by Neil Hunter
Chapter Six
Bodie had taken a quick turn in the clear water of the stream before dressing. Now he sat beside the fire, his cup of coffee refilled, a thin cigar between his lips, and watched while Angela pulled on her own clothing. His close scrutiny didn’t seem to bother her in the least.
“Was it as good as you expected?” she asked candidly, coming to kneel beside him.
“You ask the damnedest questions,” Bodie growled. “Men must run a mile when they see you coming.”
She laughed, a soft, throaty sound. “As long as the ones I really want stay put, I won’t complain. Are you going to answer me?”
“What gives you the idea I was expecting anything to happen?”
“I saw it in your eyes. Back in Ridgelow. When you’d dealt with Randall’s men.”
Bodie couldn’t deny it, even to himself. It took no effort at all to recall the way she’d looked. Sprawled out on the stable floor, her dress torn away from those ripe breasts, skirts thrust high around her hips. And he had wondered, in that moment, what she would be like.
“I don’t think you want me to tell you really,” he said.
“Why not? Is it so wrong for a woman to want to know if she’s satisfied a man?”
Bodie sighed. “I’ll let you know next time.”
“At least that’s answered my question,” Angela said. She smiled indulgently, climbing to her feet and crossing to the wagon.
They began to prepare to move off. When they were set Angela climbed onto the wagon, taking up the reins. She watched for Bodie to settle in his saddle, caught his quick nod, and they set out. Bodie scouted around for a while then drew his horse level with the wagon.
“I’ve got a question for you,” he said.
Angela glanced at him. “Yes?”
“As far as you know, when you left High Grade and set out for Ridgelow, did anyone have any knowledge as to why you were going?”
“No. I’m pretty sure of that. The only ones who knew my reason for visiting Ridgelow were my brother, Raymond, and myself. We told no-one else.”
“All right. So Randall found you’d gone and sent Billy-Jack and Pike after you. He had no idea why you were going, so Billy-Jack and Pike were looking for the reason.”
“I don’t follow what you’re getting at, Bodie.”
“Randall had no proof that you were doing anything that might harm him. So he had to tread water until he knew. If Billy-Jack and Pike hadn’t got over-enthusiastic about you, and tried to pull that stunt back in Ridgelow, even they would have been able to figure out what you were doing.”
“Agreed. Go on.”
“So as far as Randall is concerned he still doesn’t know what you are up to. And he won’t know until you drive that wagon down High Grade’s main street.”
Angela frowned. “Yes?”
“So why did he plant a gunman on that cliff trail? And why one who blazes away like crazy the minute he sees you?”
“I did wonder about that myself,” Angela said. She eyed Bodie sternly. “I guessed something had been on your mind. What is it?”
“If Randall wanted a hired gun to do some shooting he’d pick a professional. One who wouldn’t have missed the way our boy did.”
“And what makes you think he wasn’t a professional?”
“How many gunslingers do you know who double-up as miners in their time off?” Bodie asked.
“Miners?”
“Remember, I went back to have a close look at him. He was wearing the kind of clothing miners prefer. Thick shirt and pants. Heavy, laced boots. His hands were rough. Scarred. Calloused. Not the hands of a professional gunman.”
“But Randall wouldn’t hire someone like that!” Angela said. “Not with all the gunmen he has around the place.”
“This feller was around forty. Dark complexion. Broad jaw and cheekbones. Thick black hair brushed straight back. Nose looked as if it had been broken a few times. Scar about an inch long just under the left eye. I’d say he got into a lot of fights. Think you might know him?”
“I think I do,” Angela said. “Janos Kopek. I think he was Hungarian, or Polish. Something like that. He’d been around High Grade for three or four years. Worked in the mines when he wasn’t on suspension for brawling. He couldn’t keep off the bottle. Always drunk when he wasn’t working. He’d been fired so many times it was becoming something of a joke.”
“Any chance of him having a grudge against you?”
She shook her head. “No. He never actually worked for us. For most of the other companies, but not ours. I suppose one day he would have asked for a job.”
