by Neil Hunter
Fargo rolled, half rising to meet Bodie’s attack. He blocked a punch thrown at his face, countering with a fist against Bodie’s jaw. Bodie stepped back, spitting blood. He set himself, and as Fargo lunged in at him, he stepped to one side, punching the outlaw behind the ear. Fargo sprawled against the stable wall. He might have been stunned but he recovered with extreme swiftness, twisting round to land a brutal punch that split both of Bodie’s lips. Blood spurted down Bodie’s chin. The sharp pain made him swing wildly. Fargo’s head rocked forward from the blow.
He yelled in furious pain as Bodie took hold of a mass of his hair, yanking his head back. Bodie sledged a brutal fist to Fargo’s jaw. He repeated the blow. Fargo slumped round towards the wall. Bodie hit him again. The back of Fargo’s head slammed against the wall with a sodden thud.
Blood dribbled from his mouth. Before Bodie could hit him again Fargo sagged forward, flinging his arms around g Bodie’s waist. He hung there for a few seconds, as if in abject surrender, but his right hand made a grab for the knife Bodie wore in a sheath on the left side of his belt.
As he felt the knife slip free Bodie arched his body away from Fargo, calling himself every kind of a fool.
Fargo crouched at the foot of the stable wall, the knife held at arm’s length. He began to stand up, a wolflike grin peeling his bloody lips back from clenched teeth. He cut the air with the razor-edged blade, pushing himself away from the wall as Bodie stepped back.
‘Something wrong, Bodie? he asked tightly. ‘You gettin’ cold feet all of a sudden?
Bodie didn’t speak. He just watched Fargo’s eyes and the glinting tip of the knife. He had let himself in for this by allowing his emotions to drag him into a brawl with Fargo, so now he was going to have to get himself out of trouble.
‘Hell, Bodie, this is turnin’ out better’n I figured! It’s going to pleasure me something grand to cut you open! Bodie, you’ve dogged me long enough. Now it’s my turn an' you’ll beg me to finish it time I’m done with you!’
‘If you’re half as good with the knife as you are with your mouth, Fargo, then I’m in trouble,’ Bodie said softly, his eyes mocking Fargo. ‘But I don’t figure I’ve much to fret over. You’re too much like the miserable sons of bitches who rode with you, Fargo! They were all talk and no guts! just like you, Fargo! A pile of horseshit!’
‘I’ll make you eat yours, Bodie!’ Fargo screamed. He drove forward, the knife slashing at Bodie.
It was an uncoordinated knife thrust and Bodie had plenty of time to step aside. As the blade slid by his left side Bodie reached across and clamped his fingers around Fargo’s wrist. He yanked hard, pulling Fargo’s body in tight against his own. He got his other hand on the other wrist and at the same time he slammed his right knee up into Fargo’s groin. The pain tore a long, shrill scream from Fargo’s lips. Bodie put his shoulder against Fargo’s chest and shoved hard, driving the outlaw back against the stable wall. Fargo struck the wall with tremendous force and the impact seemed to drive the strength from his body.
He hung against the wall, motionless, his mouth gaping wide as he tried to suck air into his paralyzed lungs. There was no resistance when Bodie plucked the knife from his hand.
It was only as Bodie reversed the knife, lifting it so that Fargo could see the honed blade, that life returned to the outlaw. In that split-second he became aware of his defenseless position, and terror showed in his eyes as the gleaming blade in Bodie’s hand became a silver blur. The tip penetrated Fargo’s chest, the cold steel sliding in between two ribs, cleaving its way directly to the heart. For long seconds Linc Fargo clung to the solid bulk of the wall at his back, his eyes dropping to stare at the hilt of Bodie’s knife protruding from his chest. Blood began to ooze out from the wound, staining Fargo’s shirt. Slowly he slipped along the adobe wall, his limbs giving way under him.
On his knees Fargo bent double; then toppled over onto his face. One arm flopped out across the dusty ground, fingers opening and closing in quick spasms, and then even that small movement ceased.
Bodie bent over the inert form and turned Fargo over on his back. He pulled the knife from Fargo’s chest and turned away from the dead outlaw. Picking up his Colt, Bodie made his way back towards the centre of the village. He hurt all over and he was bleeding from various wounds.
All he really wanted to do was lie down before he fell down, but he had something to do first. Something that wouldn’t wait. Something nagging him, which wouldn’t let him rest ... He had to find that goddam statue!
