by Neil Hunter
Bodie’s eyes rose, reaching the craggy upper levels of the Mogollon Rim. You up there, Coyote? he asked silently. I hope so, you son of a bitch, ‘cause I’m going to be mad enough to spit if I get to the top and find you ain’t! Stay put, feller, your running days are nearly over!
Chapter Six
“Here she is! Duran’s Trading Post,” Billy-Jack Struthers said. He raised himself up off his saddle. “Hellfire, I reckon my butt’s wore clear down to the bone!”
Silva refrained from making any comment. He was more tired than he’d ever been in his whole life. Tired and dirty and close to becoming sick of the whole damn business! He narrowed his eyes against the sun’s savage glare, staring down at the muddy river called the Gila, and the run-down place standing on the bank.
“For your sake, Struthers, I hope we haven’t come this far for nothing!”
Billy-Jack looked mortally offended. “‘Pears to me, Mister Silva, that you show a sad lack of faith in your fellow man. Now didn’t me and Pike find out about Bodie talking to that US Marshal back in High Grade? And how Bodie showed a lot of interest in this crazy breed running round out here? That little saloon girl I knowed had big ears to match her big chest. Always was sharp at picking up other folks’ business. Put it all together and it soon spelled out where Bodie was heading. That son of a bitch never can resist a bounty, and there’s a fair pile resting on Coyote’s head. So I reckon we done you fair!”
“You figure it any way you want,” Silva snapped. “I’m not here to win anybody’s favor. Just to find this man Bodie and kill him. Now let’s go and talk to Duran!”
Silva jerked his horse into motion, Billy-Jack and Pike falling in behind. They rode down towards the trading post, ever watchful as they neared the place. The post looked deserted apart from the ancient Mexican seated in a rocking chair, silently watching them cross the dusty yard.
The door to the post swung open and the forbidding figure of Duran appeared, his shotgun raised to cover the riders.
“That’s close enough!” he yelled.
“You Duran?” Silva asked.
Duran glanced up at the dark-suited figure. “Maybe I am, maybe I ain’t. What’s it to you?”
“Look, feller,” Silva said testily, “I’ve ridden a long way across this godforsaken country to find this garbage pile. The last thing I need is any of your homespun bullshit!”
“Maybe you’d like a gutful of lead!” Duran snapped back. “Now state your business, mister, else you can haul your ass out of here!”
Billy-Jack cut in, anxious to avoid any violence.
“We’re looking for a man,” he said. “Likely he’d call here on account he’s tryin’ to pick up Coyote’s whereabouts.”
The name of Coyote was enough to draw Duran’s eyes from Silva to Billy-Jack. The shotgun wavered too, swinging fractionally away from Silva.
And in that split second Silva moved, his right hand dipping and coming up with the long-barreled revolver he wore high on his right hip. The gun recoiled with sound and Duran was slammed back against the frame of the door, the shotgun slipping from his fingers. Duran’s legs gave way and he sat down awkwardly, clutching a large hand to the bloody hole in his left shoulder.
Silva eased himself off his horse. He stepped over to where Duran sat, bending over him. Taking a handful of Duran’s hair in his fingers, Silva yanked the man’s head up. Then he coldly rammed the hard muzzle of his revolver against the side of his face, over the cheekbone, twisting the barrel as it sank into the soft flesh. Duran groaned. A thin runnel of blood appeared around the muzzle of the gun, oozing down his flabby cheek.
“You’re a lucky feller, Duran,” Silva said. “If I didn’t need you to answer some questions that hole in your shoulder would be in your head. See, if there’s one thing that makes me angry it’s having a gun pointed at me!”
Sweat glistened on Duran’s fleshy face as he focused on Silva’s grim features. He ran a thick tongue over lips that were suddenly dry.
“Questions?” he mumbled.
“Don’t play dumb, fat man!” Silva said. He leaned his weight against the gun pressed into Duran’s flesh, making the man wince. “I want to know about Bodie!”
“I don’t know any Bodie,” Duran whined.
