by Neil Hunter
‘You accept the assignment?’
‘Been a fault of mine ever since the first time a girl winked at me, Mr. Trask. I never have been able to resist a challenge.’
Chapter Four
Bodie rode out of Creel the next morning. Once clear of town he cut off to the south. He rode for three hours, crossing the muddy ribbon of the Pecos River an hour before noon. On the far bank he rested his horse, taking time to sit in the scant shade of a few trees edging the river at the spot he’d chosen to cross. Allowing himself the luxury of a thin cigar, Bodie had digested the information Lyle Trask had given him on the most recent sighting of the Reefer gang. Three days previously, so Trask’s information had revealed, a freighter named Roak had been attacked by an armed bunch of men. Roak had been shot and left for dead, his wagon and team taken by the raiders. In the wagon was a shipment of arms and ammunition intended for a store in the town of Hayes, a small town near the Rio Grande. The shipment had consisted of fifty new Winchester repeating rifle, twenty-five Colt handguns and five-thousand rounds of ammunition. Roak, though badly shot up, had managed to reach a small ranch. Before he had died from his wounds, the freighter gave a clear description of one of his killers. The description fitted exactly to that of Morgan Taylor, one of Hoyt Reefer’s men. Roak had even mentioned the fact that the small finger on the man’s left hand was missing, and Morgan Taylor had lost his finger in a shootout in Laredo during his early days with Hoyt Reefer. The local law had tried to follow the trail left by Reefer’s gang, but had lost it in the foothills of the Guadalupe Mountains. That trail would be days old now, Bodie knew, but he’d followed cold trails before, and at least it was something to go on, however slight.
Moving on, he drifted south, hoping to reach Hayes by nightfall. He wanted a few words with the town’s lawman. It was possible that the man might be able to give him some idea of Reefer’s intended destination. It was a slight hope, but worth following up.
The day was hot. There wasn’t a breath of wind. The sun-bleached terrain, mainly undulating and rocky this close to the border, lay open and defenseless against the ceaseless rage of the sun. The great empty curve of the sky, blue and cloudless, shimmered gently. Bodie didn’t push his horse. He let the animal make its own pace. The reward for folly out here was ultimately death. A man on foot stood little chance unless he knew the land intimately, and few men did. Bodie had as good a knowledge of this part of the country as most, maybe better than most, yet he had no desire to put that knowledge to the test.
Bringing his horse’s head round Bodie put it down a sandy slope, leaning gently back in the saddle to counteract the angle of descent.
It was in that instant the shot came. A rifle firing from somewhere on his left. The bullet burned through the air a fraction of an inch from his throat. Bodie kicked his feet from the stirrups and let his body roll from the saddle. He closed his right hand over the butt of his Colt, sliding it from the holster as his shoulder struck the slope. He rolled away from his horse, dust rising in pale coils behind him. Bodie heard the rifle fire again. The bullet clipped the sleeve of his shirt. He slid to the foot of the slope, drawing his feet under him and thrust upright, eyes searching the slope above, seeking the rifleman. He had worked out the general position of his attacker. All he needed now was a definite sighting.
He got it seconds later as the rifleman showed himself, already in the process of setting up another shot. The man was halfway up the slope, part concealed behind a jutting slab of weathered stone.
Bodie threw up his Colt, squeezing off two quick shots, then ran forwards, angling up the slope. The move took the rifleman by surprise. He’d been expecting Bodie to turn away. To retreat - not attack. Both of Bodie’s bullets struck the rock and howled off into space. The rifleman lurched back a step, hurriedly readjusting his aim. Bodie, meantime, took the chance to pause, level his Colt, holding for a second - then he eased back on the light trigger. The Colt cracked once, muzzle lifting. A vivid gout of red exploded from the rifleman’s left shoulder. He twisted round, his rifle jerking skywards as it went off. The man lost his footing on the loose slope and slithered into view from behind his boulder.
Bodie stood yards away, waiting, his face wearing a bitter, brutal expression, as he silently watched the rifleman attempt to regain his balance while desperately trying to retrain his rifle on his intended target. The rifleman was the surviving member of the Lutz family. The one Bodie had cut up with the beer glass. One side of the man’s face was swathed in white bandage. He twisted his head round and threw a murderous glance in Bodie’s direction, making a further attempt to lift his rifle and fire despite the shattered shoulder.
