Bodie 2

by Neil Hunter

  ‘You got mixed up with a rough bunch.’

  ‘This I now know to my cost,’ Father Ignacio affirmed. He regarded Bodie solemnly. ‘What kind of men would do such a thing, Bodie?’

  ‘Somebody like Linc Fargo? He’s a mean one. The law should have hung him once they got their hands on him. Trouble was he hired a smart-talking lawyer who managed to swing a prison sentence.’

  ‘For the first time in my life, Bodie, I wish violence to be visited on a human,’ Father Ignacio said. ‘When I am recovered I will ask God for forgiveness, but now I want to see those men punished.’ He paused, then added, ‘And I want the statue back!’

  ‘Your damn statue,’ Bodie said dryly. ‘You would have let them kill you before you talked. For a hunk of gold and a few stones.’

  Ignacio shook his head tolerantly. ‘Man of little faith,’ he scolded. ‘How many times must I tell you that it is not the physical material that is important? It is the spiritual image which cannot be replaced.’

  ‘So why didn’t they make the thing out of lead then?’

  ‘Bodie, you are a heathen,’ Father Ignacio said, a warm smile edging his pale lips.

  ‘So you’ve been telling me for a long time.’

  Father Ignacio turned to stare out of the open window, his brow furrowing as he drifted into troubled thought.

  ‘They did not have to do such terrible things to Maria.’

  ‘They needed someone to talk, Father. She was unlucky enough to be chosen.’

  ‘But they were ... were like savages ... what they did to her. Such a beautiful child. She took her own life, Bodie, because she dared not face her family.’ The priest’s eyes blazed with undisguised rage. ‘They must die — Bodie — . they must be removed from the face of the earth! Even the Bible demands an eye for an eye! Does it not, my friend?’

  Bodie stood up, placing his hands against Father Ignacio’s shoulders, pressing the older man down against the pillows. ‘Easy, Father! Just take it easy. Leave it alone.’

  Father Ignacio slumped back on the bed, the exertion telling on him. His grey face seemed to shrink in upon itself and he stared fixedly at the far wall. Bodie left the room, closing the door quietly. He made his way outside to where the doctor was waiting.

  ‘Can you give him anything to settle him?’ Bodie asked.

  The doctor nodded. ‘He needs rest. A lot of it. A chance to forget what happened. It’s what happened to the girl that’s bothering him.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Maria Obregon? Only daughter of Juan Quintero Obregon. He runs a big spread on the other side of Madison. The Obregon family have always been pretty good to the mission. Donations. Free repairs. A regular supply of fresh produce. Maria used to come two, three times a week to help Father Ignacio.’

  ‘She chose a bad day.’

  ‘Don Obregon’s taken it pretty bad. Talk I heard he’s working himself up to go on a personal hunt for Linc Fargo and his boys. Same with his three sons.’ The doctor shrugged resignedly. ‘Hell, you know how these Latins let their emotions run wild!’

  Bodie put his hat on. He stared in the direction of the mission, then back at the doctor. ‘Look after him, Doc, he deserves it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The doctor watched Bodie cross to his waiting horse. ‘Luck to you, Bodie.’

  Bodie smiled to himself as he eased into the saddle, gigging the horse forward. Hell, I need a damn sight more than luck, he admitted. He rode out of the mission courtyard, turning the horse towards the rutted trail that would eventually lead him into the nearby town of Madison. The town lay only a mile from the mission. Bodie could see the squat shapes of the buildings shimmering in the day’s heat haze. It was an hour off noon when he took his dusty horse down Madison’s main street and dismounted outside the town’s jail, a substantial granite building in a community of adobe structures. Bodie tethered his home, stepped up onto the warped boardwalk and went inside.

  A lean, sun-browned man with grey hair and flinty eyes glanced up from the papers he was studying. The papers were spread out across the top of a well-worn desk. The man had a burnished star pinned to the front of his blue shirt.

  ‘Help you, mister?’

  ‘Marshal Bush?’ Bodie asked and the marshal nodded.

  ‘Name’s Bodie.’

  Marshal Bush cleared his throat, nodded brusquely.

  ‘You been to see Father Ignacio?’

  ‘Just come from the mission,’ Bodie replied.

  ‘Those bastards cut him up pretty bad,’ Bush said. He lifted a lean arm and waved Bodie in the direction of a chair. ‘Sit,’ he suggested. He picked up a worn pipe and began to fill it from a day jar. ‘You known the Father long?’

