by Neil Hunter
‘Thanks … name’s Dorn ... Linus Dorn.’
‘Don’t mean we get to hold hands in the moonlight,’ Bodie said.
‘I made a mess of it,’ Dorn said, his voice hushed. ‘Shouldn’t have let that woman talk me into it. She made it sound like easy money … ’
Bodie felt a shiver of expectation crawl the length of his backbone.
‘Monty,’ he said.
Not a question.
More a statement of fact.
‘Monty,’ Dorn said. ‘Hell of a name for a woman. Don’t you … ’
His voice trailed away. Faded to silence. And he was dead.
Bodie removed the blanket roll from under the man’s head and shook it out. He draped the blanket over the body. Covered the face. He pushed to his feet and raised his eyes to view the rise of the high slopes. The sun was stronger now on his face.
‘Monty,’ he said. He walked to where his horses stood waiting, mounted up and picked up the faint trail again.
~*~
Late in the afternoon Bodie turned in his saddle and saw three riders briefly outlined against the sky. They rode into a dip and vanished but he knew they were still coming in his direction. He figured they were two miles behind and the landscape would hold them back from making a fast ride.
He also had a feeling he knew who they were.
Cabot’s mustangers.
On his trail and making no attempt to hide from him. It seemed Will Cabot was full intentioned on forcing Bodie’s hand.
While he rode, checking the way ahead, Bodie had plenty of time to think. To try and work out the whole damned mess. Because that was how it seemed to him.
There was Sam Trask—the man who had brought Bodie to the Dakotas. A wanted man on the run. Accused of rape and murder. Who had taken murdered the coach driver even though he had left Eli Pruitt alone.
Now Will Cabot and his mustanger crew. There had to be a connection between Cabot and the fugitive. A connection Bodie needed to find.
And now the paid gunman sent out after Bodie by the woman called Monty. He had only met her the once in her restaurant and now she was sending out a hired gun to kill him. Thinking about her brought back the way she had acted on the matter of Bodie going after a wanted man.
Bodie figured there had to be a thread in the mix. One thing that linked everything together. He wasn’t going to solve it while he had a sorry bunch of individuals on his ass, and none of them offering much in the way of comfort.
Would Sam Trask be able to offer a key to the puzzle?
It was a possibility, though with the way the man was acting Bodie had his doubts.
Bodie realized he could be expecting too much from Trask. Maybe the man had no idea how much interest he was creating by going on the run.
~*~
Bodie was topping yet another ridgeline. He reined in to allow his chestnut to take a rest. The horse had carried him all this way without complaint and Bodie felt guilty. It wasn’t as if he had been hard riding. Far from it, but the sheer strain of climbing the Dakota high country must have placed a great deal of pressure on the mare. So he slid from the saddle, loosened the cinch on the saddle and tipped water from one of his big canteens into his upturned hat, allowing the horse to drink. When it had slaked its thirst he shucked out the remaining drops of water and hung it from his saddle horn, letting the warm sun start to dry it out. He took a drink himself before hooking the canteen strap back in place.
While the chestnut took time to crop the grass around them Bodie scanned the way ahead and in every other direction. Over the last few hours the thin trail had led him ever higher, but Bodie didn’t forget the trio of riders he’d seen earlier. There had been no sign of them since. Either they had realized that they had been spotted and were keeping out of sight—or they were drawing closer and awaiting their chances.
Chances to what?
To gun him down?
Capture him?
