ease he checked the loads, spinning the cylinder to see that it was free. Then he dug in his heels and set his horse forward.
They rode in slowly, each man taking one side of the canyon, eyes scanning the fall of huge rocks. Not that there was anything to see. Apart from themselves nothing moved in the canyon. It lay silent and empty before them, bright with sunlight, the air already heavy with trapped heat.
As they rode deeper in the great, sheer walls rose on either side, enclosing them. High overhead the pale wash of blue sky. A few ragged streaks of white cloud. Above all silence.
And a haunting stillness ...
The sound of a hoof striking a sharp stone. The echo rolling along the canyon, like the ripples from a stone dropped in a still pool. The faint creak of saddle-leather.
A musical ring as bridle fittings touched. Small sounds.
Normally insignificant. But now magnified in the extreme.
Behind them the dust they had raised hung in the air like fine mist. It shimmered in a heat haze, soft motes settled slowly, drifting, almost as if in a dream.
Time seemed to stretch. Movement exaggerated. Like sleep-walking.
Eyes began to ache from the constant staring. The hard sunlight, reflecting from the bleached rocks, bounced back in their faces ...
The merest flicker of movement. Off to Bodie’s left. Above him. No more than a fleeting image of brown against the pale rock. There one instant, gone the next. And following it a flash of sunlight against metal. Again, no more than a tiny fragment ...
Yet it was enough for Bodie. It was movement where there shouldn’t have been movement.
‘Rostermann!’ His warning was no more than a whisper, but he caught Rostermann’s nodded response, heard the oiled click as the man dogged back the Colt’s hammer.
Bodie felt the moment stretch. It was as if all time had hesitated. His eyes still registered the flicker of movement above him, and he followed it through, certain that he would see it again. No more than an instant had passed since the initial sighting. Now, watching, he saw the same tell-tale image, and as he held it in his sight, the image came again. This time holding, suddenly coming into sharp focus.
A brown, angular face. Broad, heavy-boned. Black eyes beneath a fall of equally black hair. A grubby headband holding the mass of hair back from the hard, distrustful face. Below the face the jutting barrel of a rifle, the moving metal catching the gleam of sunlight as it angled down towards the floor of the canyon and the two men on horseback.
The Winchester lifted in Bodie’s hands, muzzle sweeping up, settling, then kicking back and up as he pulled the trigger. The sound of the shot, loud in the confines of the Canyon, shattering the tranquility.
The brown face vanished in a sudden splash of red.
The bullet ripped its way up through the head and emerged through the top of the skull in a fountain of pulped flesh, bone and brains.
And with the shot the Apaches camel Out of the very earth almost. Leaping and bounding as they emerged from behind rocks. Bobbing and weaving as they raced across the sun baked earth. Lithe, brown-skinned figures clad in a variety of garments and wielding a mixture of weapons.
Bodie, twisting in his saddle, shot a yelling Apache out of the very air as the buck leapt from a rock. The bullet caught the Apache in the chest, tossing him back against the rock. The Apache’s skull smashed against the hard rock, splitting open, so that as the dying buck slid down the bleached surface he left a red smear in his wake.
The moment he’d fired Bodie swung his Winchester, round, seeking a fresh target. He fired at anything that moved, levering and tiring without pause. The Winchester spat a continuous stream of bullets in the direction of the advancing Apaches. Two went down and stayed down, blood sporting from fatal wounds. A third Apache twisted round as a bullet drove through his shoulder, then came on again, streaming his rage to the very moment when Bodie ripped open his throat with another shot.
It was desperate, close-quarter fighting, with no time for evasive action or deciding on tactics. It was a basic, hand-to-hand confrontation. There was only one objective — to stay alive.
From the very moment of the Apaches’ appearance, Sergeant Rostermann became what his training had made him. A fighting soldier. Ignoring the hiss of bullets from.
Apache guns he used his long-barreled Colt with telling accuracy. Aim and Fire. Aim and Fire. No hurry. No panic. No wasted shots, There were six bullets in the Colt, and after the final one had been fired there were six Apaches down on the bloody ground. Five of them were dead and the sixth lay twitching in silent agony, his spine shattered by a bullet.
There was a Hurry of movement off to Bodie’s left. He twisted in the saddle, sensing the Apache’s closeness. And it was in that moment that the Apache’s body struck him.
