Bodie 2

by Neil Hunter

  ‘And you three wanted to chase after Linc Fargo?’ Bodie’s tone revealed the contempt he held for the trio. ‘Boys, I’ve just done you a favor. Now you take some advice. Stay here in town. It wouldn’t be the safe thing to do, you three wandering off on your own. If Linc Fargo didn’t get you I can tell you I will! And next time I won’t be taking it so easy!’

  He turned suddenly, gripping the handle of the knife and yanking it free. It slid out of Bridger’s hand with a moist sound, drawing a spurt of hot blood. A low moan bubbled past Bridger’s bloody ups. He clasped the injured hand to his chest and slid to the floor where he curled up against the base of the bar.

  ‘How much do I owe you for the meal?’ Bodie asked the bartender. The man made a quick calculation. Bodie paid him. ‘The meal was fine,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think much of the entertainment.’ The bartender grinned nervously. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

  ‘Any damages,’ Bodie said, ‘you charge it to these three.’

  He turned and walked out of the saloon after retrieving his rifle from the bartender. As he stepped out onto the boardwalk Bodie met Marshal Bush. The lawman stared at Bodie’s bloody, bruised face, then walked on by him and went inside the saloon. Bodie stayed where he was, waiting. After a couple of minutes Marshal Bush reappeared. He joined Bodie on the edge of the boardwalk.

  ‘Times I’ve told that stupid son of a bitch!’ he grumbled. ‘Bodie, you’d have done me a favor if’n you’d gone and shot Lonny Cagle! He’s a pain in the ass! but trouble, the three of ‘em.’

  ‘They keep going round like that, just asking for grief, they’re sure as hell going to get it,’ Bodie remarked. He stepped down onto the street, making for the livery where he’d left his horse. Marshal Bush fell in beside him.

  ‘Bodie, I got word about old man Obregon. Seems he’s been waiting on one of his boys getting back from over the border. Appears he got back early yesterday. Old man Obregon and his boys took off after Fargo’s bunch ‘bout noon yesterday. Means he’s got a day’s lead over you, Bodie.’

  They had reached the livery and Bodie paused beside the wooden water trough. Marshal Bush worked the pump handle and when the stream of water gushed from the pump Bodie ducked his head beneath it. The cold spray made him gasp. He rinsed his aching face and washed away the blood from around the gash in his cheek.

  ‘Just Obregon and his sons?’ Bodie asked as he straightened up.

  Bush nodded. ‘I dare say every man on Obregon’s pay roll wanted to go. But when it comes to family matters, Don Obregon is from the old order. There’s only one way for him. Honor. Obligation. Blood tie. Call it what you want, but it’s the way Obregon believes. That’s the way he’ll want to settle it with Fargo. Just the Don and his sons. They figure if they stay loyal to each other they can beat anything.’ Bush shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s true, I don’t know. I read something in a book once on the same lines. Something like: The family that stays together …’ Bush didn’t complete his sentence. Bodie finished it for him.

  ‘…‘... is liable to get buried together!’

  Marshal Bush smiled wryly. ‘Ain’t quite what I read but you could have something there!’ He peered at Bodie’s bruised and gashed face. ‘You want the doc to take a look at you?’

  ‘No,’ Bodie said. ‘I’ll heal.’

  He nodded to Marshal Bush and turned in at the livery. Bush watched the tall figure vanish into the stable’s shadows. He didn’t envy him his task, but on second thoughts he found that his sympathy was directed towards the men Bodie was going after. They were the ones who needed the luck. Bush had no doubts as to the outcome of the affair. He knew damn well that one day in the near future Bodie was going to come riding back into Madison with the statue tied to the back of his horse, leading a string of horses over which would be hanging the corpses of Linc Fargo and his gang. And he knew, too, that despite everything said about him, this time Bodie wasn’t just doing it for the money. There was more to it than cold cash. Bush realized he might never dig out the truth behind Bodie’s kinship with Father Ignacio. Nevertheless he knew there was something there and he would have given a year’s pay to know what it was!