“Mister, I am very short on patience,” Silva pointed out.
“Judas Priest, I can’t tell you what I don’t know!”
Billy-Jack, leaning forward across his saddle horn, said, “Ain’t you had any strangers here askin’ ‘bout Coyote?”
“I just told…” Duran hesitated.
“Don’t quit now,” Silva suggested.
“There was this feller…called himself Hardin…come lookin’ for Coyote…”
“See,” grinned Silva. “He ain’t so dumb after all. Go ahead, Duran, tell us about Hardin.”
“He come ridin’ in. Had guns to sell. A dozen Winchester rifles. He wanted a deal with Coyote.”
“Sounds like Bodie to me,” Pike said. “Just the kind of sneaky trick he’d get up to.”
“What did this Hardin feller look like?” Billy-Jack asked.
“Big feller. Good shoulders on him. Tough as old hickory, mind. Took on both my boys and beat the pair of ‘em. Handled himself damn good. I figure he had dark hair. Eyes that looked right through a man. A mean son of a bitch.”
“What kind of gun did he carry?” Billy-jack asked.
Duran frowned. “Colt I reckon. Yeah, that’s right. A 45 … hey ... he had a big knife on his belt, too . . . left side.”
“That description could fit a lot of men,” Silva said.
Billy-Jack shook his head. “I’m betting it’s Bodie. Hell, Silva, how many men would go out of their way to set up a meetin’ with a loco bastard like Coyote? It’s just the way Bodie would play it. Bluff his way in until he gets close enough to blow Coyote’s head right off his shoulders.”
“Where is this man now?” Silva asked.
“He should be getting close to the Mogollon Rim,” Duran said. “Coyote has a place up there he uses for a camp.”
“He on his own?”
Duran shook his head. “No. There’s a Mexican girl with him. She belongs to Coyote. When she heard about the rifles she agreed to lead this Hardin … or Bodie … to Coyote. And I sent along my two guns to keep an eye on things.”
Silva stood up. He put away his gun, turning back to his horse. “How long have they been gone?”
“Four, maybe five days.”
Silva nodded. “Good.” He turned to Billy-Jack. “Our supplies are getting low, aren’t they?”
“Yeah.”
“You and Pike go inside. Get whatever we need.” Silva watched the pair dismount and step by Duran as they entered the trading post. “I will settle things with Mister Duran.”
Billy-Jack and Pike moved around the post, selecting items of food and whatever else took their fancies.
From outside came the sudden blast of a shot. Billy-Jack smiled. Seconds later a second shot sounded, then a third.
“Load up, Pike,” Billy-Jack yelled, snatching up a handful of cigars from a box behind the counter. “Sounds like Mister Silva’s already paid Duran off!”
Chapter Seven
The way up to the rim was unmarked. The rocky slopes were a maze. More than once Bodie was forced to retrace his steps because of some dead end. He crossed bare rock, loose slopes of crumbling talus that threatened to slide both himself and his horse onto jagged rocks far below. He was out of the saddle often, dragging his reluctant mount across some dangerous place, fighting the animal’s natural reluctance to go where there was obviously something wrong. Bodie sweated and cursed and sweated some more. He called the horse every dirty name he could think of, and when he’d used up all the usual ones he made up fresh names. They did little to coax the horse along but they worked wonders on Bodie’s frayed nerves.
By the middle of the morning he’d covered no more than a couple of miles. He was resting on a dusty stretch of level roc
k, his body aching from the long hours of practically carrying his horse up the endless slopes. The high sun beat down with stunning force. Bodie could feel it burning through the back of his shirt. It was almost as if there was an actual physical object laid across his shoulders, pressing down on him, its heat making his flesh ache.
Bodie dragged off his hat, sleeving sweat from his face. He drew a hand across his jaw, hearing the rasp of thick whiskers against his palm. The sooner he could have a shave the better. And a bath, he thought, figuring that if Coyote couldn’t see him he’d be able to smell him! He put his hat back on and stood up, easing his tall frame stiffly.
That was when he spotted the three horsemen.