That was when Bodie raised his Colt with deliberate intent and emptied it into Lutz’s writhing body. Each bullet ripped a fresh, blood-spurting path, pulping flesh and splintering bone. Lutz pitched face first down the slope. He hit the bottom with a bone-jarring smack, humping painfully on one side. Reaching him Bodie toed him over onto his back. Lutz stared up at him through eyes already glazing over.
‘Goddam you, Bodie,’ he hissed through bloody lips. ‘We should have done for you back in Creel! Back-shot you like I wanted to!’
‘Yeah? Well you didn’t, you son of a bitch!’
Lutz made a violent effort to raise himself off the ground but only managed to life his head. ‘Hell with you... Bodie ... we should have . . . took you . . . the others . . . said we . . . could!’
A humorless smile ghosted across Bodie’s lips. ‘Couple of minutes you’ll be able to tell ’em they were wrong, feller.’
Lutz watched the man hunter turn away and walk to his waiting horse. As Bodie mounted up Lutz screamed: ‘Dammit, man, ain’t you goin’ to help me? I . .. ain’t about. . .to . .. make it . . . !’
Bodie glanced down at Lutz as he rode by. ‘Nothing I can do, feller, even if had mind to!’
‘What .. . the ... hell!’ Lutz raved, spitting out blood. ‘Christ, Bodie, what ... do you . .. expect me to do?’
‘Only thing a man in your condition can do, Lutz. I guess you just lie down and die!’ Bodie said coldly, and rode on.
He closed his ears to the ranting of the man who only minutes before had been trying to end his life. He recalled what the old livery stable owner - Greensburgh - had told him about the Lutz’s inbred hate, about their need to avenge family harm, and he wondered whether there were any other members of the Lutz clan liable to continue the reprisals. Bodie through about the matter, but he didn’t let it worry him.
By the time he reached Hayes it was already dark. Bodie rode in along the rutted street, between the rows of lamplight buildings, and reined in beside the town jail. The main door was open, left in that position by some hopeful individual waiting for a cooling breeze.
The man sitting behind the cluttered desk in the small, stifling office glanced up at Bodie’s tall figure. He stared at Bodie for long seconds and then a wide smile creased his square, brown face.
‘Bodie! Hell, boy, it’s good to see you!’ He stood up, coming round the desk to take Bodie’s outstretched hand in a powerful grip. ‘Last I heard you was up in the Nations.
Mind that was six months back. You catch anything?’
‘Little money and a little lead,’ Bodie remarked, thinking of the puckered scar running across his left side. ‘Anyhow, what’re you doing wearing a badge for a ten cent town like this, Will?’
‘You know what they say, Bodie. It’s a living.’ Will Cross motioned Bodie to sit down. ‘I know one thing. It won’t take more’n one try guessin’ what brought you here.’
‘Hoyt Reefer,’ Bodie admitted.
Cross sighed, leaning his hip against the side of the desk. ‘Bodie, when you going to quit all this goddam chasing about an’ put on a badge again?’
‘Never, Will,’ Bodie snapped angrily. ‘No chance!’ His voice still revealed the bitterness he felt, a bitterness that had made him what he was, changing him and his way of life. There were few men alive who would dare
to confront Bodie with that episode from his past and expect to get away with it. Will Cross was one of those few. Though even he knew he was wasting his time. He knew it every time he met Bodie and brought up the subject. Yet he also knew that he would keep trying. But for now he let it pass.
‘Can’t tell you much about Reefer,’ he said abruptly. He moved round the desk to a map of the territory which was pinned to the wall. Poked a finger at it. ‘I trailed ’em into the foothills,’ he said, tracing the route with his finger. ‘Lost ’em somewhere hereabouts. Hell, you know what the Guadalupes are like. Damn near all rock in that area. Needed a better man than me. Somebody like you, Bodie.’
‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ Bodie grinned. ‘Make a guess, Will. Where do you think they were heading?’
‘Hoyt Reefer plus stolen guns? That part of the country?’
Cross gazed at the map again, then jabbed at the paper. ‘Llano Estacado,’ Bodie said. ‘I figure the same. Gun running to the Comanch’.’
‘Son of a bitch!’ Cross exclaimed. ‘I hope you catch him, Bodie. And when you do, put in a couple of shots for me.’
