Bodie 2

by Neil Hunter

  Bodie knocked on the door and waited. It opened after a minute to reveal the awesome bulk of Nero. The huge negro stared at Bodie, recognizing him instantly. There was an abrupt change in the negro’s expression and he made to move towards Bodie. That was when Bodie jabbed the muzzle of his rifle against the ridged muscles of Nero’s flat stomach.

  ‘Big as you are, feller, you’ll still bleed and hurt a lot if I put half-a-dozen of these bullets in you! Now back up and keep your hands where I can see ’em!’

  Nero did as he was told. But his small eyes proclaimed the hate he carried for Bodie. He never once removed his gaze from Bodie as the man hunter shouldered the door shut and locked and bolted it. He gestured with the rifle.

  ‘Let’s go, Nero, I don’t have all day!’

  The negro led him across to a sliding door leading to the other half of the bridal suite.

  ‘Mister Kimble, I’m sorry. He was waitin’ for me.’

  ‘What the hell you talking about … ?’ Joseph Kimble began, and then abruptly cut himself oil as he saw Bodie step out from behind Nero. For a moment his face registered fear, then a sly expression crept into his eyes, and his confidence returned. ‘Long time, Bodie,’ he said casually.

  ‘Must be more’n a year since I seen you.’

  ‘Houston,’ Bodie reminded him.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. You was still wearing a badge then.’ Kimble smiled, his thin face relaxing. ‘I hear you got yourself a new line of business now.’

  Bodie nodded, gesturing with the rifle in Nero’s direction. ‘Against the wall, Nero, and don’t move.’ He turned his attention to Kimble. ‘You know my business, Kimble, so let’s cut the crap. I reckon you’ve figured out why I’m here. So tell me where Fargo is and what he’s’ done with the statue.’

  Joseph Kimble crossed the room and poured himself a drink from a bottle of whisky. He took a long swallow, glancing coolly at Bodie.

  ‘Bodie, you don’t wear a badge any more. When you did you could run me around anytime you felt like it. Well, mister, right now you don’t have more pull than I do. So I don’t have to listen to you and I sure don’t have to answer any of your questions!’

  Bodie smiled thinly. ‘One thing you’re right about, Kimble,’ he said. ‘I don’t wear a badge any more, and I ain’t got the weight it used to carry. On the other hand I ain’t hogtied any more by all the rules I had to follow. Right now I can knock out every tooth in your head and not get my ass kicked for doing it.’

  Kimble’s head snapped round and he stared at Bodie, seeing the look in the man hunter’s eyes, and he realized that Bodie meant every word he’d said. Kimble’s confidence vanished and he paled, thrusting a hand inside the jacket of his dark suit.

  Bodie knew Kimble was going for the hideaway gun he wore in a shoulder holster. He lunged across the room, knowing he had only seconds before Kimble started shooting. He had to stop the man, but he didn’t want Kimble dead. As Kimble’s hand emerged from his jacket, clutching the heavy revolver, Bodie lashed out with the Winchester. The steel barrel cracked down on Kimble’s gun-hand, splitting the skin. Blood fanned out across Kimble’s hand as the revolver spun from numb fingers. He gave a yelp of pain. Bodie stopped the yell by launching a powerful left in the direction of Kimble’s jaw. It struck with a heavy sound, spinning Kimble round. He hit the wall and slithered down it, slumping in a heap on the floor, motionless.

  Even as he was hitting Kimble, Bodie sensed Nero catapulting himself away from his position against the wall.

  He let himself turn, carried by the momentum of his punch. As he faced about Bodie caught a blurred image of Nero coming at him, powerful arms outstretched, huge hands clawing the air. There was no time to use the rifle, or even his handgun. Bodie tried to club the giant negro with the Winchester, but Nero slapped the weapon aside as if it was nothing more than a flimsy twig. His hands grasped Bodie’s clothing, swinging him round before hurling him against the nearest wall. Bodie was unable to stop himself. He hit the wall and bounced off, the room spinning, his head pulsing with pain. He could taste blood on his lips. He heard a hoarse grunt a second before Nero grabbed him again and repeated the man oeuvre. This time Bodie went to his knees, the rifle spinning away from him. He made a try for his Colt, but Nero had already crossed the room. His heavy hands lashed out, catching Bodie across the side of his face. Then he took hold of Bodie’s shirt, dragging him to his feet. Pinning the man hunter against the wall Nero smashed a crippling right to Bodie’s taut stomach. Bodie gasped, spitting air. He felt rigid fingers of pain exploding through his body. Nero hit him again, the shock of the second blow clearing Bodie’s head. He reacted instinctively, driving his right knee up into Nero’s groin, hard, then did it a second time.

