Bodie 11

by Neil Hunter

  ‘I didn’t get myself all roughed up for fun,’ Bodie said. ‘Had to stay with my story to make it believable.’

  ‘Lord, man, you surely did that. Are you all right to stay on?’

  ‘I’d be telling a lie if I said was fine.’

  ‘So Henry is safe enough for now? Holed up at Erika Dukas’s place.’

  ‘Nursing a shoulder wound but alive.’

  ‘That wanted accusation is fake?’

  ‘In the eyes of the real law. By luck it worked out well. The set up was created by Marshal Bascombe and Markham. If he’d been shot it would have left them pretty well in the clear.’

  ‘But what about the evidence he gathered? They would still need it to keep them out of trouble.’

  ‘That was the snag. Henry kept it hidden as insurance. It hasn’t worked out exactly as he intended but he can retrieve it so it will still bring Markham to justice.’

  Twenty-Seven

  ‘It’s coming from the telegraph office ...’ Capshaw said.

  Bodie immediately saw a connection. With everything that had happened he had forgotten about the message he had sent to Lawyer Bainbridge. With that fixed in his mind didn’t hesitate as he crossed the store and pulled open the door, stepping outside and heading in the direction of the burning hut. He pushed his way through the layered snow, ignoring the chill and the still falling flakes.

  Flames were curling up through gaps in the wooden construction. Smoke filtering out was whipped away by the wind. He could see the orange glow of fire through the window. When he reached the door he launched a solid kick at it. Wood splintered and the door flew open. Flame curled inside the hut and Bodie felt the heat reach for him. He recalled that the telegraph desk was to the left of the door and shielding his face from the heat stepped into the hut.

  He saw Cal Jackson’s inert form stretched out on the floor, fire already starting to move towards the body. The far side of the hut and the floor was covered in flame. He stepped forward, crouching to take hold of the sprawled man’s shirt. He dragged Cal Jackson across the heat seared floor, hauling him bodily away from the mass of fire spreading towards him and pulled him through the door. He was aware of the smoldering clothing the man wore, rolling him in the snow as they cleared the door.

  Capshaw was there and between them they picked up the telegrapher and carried him back along the boardwalk and inside the store.

  Figures appeared on the street as others were aroused by the rising flames.

  ‘Get the doctor,’ Capshaw said. ‘Get him to the store.’

  Between them they took Jackson through to the living quarters and put him on the couch. Jackson let out a moan,

  ‘At least he’s alive,’ Capshaw said. ‘But look at his face.’

  ‘That wasn’t done by the fire,’ Bodie said. ‘Looks like he was pistol whipped.

  ‘Who? Why?’

  ‘I’m guessing somebody who wanted to find out why I sent a telegram to San Francisco.’

  Capshaw brought a blanket and laid it over Jackson. The man was moving restlessly, eyes staring out from the bloody mask of his battered face. His mouth moved, no sound emerging. A hand slid out from under the blanket and gripped Bodie’s wrist. Bodie leaned in close as Jackson’s lips formed more soundless words. When Bodie raised his head his expression was taut.

  Capshaw stared at him. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Just one word...Bascombe.’

  ‘The Marshal did that to him?’

  ‘Beat him and took the message that came for me. Then set the office alight.’

  ‘What message?’

  ‘To a lawyer I know in ’Frisco. Wanting to find out about Lance Markham.’

  ‘This gets stranger all the time.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know. It’s time to settle this,’ Bodie said.

  He checked his weapons. Pulled on his coat and turned to leave.

  ‘Where are you going this time?’

  ‘To bring Henry Purcell and Erica Kovacs back to town. Time this was settled once and for all.’

  As Bodie left the store Sorrow’s doctor showed up.

  ‘Patient’s in the back,’ Bodie said.

  Making his way across town, the telegraph office still burning in the background, Bodie met Ketchum at the door to the livery.

  ‘Saddle me that horse I had last time.’

  ‘You planning on getting lost again?’

  ‘Not by choice. And thanks for hauling me over to Capshaw’s.’