“Not anymore,” Bodie said.
“You think someone hired him to ... kill me?”
“Seems that way. Man like that would be pretty easy to buy. Give him enough money for drink to last him six months and he’d shoot the President.”
“Then if it wasn’t Jonas Randall, who was it?”
“You got any other enemies?” Bodie asked.
Angela shook her head. “With Randall throwing his weight around High Grade, everyone has reason to be friendly with the rest. And we’ve always got along with the other mine owners. Bodie, I can’t think of anyone.”
A couple of hours later they were easing down a long, rutted slope. Dust rose in their wake, staining the clear air. The rugged hills shimmered with heat. Bodie put his horse alongside the wagon again.
“Remember we figured that Randall might have others out looking for you?”
“Yes. So?”
“Kopek wasn’t working for Randall. I think we can assume that now.”
Angela studied him, puzzled. “Bodie, stop being vague.”
“Kopek wasn’t Randall’s man. That means we’re still due a visit.”
“How can you be so sure?” Angela pointed out.
“Because if I’m not mistaken, they’re riding in right now!”
Angela looked up, a shocked gasp rising in her throat as she saw three riders coming toward them. She hauled in on the reins, halting the wagon. Setting the brake she leaned forward to study the approaching riders, waiting apprehensively until they came into her range of vision.
“You’re not mistaken, Bodie,” she said. “They work for Randall.”
“I know the one in the middle,” Bodie said. “Sam Tucker. Can’t put names to the others.”
“The tall one on the left is Yancy Cree. He has a crippled right hand. Always wears a black glove over it. But he’s supposed to be better than most using his left. The other one, wearing the long moustache, is Floyd Brown. I saw him beat two hefty miners in a fist-fight. When he’d done neither of the miners could stand. It was horrible to watch.”
“All right. Leave this to me. Don’t say a word. Just sit. But if any shooting starts you get the hell off that seat and under the wagon. Right?”
Angela nodded. “Yes. Bodie, don’t you go getting yourself shot. Not now I’m just getting to know you.”
“Shut up,” Bodie said. “Only a damn woman could think about sex at a time like this!”
“Brute!” Angela whispered, but Bodie had already eased his horse away from the side of the wagon, riding out a few yards to meet the oncoming trio.
They drew rein, the one named Yancy Cree pulling his horse a little to the fore. He was long and lean, with thick, corn-yellow hair spilling out from beneath his black hat. He had his reins clasped awkwardly in his stiff right hand, a thin, black glove drawn over the crippled fingers. He stared beyond Bodie, watery blue eyes fixing on Angela’s tense figure.
“Nice to see you back, ma’am,” he said, grinning, and exposing large square teeth.
“Something I can do for you?” Bodie asked. “If there ain’t we’d like to be on our way.”
Yancy Cree drew his eyes from
Angela, turning them on Bodie. The grin faded from his face. “I weren’t talkin’ to you, boy,” he stated, his voice developing a heavy southern twang.
“Well, I’m talking to you, Cree,
so listen. If you figure you got any dealings with Miss Crown, put them to me. The way I see it there ain’t a damn thing between us, so I’d advise you to back off and let us through. And that ain’t just horseshit I’m talking.”
Brown, the one with the thick moustache, gave a low chuckle. “Looks like the lady done hired herself a tough one, Yancy! Wonder how fast he’ll crack?”
“Maybe we’ll find out,” Cree said. “He don’t sound too tough to me.”
“I was you, Cree, I’d step light,” Bodie advised. “You ain’t chasin’ niggers round the plantation now. Push a man around out here, he’s liable to push right back.”
“You bastard!” Cree hissed, his face flushing with anger. “I’m goin’ to enjoy taking you apart!”
“How in hell did Randall find scum like you?” Bodie taunted. He knew for a fact that there was no way he was going to talk his way out of trouble. Not with men like these. So if it was heading for a fight he wasn’t going to lose anything by trying to gain an edge. “Hell, he must have kicked over his spittoon, and there you all were!”
