by Neil Hunter
“You crazy bastard!” Haddon roared. He spun on his heel and lashed out, his big fist catching Jody across the mouth. The force of the blow drove Jody backwards until his feet went from under him. He hit the ground and lay staring up at Haddon, blood dribbling from his torn lips.
“Now shut your mouth, Jody, and don’t open it until I say so,” Haddon said.
Brenner, who was kneeling beside Bodie, his gun held against the man hunter’s face, grinned at Haddon. “Aw, I wished I could of done that!”
“So what do we do with this one?” Travis asked.
Haddon was silent for a time, and then he smiled grimly. “We send him back to Pine Ridge,” he said. “Let ’em see it ain’t about to do ’em any damn good sending people after us. Give ‘em a warning. Make ’em think twice ’fore they go hirin’ any more bounty hunters!”
“An’ how do we warn ’em?” Travis asked.
Haddon closed a hand into a big, solid fist. “Get him on his feet an’ I’ll show you.”
Travis moved to help Brenner and between them they hauled Bodie upright. There was a moment when Bodie might have broken away from them but Brenner rapped the muzzle of his gun against the man hunter’s cheek.
“You could be dead, friend,” Brenner pointed out. “So I wouldn’t push your luck.”
Haddon moved round so that he was standing in front of Bodie. He flexed his hands inside the thick leather gloves, taking his time, sizing up Bodie’s physical appearance. Only when he was satisfied did he make his first move. Even Bodie, who knew what was coming, reacted too late. Haddon’s right fist drove deeply into his stomach, hurting despite the taut stomach muscles. The force of the blow rocked Bodie back on his heels, only the restraining hands of Travis and Brenner keeping him on his feet.
“Hey!” Brenner said eagerly. “You want to make a bet on how long he lasts?”
Travis grinned. “This is one hard son of a bitch. He’s liable to outlast Lee.”
“Yeah?” Haddon said peevishly, seeming to take the remark personally, and slammed another hard fist into Bodie’s stomach. “Don’t hold your breath on that, Travis!” He was staring directly into Bodie’s eyes as he spoke and the mocking expression he saw mirrored there only added to the anger he already felt.
There was a brutal savagery behind the punch Haddon sledged to Bodie’s jaw. The blow landed with a sodden smack, the rough hide gloves Haddon was wearing tearing the flesh, opening a raw welt that glistened with blood. Bodie’s head snapped to the side, his vision blurring, the inside of his skull seeming to come apart. He didn’t even see the next punch. It caught him full in the mouth, mashing his lips back against his teeth. Blood washed down his throat making him choke. The beating began in earnest then, Haddon using the same technique he’d employed on Nate Gower. But there was a difference this time - a cold, unfeeling yet deliberate intent to inflict pain, to hurt and to mark - though not so much that the victim might die.
It was an ugly act of pure brutality.
For Bodie it became a drawn out episode when time and events merged into a meaningless blur. After the first few minutes pain as such meant nothing to him. He wasn’t even certain if he was conscious or not. His senses were dulled from the ceaseless pounding of Haddon’s fists against his face and body - a relentless barrage that went on and on with the eternal rhythm of waves battering a rocky shore. There were brief flashes of lucidity when Haddon’s bitter, sweating face rose out of the mist drifting across Bodie’s eyes. Then during another clear moment he saw that the face had changed - this time it was Brenner, then Travis, and later Haddon again - each of them taking a turn, each of them smashing blow after blow. And every now and then the pain would surge up out of the dull ache spreading over his body - blinding, silent explosions of pure agony like white-hot spears driving deep into his very being.
It went on and Bodie had no way of knowing how or when it stopped. His first full awareness of feeling above the pain allowed him the sensation of a gentle rocking movement. A steady to and fro motion. Bodie struggled to open his eyes but they were too badly swollen and caked with congealed blood to allow him more than thin slits. He looked out on a dazzling splash of green that was laid against a sharper blue. He couldn’t understand what it was at first, and then he figured he must have been seeing the lush foliage of trees framed against the sky. Then the colors drifted away as his pain-ridden body refused to accept responsibility for the hurt any longer, and shut down. A darkness that was deeper than any night invaded his mind, accompanied by a silence that was frightening in its intensity.
First he was cold…it was a bone-deep, nagging cold and it dragged Bodie up out of the darkness…shivering…awareness brought a resurgence of pain that threatened to tear him apart. Bodie stirred sluggishly, his tortured senses unwilling to respond at anything more than minimum efficiency. It took Bodie a long time to realize he was sitting a saddle on the back of a horse, and even longer to understand that he was tied in the saddle. A rope looped around each leg had passed beneath the horse’s belly. Another length of rope secured his hands to the saddle-horn. He made a token effort to free himself but the action proved too much for him and he drifted off again…he came out of it the next time to find the cold even worse. Peering out through his slitted eyelids he caught a glimpse of bright stars in the night sky…from the high mountain peaks a raw wind fingered its way down through the timbered slopes, clawing at his bruised and bloody face…Bodie lifted his head, sucking in a lungful of the crisp air in an attempt to clear the savage pounding from his skull…the resultant pain dragged a ragged moan from his lips…he slumped in the saddle, sweat beading his face…chest heaving with gulping sobs as he tried to catch his breath…almost afraid to breath in case the pain returned…he knew that one or more of his ribs must have been cracked, the others badly bruised.
