Bodie 6

by Neil Hunter

  Bodie climbed to his feet, slapping dust from his clothing, and cursing softly in the aftermath of violence. His stomach held a greasy sickness and there was a nagging pain from a knock he’d given himself when he’d dropped to the ground.

  He stood alone in the middle of Petrie, lost for the moment, drained as the adrenalin filtered away and the excitement faded. He let the moments slip by, watching and waiting to see if there was any more trouble coming his way.

  “Hey, Bodie!”

  He turned at the sound of his name and saw Lon Walker walking along the street. The Kiowa looked totally relaxed, almost indifferent to the taint of violence in the still air.

  “Looks like I could have saved myself the trouble,” Lon observed. “I was working round to pulling you out of that place.” He ran his eyes over Bodie, noting the blood and the bruises. “They give you a hard time?”

  “They figured to. So I had to change their minds some.”

  “You pick up anything on Kane and his bunch?”

  Bodie nodded. “Dade — that was the feller in black — he told me everything I wanted to know.”

  “Wouldn’t have pegged him for the helpful sort,” Lon said.

  Bodie smiled. “He discovered he liked talking to me!”

  Lon moved by him and vanished into the jail. He came out again after a couple of minutes to find Bodie still waiting for him in the middle of the street. The Kiowa crossed to where Mose lay and pulled his knife from the corpse. He glanced over his shoulder at Bodie.

  “You sure you ain’t got any Indian blood in you, Bodie?” he asked, still seeing the scene that had confronted him in that room below the jail.

  “Can’t say for sure. Only thing I remember is my grandma always got a gleam in her eye if anybody mentioned Chief Joseph.”

  Lon smiled briefly, a low, almost inaudible chuckle rising in his throat.

  Cautious figures began to emerge from the stores along the street. Slowly at first, then with quickening paces, they converged on the two dead deputies. Guarded glances were cast in Bodie’s direction, eyes averted swiftly when they found the man hunter returning their gaze.

  “You want to get out of here?” Bodie asked, and caught Lon’s nod.

  They trailed down the street and picked up their waiting horses. Mounting they turned and rode out of Petrie, Bodie leading the way.

  Before dark they crossed the shallow flow of the Bravo and rode across the dusty bank on the Mexican side. They were in Chihuahua now. If they had been working outside the law on the American side, here they were beyond its help. There was little love lost between the law enforcement agencies of the respective countries. Too much political maneuvering had soured what link there might have been. Now each country eyed the other, always distrustful, always wary. Any American who ventured into Mexico went with the knowledge that he was on his own. He took his chance and paid the price if he gambled and lost.

  They made camp in a lonely canyon that sheltered them from the chill winds of the dark night. The winds blew in from the north, slanting down off the high peaks, swiftly erasing the lingering heat of the day. Bodie built a small fire beneath a wide overhang to keep the reflection hidden. He cooked a quick meal and boiled up a pot of coffee, then damped down the flames and stood the bubbling pot in the hot embers. Lon joined him and they ate in silence, each lost in his private thoughts. After the meal Bodie went and stood watch while Lon took a few hours rest. Later they changed places. Bodie wrapped himself in his blankets and slept.

  He was roused, seemingly only minutes later, by Lon. Shrugging off the blankets Bodie snatched up his rifle and followed the silent Kiowa to a ridge overlooking the wide expanse of land they still had to cross. It was already light, though the warmth from the newly risen sun still had to drive away the bitter remnants of the long, cold night.

  “There,” Lon said. “To the east. About a mile off.”

  Bodie blinked away the haze of sleep, following Lon’s finger.

  “You see ’em?” asked Lon.

  “Yeah! I see ’em.”

  “Yaquis!” Lon said softly, with respect edging his tone.

  “Damn!” Bodie said forcefully. He’d heard enough about the Yaquis to realize that they could be in for a hard time. The Yaquis, the Indians of Mexico, were said to be blood-kin to the Apache. It was also said that they were far fiercer and more savage than their Apache cousins. Bodie wasn’t too worried over that, though he wasn’t going to bother if he didn’t make contact with the Indians.

  “I think we’d better get out of here,” Lon said. “If we have to face ’em I’d rather do it in the open.”

  They slipped quietly back to where they’d left the horses, saddled up, and broke camp. Walking the horses they left the canyon behind. As soon as they reached open ground they climbed into the saddle and rode on. Despite the threat of the Yaquis they rode slowly, letting the horses set the pace. It was cool now, but the sun would soon flood the land. There was little to be gained by tiring the horses.