Bodie breathed in the clean air. It was fresher up here on the higher slopes. Despite the sun there was a noticeable coolness there. The high altitude would most likely turn the air colder as the afternoon wore on. Once the sun set the hill country would rapidly lose the daylong heat and the temperature would drop. Here in the Dakota high country the climate could change with unexpected swiftness. When it did the results could be severe and extreme in some cases …
~*~
… in January 1888, the so-called Schoolchildren’s Blizzard had killed two hundred and thirty five people, many of whom were children on their way home from school. The bitter, powdered snow spread across the Northwest Plains region of the United States. It came without warning, and it was said that the temperature fell nearly a hundred degrees in one day. It was a Thursday afternoon and there had been unseasonably warm weather the previous day from Montana across to the Dakotas, even as far as Texas. Suddenly, within a few of hours, Arctic air from Canada swept south. Temperatures plunged to forty below zero in much of Northern Dakota. Along with the cool air, the storm brought high winds the unstoppable, blinding snow. The combination created terrible conditions. There was nothing anyone could do to prevent it, or hope to resist its grip. In this high country due to its position, severe weather could set in quickly and there was little that could be done to prevent it … it was nature’s way to be unpredictable and for all his cleverness man had no chance when she decided to strike …
~*~
Bodie checked his holstered Colt to confirm it was fully loaded. He did the same with the rifle in the saddle boot. He was simply taking precautions. Not through feeling paranoid. From having stayed alive so long by always making sure his available weapons were primed and ready for use.
He found the tracks he was following led along the ridgeline and picking up the chestnut’s rein he walked it in that direction. Although the ridge had a rocky strata beneath the grass and mossy patches Bodie had no trouble keeping the hoof prints in sight. Having followed them for some time now he was able to recognize the shape, so he knew he was following the right man. The slopes he had ridden were dotted with stands of timber. A varied mix of aspen, oak and birch. Further north the timbered tracts grew thicker, interspersed with thick brush and swathes of grass. Bodie picked out the gleam of meandering streams coming down from the higher reaches of the hills. It was good looking country, maybe isolated, but that at least meant it was still mainly uninhabited. He wondered if that was because the area was way off the regular trails, or had not yet had its natural potential realized.
‘Take a good look, horse. Come the day it’ll change.’ The chestnut lifted her head at the sound of his voice. ‘Time you earned your keep.’
Bodie tightened the saddle, gathered the reins and mounted up. He turned the horse and put it along the line of hoof prints. Something told him he was about to ride higher, taking himself to the uppermost point of this section.
Bodie had his eyes above the top peaks and scanned the open sky. Gray cloud formations were moving in his direction. They had that heavy look that held the threat of rain. Nothing surprising for this far north and the altitude.
Now Bodie never welcomed rain. In most cases it was cold and not stating the obvious, it was wet. Gentle spring rain, or downright vicious, he had an aversion to it. Up on these open slopes it would come in with a chill and heavy hand, so Bodie unfurled the oilskin slicker from his blanket roll and shook it out. He draped it across the rear skirt of his saddle, there for fast retrieval if—no, when, he corrected—he needed it.
Overshadowing his personal objection to the rain was the certain knowledge that any prolonged downpour could easily wipe away the thin trail he was following. He pushed the chestnut on a little faster, his eyes fixed on the tracks.
Twenty minutes later he felt the first raindrops. Coming in at angle that indicated they were being driven by the breeze from the higher peaks. Over the next few minutes the opening spatter grew. Bodie felt the increasingly larger drops were coming at a faster rate. A sudden gust of wind slapped
the rain into his face. It was cold and stung the tender bruises still showing. Thinking about the bruises concentrated his attention on his ribs. The dull ache was still there, reminding him what had happened. Doc Meerschaum had warned him about doing anything too strenuous. The hours he had since spent in the saddle were making themselves known.
He halted. Dragged the slicker from behind the saddle and pulled it on over his head. The dark clouds were pushing in faster now and he could see they would be overhead in a short time.
Bodie sighed. Nothing he could do but stay on line. Trask appeared to be continuing north. The ride towards the border and Canada seemed more than ever the man’s destination. So Bodie stayed on the same course.
Chapter Seven
Charbonneau pushed to his feet and nodded at his partners.
‘It’s him. Linus Dorn. Looks like a couple of shots. Must have hit hard and he bled to death.’
Kellin shrugged. ‘Amateur.’
