by Neil Hunter
The bartender, perhaps only just realizing his own vulnerably, raised his voice in a final yell for help.
‘Eddie!’
Bodie brought up his right hand, holding the shattered bottle. There was a soft, moist ripping sound as the jagged edges of the broken glass sank into the bartender’s neck, just beneath the jaw line. Bodie gave the bottle a half turn as it sank in, gouging a raw, deep wound. The bartender uttered a loud, terrified scream that turned into a whimpering gurgle as blood welled up from the wound, then became a spurting stream as the jagged glass sliced through the main artery. Bodie felt the hot blood soak his shirt. He jammed a hand beneath the bartender’s chin and forced the dying man’s head back. Even then it took long seconds before the bartender slackened his grip enough for Bodie to pull free.
Gasping for breath Bodie stumbled along the edge of the bar. He saw the bartender, his shirt drenched in scarlet, flop to his knees, rolling over onto his back like some huge beached whale. He lay on the floor amongst the broken glass and spilt liquor, his blood spattering everything around him.
Bodie spotted his Colt and picked it up. As he straightened he heard a soft footstep close by. Twisting his head he looked into the face of a man who could have been the bartender’s double if it hadn’t been for the thinner features, the thinning brown hair. The man had come through the door at the other end of the bar. He had already seen the bloody figure on the floor, and he continued his forward motion, closing rapidly on Bodie. There was no time for avoiding a confrontation. No way that Bodie was going to stop this man except one. He had seen the upraised double-edged axe the man held in his hands. The axe was already on the downswing of a stroke intended to split open Bodie’s skull if he didn’t get out of the way. The big room reverberated to the blast of Bodie’s Colt. He fired three shots, knowing that he had to put this man down fast and for good. His bullets ripped bloody debris from the man’s body. The impact of the heavy .45 calibers spun the man off to one side. He slammed up against the wall, bouncing off to smash up against the edge of the bar before he pitched face down on the floor in a spreading pool of his own blood. The gleaming axe slid from his fingers, slicing through the air no more than a half inch from Bodie s face, before it thudded into the wall where it hung, quivering.
Bodie stood upright, thumbing fresh loads into his Colt. He took a passing glance at the axe as he stepped by and touched a finger to his unshaven cheek.
‘Close shaves are one thing,’ he said dryly, ‘but that was damned ridiculous!’
He stepped round the bar and headed for the door. Something told him to get back outside quickly. He was still heading for the door when he heard the unmistakable whinny of a horse. Then another. He ran, throwing open the door, going straight outside.
Two men were at the corral. One had the gate open and was trying to catch one of the agitated horses. Dust rose in gray clouds from beneath nervous hooves. The second man was dragging a pair of saddles towards the open corral. They were close enough for Bodie to be able to recognize them. They were the men he had seen at the Comanche camp. He could put names to them now. One was Jesse Largo, the man Clem Brock had identified. The other was Lee Kendal. Both of them members of Hoyt Reefer’s gang.
‘Hold it, boys, you ain’t going anywhere,’ Bodie yelled.
Largo. stopped chasing horse, spinning with enviable speed, his gun appearing in his hand almost without motion. He fired once, then changed position, firing again. But Bodie had already altered his stance, dropping to a crouch, his own Colt up and firing. His first shot was for Lee Kendal. It caught the man as he was still trying to draw his own weapon. The bullet blasted a hole right through Kendal’s lean body, emerging in a pulped gush of blood and flesh. Kendal stumbled back against the corral gate, his arms becoming entangled in the cross-posts, and he hung there like some abandoned scarecrow. Even while his first bullet was finding its target Bodie had hit the ground, pushing his Colt out before him, seeking Largo’s shifting figure. The man was no fool, Bodie realized. He had the sense to keep moving, changing his position and his stance, so that he presented a continuality changing target. But this time he was up against an opponent who practiced the same technique. It put Largo slightly off his stride. He allowed himself to hesitate for an instant. To try and locate his target long enough to hold a steady aim. Bodie used the moment for the same reason. He didn’t take anywhere near as long as Largo when it came to aiming. His Colt moved only fractionally before he fired. Jesse Largo went down on one knee as Bodie’s bullet took the top of his left shoulder off in a burst of red. Bodie’s next shot was exactly placed. Largo’s head went back with a snap as a .45 caliber bullet ripped into his skull directly between his eyes. Blood squirted in a bright red stream from the entry wound. Largo flopped over on his back, limbs jerking in a senseless rhythm.