  The morning drifted by. Bodie and Lon picked their route carefully, making certain they left very little in the way of tracks. They didn’t fool themselves into thinking they would lose the Yaquis so easily. All they could hope to do was delay the Indians.

  Towards noon they angled their horses down a long slope dotted with tangled brush and tall cactus. Pale dust drifted in the still air at their passing. At the bottom of the slope a shallow creek reflected the bright gleam of the sun, and the horses lifted their weary heads as they caught the scent of water.

  Lon slid his rifle into his hands as they neared the creek. He worked the lever gently, saying nothing as Bodie glanced at him; the man hunter was aware of the implications of Lon’s actions. The horses stopped at the water’s edge, dipping their heads to drink. It was very quiet. Heat danced across the surface of the water.

  Without moving his head Lon said: “We’re not alone.”

  Bodie dismounted, closing his hand over the stock of his Winchester and sliding it from the sheath. He was between the horses, his actions concealed from watching eyes. He levered a round into the rifle’s breech.

  “They’re in the brush over to the left,” Bodie said. “Twenty, maybe twenty-five feet.”

  “I know,” Lon whispered. “That’s too damn close even for me!”

  Even as he spoke there was a burst of movement and three brown figures erupted from the brush. They were short and stocky, faces broad, black hair streaming behind them as they leapt across the sun-baked earth.

  Bodie stepped out from between the horses, his rifle up and firing at the bobbing, weaving Yaqui. Close by, Lon’s rifle added its sound to the din. One of the Yaquis twisted sideways, arms and legs flailing wildly, blood spurting from ragged wounds.

  An answering shot whacked a long furrow in the hard earth just ahead of Bodie. He sighted the Winchester on a lunging figure, triggering shot after shot, powder-smoke lashing back into his face.

  A second Yaquis stumbled, a shrill scream tearing from his throat. The naked brown chest dissolved into a pulsing, bloody mess of torn flesh and splintered bone. He smashed face down onto the ground, his wiry body heaving in a final spasm of agony.

  The third Yaquis vanished from sight. One moment he was there, the next he was gone. Bodie ran forward, searching the area before him. He knew his prey was out there somewhere, belly down on the ground, merging into the surrounding terrain.

  Bodie indicated to Lon that they should get down themselves. He knew that while the Yaqui could probably see them, they couldn’t see the Indian.

  After a few minutes Lon asked. “You hot, Bodie?”

  “Damn right,” Bodie muttered. He could feel oily fingers of sweat working down his back. “Way things are, even if that Yaqui doesn’t get us, we’ll probably burn to a crisp.”

  A little while later Lon asked, “Bodie, how good are you with that rifle.”

  “Good enough. Why?”

  Lon laughed softly. “Because I’m going to give yo
u a chance to prove it. And, Bodie, you’d better be ready!”

  Before Bodie could raise an objection Lon stood up, glancing around him with the air of a man who felt fairly safe. He began to walk forward, searching the terrain, giving a pretty good imitation of casual relaxation. He was putting on a good show for the waiting Yaqui, Bodie decided. He couldn’t fault the Kiowa on courage, though he might question Lon’s good sense. He was taking one hell of a chance, and his only reward might be a bullet in the gut.

  Nothing happened for what seemed an eternity, though Bodie realized no more than half a minute had gone by. His eyes ached from scanning the rocky ground ahead of Lon, searching for any tell-tale movement. Any sign that might show where the Yaqui was hidden. He wondered if the Indian had figured out what they were up to and was refusing to take the bait. It was one possibility. There was also the chance that the Yaqui had gone, slipping away while Bodie and Lon had been working out what to do; it was possible but, Bodie decided, unlikely.

  It happened fast. One minute there was only Lon’s tall figure…and then there was a lithe, brown shape rising up from the earth. But not in front of him. The Yaqui came up behind Lon, and even Bodie hadn’t suspected the Indian was so close.

  The Yaqui’s abrupt appearance almost caught Bodie napping. He saw the Indian, caught a glimpse of the short-barreled rifle lining up on Lon’s broad back, and yelled a warning to the Kiowa. In the same moment Bodie jerked his Winchester round and pulled back on the trigger. Lon began to turn. The Yaqui hesitated at Bodie’s shout, his head snapping round, his lips drawn back in a savage snarl.