Jay Kellin, although a mustanger, sported a cared-for Remington pistol. He had a reputation as a man to be reckoned with when it came to using the weapon. He didn’t feel the need to have to go around boasting about his skill. Kellin let his gun prove his point.
‘Cabot wants this Bodie feller putting down. Why he sent us,’ the third man said. His name was Royster. A cold-eyed individual who wore a buckskin outfit and a coonskin hat, Royster seldom asked for anything and certainly did not give anything away. He had no sidearm. Simply carried a Henry repeating rifle and was no slouch when it came to using it. On the broad belt he wore hung a war hatchet he had taken from a Sioux warrior he had killed many years ago. On his other hip was a sheathed knife. It was said Royster enjoyed the act of killing a little too much, but no one would ever say it in hearing distance.
‘This feller, Bodie, it don’t call to mess around with him. Man has proved his worth plenty,’ Charbonneau said. ‘Heard the stories about him.’
‘Bullet will cut him down same as any other man,’ Royster stated.
Rain was falling now, hissing down from a clouded sky. None of the three paid any attention to it. They were well used to the variable weather of the high country and were not about to allow it to put them off what they had to do.
Back in the saddle Charbonneau swung his shaggy mustang back on the trail and the three moved off.
The man called Bodie was ahead of them. They were closing on him, familiar with the mountain trails, and they figured they would make contact before dark.
Sooner or later they would be close enough to take on the manhunter.
Chapter Eight
The temperature had fallen. The wind coming down out of Canada brought an icy blast with it. Bodie felt it through the slicker and the touch of it against his bruised face made him flinch. Even though he had pulled on a pair of leather gloves his hands were starting to become numb. Sheeting rain hit him time after time, rocking him in the saddle. Bodie couldn’t recall the last time he had felt so cold.
He was starting to believe he had lost the trail. The ground was awash and any hood prints, faint as they might have been, were about to be sluiced out of existence by the relentless downpour.
‘Seems to me, horse, we could be on a loser here.’
The plodding gait of the chestnut faltered. She came to a stop, not even raising her head, and Bodie could understand the animal’s mood. He leaned forward and stroked her neck. When he sat upright he saw the shape of the building some way off top his right. A solid timber structure, corrals and stable at the side. Bodie sat and examined it, feeling at first he was imagining it. Then he caught the scraps of smoke rising from the stone chimney. The curls of gray whipped away by the wind as they emerged.
‘I can feel my luck changing,’ Bodie said.
He pulled on the reins and guided the chestnut down the gentle slope in front of them. He saw that a large area fronting the building had been cleared of trees and scrub, leaving a generous open space. The clearing had plainly been done some time in the past because the exposed tree stumps looked weathered.
On impulse Bodie slid his right hand under the slicker and gripped the holstered Colt. His gaze moved restlessly back and forth, checking and rechecking. There was no movement. He saw the windows flanking each side of the main door. The rain bounced off real glass in the frames. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble hauling it all the way up here. The construction of the building had been carried out with a thought for permanence. The solid logs used had been well fitted and measured to within an inch and the door suggested it was there to stay. Bodie found himself wondering who had gone to so much trouble. And why.
‘Let’s go find out.’
A flicker of movement on the far side of the corral caught Bodie’s eye. A slight figure enveloped in a black slicker. The wind-caught slicker looked too big for whoever wore it. Bodie saw a pale face peering at him from the sodden hat pulled low. It was a young woman, eyes wide with alarm when she saw Bodie’s mounted bulk staring down at her.
‘Be obliged if I could put my horse under cover, ma’am. Weather kind of came fast.’
‘Go ahead,’ she said. Her voice was firm as she recovered from her initial surprise. ‘Plenty of room.’
She turned and retraced her steps to the stable to one side of the corral. By the time Bodie reached the structure she had a door pulled back. He eased the chestnut inside, the interior warm smelling and out of the storm. He swung out of the saddle, sensing the young woman close behind, watching him.