  Nero roared with pain. He released his hold on Bodie and stumbled back, unable to restrain himself from clutching his crushed testicles. Bodie shoved himself away from the wall. He knew damn well that Nero would recover a lot faster than most men, and he didn’t have the stamina to indulge in a drawn out fight with the huge negro. Moving to stand directly in front of him, Bodie took hold of Nero’s thick black hair. He yanked Nero’s head down hard, driving it against his right knee as it came up. Knee and face met with terrible force. There was the sodden crunch of breaking bone, and blood spraying across the room. The force of the blow snapped Nero upright, sent him spinning across the room, his black face a smashed, blood-spurting mask. His nose was completely flattened and a number of his upper teeth were missing. A long gash had opened down the left side of his face. Even so, he would not go down. Bodie knew it and he followed Nero across the room, sledging brutal blows to the negro’s body. Nero tried to fight back but most of his expertise was lost in the overwhelming flood of pain from his smashed face. Then one of Bodie’s fists caught him in the throat. Nero began to choke, clutching his throat, spitting blood as he tried to gain his breath. Bodie slipped his Colt from its holster.

  He hit Nero across the side of the skull. Blood gushed from the wound, streaming down his face. Bodie hit him again, driving the negro to his knees. A final blow, directed at the base of Nero’s skull, slammed the huge man to the floor where he remained, blood trickling out from under his head.

  Bodie crossed to where Kimble was groggily trying to stand up. He kicked his feet from beneath him, dropping the man to the floor. Before Kimble could react Bodie was kneeling beside There was a flash of light on something in Bodie’s hand. Kimble groaned as he felt the keen edge of a blade pressed to his exposed throat.

  ‘Nero ain’t going to help you, Kimble, so forget about him,’ Bodie snapped. ‘That leaves just you and me. ’I was you I'd start talking before I get restless.’

  ‘Christ, Bodie, ease off with that knife!’ Kimble begged. ‘Hell, man, I’ll tell you what you want to know. I ain’t about to get my throat cut saving Linc Fargo’s hide!’

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘Him and his boys are up in the San Andres. They’re hiding out in that abandoned mining camp up in the high country, waitin’ on me getting word to ’em about a buyer for that statue.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘The statue? Kimble laughed harshly. ‘Fargo’s got it with him. He ain’t about to let the hunk of gold out of his sight until somebody shows him a wad of money!’

  Bodie jerked the knife away from Kimble’s throat. He stood up, crossing the room to retrieve his rifle. Kimble . gingerly sat up, nursing his swollen jaw where Bodie had hit him.

  ‘Kimble, I was you I’d cancel any thoughts about making a sale for that statue. It ain’t open for offers. Not from Fargo or anybody else.’

  Kimble didn’t say anything, but he’d got the message, and he knew enough not to try going against Bodie.

  ‘Seems to me your bodyguard needs a bodyguard,’ Bodie said as he opened the door. ‘Next time pick one your own size, Kimble. Big feller looks mean enough. Trouble is they got a hell of a lot further to fall.’

  Chapter Five

  The three riders
drifted slowly across the barren terrain, leaving a thin, pale spume of dust hanging in the air from their passing. They were moving north, cutting around the rim of the place known as White Sands.

  Lonny Cagle was in the lead. He rode in complete silence, wrapped in his own murderous thoughts, nagged by the pulsing hurt of his scalded face. More than the physical hurt was the damage to his pride. Cagle lived on his reputation as a hard man. He took no damn fool nonsense from any man, yet Bodie had whipped him and Doyle and Bridger with such ease it made Cagle sick just thinking about it. Bodie had made fools of them but the game wasn’t over yet. Things would be different out here.

  Lonny Cagle intended to see to that. The first opportunity he got he was going to put a bullet in the man hunter. It made no difference if that bullet went in through Bodie’s back. Cagle wasn’t concerned over ethics. He just wanted Bodie dead — as simple as that. The others felt the same way too. So as far as Cagle was concerned, Bodie was already marked down as a dead man. Cagle was looking forward to the event. He’d enjoy putting a bullet in Bodie!