  In that brief fragment of time Bodie’s Winchester exploded. The Yaqui stumbled, half-turning towards Bodie as his right side spouted blood and flesh. For a moment it looked like he might go down, but somehow the Yaqui stayed on his feet, his own rifle pumping shot after shot in Bodie’s direction. He was firing wild, but Bodie wasn’t. He put two more bullets into the Indian, the savage force lifting the Yaqui, screaming, off his feet. His chest fountained red, pulped flesh exposed. He hit the ground on his back, kicked briefly, and then became still.

  Lon walked by the dead Yaqui, watching Bodie climb to his feet.

  “At least you weren’t lying about being good with the gun,” he said.

  Bodie turned and walked to his horse. He swung into the saddle and rode off. Lon caught up with him, shoving his rifle back into its sheath.

  “We make a good pair, Bodie,” he said.

  Bodie glanced at him. “You mean we kill people good?” His voice was flat, empty. He jerked hard on his reins and rode on ahead.

  For a moment Lon studied him, a puzzled look on his brown face. He clicked his teeth. “Damn me, horse,” he said, “if I live to be a hundred years old I still ain’t going to figure these white sons of bitches.” Then he shrugged his wide shoulders. What the hell use was there worrying over the matter? He had enough on his mind already.

  Chapter Six

  Squatting behind a slab of bleached stone they watched the activity in the village below them. It had taken them three days to reach the place, riding across a silent and empty land, with only the sun and the sky for company. In all that time they hadn’t seen another living soul. It was as if the land around was barren, a vast tract of sand and stone and brush. It was a harsh, ungiving land, burned dry by the pulsing heat thrown down out of an endless curve of blue sky. They had ridden in silence, minds dulled by the stifling heat, bodies aching, the sweat sucked from them. The pale dust soured their throats and stung their eyes. Conversation had lapsed, and when they did speak it had been in short, snapped monosyllables. Finally reaching the village had been on a par with discovering an oasis in the desert. They were simply content at first to sit and observe.

  “Bodie, you sure this is the place Dade told you about?” Lon asked.

  The man hunter glanced across at the Kiowa, his eyes narrow against the glare of the sun. “I’m sure,” he growled. He was itchy and dirty and not in the mood for too much talk.

  “I hope he was telling you the truth.”

  “We’ll find out,” Bodie said, and suddenly tired of just sitting he got up and went to his horse. Mounting up he reined his horse about and turned it downslope, in the direction of the village.

  As Bodie reached the rutted trail leading to the village Lon reined in alongside him. They were greeted on the outskirts of the village by a half-starved mangy dog, the size of a wolf. It bared its jagged yellow teeth as it stood in their path, deep snarls rolling up from its throat, causing their horses to pull back.

  “You want to talk to it in Spanish?” Bodie asked dryly.

  Lon muttered something and dismounted. He walked towards the dog, ignoring its hostile growling. When he was no more than a couple of feet away he lunged forward and grabbed hold of the animal at the back of its neck. Lifting the surprised beast into the air he swung it without effort, completing a half-circle before he let go. The dog’s snarling turned into a long howl of anguish as it struck the ground in a dusty tangle. It skidded on its haunches for a few yards before regaining control of its limbs. When it did it threw a terrified glance in Lon’s direction before it scuttled out of sight between two adobe huts.

  “I hope the two-legged ones are as easy to handle,” Lon said.

  He took his horse and led it into the village, Bodie riding beside him. Bodie let his eyes range back and forth across the seemingly deserted area covered by the village. He knew that they were being watched. From behind every door, at every window, the dark, expressionless eyes would be watching.

  They reached the centre of the village. In the middle of the dusty plaza was a well with a stone-built church, its walls bleached by the pitiless sun. A tall, single bell tower seemed to cant back against the pale sky.

  “Nice to feel welcome,” Bodie said softly.

  Lon spat in the dust, blinking his eyes against the glare of the sun bouncing back off the white adobe buildings. “I want a drink,” he said and tramped across the plaza to the well.

  Bodie leaned forward, crossing his arms over the saddle horn, and listened to the silence around him. He could feel the hot sun on his back. It was making him drowsy. He heard the creak of the rope lowering the bucket into the well, and suddenly he felt very thirsty.

  “Hey, Bodie, you want some water?”