‘If there’s room,’ Bodie promised. He stood up, easing the stiffness of his long ride from his body. ‘Will, is there a good place to eat in this damn town of yours?’
Cross snatched up his hat. ‘Yeah. Come on and I’ll buy you a steak that’ll make your mouth water like a dry creek after a flash flood! ‘
Cross was as good as his word. The small restaurant served the best food Bodie had eaten in a long time. Later they moved on to a small saloon where they shared a bottle and a few memories. They talked until ten o’clock and then Cross had to leave to do his tour of the town.
‘Hey, will I see you in the morning?’ he asked.
Bodie shrugged. ‘Maybe. I’ll be leaving early.’
Cross hesitated, reluctant to go, and slightly embarrassed at the moment of parting. ‘Be seeing you, Bodie,’ he said.
For a time Bodie toyed with his drink, a sudden restlessness coming over him. It was, he knew, the remembrance of the old days, the sudden flood of long-cold memories brought to light. Many of them were dark, painful memories which he would have preferred to have lain dormant.
He became aware of curious eyes on him. He glanced up and looked into the face of a young and beautiful Mexican girl. She smiled at him, her full, soft red lips parting slightly, exposing her small white teeth. As she moved slightly, her long hair, black and shiny, caught the light from the lamps hanging from the ceiling.
‘Buenos noches, señor,’ she murmured. Her voice was soft, with a gentle husky inviting tone.
‘Join me?' Bodie asked on impulse. There were worse ways to spend a lonely evening.
‘Si.’ The girl took the chair Cross had vacated. She leaned forward across the table, still smiling in the friendly, inviting way. Under the thin white blouse her taut, rounded breasts moved freely, jutting nipples darkening the sheer cloth. ‘I saw you with the marshal. You talked like old friends.’
‘A good friend,’ Bodie said. From way back.’
‘Bueno!’ The girl tossed her head to move hair away from her face. ‘To have friends is to be alive! I like to have many friends, hombre! I would like very much to be your friend. My name is Lita.’
Bodie looked at her and thought, why not? He had nothing else to do. Already there was a familiar stirring in his loins, a reminder that his life had been pretty bleak of late, and Bodie had the same rule for women as he had for food and rest: take it when you can, when circumstances allow, because you might have to go a damn long time without it one day.
‘All right, Lita, you lead the way. I feel I’m getting an urge to be real friendly.’
Lita proved to be extremely friendly. In her small one roomed adobe hut at the far end of town, she entertained Bodie in the most friendly act of all. Her lithe, brown, velvet-smooth body, with its curves and hollows, full-blossomed breasts tipped by dark, hard nipples, contrived to entrap Bodie in a tangle of naked flesh. She drew him between her long, lovely thighs, down to the tender moistness concealed beneath the triangle of soft black hair, letting him thrust his aching hardness deep into her eager flesh. As she lay beneath him on the tangled sheets of her bed, moaning in her pleasure, Bodie strove to meet her increasing demand for further satisfaction, and it was with a silent prayer of thanks that he finally drifted off into sleep, locked in Lita’s warm embrace and breathing in the musty fragrance of her flesh.
Chapter Five
Lying on his belly in the coarse grass sprouting along the dusty ridge, Bodie studied the layout of the Comanche camp below. It had taken him five long, uncomfortable days to find the place. Picking up the long cold trail left by Hoyt Reefer and his gang, then losing it, wasting time while he rode back and forth across the rocky foothills of the bleak Guadalupes. Finally he had located a steady run of tracks, mainly left by the wagon the gang were still using to transport the stolen guns. The trail had curved off east, then gradually north. Up into the endless, silent Llano Estacado - The Staked Plains - the ancestral home of the Comanche. A vast and empty wilderness. Here the Comanches felt safe. It was their land. They knew it better than any white men, and they used that advantage to the full. Bodie always felt slightly uneasy riding this country. He liked to know where he was going and to have at least a small knowledge of his surroundings. The Llano was like some alien land. It was as hostile as the Comanche. It was not advisable for white men to venture alone into the Llano. To be honest it was not advisable for white men in groups to venture into the Llano.