Oddly it was Sam Tucker who broke first. With an angry yell he twisted round in his saddle, snatching at the gun on his right hip.
“To hell with Randall,” he shouted. “I ain’t takin’ that from no son of a bitch!”
His gun was only halfway clear of the holster when Bodie’s hand dropped, gripped and lifted the heavy Colt, dogging back the hammer even as the gun was sliding free. As it leveled on Tucker the hammer was dropping again. The Colt blasted a single shot, the bullet ripping a bloody hole through Tucker’s throat. A thick gout of blood sprayed from the ragged wound, more spewing from the bullet’s exit hole just behind Tucker’s left ear. Tucker screamed as he went back out of his saddle, falling towards the hard ground. Even before Tucker had started to fall, Bodie had left his own saddle, rolling over to the left side of his horse. He hit the ground on his shoulders, rolling to get clear, and came up shooting. He picked his target and triggered two quick shots. Floyd Brown was caught partway off his horse. Both bullets took him in the back, between his shoulders, throwing him forward against his horse. Losing his grip Brown fell back, one foot caught in the stirrup. His horse, startled by the sudden crash of gunfire, bolted, dragging Brown’s bloody body across the hard ground. It finally came to rest a couple of hundred yards away, Brown’s body still dangling from the stirrup. The flesh of his face and body had been gouged and ripped as he bounced and scraped along the ground, blood streaming from ugly gashes. The instant he’d fired at Brown, Bodie had twisted about, seeking Yancy Cree. He heard the solid blast of a shot and felt something rip a bloody swathe across the back of his left shoulder. Dropping to a crouch Bodie half-turned his body, swinging the Colt round, and caught a blurred glimpse of Cree as the gunman raced away from him. Bodie saw that Cree was pushing his horse toward the wagon. He swore bitterly, bringing up the Colt and firing in one single movement. Cree’s horse screamed as Bodie’s bullet tore through its neck. It took a couple more steps then faltered, blood spraying from its nostrils. Its head went down and it crouched sideways, spilling Cree from the saddle. Cree managed to land on his feet and he continued to run forward in the direction of the wagon. He snapped off a single shot at Bodie who threw himself to the ground, bracing himself with his left hand as he struck. Bodie’s gun came up, finger jerking on the trigger. The bullet took a bloody chunk from Cree’s shoulder. Bodie fired again, his last shot, and even as he pulled the trigger he knew he’d missed.
But not completely.
The bullet cleared Yancy Cree’s moving figure by a couple of feet, then struck the thick iron rim of one of the wagon’s wheels. Flattened out of shape the bullet was deflected from its original trajectory with a vicious howl. And Yancy Cree ran straight into its path. The chunk of lead caught him just under the right eye, shattering the cheekbone into ragged splinters. Then it drove on up through his skull, into the soft brain mass, impacting against the rear of the skull, and tearing out a huge, gory hole. Cree’s dying body ran on for a few more yards before he smashed limply to the ground, arms and legs flailing loosely.
Bodie climbed stiffly to his feet, walking slowly towards the wagon. He felt a soft churning sickness in his stomach. Reaction to the violent events and the pain from the burning wound Cree’s bullet had opened across his shoulder. Even as he moved he could feel the sticky blood flowing down his back.
He spotted movement by the wagon and moments later Angela stepped into view. She came towards him, concern showing on her face.
“My God,” she whispered. “I can’t believe what I saw! It happened so fast. One minute you were all talking…and then that man Tucker went for his gun…and ...” She shuddered. “So quickly ...”
“Doesn’t take long for a man to die,” Bodie said.
“But why? Why did they do it?” She stared at him, her eyes clinging to him, silently pleading for an explanation.
“Because they don’t know any other way,” Bodie told her. “Violence is the only language they understand. It’s all they have. The gun is their mark of being different, and when they meet something that bothers them they use it.”
“You make it sound so simple. So normal.”