  ‘On and off for about ten years,’ Bodie said.

  Bush studied the man hunter for a time. He stuck his pipe in his mouth and lit it. Blue smoke curled up the fly-dotted ceiling of the humid office.

  ‘Something bothering you, Marshal?’ Bodie asked.

  ‘Damned if I can see it,’ Bush stated.

  ‘What?’

  Bush blew out a coil of smoke. ‘What a priest and a bounty hunter might have in common.’

  Bodie grinned. ‘Maybe he’s trying to convert me.’

  ‘He having any luck?’

  ‘No chance!’

  ‘So what can I do for you, Mister Bodie?’

  ‘Be obliged for anything you can tell me about Linc Fargo and where he might be heading.’

  ‘Town got together and raised about twelve thousand dollars’ reward for the apprehension of Fargo’s bunch. Common feeling is they’d like ‘em brought back dead.’

  Bush stared at Bodie intently. ‘Suppose you heard about the reward?’

  ‘I heard,’ Bodie said. ‘Now, what about Fargo?’

  ‘Ain’t too much to tell. The statue was over to Jamie Cribben’s place. He used to be a jeweler. Gave up and came to live here for his health. From time to time he’d take on little jobs. Clean and mend watches and docks. Polish valuable stones. He was cleaning up the statue for the Father, in time for some religious festival. Anyhow, that was what the Obregon girl told Fargo. I guess they just rode out to Cribben’s place, took the statue and moved on.’

  ‘And Cribben?’

  ‘They killed him. No need, but they killed him.’ Bush sucked on his pipe, realizing that it had gone out. He took it from his mouth and tossed it on the desk. He glanced across at Bodie, his eyes as cold as chips of ice. ‘I hear you used to be a pretty good lawman, Bodie. Are you as good a bounty hunter?’

  Bodie smiled, a cold, predatory smile. ‘I get the job done,’ was all he said.

  ‘See you do,’ Bush grunted. He stood up and moved to the big map pinned to the wall behind his desk. ‘Cribben’s place is here,’ he said, tapping the map. ‘Trail led away to the north. Could mean Fargo’s heading for the San Andres. Maybe cutting east around White Sands.’

  ‘Hell of a lot of places to choose from,’ Bodie said. ‘Might be making for Santa Fe. They could take off through Raton Pass. Even keep on north up to Colorado. Swing east or west. It’s a big country they got to choose from.’

  Marshal Bush turned away from the map, an almost devilish gleam in his flinty eyes. ‘Seems to me, Mister Bodie, you’re going to have to work awful hard for that bounty.’

  ‘Seems to me, Marshal, you might just be right!’

  ‘They’ve got four dear days on you,’ Bush added. ‘Even carting that statue they’ll have gone a fair piece.’

  ‘Time I picked up that trail ‘fore it gets too cold.’ Bodie eased up off his chair. ‘Marshal, I heard talk that the girl’s father was drumming up some kind of posse to go after Fargo. That right?’

  ‘Competition worry you, Mister Bodie?’

  Bodie paused in the doorway. ‘No. I just don’t like crowds. A bunch of feisty Mexicans with blood in their eyes are going to make enough fuss to raise the dead. Just the kind of thing to make Fargo go to ground.’

  ‘You try telling that to old man
Obregon,’ Bush suggested. ‘He’ll spit in your eye and cut your throat!’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ Bodie said. He crossed the board walk and untied his horse, leading it along the street. He turned in at the first livery stable he spotted. Handing the reins to the liveryman he gave instructions for the horse to be fed and watered. With his rifle in his hand he retraced his steps along Madison’s main street, looking out for and eventually finding a saloon that also offered food. It being the middle of the day, the saloon was fairly busy. Bodie eased his way through the crowd, spotted an empty table and sat down, The seat he’d taken gave him a wall at his back and also let him see the door and the staircase leading to the upper floor. Finally catching the eye of a bartender who was serving drinks, Bodie beckoned him over.

  ‘What’s the food like?’ he asked.

  The bartender grinned. ‘Let’s say it lies stiff on the plate and don’t yell when you stick a fork in it.’

  ‘Sounds reasonable,’ Bodie said. ‘Bring me a steak and all the trimmings. And a beer.’

  The bartender nodded and scuttled off across the saloon. Bodie leaned back in his seat, his eyes roving back and forth across the faces of the customers. His meal arrived after ten minutes. There was a thick steak, fried potatoes, beans in a rich, spicy gravy. It looked good and Bodie found it tasted the same. When he’d finished the meal and the beer Bodie asked for a pot of coffee. He poured himself a cup and was about to drink it when a shadow fell across the table. Glancing up Bodie silently eyed the three men facing him.