Bodie stirred restlessly. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt. The sun was slowly, but surely, broiling him. The back of his neck stung from the relentless heat and there was a heavy pulsing inside his skull. He stared down at the encampment and wondered just what the hell he expected to gain from watching the place. He knew damn well that Hoyt Reefer and his gang were long gone. All he had to do now was to find out which way they’d gone when they left. Bodie sighed. reaching for his canteen. He took a slow swallow of warm water. Goddam heat! Got to everything! He felt grimy runnels trickle down his face. He sleeved the dampness away with the back of his hand, aware of the thick stubble irritating his skin. Jesus Christ, he thought, I’d give every cent of Trask’s 10,000 dollars for a hot bath, a shave and a change of clothes, if I could have them right this minute!
He turned his attention back to the Comanche encampment. It was small. No more than half a dozen hide-lodges standing in the shade of leafy cottonwoods straggling along the edge of a shallow creek. A makeshift brush and pole corral had been erected to hold the Comanche ponies. Bodie could see a couple of cook fires sending thin spirals of smoke skywards. He had counted around a dozen Comanches in and around the camp. There were no women or children, so he figured that it was the camp of a raiding party.
Bodie was about to shift his gaze to the far end of the camp when he spotted movement at the entrance to one of the. lodges. He saw two figures emerge, pausing to shield their eyes from the sudden glare of the sun. Bodie took a longer look and swore forcibly.
The two men, standing talking now, were not Comanches. They wore white men's’ clothing! Had guns strapped around their waists. Bodie wished he was closer to the camp.
He wanted to see the faces of the two men. Were they Reefer’s men? He decided they must be. Were there more in camp? He would have to find out. It was the only way. He had to be sure who the men were. If they weren’t from Reefer’s gang he wanted to know so he wasn’t forced to waste any more time. That meant getting closer to the camp. Much closer...
The soft whisper of sound almost escaped him. But a tiny fragment caught his ear, drawing his attention. Bodie’s eyes flickered to the ground just to one side and forward of him. He saw the dark shadow thrown by the man now behind him. A shadow which grew, seeming to rise and envelope him.
Bodie twisted over onto his back, dragging his Colt from the holster, eyes seeking the attacker. He had a quick glimpse of a savagely
scowling face. Black, greased hair drifted across the face. Bodie absorbed a swift impression. Of a half-naked Comanche lunging at him, knife in hand. Bodie didn’t have time to fire. He simply lashed at the face with the barrel of his gun. He felt the barrel connect with a meaty crack. The Comanche grunted as the hard metal split the flesh of his face wide open. The white gleam of the exposed cheekbone showed for a second before a rush of blood welled up from the torn flesh. The Comanche made a wild swing with the knife, but it was inches away from Bodie. Pain had affected the Comanche’s accuracy. While the Comanche’s body was slightly twisted away from him, drawn to one side by the movement of his knife arm, Bodie swung the Colt again. He clubbed the Indian along the side of his head, then struck again as the Comanche jerked back in pain. The barrel of the Colt smashed brutally across the Comanche’s nose. Bone splintered and the nose flattened. Blood gushed out in bright streams. Bodie lashed out with the toe of his boot, burying it deeply in the Indian’s groin. The Comanche let out an agonized howl, stumbling away from Bodie, giving him the moments he needed to climb to his feet. He wished he could use the Colt on the Comanche but daren’t risk the sound of a shot carrying the other Indians in the camp below. As the Comanche straightened up, thrusting his knife out before him, Bodie lunged forward. His left hand caught the Comanche’s knife wrist, forcing it up. Bodie’s right, still holding the heavy Colt, slashed down at the Comanche’s unprotected face. Blood sprayed up in bright beads as the glinting barrel did its deadly work. Flesh tore, pulped, bone cracking under the stunning impact. The Comanche flopped to his knees, moaning softly. The knife slipped easily from his fingers and into Bodie’s hand. Bodie put away his Colt. Without hesitation he took hold of the Comanche’s black hair and yanked the Indian’s head back. For a moment the Comanche’s eyes stared into Bodie’s from the ruined, bloody mask of his face. Then Bodie made a single, savage cut with the keen-bladed knife, laying open the Comanche’s throat from ear to ear. A gaping wound opened in the taut throat. Severed flesh, muscle, arteries were exposed, and then blood spurted heavily from the wound. The Comanche jerked in silent reaction to the shock of pain, flopping over onto the blood-dappled ground.