Judas Priest, he thought, the bastards really worked me over! Yet in the same instant he acknowledged that they had done him a favor - and it was that they had left him alive. Barely alive - but still, that was their mistake. A bad one on their part. He had suffered at their hands and he’d go through a hell of lot more before he recovered…but recover he would. He wouldn’t allow them the same option when the time came for an accounting. A cold, almost inhuman smile curved up the corners of Bodie’s battered mouth. The smile cost him dearly but he ignored the pain. Pine Ridge could forget its hanging party. Bodie would deliver the wanted men…but this time he would do it his way and be damned to the rest of them. The day he brought back the fugitives they wouldn’t arrive in any other position than face down over their saddles!
But that was something for the future. Bodie had more pressing problems at the moment, and his main concern was getting himself free of the ropes holding him in the saddle. It took him a long time. Most of the rest of the long, dark night as his horse patiently plodded on through the darkness. Dawn was starting to gray the sky again when Bodie finally slid his hands free from the bloodied coils of rope. The flesh of his wrists lay burned and raw from the constant twisting and pulling. The first thing Bodie did was to gather up the loose reins and pull the horse to stop. He leaned over and fumbled with leaden fingers at the rope around one ankle. Once he had it loose he kicked the rope free from his other leg, grinning crookedly with relief. The grin lasted just the length of time it took for him to slip from the saddle to the ground. He hit hard, twisting on to his back, struggling to get up and knew no more…
Warm sunlight on his face…the distant sound of a bird in some high treetop…closer, the steady crunch of his horse chewing on thick grass. He moved slowly, stiffness making his movements clumsy as he sat up. He lifted his hands to his swollen face, carefully touching the lumpy, blood-caked mask. He felt grotesque. Every feature was twice its proper size. Lips thick and split…one side of his nose puffed up…cheeks bulging like some bloated, nightmarish creature…eyes still half closed…and blood everywhere, dried and blackened, clinging to the raw edges of the gashes that marked the swollen flesh.
“All right, feller,” he told himself. “You got off the damn horse without any trouble. Let’s see you get back on.”
He practically dragged himself back on the horse an inch at a time. By the time he slipped his feet into the stirrups he was drenched in sweat, his body trembling from the effort. He gathered up the reins in his right hand. His left arm was held against his body, pressuring over the damaged ribs in an attempt to reduce the pain. Jabbing in his heels he turned the horse in the direction of Pine Ridge. It lay over half a day’s ride away. Like it or not, Bodie admitted that he was going to need help. He wasn’t of any use to himself at the moment, let alone the people who were expecting him to bring in the killers of Nate Gower. First off he needed experienced medical care. The sooner he got it the better - because then he could start to mend, and that couldn’t be soon enough for Bodie. He had a job to finish. Up to now he’d made a mess of the whole affair, and those four bastards were probably well on their way to Elkhorn, figuring they’d scared off any possible pursuit. Well maybe they had - for the time being. Sooner or later, though, Bodie was going to be well enough to pick up the trail again. And then Elkhorn was going to experience a hard time, and so would anyone who happened to get in Bodie’s way.
Chapter Five
Howard Butler - the Major - looped the reins of his big chestnut around the smooth hitch rail and stepped up on to the veranda of the Elkhorn Palace Hotel. He paused before entering the lobby, taking time to look out over the town, deliberately letting himself be seen. It was an imperial gesture, one that fitted Butler’s self-imposed superiority. He enjoyed the moment, savoring the knowledge that amongst those on the street who could see him, there were a fair number who disliked him - even hated him. That knowledge did nothing to spoil Butler’s moment. If anything it helped to add a certain spice. The fact that he was disliked wasn’t going to bother him because there was no way any of those people could touch him. He was too powerful. Too wealthy. And he held the town of Elkhorn in the palm of his hand.
A moment later he strode into the hotel, his polished boots sinking into the lobby carpet. Butler took off his hat, smoothing a big hand across his thick hair. He crossed the lobby, nodding briskly in the direction of the fawning clerk behind the desk. He went through an arched entrance that led directly to the hotel’s private lounge bar. It was a long, low room, the walls paneled with rich dark wood. The furniture was heavy and comfortable. Butler glanced around the room. He caught the eye of the man behind the bar and raised a finger. The barman nodded and began to prepare a drink. Butler walked the length of the room, heading for a corner where three men were seated around a table. They had drinks in front of them and a blue haze of cigar smoke hung over their heads.
“Talking about me, boys?” Butler asked coldly as he moved round the table and took his place in the fourth chair.
“No,” one of them said bluntly. He was a solid, big framed man in his early fifties, his thinning hair silver-gray. Blue eyes regarded Butler steadily. There was little love lost between the two men. Miles Frazee, the town’s banker, was one of the few influential men Butler had been unable to buy. They disliked each other personally yet business drew them together. “Actually we were just ironing out a few points about this railroad deal.”
