Hard Trail to Socorro (Bodie Kendrick - Bounty Hunter Book 1)

by Wayne D. Dundee

"Yeah, it'd do that," Hutchins agreed.

  "Oh, come on, marshal!" Ludek protested. "You got no call to be a part of this. I never caused no trouble in your town. Ain't no way New Mexico Territory falls under your concern."

  "Maybe not," Hutchins said. "But still nothing in the books says I can't assist a body I believe to be working in the best interests of the law."

  "This bloodsucker don't give a hang about the best interests of the law. He's in it strictly for the money. I told you, he's nothing but a damn bounty hunter."

  "And you're nothing but a whining punk who's gone and gotten himself plastered on a wanted poster. Now you was me, which side of the table would you be more apt to stack your chips?"

  "Much obliged," Kendrick said. "Shouldn't take me more than an hour or so to do the things I need to do, then I'll be back for him. In the meantime, I'm afraid you might be letting yourself in for an earful of his complaining."

  Hutchins shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Jail section's got a half-foot thick oak door I can close if he carries on too much. No sound makes it through that. If it does, I can always throw a bucket of water on him."

  Kendrick grinned. "You do that. I happen to know he's especially fond of water."

  Chapter 2: The Woman

  By a stroke of luck and a couple well-placed questions, Kendrick discovered Jory Ludek's horse was liveried in the same barn where the bounty hunter had put up his own animal over-night. The bewhiskered stable boss was understandably reluctant to release a mount to anyone other than the man who'd checked it in, but a patient explanation from Kendrick accompanied by a peek at the wanted poster and a healthy tip got the man to give in all the same. After saddling them and stocking their saddlebags with the supplies he'd bought at the general store, Kendrick led both horses from their stalls.

  Front Street and its bordering plank sidewalks were considerably busier than they'd been only a short time before. The heavy delivery wagons had been replaced by more colorful carriages and buggies and scattered lone riders. A number of young boys were scurrying this way and that, excitedly planning their day's adventures. Most of the stores and shops had opened and were attracting bonneted women looking to get their shopping out of the way early. With his shotgun now discreetly lashed to the bedroll behind his saddle, Kendrick presented a less threatening sight to these good citizens of El Paso as he brushed in and out amongst them.

  He'd used up most of the hour he'd promised the marshal, but Kendrick still had one more stop to make; a bit of an indulgence he felt he owed himself before riding out to spend another long stretch of days on the trail. After spotting Ludek the previous night and formulating the plan he'd gone on to execute that morning, the manhunter had managed to arrange himself a hotel room with a soft, clean-sheeted bed and even a bath (albeit in a tub of used water) but hadn't been able to wangle a decent late supper, settling for a couple slices of corn bread and a cold piece of fried beef the Mexican night clerk had been willing to scrounge from the pantry for an exorbitant extra charge. He'd slept on a full stomach, but not a satisfied one, and the smell of breakfasts being prepared as he rose just ahead of daybreak to go for Ludek had been sheer torture. Now, he was about to make up for all that.

  Hitching his chestnut stallion and Ludek's gray gelding to the rail out front, Kendrick pushed his Stetson back off his forehead and sauntered across the breadth of well swept board-walk up to the fancy glass-paned front door of the restaurant he'd had his eye (and his nose) on all morning. Entering, a variety of delicious cooking aromas immediately wrapped around him like a welcoming embrace.

  He took a seat, removing his hat and placing it on the empty chair beside him, at a table draped by a blue-checked cloth and set with heavy pewter utensils and a fat china coffee cup. To the pretty, dark-eyed young waitress who came around he gave his order of ham and eggs, fried mush, a short stack of pancakes with sorghum molasses, corn bread, a glass of cold buttermilk, and coffee.

  The restaurant was doing a brisk business. Its customers were mostly men, slightly more than half of them business types wearing dark coats and vests over white shirts buttoned to the throat, string ties. The rest, like Kendrick, wore faded and somewhat dusty denims and leathers that marked them as ranchers, farmers, wranglers, long riders, or men who otherwise made a hard living mostly out of doors. Also like Kendrick, many of them wore guns holstered at their hips and it was a fair bet that some of the fancies carried a concealed weapon such as a derringer. Unlike Kendrick, however, none of the rest possessed the subtle steeliness about the eyes or the hard set of the mouth that indicated they possessed experience at regularly using those weapons for the grim business they were intended.