  ‘You the one they call Bodie?’ The one asking was young, in his early twenties. Stocky build, with a heavy boned square face. A straggly, dark moustache drooped down over the corners of his sullen mouth. He stared at Bodie belligerently.

  Bodie ignored him. He raised his cup and drank, acting as though he was still on his own.

  ‘I’m Lonny Cagle!’ The name was delivered as though it meant something. ‘He’s Bridger. Other one’s Doyle.’ The aroma of coffee floated across the table as Bodie helped himself to a second cup.

  Lonny Cagle made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. ‘I figured to let you know me and the boys are going after Fargo and his bunch! Ain’t no need for you, to stay around Madison, Bodie. We don’t need your kind. We take care of our own troubles.’

  ‘What’s wrong, boy? The competition too much for you?’ Bodie inquired, not even bothering to look at Lonny Cagle.

  A heavy silence had fallen across the saloon. Somewhere a chair scraped as a man shifted his weight.

  ‘I don’t need to be scared of your kind, Bodie,’ Cagle snapped. He was trying to keep calm, but his broad face had flushed noticeably. ‘Hell, who do you think you are anyhow?’

  ‘Boy, I’m the feller who’s going to deal with Linc Fargo. Last thing I need is a bunch of hick town tramps gettin’ in my way. Go home, boy, and quit tryin’ to play a man’s game!’ V

  ‘Shit!’ Cagle yelled. ‘You son of a bitch, don’t you tell me nothin’!’ He thrust a thick finger in Bodie’s face. ‘You got no right comin’ in this town, figurin’ to take a bounty off us!’

  ‘I knew we’d get to the thing that’s sticking in your craw, boy.’

  Cagle swore. ‘Bodie, you stay away. This is our town and our trouble. Butt out, mister, or else!’

  ‘You warning me off, boy?’ Bodie asked.

  ‘Damn right I am,’ Cagle yelled. ‘I was you I’d take heed.’

  ‘Or?’ Bodie asked, intrigued.

  The one called Bridger edged forward. He was short but wide, with huge muscles straining the fabric of his faded, dirty shirt. He scowled at Bodie from beneath a fall of thick dark hair.

  ‘Or we’ll beat your fuckin’ head in, asshole!’ he grunted.

  ‘We ain’t foolin’,’ Cagle said. ‘You can take the advice and leave. Or you can have it the hard way!’

  Bodie knew two things for certain. He wasn’t about to let himself be run out of town by Cagle and his cronies! Secondly, they weren’t going to back off now they’d made their threats! Which didn’t leave him very much choice. Many years back Bodie had learned a very hard lesson. It had concerned the way to handle unavoidable trouble pared right down to the bone it came out in the form of a simple, explanatory motto: He who hesitates gets the shit kicked out of him! And the moment Bodie saw Bridger start to move towards the table he put his experience into practice.

  He went for Cagle because he was closest. In a single movement Bodie rose to his feet, his right knee lifting the table and tipping it aside. His right hand, which still held the cup of hot coffee, jerked upwards, flinging the liquid into Cagle’s face. Lonny Cagle let out a startled scream as the scalding coffee burned his flesh. The scream was cut off when Bodie swung his rifle like a club. The hard stock smacked against Lonny Cagle’s face with a sodden sound. Cagle twisted sideways, stumbling to his knees, dazed and groaning. Blood streamed down the side of his face from a ragged gash over his cheekbone.

  Bridger let out an angry bellow. He lunged forward, his huge, scarred hands reaching for Bodie. His left caught hold of Bodie’s shirt, yanking him forward, while his right came round in a blur, clubbing the man hunter across the side of the head. The blow slammed Bodie sideways, driving him into the waiting arms of the third member of the group. The one called Doyle.

  ‘Stomp the bastard!’ Bridger screamed. ‘Kick his ass off!’