  Lon’s voice was loud, booming across the empty plaza. He hauled the dripping bucket into sight and placed it on the stone wall.

  Bodie climbed off his horse and joined him. They fished their tin mugs from their saddlebags and dipped them in the bucket. The water was clear and cold, tasting fresher than anything they had tasted for a long time.

  “Bodie, this is one hell of a quiet place,” Lon remarked. “Like being in Petrie all over. Hell, just look around. What do you see?”

  “Damn all,” Bodie agreed. “There were plenty of folk around when we were up on that hill.”

  “And when they saw us they hid. That’s normal for a Mexican village — but I would have expected someone to have shown by now.”

  “Something’s keeping them away,” Bodie said. He glanced at the Kiowa. “Do we smell that bad?”

  Lon laughed. “Likely we do. More likely they’re scared of something.”

  “Maybe they figure we’re some of Kane’s bunch.”

  “Could be,” Lon said. He turned to the bucket and started to splash water on his face.

  Impatience turned Bodie away from the well. He snatched his hat from his head, slapping dust from it. He’d only taken a couple of steps away from the well, his eyes wandering with little interest over the front of the church, when he spotted three riders coming in at the far end of the village.

  “Lon!”

  The Kiowa glanced up, brushing his wet hair away from his face. “I see ’em!”

  “They strike you as the welcoming committee?”

  “Hell no!”

  The riders walked their horses across the plaza, drawing rein a few yards short of the well. Two of th
e riders were Americans. The third was a lean, hard-eyed Mexican dressed in black, his pants and short jacket trimmed with silver. Even the wide-brimmed sombrero he wore was black. His lavish costume was completed by an ornate gun belt, richly decorated and supporting a holstered, silver-plated handgun.

  “What do you want here?” The Mexican spoke with the tone of one well used to commanding respect and instant obedience.

  He received neither of these things. An uneasy silence followed his question. A nerve flickered below the Mexican’s left eye, a sign that he was angry. He turned his attention to the tall, hard-looking American.

  “You! What is your name? Why are you on the land of Don Castillo?”

  “Castillo?” Bodie held the Mexican’s stare. “Hell, I never heard of him!”

  “Nor me,” Lon said. “He some kind of bandit or something?”

  “Looks like we found us a couple of comedians, Rivera,” one of the Americans said. He was stocky, wide-shouldered, dressed like his partner in faded, dusty clothing. One cheek of his unshaven face bulged outwards from the thick wedge of tobacco lodged there, and his crooked teeth were stained from the juice.

  “They will not find it funny when they stand before Don Castillo,” the Mexican answered. He flicked his hand at the waiting horses. “You two will mount up and come with us! Pronto!”

  Bodie casually put his hat back on. He raised his eyes to the Mexican’s face. “Go to hell, you son of a puta. We ain’t going anywhere with you. Now just ride out, or you’re going to find out what it’s like having your cojones torn off and stuffed down your throat!”

  The stocky American made a choking sound in his mouth. His face darkened in anger and without warning he drove his horse forward, directing it at Bodie. As the animal lunged forward Bodie stepped aside, and he saw that the American’s right hand had dropped to his holster, jerking free the heavy gun he wore on his hip. As the horse drew level with him Bodie reached up, caught hold of the stocky man’s gun hand, and yanked him out of the saddle. A startled cry burst from the American’s lips. He hit the ground hard, on his belly, and lay gasping for breath, dark streaks of tobacco juice dribbling from his slack mouth. Over the back of the stocky man’s horse, Bodie glimpsed the man’s partner. He had his horse turned towards Bodie, and a long-barreled handgun filled his palm. Moving to his left Bodie slipped his own Colt out, thumbing back the hammer. He dropped to one knee a split second before the other man fired. The bullet whacked the ground a foot in front of Bodie. Then his own gun returned the fire. The bullet caught the American under the chin, driving up through the skull, spreading on impact. It blasted off the top of the man’s skull and a gout of blood and brains filled the air. The rider went limp, his lifeless body flopping noisily from the back of his horse. Out of the corner of his eye Bodie spotted the stocky man climbing to his feet, reaching for the gun he’d dropped. Bodie rose to his feet, turning in the process, and drove his left boot into the side of the stocky man’s head. He heard something crack and a second later blood spurted from the man’s nose. He lost interest in the gun as he clutched both hands to his injured face.