Bodie walked over to where Largo lay in pooling blood. He kicked aside Largo’s gun, then moved on to check Lee Kendal. Putting a boot against Kendal’s body Bodie gave a none too gentle shove. Kendal’s lifeless corpse flopped away from the corral gate and sprawled face down in the dirt.
A shadow fell across the ground near Largo’s head. Bodie glanced up and saw the Mexican woman he’d noticed earlier. She had put on a thin cotton dress now, though it did little to conceal the ripe curves of her lush body. Up close Bodie could see that she was much younger than he had first thought. She peered at Largo, then across at Kendal. Her brown face puckered into a frown of annoyance.
‘Muerto?’ she asked.
‘If they’re not somebody’s putting on a damn good act,’ Bodie said.
The Mexican woman muttered under her breath. ‘All that time they were here,’ she said angrily, ‘and they never paid me!’ She lashed out with a bare foot at Largo’s body. ‘Bastardo! Only an Americano would get himself shot just to avoid paying for his pleasure!’
‘It’s a hard life,’ Bodie sympathized.
The Mexican woman turned her attention to the tall American, eyeing him with a view to business, She watched the easy way he moved. The supple strength of the body under the dusty, blood streaked clothing. Now here, she thought, was a man she would gladly perform for free of charge.
‘Hey, hombre,’ she whispered huskily. ‘You maybe have the time to keep me company for a while?’
Bodie glanced at her. The thin dress clung to her sturdy body, outlining the heavy shape of her breasts. It followed the slight swell of her stomach, then molded itself to the ripe thighs and the soft fullness between.
‘Honey,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard of stepping into a dead man’s shoes, but you’ve just gone and given the saying a whole new meaning!’
Chapter Seven
He came trailing down out of the shimmering Texas wasteland, a dust-grimed, silent figure astride a weary horse. A pair of rope-led horses followed in his wake, each carrying a blanket-wrapped shape. A hovering cloud of black flies hung over each motionless load. It just happened be a Sunday morning and the town’s stone built church was letting out the congregation as the rider came in along San Rico’s main street. The single bell in the church tower was pealing, sending its message across the rooftops of the small town.
As he rode by the church, ignoring the hostile stares of San Rico’s citizens, Bodie glanced up at the church tower. He could see the bell swinging back and forth. A smile touched the corners of his taut mouth.
‘Hear that, boys,’ he said softly, directing his words in the direction of the two corpses he was leading, ‘they’re playing your tune.’
Reaching the town’s central Plaza Bodie cut off across the square, reining in at the hitch rail in front of the jail. He eased his stiff body out of the saddle, tied his horse and went into the jail. The office was cool compared to the day’s sullen heat, Bodie took off his hat, knocking dust from his shirt as he crossed the stone-flagged floor.
The man seated behind the desk in the far corner of the office glanced up at Bodie’s entrance. He was a florid, overweight man, with small, feral eyes. Thi
n, greased-down hair with a center parting, hung over his protruding ears. He stared at Bodie coldly, pursing his thick, wet lips.
‘You the marshal?’ Bodie asked.
The man pushed aside the magazine he’d been studying and leaned back in his creaking swivel chair. A scratched badge was pinned to the front of his creased shirt. He let the badge answer Bodie’s question, and continued to stare at his visitor.