Just to his right, cresting the low incline of a broad slope, they turned their horses in Bodie’s direction. They moved slowly but with deliberate intent. Each man held a rifle in his hands, the muzzles pointing at Bodie.
Bodie watched them draw to a halt no more than a few yards away. He stayed where he was, making no kind of move, aware that he was in no position to do very much.
“You’ve bought yourself trouble comin’ up here, mister,” one of the riders said. He was a tall, skinny man dressed in crumpled and stained clothing. Thick straw- colored hair poked out from beneath his filthy hat, and when he opened his mouth he exposed rotting yellow teeth.
“Depends on your point of view,” Bodie said.
The skinny man scowled. “Don’t get lippy, mister! I’d sooner kill you right now than sit here listening to you talk!”
Bodie shrugged. “Coyote might not like that!”
The skinny man sat stiffly upright in his saddle, glancing at his two partners.
He scrubbed a long hand across his nose, sniffing loudly. “Meaning?”
“Meaning what I said,” Bodie returned. “Look, I came a long way to see Coyote. Duran sent me. I ain’t in the mood to stand around playing with you. So you can lead me to him.” Bodie’s tone was sharp, decisive, giving the impression that he was used to handing out orders and didn’t take to being messed about. The whole speech was a bluff, and Bodie hoped that the three riders would fall for it.
And they did.
The skinny one made a sharp gesture with his hand. “Get on your horse, mister.” He took up his reins. “You’d better not be playin’ games. I wouldn’t like that!”
Settling in his saddle Bodie turned his head to grin at the skinny man. “Hell, feller, I bet you’re real mean and nasty when you’re angry!”
The skinny man yanked his horse’s head round with a savage pull on the reins, ramming in his heels. Bodie fell in behind him, with the other pair of riders at his back. In this fashion they moved off.
They rode for three hours without pause, slowly but surely rising towards the crest of the rim. The skinny man took them along what was plainly a definite trail, though to a strange eye the way looked no different to the rest of the surrounding terrain. As they climbed higher and higher, the bare rock gave way to stretches of timber. Tall pines, clinging to the precarious slopes, giving a little beneath the ever-present drift of the wind. Here and there were stands of cedar and mossy grass spreading over the rocky ground.
Without warning they came to a crumbling ridge, and there below them, nestling in the hollow of a curving basin, was the camp Bodie had come looking for, the camp of the wild, merciless killer who kindled fear wherever his name was heard. The camp of Coyote!
Trees shrouded one side of the basin, forming a green windbreak. Water gleamed brightly beneath the hot sun. Close to the wide stream were a number of crude wood and adobe huts. There was a small brush corral. A number of men could be seen moving about near the huts.
Leading the way down the dusty slope the skinny man led them directly into the camp, reining in by one of the huts. He swung his long legs to the ground. Turning he glared up at Bodie.
“You stay put, mister,” he snapped. “Climb out of that saddle before you’re told and, Coyote or no, I’ll blow your goddam brains out!”
Bodie settled back, taking the opportunity to gaze around the camp. He noticed that every man he saw, no matter what he was doing, still wore his handgun. And the majority of men were carrying rifles too. Obviously Coyote allowed no let up in vigilance just because he was in his refuge. It was a small point but an indication of Coyote’s desire for self-preservation.
The skinny man had stepped inside one of the huts. Now he reappeared. He was followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in faded levis and cotton shirt. The high moccasins he wore and his Apache blood identified him as Coyote, the half-breed.
“You say Duran sent you,” Coyote said, his eyes raking across Bodie, missing nothing.
“Yeah.”
“Why should Duran send you to me?”
Bodie leaned back and patted the canvas bundle tied behind his saddle. “I got reason enough here,” he said.
“Such as?” Coyote demanded.
“How about a dozen brand new .44 Winchester carbines and a thousand rounds of shot? That a good enough reason?”
Coyote’s face remained impassive. He hooked his thumbs in the front of his gun belt. “What makes you think I won’t just take ‘em and blow your head off?”