  Kendrick was halfway through his meal, finding it every bit as satisfying and delicious as he'd anticipated, when he became aware that a new arrival to the restaurant had walked in and paused to stand directly over his table. Looking up just after scooping an egg yolk-sopped piece of bread into his mouth, the bounty hunter was more than a little surprised to find himself exchanging stares with the cool blue eyes of a strikingly lovely woman. Her hair was pale gold, worn long so that it foamed about her shoulders. She had on a split corduroy riding skirt and burgundy boots that roughly matched the color of her Indian print blouse. She smelled of perfumed soap.

  Before he could finish chewing in order to say anything, the woman said, "There's a gray gelding hitched out front alongside a chestnut stallion. Some people on the street told me they saw a big, square-faced man in range clothes tie both horses and then come in here. Might you be that man?"

  Getting down the mouthful of corn bread and egg, Kendrick rose from his chair with cautious ease, saying, "I might be. Who might you be to have interest in whether I am or not?"

  The woman put her hands on her attractively flared hips. "I happen to know that the gray belongs to a man named Jory Ludek. Yesterday afternoon I hired Mr. Ludek to do a job of work for me. I paid him good money, in advance. This morning I cannot find Ludek, as prearranged, but now I spot his horse apparently in the possession of someone else. I believe that entitles me to ask the questions I am asking."

  Kendrick twisted his mouth thoughtfully. "Reckon maybe it does."

  He glanced around, uncomfortably aware that the exchange between him and the woman was drawing a good deal of attention. The woman's attractiveness alone would have been cause enough for that; her agitated state and slightly raised voice only heightened the interest of the other customers.

  "Look," Kendrick said gently, "why don't you have a seat and let me explain. I'll tell you how I come to have Ludek's horse. Tell you where you can find him, too, far as that goes. Then you can decide what you need to do from there."

  The woman scowled distrustfully. "What do you mean, 'decide what I need to do'?"

  "I told you it's going to take some explaining," Kendrick said, growing impatient. He settled back down onto his chair. "You can sit down and listen to it my way, or you can march off and find your answers elsewhere." He went back to work on his breakfast, ignoring the woman and the indignant glare she was aiming at him.

  After the better part of a minute, the woman abruptly yanked back a chair, dumping Kendrick's hat to the floor, plopped angrily down and hitched herself up to the table. "There," she announced. "I'm ready to listen, are you happy? Now I demand to know what the hell is going on."

  "Pick it up," Kendrick said, continuing to chew.

  "What?"

  "The hat."

  "What hat?"

  "Mine. You knocked it on the floor. Pick it up."

  Bright pink color flooded the fair skin of the woman's neck and cheeks. She banged a small, sharp-knuckled fist on the tabletop. "Damn your stupid hat! I have urgent business to attend to and I need the services of Jory Ludek—for which I have already paid—in order to get underway. What have you done with him?"

  A dude in a fancy vest rose from a nearby table and swaggered over. He wore a pearl-handled pistol on his left hip in an intricately tooled crossdraw holst
er. He carried himself with an air of self-importance, but the weak taper of his chin and the jerkiness of his close-set eyes indicated something less.

  "Begging your pardon, ma'am," he said to the woman. "Couldn't help noticing you seem to have some distress here. Anything I can do to be of service?"

  Kendrick rolled his head slowly and fixed the dude with a hard stare that backed him up a half step as sharply as if he'd received a shove to the chest. Intoxicated by the woman's beauty, lulled by Kendrick's plodding, purposefully unobtrusive manner, the dandy had come looking for a moment of easy glory. In the bounty hunter's eyes, he now saw the blaze of potential sudden death.

  "The only distress you need to be worrying about," Kendrick said through clenched teeth, "will be your own if you're looking to mess in my business, hombre."

  The dude's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "Don't get me wrong, mister," he said in a voice he had to struggle to keep steady. "I ain't looking for trouble. Only mean to halt any. This is a nice restaurant, we don't care for rowdiness in here."