  His two partners mulled over similar thoughts as they trailed after Cagle. Bridger, nursing a bandaged right hand, grumbled constantly to himself in a low monotone.

  He kept glancing at the grubby bandage on his hand. The trouble was that every time he looked at the bandaged hand he found himself reliving that moment when the rigid blade of Bodie’s knife sliced through his hand and buried its tip in the bar top. He could still see the spurting blood, spreading out across the bar. It would be a long time before he was able to erase the moment from his mind.

  Every step his horse took sent fierce stabs of pain through Doyle’s mouth. A number of his teeth had been badly cracked, partially torn from the gums, and they were causing him considerable discomfort. His jaw was also badly swollen, so that he had difficulty in speaking.

  He rode with dogged determination, hunched over in his saddle. To a casual observer Doyle might have been asleep.

  Nothing could have been further from the truth. Doyle was primed for action, in fact he was aching for something to happen so that he could vent his brooding anger in a burst of uncontrolled violence.

  Towards evening they came across the remains of the four dead Mexicans. Even the vultures had left now.

  There was little left after the grisly feast. The bodies had been clawed and gouged, stomachs ripped apart. Eyes had been plucked from bloody sockets. Sun-shriveled entrails lay on the dusty ground.

  Lonny Cagle climbed stiffly down from his horse, holding his kerchief over his mouth as he bent to examine the corpses. Eventually he backed off, leading his horse some distance from the putrid stench of rotting flesh. T

  ‘Old man Obregon and his boys,’ he said with a pained smirk. He swung back to his saddle, gathered the reins.

  ‘At least we ain’t got them to worry over any more.’

  ‘Now it’s fuckin’ ’paches!’ Doyle mumbled thickly through his swollen lips. ‘Damn sight worse!’

  ‘They’ll be long gone by now,’ Cagle scoffed.

  Bridger turned his bruised face towards Cagle. ‘You know about Apaches too?’ he asked.

  Lonny Cagle’s face darkened in response to Bridger’s needling tone. ‘Ahh, shit !’ he scowled and viciously rammed his heels against the horse’s sides, driving the startled animal forward at a gallop.

  Bridger and Doyle followed him. There was a marked awareness in their attitude now. They searched the landscape around them in every direction, watching, listening, never once letting themselves believe that just because they couldn’t see any Apaches there weren’t any. With Apaches the time to worry was when everything appeared normal ...

  Chapter Six

  The faint rattle of a small pebble, disturbed from its resting place, reached Bodie’s ears, and he froze, head turned slightly in the direction of the sound. The mug of hot coffee, in his left hand was forgotten. Concealed by his crouching body his right hand eased the big Colt from its holster, thumb drawing back the hammer. The late afternoon sun threw long shadows across the rocky ground and Bodie waited, watching for one of them to move.

  ‘Ease off there, boy, I’m coming in with both hands empty!’

  Bodie turned slowly, rising to his feet, bringing the Colt into plain sight. His move in no way detracted from his readiness to use the gun if anything turned out to be menacing. He watched in complete, cold-eyed silence as the solid, powerful figure appeared from the jumble of bleached rocks. The dusty uniform was blue, the equipment marked the man as a soldier.

  There was a long moment as both men made swift evaluations, and then the merest change in expressions as recognition dawned.

  ‘What the hell you doing up here, Bodie?’

  ‘Might ask the same about you.’ Bodie lowered his Colt and took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Still only a sergeant, Rostermann?’

  Rostermann grinned. He dragged off his sweat-stained hat and wiped his hot face on his sleeve. ‘What would I do if they put me in an officer’s uniform, Bodie? Hell, I’m happy enough the way things are.’

  ‘You want some coffee?’

  Rostermann nodded. ‘Obliged,’ he said. ‘I’ll walk my horse in.’

  Bodie watched the man vanish from sight, then reappear leading a weary horse. Rostermann led the animal

  to where Bodie had tethered his own close by a stand thin trees edging the stream in the spot he’d chosen for his camp. When he had seen to his horse Rostermann rummaged around in his gear. Returning to where Bodie sat by his small cook-fire, Rostermann placed his belongings on the ground. He helped himself to a mug of coffee, taking a long swallow before he sat back, smacking his lips with relish. ‘Making coffee always, was one of your good points, Bodie,’ he remarked.