Howard Butler’s interest sharpened. He leaned forward in his chair. “You’ve heard something?”
“Negotiations are much further advanced than at our last meeting,” Frazee said.
“Good.” Butler hesitated for a moment. Then: “Well? Do I have to drag it out of you word by word?”
“The situation as of this moment is that the railroad will agree to running in a spur line to Elkhorn, providing that we can guarantee access to all the surveyed land between the main line and the town’s limits.”
“Excellent,” Butler smiled. He waited impatiently as the barman approached the table with a thick tumbler of brandy. When the man had gone Butler took the glass and tasted the contents. Surveying the silent faces before him he placed the glass on the table’s green baize surface. “Something’s wrong? Come on then. Let me hear it.”
On his left the slight figure of Peter Stern shifted uncomfortably. He ran the local land agent’s office, a firm in which Butler was a major stockholder.
“Is this something that concerns you, Stern?”
Stern’s pale face took on a sickly hue and he refused to look at Butler. It was Frazee who spoke.
“There has been a setback, Howard,” he said - he was the only man in town who had the nerve to use Butler’s given name. He knew it angered Butler. That was the main reason he did it. “A number of the smaller outfits along Kittyhawk Creek have formed an alliance to oppose the railroad coming through. They maintain that the spur line will cut directly across their range. Ruin their livelihood. Peter has made them generous offers for their land - but they won’t sell.”
Butler’s face darkened with rage. “God damn it, they have to sell! Don’t they realize the benefits this spur line will bring to Elkhorn? The money? The increased investment?”
“They don’t see it that way, Major,” Peter Stern blurted out. “As far as they are concerned all it means is that they lose the land they’ve owned for a long time.”
“With the money they’ll get they can buy better range elsewhere,” Butler snapped.
“I think you’ll have a hard time convincing them of that, Howard,” Frazee said. “The Kittyhawk range is good country. You’d have to go a long way to find such ideal conditions. And most of those outfits have been there for a very long time. Amos Skellhorn’s owned his land for over twenty years.”
“Skellhorn! Damn that man,” Butler rasped. “I’ll wager he’s the one who thought up this so-called alliance. He only has to snap his fingers to have every man on Kittyhawk Creek dancing his tune!”
“Must be frightening to have such a hold over people,” Frazee murmured dryly.
Butler glared at the banker but held his tongue. He turned his attention to the fourth member of the group. Randolph Meers was a lawyer. He was Howard Butler’s lawyer. Which meant he was a very busy man.
“Nothing to add, Randolph?” Butler asked
Meers shook his head. He was a round shouldered, thin man who wore a permanently gloomy expression on his sallow face. “I have checked the ownerships of the land in question in depth. Every legality is sound. I’m afraid there isn’t a thing we can do in that respect, Major.”
Butler sat back in his seat, drumming the fingers of one hand on the edge of the table. The others watched him, waiting, knowing that the problem was in his hands now.
“All right,” Butler said. “It seems I’ll have to try my way.”
He stood abruptly, snatching up his hat, and with a curt nod he strode out of the room. On the veranda he stopped long enough to put his hat on, then crossed the street and made his way to the l
ong, low granite building that was Elkhorn’s jail. Pushing open the door he went inside, his boots rapping loudly on the hard wood floor.
The office was spacious and well furnished by comparison with the majority of law establishments. It should have been because Butler had spent a lot of money on the place. He also spent a fair amount on the man who ran the jail - Frank Lowery. He’d picked the man up in Laramie three years ago. Lowery had been a deputy then. He enjoyed the power that went with wearing a badge and he was just the man Butler had been looking for. Lowery had a weakness - he liked money and he was easily bought. Butler brought him to Elkhorn and used his influence with the town council to get Lowery appointed as marshal. It was as easy as that. And it meant that Butler had his man just where he wanted him.
“Frank? You in?” Butler called. He strode down the length of the office, impatience clouding his face. “Frank!”
There was a sound from the back of the jail, where Lowery had his living quarters. Moments later Lowery appeared in the doorway, buttoning his shirt. His face was flushed, his thick hair untidy.
“Caught you with your pants down, did I, Frank?” Butler asked, a sly grin on his lips. He was aware of Lowery’s other vice. Young girls were to Lowery what liquor was to other men - he couldn’t leave them alone, nor could he ever have his fill.
“I was…er…just gettin’ tidied up,” Lowery mumbled. He scraped his fingers through his tangled hair, smoothing it down as tie hurried round to sit behind his expansive desk. He cleared his throat. “Morning, Major.”
Butler settled himself into a seat, resting his hat on his knees. “Frank, we have a slight problem,” he said, and outlined the difficulties being created by the ranchers on Kittyhawk Creek.
“Skellhorn.” Lowery said. “He’s always been a damn troublemaker.” He stroked his lower lip. “Can he really foul up the railroad deal, Major?”
“Damn right he can! But I don’t intend to let him, Frank. There’s too much at stake here to allow any interference. That spur line can make Elkhorn’s future. No doubt about it, Frank, the railroad’s going to be the major lifeline of this country. So we need it here in Elkhorn, and by God we’re going to get it!”