“Hell, of course it’s normal. It’s as normal as two people making love. Men have been killing each other ever since they learned how to make a hand into a fist. And they’ll be doing it long after we’re dead and forgotten.”
Angela sighed. “It seems to me that Mr. Jonas Randall has started something which could kill us all! How long can it go on, Bodie?”
He glanced up from reloading his Colt. “As long as it takes to settle,” he said simply. “Or as long as there are people still standing.”
Angela turned back towards the wagon. Her gaze fell on Yancy Cree’s sprawled corpse. She took one look at the ugly mess oozing from his open skull and groaned softly.
“Bodie, I think I’m going to be sick!” she said, and she was.
He rounded up the loose horses, leading them to the rear of the wagon and securing them there. Then he dragged each body to the wagon, heaving them over the saddles and tying them down, covering them with blankets. By the time he’d done, Bodie was sweating. His shoulder felt as if it was on fire. He made his way to the front of the wagon. Angela was slumped down in the shade offered by the wagon’s bulk, an opened canteen of water gripped tightly in her hands. She looked up as Bodie’s shadow fell across her, smiling from a pale, bloodless face.
“You see,” she said, “I’m, not as tough as I make out.”
“Yeah? Well, don’t worry about it.” He lowered himself down beside her. “How do you feel about playing nurse for a while?”
“Are you hurt?”
Bodie turned his shoulder towards her. “It ain’t much but it’s all mine,” he said.
“Bodie, you’re bleeding all over the place!” she exclaimed.
“I know,” he said. “Just try and stop it.”
Angela removed his shirt. She examined the wound, then climbed up on the wagon to get something to clean it with. Using water from the canteen she washed away the blood and covered the long gash with cool ointment from her bag. Finally she bound Bodie’s shoulder with bandage taken from the supplies she was carrying to High Grade.
“Is that better?” she asked, watching him put on his remaining clean shirt.
“Fine,” Bodie said.
“When we get to High Grade I’ll take you to see the doctor.” She smiled wryly. “We have a very good doctor in High Grade. He should be good, because he gets a lot of practice!”
Bodie tucked in his shirt. “Way things keep happening,” he said, “he’s going to be getting some more!”
Angela stared after him as he moved to where his horse waited. The way he’d spoken, she thought, made it sound less like an observation and more like a very solid promise.
Chapter Seven
It was exactly an hour before noon the following day when Bodie and Angela Crown reached High
Grade. Angela took the loaded wagon along the rutted, thronged main street, Bodie following along at the rear, leading the three corpse-laden horses.
As they eased along the dusty street, with the hard glare of the sun beating down on them, Bodie took his first look over High Grade, and wasn’t impressed in the least. High Grade was no better or worse than any mining town. It was dirty and cluttered, its buildings raw and jammed together on an uneven stretch of ground clinging to the side of the dug-over, blasted-apart, timbered-up mountain. From a couple of miles out Bodie had begun to notice the dark holes burrowing into the face of the high slopes: the mines, with their dust-streaked workers scurrying about like so many ants. The mines ranged from simple two-man operations up to the organized company workings. The small mines had crude notices stuck in the earth saying: Lucky Lady Mine. Keep Out! When the bigger mines started to worry over their property they erected high fences, strung with barbed wire, and their warning notices left no doubt as to their meaning: Private Property. Stay off Or Be Shot! High Grade itself was just as business-like. It had no time for the frills of civilization. Everything was solid and functional. The saloons, and there were over a dozen of them, were not adorned with the usual garish decorations on the frontages. They bore a simple sign stating that drinks were for sale. The same applied to all the other businesses. A long, low building, with the smell of hot food rolling out into the street had a sign that said: Eats! On a corner a barbershop advertised: Cuts ’n’ Shaves. And down a sleazy alley Bodie caught sight of a crudely-painted sign indicating a dark doorway at the rear of a dingy saloon. The spelling on the board was incorrect, but the message was unmistakable — Fuks! And that sign just about summed up High Grade for Bodie. It was crude, down to earth, dollar-hungry, and moving too fast to give a sweet damn about anybody or anything.