A harsh grunt burst from the lips of the Apache as he saw the knife in Bodie's hand. The buck had slithered to a halt and, twisting his agile body round, he lunged back towards Bodie. He had a knife in his own hand, already sweeping in towards the white man.
Bodie thrust his arm forward, angling his knife so that it clashed with the Apache’s descending blade. The Apache drove his full weight down against Bodie’s arm, trying to force his knife through. In that deadlocked moment Bodie swung his left fist up and clouted the Apache across the jaw. The brutal force of the blow broke the Apache’s jaw, bone crunching under the impact. The stunned Indian arched away from Bodie, blood spraying from his slack mouth. Bodie drew his knife back, then thrust forward and up. The keen blade slicing easily through the Apache’s flesh laid him open from stomach to rib-cage. A strangled cry burst from the Apache’s lips as he clasped both hands to his body, trying desperately to stem the torrents of blood surging from the gaping wound. But that was only the prelude to the mass of internal organs that swelled out and then burst from the pulsing torso. Greasy, multi-colored entrails that slithered forth in a nightmarish cascade, leaving the brown body deflated, empty, twitching in its own juices.
Rolling to his feet, Bodie snatched up his Winchester, jacking a fresh round into the breech, swinging the muzzle back and forth as he sought fresh targets. There were none.
None that he saw!
One remaining Apache, stepping into view from behind sheltering boulder, hesitated for a moment, then hurled himself across the canyon floor. Bodie had his back to the Apache. Sergeant Rostermann, thumbing fresh cartridges into his Colt, failed to notice the Apache, and only heard the whispered footsteps at the last moment. He heard far too late. His head came up, eyes taking in the approaching Apache. He saw, too, the long, decorated lance the Apache held before him, the glinting blade at the tip aimed at his body! Rostermann’s right hand began to lift the Colt, his thumb snapping the loading-gate shut, then slipping over the hammer, dragging it back as he swung the long barrel towards his attacker. But even while the gun was still traversing in the direction of its intended target, Rostermann felt a soft blow in his stomach. It was followed by a strange sensation, first of sharp coldness, then numbing pain that ripped a cry of agony from his lips. He felt the terrible, ripping passage of the Apache’s lance as it penetrated his body, missing the spinal-cord by a fraction of an inch, before gouging its way through the small of his back just above his left buttock. Blood squirted out from both entry and exit wounds as the force of the lance drove Rostermann from his saddle. His body twisted in agony as he hit the hard ground, the long shaft of the lance quivering as he struggled to push himself upright.
Bodie had spun round on hearing Rostermann’s outcry, and leveled the Winchester on the figure of the Apache as he turned and made a dash for the nearest cover. Bodie tripped the trigger. The rifle blasted flame and smoke, driving a bullet at the Apache. It caught him in the back of the skull, ripping its way through to emerge from the Apache’s left eye in a pulpy gout of blood and flesh. The Apache went down on his knees, skidding for yards before Bodie’s second shot sent a bullet ripping through his heart. The Apache threw his arms skywards, blood spurting from his mouth before he smashed face down in the dust, kicking in reflex against his dying moments.
There was a dribble of blood coming from the corner of Rostermann’s mouth. He sat slumped in the bloody dust, both hands clutching the slippery shaft of the lance.
He raised his head as Bodie knelt beside him and the agony was mirrored in his eyes.
‘By God, it hurts, Bodie!’ he hissed through clenched teeth.
‘You want anything? Bodie asked. He knew there was nothing he could do for Rostermann. Not a damn thing!
And it made him angry.
Sergeant Rostermann reached out and caught hold of Bodie’s shirt with a big hand. He stared hard into Bodie’s eyes, and when he spoke his voice had regained its normal tone. ‘Just you make goddamn sure you get Fargo! And every one of those bastards who ride with him! You hear me, Bodie, goddamn it, you son of a bitch! The whole bunch, Bodie - dead! ’
‘I hear you, Rostermann,’ Bodie answered. ‘I’ll settle for your boys — and for you.’
Rostermann doubled over with pain, a wrenching cough bursting from his lips in a bloody froth.
‘By God, Bodie, you’d damn well better, ’cause if you don’t I’ll come back and haunt you!’