“I figure you to be a smart man, Coyote,” Bodie said. “Feller who can keep going as long as you have — well, he’s no fool. And in the situation you’re in I reckon you could do with a good supplier. Today I got guns. Next time … “ Bodie shrugged. “You name it I’ll supply it. Interested?”
“Could be. We’ll have to talk on it.” Coyote nodded. “Step down and show me what you’ve got.”
Bodie swung himself out of the saddle, moving to untie the canvas-wrapped rifles.
“Hey, hold on!” Coyote said suddenly.
Bodie tensed, wondering what the hell had gone wrong.
“Just wait a minute,” Coyote went on. “I’ve got somebody inside the hut I’d like to see this.”
Bodie watched the breed vanish back inside the hut. From inside he heard muffled voices. He recognized Coyote’s raised in anger. Moments later he reappeared, dragging a young woman by the arm. Her long dark hair hung free, swinging loosely across her face as Coyote hauled her roughly across to where Bodie stood beside his horse.
“All right, mister, open up. I want the young lady to see what you’ve brought. On account she’ll be real interested. Seeing as how I’m going to use them as a welcoming surprise for her dear daddy when he comes lookin’ for her!”
The woman jerked away from Coyote’s grasp, reaching up to draw the hair away from her face.
“Do your worst, Coyote,” she said. “Just don’t expect me to go down on my knees begging for you to show a little feeling. There wouldn’t be any point.”
Bodie, who had moved to loosen the ropes holding down the rifles, paused, his head jerking round at the sound of the woman’s voice. A cold shock of recognition clawed at his gut. Judas Priest, he thought, make me wrong!
Don’t let it be who I think it is.
The woman, her face exposed, stared into Bodie’s eyes. For a scant second she was immobile, silent, and then realizing that she wasn’t dreaming she took a hesitant step forward, her hand reaching out towards him.
“Bodie?” she said, in a voice that seemed loud enough to reach the Mexican border. “Bodie, have you come to get me out of this place?”
And very shortly after that all hell broke loose!
Chapter Eight
Bodie knew damn well that the whole deal had just exploded in his face. He also realized that if he didn’t want to end up very dead he was going to have to move fast.
Even as Eden Chantry was calling his name Bodie could see the expression on Coyote’s face beginning to change. Naturally suspicious, the breed was quick to sense the wrong in a situation. It wouldn’t take long for him to figure that Bodie represented a threat, and Coyote had a simple, swift way of resolving a threatening moment.
Out of the corner of his eye Bodie could see that other members of
Coyote’s bunch, alerted by Eden’s shout, were converging on the group by Bodie’s horse.
“Who the hell is Bodie?” Coyote yelled, his right hand moving towards the gun on his right hip.
The reply came almost instantly from one of the men. “Hell, only Bodie I know is that son of a bitch bounty hunter they call the Stalker!”
“Double-crossing bastard!” Coyote screamed. He yanked out his gun, lunging in at Bodie.
But Bodie had already made his decision. As Coyote came at him, Bodie turned, crouching a little to lower his shoulder, smashing it into Coyote’s stomach. The breed gasped, sagging forward, and Bodie clubbed him behind the ear. Coyote started on down towards the ground.
The moment he’d struck Coyote, Bodie threw out a hand in Eden Chantry’s direction.
“On the horse,” Bodie yelled at her, and thankfully she responded without hesitation.
Bodie dragged out his Colt and started shooting at anything that moved. He saw one man go down, blood spurting from a torn throat. A second let his knees buckle, clutching at his stomach, bright blood bubbling between his fingers.
With two men down the rest of Coyote’s men, wise in the ways of self-preservation, scattered, seeking cover before they started trading shots.
Bodie spun on his heel, reaching for his horse. He threw himself on its back, behind the saddle, only a second after Eden Chantry touched the leather. Bodie let out a wild yell, slamming his heels in against the horse’s sides, and felt the animal respond.
“Which way, Bodie?” Eden Chantry gasped over her shoulder as she fought to control the loose reins.