  ‘Seemed you were in need of a little help at the time, son.’

  Twenty-Eight

  Bodie rode with a sense of urgency. The need to get to Kovacs’ place as fast as possible. He could feel the threat almost as a physical sensation. Bascombe would be desperate to get his hands on Henry Purcell. If he gained control of the secreted documents Purcell had there would be a chance for Markham to possible wriggle his way out of his problems. Physical evidence could be destroyed and if Purcell died as well Markham might succeed to stay out of prison because of Purcell’s case was proved prison would be where Markham was headed.

  Despite his body still aching from his previous encounters all Bodie really wanted was to be back in his warm bed in Capshaw’s store. It was an overriding thought. One he had to force out of his mind as he rode, hunched over in his saddle, blinking away the icy flakes that fell with increasing rapidity.

  He rode with a single purpose. To reach Kovacs’ cabin and get her and Purcell out safely. Wishful thinking he knew. Life didn’t always follow a man’s hopes. He was aware he might arrive too late but it did nothing to slow him down.

  Bodie eased his stiff body out of the saddle, rifle in hand. He checked his handgun, and the backup pistol he carried.

  The cabin lay close as he tied his horse to a low branch and moved in. Falling snow laid a silent covering around him. He saw smoke drifting from the chimney. Three saddled horses in the corral. He moved in close, picking up voices coming from inside the cabin.

  Then the sound of a blow. The rising protest of a woman’s voice.

  Erika.

  Bodie flattened against the wall beside the door.

  ‘I can keep this up as long as you want,’ Vince Bascombe said.

  He stared at the bloodied form of Henry Purcell, tied to a chair. Purcell was barely conscious, his face bruised and cut from the beating he had already received from Bascombe. His left eye was swollen shut. His lips torn.

  Bascombe flexed his big fists. He wore thick rawhide gloves that were stained with Purcell’s blood. Sorrow’s lawman was sweating from the effort of hitting Purcell.

  ‘This sonofabitch is going to die before he talks,’ Bascombe said.

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ one of his men said. ‘Boss wouldn’t be too happy if that happened.’

  Bascombe threw him a fierce scowl. Partly because he knew the man was right. Markham had already made it clear he wanted Purcell to reveal where he had hidden the evidence. The man had to be kept alive until he did that.

  Twenty-Nine

  Bodie saw Purcell securely roped to a chair, a burly figure standing behind him. Bascombe confronting him, fists raised.

  To the side Erika Kovacs was held by a second man. One side of her face showed a blossoming large bruise. Her shirt torn at the shoulders.

  Bascombe threw a fist into Purcell’s bandaged shoulder, drawing a pained yell from the man.

  ‘You’re wasting my time.’

  ‘Stop...’

  The protest came from Erika.

  Bascombe’s response was to hit Purcell again. Over his wound, drawing another cry from the man.

  And it was enough to make Bodie react.

  He stepped up to the door. Raised a booted foot and slammed it against the door. Wood splintered. Cracked. The door flew open and Bodie followed.

  Raised his rifle as he burst into the room. The man holding Erika twisted in Bodie’s direction. Pushed her aside and went for the holstered revolver at his side.

  Bod
ie fired. Put a 44-40 into his chest, knocking the man off his feet. He brought the muzzle of the rifle round, tracking the man holding Purcell and registered the man’s expression a second before he hit the man with a shot to the head. The man stumbled back, a hole between his eyes, bloody fragments bursting from the back of his skull. Purcell slumped forward in the chair, blood seeping through the bandage.

  Bascombe dropped a hand to his own weapon, turning to face Bodie.

  ‘Goddamn drifter my ass. Here’s where you get yours...’

  Bodie’s Winchester crackled with fire as he placed multiple shots into Bascombe’s body. The man stumbled, blood bubbling from the wounds, ragged holes showing torn flesh. There was a shocked expression on his face as he went down, hitting the floor hard.

  ‘One way or another, I’ve had it with Sorrow,’ Bodie said.

  He leaned his back to the wall, rifle sagging in his hand. Of a sudden he could feel every ache and pain his body had suffered recently and he allowed to feel sorry for himself.