  ‘And bullshit is still one of yours, Rostermann,’ Bodie said. ‘Now what are you doing up here? And by yourself? Or have you got half the goddam army out there waitin’ to try my coffee?’

  Rostermann grinned. Just as swiftly the expression fled from his brown, seamed face. He stared down at the cook-fire, broad shoulders hunched. Bodie saw the knuckles of his hand grow white as he gripped the mug of coffee tightly.

  ‘I buried six of my boys down there,’ Rostermann said bitterly. He raised his head and stared coldly at Bodie. ‘Six boys who would have made damn good soldiers by the time I'd have done with ’em. You know that, Bodie. I make damn good soldiers.’

  ‘Sure, Rostermann, I know that. What happened to ’em?’

  Rostermann’s face was like a carved mask. Then he said slowly: ‘Linc Fargo happened to ’em, Bodie! He killed every one of my boys just so he could take their horses.’

  Bodie sighed. So now he had Rostermann on the trail of Fargo. He also knew there wasn’t a thing he could do to deter Rostermann. He knew the man too well, and there was no way of stopping Rostermann, short of putting a bullet between his eyes. Bodie wasn’t so sure that would do it either.

  ‘That’s why you’re up here. Ain’t it, Bodie? Rostermann was watching him closely, just daring Bodie to lie.

  Bodie nodded. ‘It’s personal, Rostermann,’ he said evenly.

  ‘l heard of what happened to the Father,’ Rostermann said. ‘And to the girl.’

  ‘So you know why I’m going after Fargo,’ Bodie reminded the stolid, hard-faced soldier.

  ‘And you figure to do it alone? You never change, Bodie,’ Rostermann shook his head. ‘You are a stubborn, miserable son of a bitch, Bodie, and I could kick your goddamn ass for it!’

  ‘Now, do you want me to say the same about you, Rostermann, or do we just take it as read? Bodie asked. He picked up the pot of coffee and refilled both their mugs.

  ‘Maybe you won’t be so damn eager to go chasin’ off when I tell you what I found back along the trail.’

  Bodie’s eyes flickered across Rostermann’s face. ‘So?’

  ‘Four dead men. Four dead Mexicans. Dead from Apaches, Bodie, my friend.’

  ‘Three young? One older? Bodie asked.

&nbs
p; Rostermann nodded. ‘You know them?’

  ‘Name of Obregon. The brothers and the father of the girl who died at the mission. They wanted Fargo too.’

  ‘That bastard leaves a heap of misery behind wherever he goes,’ Rostermann grumbled into his mug of coffee.

  They fell silent for a time. Bodie began to prepare a meal. Without a word Rostermann passed over some of his own supplies. Then he returned to his coffee. He waited until Bodie had placed a pan containing thick slices of salt bacon over the fire before he spoke.

  ‘You know where Fargo is?’

  Bodie looked across at him and smiled. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You might as well tell me, Bodie, ’cause you ain’t about to lose me now. One way or another I’m going to be with you all the way.’

  Bodie knew that to be the cold truth. Like it or not he had a partner. He had known Rostermann for a good few years, and Rostermann had a reputation for dogged persistence on a par with Bodie himself.

  Bodie jabbed a fork into the spitting bacon, turning it over in the pan. ‘You want it well done?’ he asked Rostermann, totally ignoring the man’s question.

  Rostermann only grinned, refusing to be drawn by Bodie’s refusal to talk.

  They ate in silence, cleaned and put away their gear, then settled down for the night. A while later Rostermann sat up and reached for his Springfield carbine.

  ‘You hear something?’ Bodie asked.

  Rostermann stood up, shaking his head. ‘No. But that don’t mean there ain’t anybody out there.’

  ‘You still got those damn Apaches on the brain?’

  Rostermann jammed on his hat. ‘Damn right I have, Bodie. Those bastards are still around somewhere. I got me a feelin’.’

  Bodie rolled onto his side. ‘Probably indigestion from all that bacon you ate.’

  Rostermann vanished into the falling darkness. He would prowl around until he had satisfied himself there was no danger. lf Bodie had found himself with the same feelings he would have been out there alongside Rostermann. '