  The dude, realizing belatedly he may have blundered into a situation he was ill prepared to master, had hoped with some desperation that his use of the word "we" would stir some of the other regular customers or at least the restaurant's proprietor into siding with him, speaking up to help quell any further disturbance. But no one said anything. No one moved. The place had gone nervously quiet. Not even the woman did anything to help him. She sat wide-eyed, her mouth slightly open as if she was holding her breath.

  "Won't be no rowdiness from me," Kendrick said, his stare still burning into the dandy, "if everybody will quit interrupting my damn breakfast."

  That was the dude's chance to walk away from it. But he was hotly aware that he'd stood up in front of everybody and started this play and to just end it under a hard stare and a mouthful of words would leave him publicly looking the fool and coward he feared inside he actually was. It wouldn't have taken much for him to back off in a way he could make excuses for later—a gesture, a word of caution. From anybody other than the man he'd confronted. But no, damn their bloodthirsty hides, they were all just sitting by silently, waiting to see what was going to happen.

  The dude calculated. The big man with the savage eyes was sitting down, an awkward position for anybody to try and draw from. He had both hands on the table, the right one—his gun hand—holding a fork stabbed through a slice of fried mush. The dude had speed and accuracy, he'd proven that to himself dozens of times out alone drawing and shooting off cactus arms and keeping clumps of dirt dancing in the air. Despite the fancy holster and gun that helped him feel important, he’d avoided ever facing down another man before; yet as far as the mechanics of drawing fast and hitting what he aimed at, he was convinced he rated up there with the best of them. Maybe this was his big chance. Yeah, his big chance with a big, hard-talking stranger who just because he had lightning in his eyes didn't mean he had it in his hand. Especially not the way he was positioned...

  The dude went for his pearl-handled gun.

  Fast as a rattler strike, Kendrick's hand swung from the table, never bothering to dip anywhere close to his own gun. The greasy piece of fried mush flew from the fork still clutched in his big right fist.

  The dude's streaking hand was a blur crossing his torso. His fingers had only begun to wrap around the weapon they sought, however, when they suddenly stiffened and froze quiveringly in a claw-like position. The dude's scream of agony cut the air in place of expected gunfire.

  Driving the fork with all his might into the gristly back of the threatening hand just above its knuckles, Kendrick lunged from his chair in the same motion and threw his heavy body against the other man. The dude was knocked down, falling hard, twisting away as he dropped so that the blood-slippery fork was yanked from Kendrick's grip.

  It was finished as quickly as it started.

  Kendrick poised in a half-crouch over the fallen dandy, breathing hard, his red-spattered right hand hovering above the still undrawn Colt at his hip while his eyes swept the room, checking to see if there was anybody else wanting to make a move against him.

  For several beats, the only sound or movement was the mewling of the dude as he writhed on the floor, tenderly favoring his damaged hand with the fork still imbedded in it.

  Kendrick straightened and let the tension drain from his back and shoulders. His gaze found the dark-eyed waitress who'd served him. "Reckon this man will be needing a doctor's attention," he said huskily.

  Chapter 3: Night Stalkers

  "This is the thanks I get for stringing along with you!?" Marshal Curly Hutchins demanded. His face was blotched with anger. "The whole idea of me holding your prisoner behind bars was so you could finish your business in town without trouble, without making folks nervous. You figure crippling a man with a breakfast fork inside one of El Paso's finest restaurants is some kind of everyday occurrence that don’t make people nervous, for Christ's sake?"

  Bodie Kendrick wasn't exactly happy himself. "The fella went for his gun. What the hell was I supposed to do? I could have killed him, you know."

  "For his part, he'll probably wish you would have. Doc says that hand will never work close to right again."

  Kendrick grunted. "He didn't look to be much good with it anyway. Sure wasn't calloused from labor, and in spite of all his fancy gear it was plain he wasn’t going very far as a gun sharp."

  Hutchins hissed out a sigh. "You're right about that, I suppose. I could see months ago when young Billings—that was his name, if you care—started sporting that damn cross draw rig and picking up a swagger in his walk that he was headed for bad news. He was one of those fools who thinks the gun makes the man, not the other way around."