  Erika was on her knees beside Purcell, cradling his head to her breast.

  A croaking voice reached Bodie.

  ‘Bodie,’ Purcell said, ‘this isn’t over. Markham isn’t going to give in so easily.’

  ‘Right now, son, I don’t give a damn. He isn’t about to be given a choice. First off I need a cup of coffee to clear my head.’

  He helped Erika maneuver Purcell back onto the couch and while she tended to his wound Bodie went in search of his coffee, and for a few minutes he forgot about Lance Markham and why he had come to Sorrow.

  Thirty

  McAndrew had strapped on a pistol before joining Markham. The sight of the holstered gun brought a thin smile to Markham’s lips.

  ‘Expecting war to break out?’

  McAndrew ignored the jibe as he helped himself to a drink.

  ‘You heard something I missed?’ Markham said.

  ‘You just don’t understand,’ McAndrew said. ‘That or you’re plain just ignoring it. Damnit, Lance, this is breaking apart. That telegram not clear enough for you?’

  ‘It proves nothing.’

  ‘Oh come on, Lance. What it proves is the authorities are piecing it all together. Purcell’s got his evidence to...’

  ‘But he hasn’t got it through to them. As long as it remains sight unseen there isn’t a thing they can lay at my door. What he collected is still around here somewhere. We need to find it and burn it to ashes.’

  ‘We’re not having much luck on that score,’ McAndrew said.

  ‘Bascombe had an idea Purcell gave it to that damned women Kovacs. Right now he’s at her place to find out.’

  ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t hurt that woman.’

  ‘Having a crisis of conscience, Gage?’

  ‘Do anything to her and Sorrow will dangle you from a rope.’

  ‘This excuse of a town isn’t going to do a damn thing. And if Kovacs has a hand in this mess she’ll pay the price. Jesus, Gage, are you backing off? I figured you for a man with more guts.’

  ‘You think what you want, Lance, but I’ll not countenance harming a woman.’

  ‘May be a little late there. Bascombe isn’t about to allow outdated morals stop him. He’ll do what’s needed to get his hands on those documents. Whatever is needed.’

  ‘You can’t allow that. If those lumberjacks find out what you’re up to they’ll be battering down your door. They may be rough men but they won’t allow mistreating a woman.’

  Markham laughed out loud. ‘A bunch of hairy-assed knights to the rescue? I don’t think so, Gage. Those dumb tree cutters don’t think beyond the next bottle of liquor. I have too much invested in this deal to allow myself to be scared off. Have you forgotten the people involved. How much potential there is in this prospect? Too much to start turning lilywhite – or yellow.’

  ‘Lance, I’ve stayed with you all the way. Backed your plays whatever. But you are close to the edge now. Cartwright is dead. Henry Purcell framed for his murder. Now we have Cal Jackson the telegrapher half beaten to death. Erika Kovacs under threat a well.’

  Markham managed a mirthless smile

  ‘Playing nice isn’t going to get us what we want.’

  ‘Where does it stop, Lance? You going to kill off the rest of Sorrow? Damnit, man, you’re going hog wild. Are you crazy? I can’t be a party to...’

  Markham turned slowly, face suddenly peaceful. Misleading and fooling McAndrews so that he failed to notice the smooth motion of Markham’s right hand, sliding beneath his coat. Coming out with a snap of his wrist. Showing the short-barreled .32 caliber handgun he now held.

  McAndrew had a fleeting second to register the appearance of the pistol before Markham raised the gun, snapping back the hammer and firing. The bullet cored in above McAndrew’s left eye, followed by a second that struck a half inch from the first. McAndrew’s head jolted back under impact. He fell back, body stiff, and hit the floor with a thump.

  ‘Not the whole town, Gage. Just the ones who stand in my way.’

  Markham placed his revolver on his desk. Poured himself a whisky and took it down in one swallow. It steadied his nerve for what he had to do next. Which was to drag McAndrew’s body out of the office and deposit it in a rear room where it would remain until he had it disposed of. He fetched a blanket and covered the dead man.