  Chapter Three

  The big man, leading his sweat-lathered horse, came down the side of a sandy ridge and spotted the corpses lying in the bright glare of the sun. As he approached, the half dozen vultures clustered around the bodies rose in a noisy mass, wings flapping dryly as they floated skywards, hovering, watching, voicing their displeasure at his interference.

  The man tethered his horse to a straggly dump of brush then moved to where the bodies lay. Even before he got close he could see the signs left by the killers. They were unmistakable.

  Apaches! The feared, deadly masters of the southwest. The Apaches, though outnumbered, outgunned, chased and harassed from one end of the territory to the other, still managing to make fools of their enemies. Including the army. Which angered the big man. Because he was army.

  His name was Rostermann. Sergeant Rostermann. He was forty-six years old and he’d been in the army since his sixteenth birthday. The army was his life, his love, his mistress and his only friend. It had fed and clothed and trained him. It had taught him all he knew. It had given him all he had. And Rostermann was content with that.

  He was also angry. Angry because six young soldiers under his command had died. Slaughtered by the gang of murderers led by Linc Fargo and their horses stolen. Rostermann had only been away from the troop for a couple of hours and it had all been over by the time he’d returned. One of the soldiers had stayed alive long enough to tell Rostermann what had happened. Afterwards Rostermann had dug six graves, buried the soldiers and made markers for each of them. Then he had checked his weapons, his supplies and his water, and had picked up the trail left by Fargo and his bunch.

  He had trailed them north, then off to the east around the shimmering gypsum of White Sands, then on towards the distant rise of the San Andres. A few hours before he had seen the black, wheeling specks in the sky, knowing them for what they were.

  Vultures.

  Which meant only one thing out here. Death!

  Rostermann had ridden towards the circling, swooping creatures, hoping that he wouldn’t find Fargo or his men dead. Because he wanted to kill them himself. He wanted that very badly.

  Now, squatting on his heels in the dry, bleached dust, he knew that the dead men were not the ones he was seeking. There were four of them. Before they had died they had been Mexicans. Now they were just ragged, bloody, fly-infested corpses. The vultures had done a pretty thorough job, tearing at the exposed flesh, ripping and lacerating as they searched for the choicest morsels.

  Even so Rostermann could see the evidence of Apache handiwork. The Mexicans had suffered before they had died. Next to killing, torture was a skill the Apache excelled in. What they hadn’t done by the knife the Apaches had achieved with fire.

  Rostermann moved away from the corpses. The smell was pretty bad up close. He went back to his horse and uncapped his big canteen, taking a slow drink. Now he realized the significance of the tracks he’d picked up the day before. The Mexicans had been tracking Fargo too.

  Why? He put his canteen away. Maybe Fargo had done something against the Mexicans. Whatever the reason it had died with the four men. It wasn’t as if Rostermann was particularly interested. His only concern was his interest in Fargo. He didn’t want anyone else getting involved. Fargo was his! One way or another he intended to get the man and his partners.

  Rostermann let his horse rest for an hour. He moved on a little from the place where the bodies lay and found somewhere with a little shade. He settled his broad back against a rock and relaxed.

  He just hoped that the Apaches who had killed the Mexicans had moved out of the area. The trouble with Apaches was their unreliability. A man could never tell where or when they were going to show up. They might strike once in an area then vanish. Or they might decide to stay around, waiting for other unwary victims. Ro
stermann sighed. There was no way of knowing with the bastards, he thought. He pulled a thin black Mexican cigar out of his uniform shirt pocket and stuck it between his thick lips. From the same pocket he took a wooden match and scraped it against the rock until it flared into flame.

  He lit the cigar. Thin tendrils of blue smoke rose into the air. Rostermann drew his rifle across his thighs, loosened the flap of his holster and made sure his revolver was easy to get at. It was entirely possible that the Apaches were miles away by now, but in this country it paid to be cautious. Extremely cautious. It was the only way to get to being old.

  He thought about the dead soldiers he’d buried. None of them would see old age. Rostermann swore. He spat out the cigar. It had turned sour on him. Damn you, Fargo, he thought. Damn you and your miserable bunch clear to hell and back! Kill my boys, will you? Kill them just for a few horses! He thought about the soldiers and remembered how well they’d been doing. Pretty damn raw when they’d been assigned to him a few weeks back. But under his guidance they had been coming along just line.