Bodie counted at least six stalled horses. He led the chestnut to an empty one, stripped off saddle and trappings and tethered the horse. Without a word the young woman forked in fresh straw and topped up the feed trough with oats. Bodie used the saddle blanket to wipe down the chestnut’s wet body. Then hung it over the side of the stall alongside his saddle.
‘Says a lot about a man who looks after his animal,’ the young woman said.
She dragged off the rain-sodden hat, a thick fall of red hair tumbling free. She regarded Bodie with bright, hazel eyes full of curiosity and confidence.
‘That lady has done good work today,’ Bodie said. ‘Brought me all the way up here from Colton. Have to say I welcomed the sight of this place.’
‘I’m Jessie Gibbs,’ the young woman said. ‘This is my father’s place. Isaac Gibbs.’
‘Bodie.’
‘Will you come inside, Mr. Bodie. There’s hot coffee on the go and a fire to ward off the chills.’
‘Sounds good.’
Bodie gathered his saddlebags and rifle and followed the woman from the barn to the house. She pushed open the heavy door and led the way inside.
‘Dad, we have another visitor,’ Jessie said. ‘This is Mr. Bodie.’
Isaac Gibbs had red hair like his daughter. It was the only thing they seemed to have in common. Where the girl was slim and almost petite, her father was a giant of a man. Well over six feet, with wide, powerful shoulders. He sported a neatly trimmed beard. He possessed huge hands, his left gripping the carved crutch that relieved the pressure on his left leg that was splinted and bandaged. The dark pants he wore had the left leg split around the injured limb. Despite this and his size the man moved with ease as he crossed to greet Bodie, holding out his ham like right hand. Bodie felt the latent strength in Gibbs’ big hand.
‘Go warm yourself at the fire, Mr. Bodie.’
Bodie peeled off his slicker and hung it from a wooden peg next to the door. Jessie took his hat and saddlebags, leaving Bodie with the Winchester. He propped it up against the wall and walked across the wide room to stand in the throw of heat from the generous stone fireplace, where thick logs burned steadily.
Jessie took off her own slicker, hung it, then crossed the room to attend to the coffee-pot standing on a cast-iron support in the open fireplace. She poured the steaming brew into a thick china mug and handed it to Bodie. With the slicker off she was clad in a check shirt and denim dungarees, solid leather boots on her feet.
‘We can go fo
r weeks without seeing a new face,’ Isaac Gibbs said. ‘Now we get two of them…’
Movement on the far side of the room caught Bodie’s attention. A dark figure, sitting in a shadowed corner, stood and eased forward. Light spilled across his face.
Bodie watched the man over the rim of the coffee mug.
He recognized the face straight off. The last time he had seen it had been on the wanted flyer Ed Pruitt had shown him.
It was the fugitive Bodie was trailing up the mountain slopes.
Sam Trask.
Chapter Nine
They had taken shelter in the protection of a wide overhang and waited out the worst of the rainstorm. None of them was particularly happy over the change in the weather and the effect it was having on their pursuit of the man called Bodie.
‘He could be over the border by now,’ Royster grumbled. ‘Him and Trask. That’s who he’s after. We know that and so does Cabot.’
Charbonneau pulled his slicker tighter around him. He was angry at having to delay their pursuit. It had been forced on them by the storm’s increased ferocity. Trying to keep moving had become nigh impossible, and Charbonneau had made the decision to halt at least for a while. He had decided it was too risky to keep moving and be damned to what Cabot expected. There were times Cabot expected too much. A man’s life was not worth risking just for someone like Sam Trask.
Just because Cabot ramrodded the mustangers he imagined his word was never to be challenged. Being boss man had taken over his thinking. In the case of Sam Trask it was bordering on lunacy in Charbonneau’s eyes. Ever since Trask had shown up Cabot had been acting strange. Like nothing else mattered. Charbonneau couldn’t avoid thinking about that. The way Cabot was doing whatever he could to protect the man.