The man’s attitude got under Bodie’s skin. He’d ridden for two days from the trading post to San Rico. The trip had been long and dirty and he’d been plagued by clouds of buzzing flies attracted by the sickly-sweet odor of dead flesh. Largo and Kendal might have been silent companions, but they had made their presence felt in another way. Now he was in San Rico all Bodie wanted was a chance to send a message to Lyle Trask, telling him he could pick up two of Reefer’s boys. After that Bodie wanted a bath, a meal, a day in bed, and a change of clothing - in that order. When he’d satisfied his physical needs he would take up the trail of Hoyt Reefer and the remaining members of his gang. The Mexican woman back at the trading post had been one of the talkative kind. She had told Bodie all about the things that had gone on at the post, which had turned out to be a refuge for anyone on the wrong side of the law. The pair who had run the place - the ones who had tried to kill Bodie - the Ruskin brothers, had been a law unto themselves. The post had been a meeting place for outlaws. A place where stolen goods were bought and sold. Where information flowed as freely as the whisky. As far as the Mexican woman had been concerned Bodie had done the world a good turn in killing the Ruskins. Before Bodie had left he’d watched the woman help herself to money from the dead man's’ strongbox, Then she had filled a sack with supplies, saddled a good horse from the corral and freed all the others. Her final act before riding off had been to set fire to the trading post. Then she had ridden back towards the border, to the small village where she had originally come from over six years back, before raiding Comanches had slaughtered most of the villagers, carried her off and used her to satisfy themselves during the ride up through Texas. Eventually she had been sold off to the Ruskins, who had kept her as an added attraction for their frequent guests. During the course of her conversation with Bodie she had managed to give him one solid lead to the whereabouts of Hoyt Reefer and his gang. During their stay at the post, Largo and Kendal had referred to a man named Jim Kelly. He worked, it seemed, in a saloon in Anderson’s Halt, a small community that had sprung up around what had initially been nothing more than a way-station for one of the cross country stage lines. Anderson’s had suddenly blossomed when the Union Pacific railroad had decided to run a line through that part of the country, making the way station a permanent stop. It meant more business for the stage line, turning an ordinary stop into a bustling connecting point for travelers. The new importance attracted others with an eye for the easy dollar. Almost before the first train stopped at Anderson’s there had sprung up a restaurant, a couple of saloons, a hotel, even a brothel. Anderson’s Halt, once a quiet speck of civilization on the banks of the San Saba, burst into noisy life, and was never the same again. Jim Kelly was one of the newcomers to Anderson’s. He was a gambler working for a percentage in a saloon some which had named The Traveler’s Choice. The only choice a traveler might have was whether to actually go into the place. Once he was through the door choice was the last thing he was allowed. It was to this saloon and to the man named Kelly that Hoyt Reefer was heading. Kelly, it seemed, had information to sell which he knew Reefer would buy. Largo and Kendal were to have joined Reefer at a later date, at an unspecified location. That didn’t worry Bodie. His interest was centered around Jim Kelly. If Bodie could learn the information Kelly had passed to Reefer then he would be able to ride directly to where Reefer was located. All that was ahead of Bodie. First he had to settle the matter of Largo and Kendal. He wanted to be rid of them. He was tired and dirty and hungry - and the manner in which the marshal of San Rico was treating him did little to soothe Bodie’s short-fused mood.
‘Got a couple of dead ones outside,’ he said flatly. Bodie unfolded the ‘Wanted’ posters for Largo and Kendal, dropping them in front of the marshal. ‘Jesse Largo. Lee Kendal. Couple of Hoyt Reefer’s boys. Like you to identify them, marshal, then clear up the paperwork so can collect my money. Three thousand between them. It’s on the sheets.’
‘I can read,’ the marshal grunted. He snatched up the posters and stared at them. ‘Outside are they?’ he asked in a voice which indicated he thought it was a lot of trouble having to even go and take a look.
‘I could drag ‘em inside for you,’ Bodie offered sarcastically. ‘Be a hell of a stink but we’d manage.’