  Vince Bascombe would arrange for McAndrew’s removal once he returned from Erica Kovacs place. Hopefully with the information Markham needed. He took another drink, savoring it slowly as he sat down. Matters were proceeding slowly. Obstacles being overcome progressively. Markham reached into a desk drawer and took out fresh cartridges. Calmly reloaded his pistol and holstered it.

  Gage had proved himself untrustworthy. Close to panic. He would have talked himself into doing something that might have jeopardized Markham’s plans. It only took words in the wrong quarter to cause upset and right now Lance Markham did not need anything to spoil his operations in Sorrow.

  Markham did not discount the contents of the telegram that had been sent to the man called Bodie. Though it told of the involvement of a prestige San Francisco lawyer named Bainbridge and the investigation of men Markham knew by association, it appeared that no definite action had been taken against them for lack of evidence. Monied men in strong business positions they were not exactly untouchable, but stronger evidence against them was needed before any lawful moves could be initiated.

  Markham needed the time it would take to finalize the scheme they had in operation. When that had been signed on the bottom line it would be time to reap the benefits. Until then it needed a strong hand at the helm – and Lance Markham could provide that.

  He knew he was walking a tightrope and had to keep his head. Seeing things through was what he did. What he had done on other occasions. Sorrow was no different. He had experienced a degree of resistance when his overtures were rejected. It took a little hard handed persuasion to clear the way with some of the businessmen in town. Marshal Bascombe’s hired men had to be used on a number of occasions and in general people fell into line. Markham wanted the town under his thumb. Achieve that and the way opened to an easy transition.

  There was a downside to using Bascombe. The man sometimes took a step too far. The man had no finesse. In truth he was a barbarian. A man who used brutality and violence to get his point across. Certainly a useful man to have at his side when the need arose. Unfortunately there were times Bascombe went ahead without considering the effects his methods might have. On those occasions Markham was left with having to smooth over the cracks.

  A faint smile curled Markham’s lips as he thought how Bascombe might react when confronted with Cartwright’s body. Realizing the extent Markham had gone to the lawman would think he had done the right thing. Killing Cartwright had been a careless response Markham realized and on reflection maybe a step too far. Yet he had enough on his hands with no need of Cartwright’s sudden crisis of conscience. Pushed too far he had hit back. An extreme r
esponse, he admitted, but he had simply wanted Cartwright to shut up and stay in the game. When the man kept on Markham had solved the problem by the most direct action.

  ‘What the hell. At least he’s stopped talking.’

  That in itself was unusual. Lance Markham was not in the habit of talking to himself. He wondered briefly whether things were getting on top of him. Having solo conversations on his own – a manifestation of the strain he was under?

  That was the easy way to see things. Pressure built in a man, leaving him open to moments of self-doubt.

  He had certainly had that. Yet it was over now and he was back in control.

  Markham drained his glass. Felt marginally better as the smooth whisky slide down his throat. Took a look at the wood cased clock on the wall. He would feel even better when Bascombe and his men were back in town. If their thinking had been correct and Purcell’s evidence had been hidden at Erica Kovacs’ place...

  Damn, he thought.

  That word if. Two letters that threw doubt into this mind.

  If.

  If.

  If Purcell’s evidence was not there they were no further forward.

  Dark thoughts began to crowd Markham’s mind. Twisting and turning until he slammed a fist down on his desk in sheer frustration. Everything on the desk shook. Markham thrust to his feet and even though he knew it was a wrong move he took another whisky. Only this time it had a sour taste in his mouth and failed to calm him. He threw the tumbler aside and it hit the far wall, shattering with a hard sound, spraying liquor in a pale flush.

  Windblown frozen snow rattled against window glass. He crossed to stare out, seeing the hard driven storm funnel along the street. As if he didn’t have enough to worry about the snowstorm showed no sign of abating. Along the street the fire blackened skeleton of the telegraph office reminded him of the situation.

  A damn fool thing Bascombe had done. Leaving the town of Sorrow totally cut off from the world.