  Doyle, who seemed to be as powerfully built as Bridger swung a heavy boot up towards Bodie’s groin. Twisting his hips Bodie managed to avoid the vicious blow, and as Doyle leaned in towards him Bodie drove his fist into the sneering mouth. Doyle’s lips vanished in a burst of red. The force of the blow snapped his head back, offering his unprotected jaw. Bodie clubbed the rifle upwards, heard the sodden whack as it connected with Doyle’s jaw. Doyle’s teeth were snapped tight shut by the brutal force of the blow, some of them chipping. The front teeth cut deeply into Doyle’s tongue and he stumbled back, yelling in pain, blood dribbling unchecked from his mouth. In the few seconds it had taken for Bodie to deal with Doyle, Bridger crossed the scant yards separating him from the man hunter. As his partner lurched away from

  Bodie, dazed and bloody, Bridger launched himself in a wild leap. He smashed solidly against Bodie, driving him across the saloon, pinning him against the edge of the bar. The impact stunned Bodie briefly, his rifle slipping from his fingers. It flew across the bar, smashing into some bottles standing on the shelf at the rear. Bridger uttered a wild, triumphal cry. His great fists began to pound against Bodie’s body, brutal blows over the ribs. There was an odd, almost unreal gleam in Bridger’s eyes as he punched away at Bodie’s exposed body. He saw the man hunter’s legs sag. Saw Bodie’s powerful frame sliding along the bar. He grinned to himself. Excitement rose in him.

  By God, he’d done it! He’d beaten Bodie the one everybody said was too tough to be beaten! Well, hell, he’d done it! He’d beaten the Stalker! Bridger swung a bunched fist against the side of Bodie’s face, felt the satisfying impact of hard flesh against soft. Bodie’s head flew back, blood oozing from a gash over his cheekbone. He was still sliding along the edge of the bar, seemingly helpless. Bridger, a wildness overriding any caution, set himself for a further punch. He took his time, savoring the moment.

  He never saw Bodie’s left hand snake to the rear of his belt, where he carried a razor-sharp, heavy-bladed knife in a leather sheath. Bridger was too carried away by his apparent victory to notice. He was already throwing the punch he had delayed — not realizing that he was far too late. There was a moment — a brief moment — when he saw something flash on the periphery of his vision. Even then he was too slow to make anything of it. But then Bodie’s right hand came up, powerful fingers closing over Bridger’s own right wrist. The curving punch ended in mid-flight. Bridger’s responses were not quick enough to enable him to resist when Bodie swung the right arm down towards the bar top. There was a solid crack as Bridger’s fist slammed down against the hard wood. His fist opened in
reflex against the stab of pain, fingers splaying out. And then the knife in Bodie’s left hand drove down. The point went in through the back of Bridger’s hand, cutting its way through flesh and gristle and tendon and bone. It emerged from his palm and went on to embed itself a good two inches into the wood of the bar top. A spray of blood leapt up from around the blade of the knife and more spread out from beneath the pinned down hand, a red, glistening flood. And then Bridger began to scream. A high, agonized sound, tearing from his throat. It stopped very quickly when Bodie sank a hard fist into Bridget’s broad stomach. Bridger arched back against the bar, his face suddenly a sickly white, greasy with sweat. His mouth fell open and he sucked in great lunging breaths. Bodie didn’t give Bridger a chance to catch his breath. His fists drove hard, telling blows to Bridger’s face and body, reducing the powerful frame to a bloody, bruised wreck. Only when Bridger began to sag did Bodie stop. He took a handful of Bridger’s hair in his hand and yanked the man’s head up. Bridger stared at him through near-dosed eyes.

  ‘I was you, boy, I wouldn’t think of falling down,’ Bodie advised. ‘You do and that knife’s going to slice your hand in half!’

  Bridger moaned softly. He twisted his body round, flopping across the bar. He reached out with his free hand and tried to pull the knife free. When he did Bodie punched him in the ribs.

  ‘Leave it, boy!’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you when!’

  ‘Jesus Christ, you son of a bitch!’ Bridget groaned. He was close to crying. He peered at the knife protruding from his bloody hand. The whole of his hand and most of his right arm throbbed with terrible pain. Just looking at it made the pain seem worse. ‘Bodie, what the hell are you aimin’ to do? Keep me here ’til I bleed to death?’

  ‘Glad you brought that up, boy! I hadn’t thought about that!’

  Bodie turned away from Bridger, slipping his Colt from the holster on his hip. He watched in silence as Lonny Cagle climbed slowly to his feet. Cagle’s face was red and sore from the scalding coffee. Blood had streamed down the side of his face from the ragged gash Bodie’s rifle had opened, and soaked Cagle’s shirt. A couple of yards away Doyle was down on his knees nursing his jaw. He had both hands cupped around the lower part of his face and blood was dribbling from his swollen mouth, dripping from his fingers.