  If he’d had them another couple of months not even Linc Fargo would have been able to get the drop on them. By God, no! One of the things Rostermann did well was to turn green boys into fine soldiers. So far Fargo had a lot to answer for. A big debt to pay - and by God he was going to pay!

  Sergeant Rostermann rested his horse, then he mounted up again and set off on the faint, but still-visible trail left by Linc Fargo and his bunch of killers.

  Chapter Four

  Bodie had only been a few hours out from Madison when he realized he knew where Fargo would go.

  It had been staring him in the face but he hadn’t seen it. He just hoped that Fargo hadn’t already got rid of the statue. If he had then Bodie was in trouble. Once he’d sold the statue Fargo would take his money and run. He and his bunch might even split up, riding seven ways to sundown, and leaving Bodie with a hell of a decision to make.

  It all depended upon a man named Joseph Kimble.

  Kimble was a middle-man. A negotiator. He was the man who handled stolen goods, finding a buyer, agreeing on a satisfactory deal, and then taking a neat commission for his trouble. It was said that Kimble could End a buyer for any stolen goods, no matter what they were. The law had been after Kimble for years. The man, though, was clever.

  He was a born survivor, a man who lived by his wits, on his perceptive, intuitive ability to stay just one clear step ahead. Bodie had come across Kimble a time or two during his years of wearing a badge. Yet he hadn’t been able to outthink the man. Maybe this time things would be different. Bodie didn’t have any rules holding him back.

  Now he played the game according to his terms, and they were the kind of terms that opened doors a lot faster than any badge pinned to a man’s shirt.

  Bodie cut across country, pushing his horse as hard as he dare. He knew that Kimble was using the small town of Adobe for a base right now. The man had a habit of moving from place to place, never letting himself become too settled. And Adobe, small, insignificant, a two-bit settlement in the shadow of the San Andres mountains, had all the requirements Joseph Kimble looked for when selecting a base for his business. As he pushed his horse across the empty, sun scorched terrain, Bodie wondered if he might already be too late. Even as the thought ran through his mind he dismissed it, working on the principle that it was no good worrying about tomorrow while there were problems to sort out today.

  His route took him almost ten miles to the west of the spot where Sergeant Rostermann had found the dead _ Mexicans. So late the following day, when Bodie took his weary horse into Adobe, he had no idea that the Obregon family were dead. Nor that he had a man named Rostermann also on the trail of Linc Fargo and his bunch.

  Bodie had enough on his mind anyway.

  Adobe was a miserable, filthy little town. It squatted in the dirt like a scab on the face of the earth. Years back it had been a fairly decent township. But the immediate area went through bad times, what with raiding Apaches, a lack of finance and no means of attracting new blood.

  Gradually the better element moved on,. leaving Adobe to its own devices, and the town sank lower and lower until it ended up as little more than a low-class watering hole for passing traffic. As Bodie passed along the rutted main street, inches deep in dust and filth, the lingering smell of Adobe washed over him. He watched a couple of skin and bone mongrel dogs fighting over a greasy bone, and only yards away some boozed-up drunk lay against the wall of a building, sleeping away his troubles in his own dirt.

  The only livery in town was run by a fat-gutted character who stood silently by while Bodie settled his horse. The man made no attempt to help as Bodie unsaddled. He just stood watching, one thick finger poked up his nose. Every so often he would withdraw the finger and inspect what he’d found.

  ‘See the horse is looked after,’ Bodie suggested as he came out of the stall. He had his rifle tucked under one arm. The liveryman shrugged indifferently.

  Bodie turned on him, anger showing in his eyes. ‘Damn you, mister, you listen when I talk!’ he rapped viciously.

  The liveryman jumped back a step. ‘Yeah! Yeah, I hear! ’ he stammered.

  ‘Like I said, feller. See the horse is looked after. I find anything wrong when I come back I’ll take that damn finger of yours and shove it so far up your ass you’ll be able to pick your nose from the inside!’