The marshal hauled himself upright. When he stood his large stomach sagged and dropped over his gun belt. He picked up a spotless cream Stetson and jammed it on his head, then led the way outside. An irate group of men were gathered near the two horses. As the marshal appeared they moved towards him. A thin-faced man in his early fifties, dressed in a pearl gray suit broke free from the crowd and wagged a finger at the marshal.
‘This is outrageous, Pritt! These foul-smelling corpses being paraded through town for women and children to see.’
Marshal Pritt took a breath of the decay issuing from the dead outlaws and backed off. He coughed a couple of times to clear his throat.
‘I ain’t about to go and take a close look at those two, mister,’ he said to Bodie. ‘You’ll have to wait until they can be dealt with.’
Bodie’s face hardened. He grabbed hold of the marshal’s fat arm, his fingers gripping with the power of a steel trap.
‘You listen to me, mister! I ain’t about to wait. Now you can either sign those papers after you’ve looked or before you’ve looked or nothing but trouble is going to come your way.’
Pritt stared at him through wide eyes. This man frightened him and Pritt wasn’t about to argue with him right at this particular moment in time.
‘I can sort it out for you,’ Pritt scowled. ‘Give me an hour or so.’
The man in the pearl gray suit ran his gaze over Bodie, making his disapproval obvious. ‘I don’t know who you are, sir, but we can do without your sort in San Rico. I suggest you leave at the earliest opportunity.’
Bodie turned his back on the man and walked away.
‘You hear what I say?’ the man yelled.
Bodie turned and stared at the man. ‘The way you’re shouting, feller, I reckon the whole damn town can hear you. If I was you I’d quieten down. Don’t you know it’s Sunday?’
The man’s face darkened. He took a step forward, seeming ready to continue with the words he was having with the tall stranger. But something made him check his anger. He abruptly turned about and walked off.
Bodie smiled to himself and carried on up the street. He spotted a young Mexican boy sitting on the edge of the boardwalk and beckoned him over.
‘See the horse at the hitch rail outside the jail? I want you to take him to the best livery stable in town. Tell the man I want the horse rubbed down, fed and watered. The best of everything he’s got. You tell him if he doesn’t look after the horse I’ll want his hide!’
The boy grinned from ear to ear. ‘Si, señor, I will tell him.’
Bodie pulled out three silver dollars and gave them to the boy. ‘Those are for you, chico. Be some more if you look after the horse.’
‘Graçias, señor!’ The boy turned and ran down the street to where Bodie’s horse was waiting.
Bodie made his way across town until he reached San Rico’s small rail depot. He went inside the small telegraph office and sent a message to Lyle Trask, telling him of Largo and Kendal’s deaths. He didn’t say anything about the lead he had to Hoyt Reefer. The message ended with instructions for Trask to send someone to collect the corpses. From the depot Bodie went to the town undertaker. The owner wasn’t too keen to open up on Sunday, but Bodie’s insistence overcame the man’s objections. Bodie told the man to collect the bodies from the ma
rshal, do what he could to preserve them, and put them in a couple of cheap coffins to wait for Trask’s pickup. With his business over Bodie went looking for a meal. He finally found what he was looking for and sat down to ham and eggs, fried potatoes and fresh baked bread. He worked his way through a full pot of coffee too. The meal over, he went looking for the barbershop.
He was making his way up towards the Plaza, where the barbershop was situated, and was just passing an alley when strong hands reached out, caught hold of his shirt and dragged him into the alley. Bodie had a quick glimpse of hard, brutal faces leering at him, then he was forcibly rammed up against a hard brick wall. Something clubbed brutally across the side of his skull, driving him to his knees. A red mist obscured his vision. Before he could stand up the toe of a boot smashed across his ribs. Bodie’s breath burst from his body in a ragged grunt of agony. Hands caught hold of him, hauled him to his feet. Bodie caught a blurred glimpse of a man stepping in front of him. Off to one side a man giggled. Then a hard fist came out of nowhere and drove against his mouth. Bodie’s lips split, blood streaking his face. His head rocked back from the blow.