He fell silent then, head down. Bodie let him rest. But then he felt the hand gripping his shirt slacken its hold.
Rostermann’s fingers relaxed, opening, and the hand dropped limply to the ground. He was dead.
Bodie stood up. He walked to where the horse stood and jammed his rifle back in its sheath. He shivered suddenly, a strange sensation to experience in such heat. Yet he knew it had nothing to do with the temperature. He was reacting to a close brush with death; too damn close, he thought.
He crossed to where Rostermann’s cavalry mount stood.
Bodie unsaddled the horse, removing all the gear it carried. He sent the animal on its way with a sudden yell, watching it canter along the canyon, then turn to a gallop.
Returning to his own horse Bodie mounted up. He rode on through the silent, still canyon, never once looking back. He never saw the point in looking back. The past was always behind a man. It was the future that mattered.
What lay ahead. Like tomorrow — and if he got through that then the day after ...
Chapter Seven
The canyon and its silent dead lay far below him. Here on the upper slopes grass spread its welcoming lushness before him. Trees grew in thick stands. The air held the scent of wild flowers, of pine and hr.
Bodie was aware of the vegetation but unable to appreciate it fully. His prime concern was survival. It was the attitude that guided every move he made. He knew full well that it only needed one slip. One momentary lapse and it would be finished. And once a man was dead there was no second chance. Sergeant Rostermann had found that out. Even someone as experienced as Rostermann could forget — just for a second. That was all it took.
And Rostermann had paid the price for his lack of alertness. It was so easy to let the attention wander, to be distracted. Maybe Rostermann had been too absorbed in reloading his gun. Perhaps he had allowed his thoughts to stray back to the dead soldiers he was trying to avenge.
Whatever had taken his attention had caused his death.
Rostermann himself would have been the first to have admitted his mistake, but he had died so he wasn’t about to get the chance.
Bodie rode with caution. It was as simple as that. He assumed that possible danger lurked behind every rock, behind every clump of brush. It was not over-cautious behavior. He had chosen a hard profession and had to accept the rules governing that profession. So that being one hundred per cent alert, all of the time, had become second nature. He did it almost without being aware.
An hour after noon he was dismounting and leading his horse into a narrow cleft that cut deep into the side of a high rock face. Taking his rifle Bodie eased his way to the rim of a long slope, settling himself behind a boulder.
Below him, in a wide, natural basin, maybe a mile across, was the abandoned mining camp Kimble had told him about. Around the basin cou
ld still be seen the workings of the played-out mines, visible like scars against the returning greenery. Rusting metal lay strewn about. Dark holes led deep into the earth. The frantic time of the miners was over, leaving the place with a bleak, deserted look to it.
Directly below Bodie was the camp itself. A forlorn huddle of derelict buildings. Huts, stores, a saloon and at the far end a half-collapsed stable. The narrow street between the buildings had almost vanished beneath a carpet of weeds. Grass sprouted up between the warped planking of boardwalks. Broken windows and doors sagging on their hinges completed the picture of desolation.
Apart from the smoke rising from the tin chimney of one large hut the place might still be deserted. Bodie turned his attention to it. After his eyes adjusted to the distance he was able to make out a dark figure moving about inside the building. It seemed that Kimble’s story had been true.
Bodie leaned forward as a man stepped out of the building, moving to the edge of the boardwalk. A fast-rising anger boiled up inside him as he recognized the man.
It was the one known as Snake! The one eyed son of a bitch who had used that whip he carried on Father Ignacio! Bodie swore with feeling. He yanked the Winchester to his shoulder, sighting along the barrel at Snake’s figure, finger easing back on the trigger.
Then he forced his anger back. The rifle lowered and Bodie sank back, breathing deeply. A bullet might do for Snake. But it would also be a warning for the rest of Fargo’s bunch. They would scatter long before Bodie could reach them. And he hadn’t come all this way for that to happen. Somehow he was going to have to work out a way of getting the whole bunch in a position where they couldn’t run. Where he would have them all under his gun. And then ...
It was only a whisper of sound behind him, but it reached Bodie’s ears. The hiss of footsteps in the long grass. Bodie’s mind raced ... who was it? Possibly Fargo’s men on guard. Yet he had given the whole area a thorough checking before moving in ... so what had he missed?