  Leaving the livery Bodie walked along the street, seeking a saloon. He wasn’t bothered which one of the many establishments Adobe boasted. He wanted information, not liquor. The drink could come later. He spotted a saloon across the street and went inside.

  Bodie went to the bar, flipping a silver dollar across the stained top. The skinny bartender scooped it up with one hand and lifted a bottle of cheap whisky with the other.

  ‘The dollar ain’t for a drink,’ Bodie said. ‘It’s for a name.’

  The bartender’s flinty eyes hardened. ‘We sell drinks, mister, not information.’

  ‘Just for one minute you’ve given up the drinks business,’ Bodie said. ‘It won’t take you that long to tell me what I want to know.’

  ‘Go to hell!’ the bartender said. He dropped Bodie’s dollar back on the bar. ‘Shove off, friend!’

  Bodie ignored the coin. He lifted his rifle and laid it on the bar. He still had his finger on the trigger and the barrel was aimed directly at the skinny man’s stomach.

  ‘Let’s start again,’ Bodie said pleasantly. ‘Like I said the dollar’s for a name. I give you the name and all you do is tell me where I find the feller that owns it. Simple enough?’

  ‘The bartender scowled. He held himself rigid for a moment, then a hard sigh passed his lips. He snatched up the dollar and dropped it in his pocket.

  ‘Okay. Who is it?’

  ‘Joseph Kimble. Where do I find him?’

  ‘Him? Over at the hotel.’ The man suddenly grinned. ‘Got himself the bridal suite. Not that he’s married. And the women he gets up there - well, you know, they sure ain’t brides! And for sure they ain’t goddam virgins either!’

  The bartender was still grinning at his own wit when Bodie left the saloon. He located the hotel. It was halfway along the street and it did little to add to Adobe’s prestige.

  The only completely wooden building in town, it boasted two stories, and at some time during its existence it had actually been painted. Harsh, gritty winds had sandpapered most of the paint off, leaving behind bleached, warped boards. The screen door squealed as Bodie pushed his way through to the lobby. A figure bobbed up from behind the desk.

  ‘I help you?’ There was a lot of effort behind the fixed smile on the man’s face. The desk clerk was tall, thin and white-skinned, with long, skeletal hands.

  ‘Just give me the number of the bridal suite, friend, and you can lie down again,’ Bodie said.

  ‘What makes you think I was lying down?’ the clerk asked, his white face taking on a pink hue.

  Bodie indicated the black silk
stocking the clerk was holding in his hand. ‘Maybe I’m wrong,’ he said. ‘Yours?’

  There was a stifled giggle from somewhere behind the desk. The clerk paled. He looked about to speak, but there was a scuffling down below. Then a curly blonde head appeared, the face of a giggling girl of around nineteen.

  Then the shoulders and the unexpected revealing of naked breasts. Ample, ripe, firm young breasts, tipped by erect, puckered pink nipples. The girl stared at Bodie through large, bright, excited blue eyes.

  ‘We were busy,' she said, and broke off into fits of giggling again, an action that caused her breasts to move in unison. ‘Weren’t we, Jimmy?’

  The clerk made hurried gestures with his hands, shoo the girl away. But she didn’t intend to simply vanish.

  ‘Oh, jimmy, don’t be such a misery! Times are when I get to thinking we never will do anything! You are such a ditherer! I declare! What more can a girl do! ’

  She turned and stormed off through the doorway. at the rear of the desk, affording Bodie an unrestricted view of her nakedness, hips swaying and rounded, dimpled buttocks twitching saucily.

  The clerk swallowed. His mouth moved but no sound came out.

  ‘I was you, boy, I’d give me that room number, then get in there after that girl ’fore she cools off and gets her pants back on! ’

  The clerk nodded suddenly, his smile returning. ‘Bridal suite? Up the stairs, turn right, third door along.’ And with that he turned and disappeared through the door the blonde had used.

  Bodie went quietly up the stairs, following the clerk’s instructions. Outside the bridal suite he paused.

  Joseph Kimble never made a move without his bodyguard. And the bodyguard happened to be a seven-foot-tall negro named Nero, with steel-like muscles and a very brutal personality.