  "Too damn many of those to be found," Kendrick allowed. "And sooner or later most of them end up a sight worse off than I left Billings."

  The two men were seated in the marshal's office; Kendrick settled onto a curved-back wooden chair, Hutchins with his rump resting on a corner of his desk. It was pushing past mid morning. Out in the street, the sun was pumping waves of heat out of a cloudless sky. Dust motes from the office's adobe floor and walls danced in streaks of sunlight angling through the windows.

  Hutchins sighed again. "Well. What's done is done. No going back to change it now. Lucky for you, everybody else's account of how it went with Billings pretty much matches yours. Clear case of self-defense. I'd like to have a few words with that mysterious woman you was jawing with, though, the one who brought the whole thing on. I still got a couple deputies out looking, but nobody seems to've seen hide nor hair of her since the ruckus started."

  "Yeah," Kendrick said, "I wouldn't mind a few more words with her myself. Whoever she is, she's got something to do with my friend Ludek in there. Be surprised if he'd be cooperative enough to fill us in about her."

  "Me too," Hutchins agreed, sliding off his perch on the desk. "But it won't hurt to ask."

  He hooked a ring of keys off a wooden peg beside the rifle rack, turned and pushed through the heavy door that led back to the jail section. There came the clank of metal, the groan of stiff hinges, muttered words. A moment later Hutchins reappeared, pushing ahead of him a still handcuffed Jory Ludek.

  Spotting Kendrick, Ludek's mouth split wide into a lopsided grin. "Well, well. If it ain't the fastest fork in the West. Here I been worried about that sawed-off of yours massaging my spine all the way to Socorro, now it turns out I got to be on extra guard even when we stop to take grub. I bet you can be a holy terror with a flapjack spatula, can't you?"

  "You don't wipe that smirk off your kisser," Kendrick growled, "your holy terror is going to be my boot up your ass."

  "Knock it off, you two," Hutchins said. "You can spar with each other all you want on the trail to Socorro—which won't be soon enough for my liking, I'll tell you. But in the meantime I got some questions I want answers to."

  He fixed Ludek with a hard scowl. "There's a woman in town, showed up yesterday afternoon about th
e same time you did. Blonde, thirty or thereabout, a real looker."

  "Sounds like the kind of woman who ought to show up in places more often," Ludek observed.

  "Who is she?" Hutchins wanted to know.

  "How the hell should I know? You're the one telling the story."

  "You know her, all right," Kendrick said. "She told me only an hour or so ago that she paid you advance money for a job of work you were supposed to do for her. So quit playing dumb. Who is she and what was it she hired you to do?"

  "And where can we find her?" the marshal put in.

  Ludek's eyes flicked back and forth at the volley of questions, taking on a shrewd glint as they did so. At the same time, his jaw muscles tightened, pulling his smirking mouth into a grim slash. "Earlier this morning," he said, his voice carrying a harsh edge, "neither one of you two hardasses wanted to listen to anything I had to say. I'm just a punk on a wanted poster, remember? My version of that Socorro trouble wasn't worth spit. So why all of a sudden now are the both of you willing to believe what I might know about a pretty stranger?"

  "Dammit, do you admit knowing her or not?" Hutchins said.

  "I know lots of women, old man. A helluva sight more'n you've ever laid your paws on." The smirk returned with a vengeance. "Is that your angle—you maybe wanting me to break the ice for you with this blonde gal? Or when your horn starts twitching do you just throw the ones you want behind bars and let 'em make bail on their backs on one of the cots in there?"

  Hutchins fist swung in a wide-arced backhand that cracked like a whip on Ludek's jaw, spinning him half around and buckling his knees. When the marshal tensed to swing again, Kendrick grabbed his wrist and held it back.

  "Take it easy, Curly! Getting your goat is exactly what he was trying to accomplish—you're playing right into his hand."

  Ludek showed a coyote's smile through bloodied lips.

  Hutchins jerked his arm free. He was breathing hard, snorting through his nostrils like a bull. "Get that smart-mouthed little bastard out of my sight," he said to Kendrick. "You better've got all the supplies you needed before, because five minutes from now all I want to see of you two jaspers is your dust on the trail north. Anything else, I'll come down on the both of you with my boot heels digging to chew meat."