Chapter Fifteen
It was in the room Linc Fargo had been using. Wrapped old sacking and tied with rawhide thongs it stood in the corner of a battered old wardrobe, with Fargo’s gear tossed over it.
Bodie humped it out and stood it in the center of the room. He cut the wrappings away and found himself staring at the statue of the Mission of San Felipe. He studied it for a while, and found himself wondering just what all the fuss had been out. Because as far as Bodie was concerned it didn’t appear to be worth all the trouble it had caused. just a carved sculpture of a thin-faced man in flowing robes, hands clasped in prayer. So maybe it was made of solid gold and dotted with jewels. It still didn’t add to all the deaths. The pain and the suffering. The downright misery it had caused. Bodie eyed the statue. He wondered how many others had died over the years because of its existence. More than anyone would ever own up to, he was sure of that. And had it all been worth it? All the dying and grieving? Was it all justified? just so a few could go and kneel before it to say a prayer? It was a hell of a question, Bodie decided, and he sure as dammit didn’t know the answer.
He spent the next hour preparing to leave. With his horse dead he decided to make use of the wagon Kimble had come in. Bodie stripped his saddle and gear off his horse and loaded it in the wagon. He wrapped the statue in a blanket and roped it down on the wagon. Then he dragged the corpses in from where they lay and put them in. There was a canvas tarpaulin in the wagon and Bodie laid it across the bodies, pulling it taut and tying it down.
From the abandoned horses he collected a couple of filled canteens and helped himself to some supplies, The rest he left for the Mexicans, who were still keeping out of sight. He located his rifle and snorted in disgust when he examined it. Jubal Keller’s bullet had twisted the barrel and split the casing of the breech. Bodie tossed the mined weapon aside. He had owned that particular rifle for three years. It had saved his life on more than one occasion, including this one. Bodie had made a pile of the guns he had collected. He inspected the rifles among them, finally choosing a Winchester similar to his own. It was in the same caliber, not very old, and well cared for. Given time he would be able to true its balance and get it shooting the way he liked.
Bodie left the village the way he had arrived, without a word, leaving the place without regret. In time events would fade from the memory. The village would return to its humdrum way, and the day of death would be forgotten.
Once clear of the village Bodie turned the loaded wagon north. The sooner he was across the border the better he would like it. He just hoped he didn’t run into any Rurales patrols. A wry smile touched his bruised lips as he imagined himself trying to explain why he was driving a wagon loaded down by six dead men and a two-foot golden statue. He didn’t think the Mexican authorities would see his side of the story. It was going to be bad enough sorting the whole sorry mess out with the United States law. But that was ahead of him. His first priority lay in Pinalo. First to send a telegram to Madison, informing Father Ignacio that his precious statue was safe. Then Bodie figured to do some calling. He had injuries which needed attention. Pinalo had a damn good doctor - or to be precise a damn good doctor’s daughter. A capable young woman named Lynda. Who had a way with personal treatment Bodie found extremely therapeutic. And who also had a bedside manner little short of unique. And as far as that went, where Lynda was concerned, bath-time was a whole new experience.
An exciting preview of the next book in the se
ries, High Hell, coming soon!
Chapter One
‘I’ll be a sorry son of a bitch!’ Bodie said in disgust as his bullet kicked up a gout of earth at least a yard away from the man called Tarrow. He levered a fresh round into the breech, rose to his feet, and moved across the dusty ridge.
Ahead of him Tarrow suddenly stopped running, turning quickly, his own gun swinging in Bodie’s direction. The man hunter threw himself to the ground as the gun blasted a spear of flame. As Bodie struck the ground, rolling frantically, he felt the vicious snap of the bullet as it burned the air just over his prone body. He came to rest, throwing his rifle to his shoulder again, this time holding his aim before he touched the trigger. The bullet caught Tarrow just as he was turning away and it spun him off his feet. Tarrow hit the ground hard, his body bouncing. A gush of blood spilled from his right shoulder. He jerked himself upright, firing as he began to regain his feet. And that was when Bodie’s second bullet punched a ragged hole through his chest, splintering bone and going on to penetrate the heart. Tarrow went over onto his back, legs kicking as he died.
Bodie stood up, hearing the last echoed rattle of his gunshots fade. He made his way across to where Tarrow lay. The man was already dead by the time Bodie reached him.
He stared down at Tarrow, thinking that the man hadn’t looked the kind who might up and slaughter a whole family just for thirty-five dollars. But that was what Tarrow had done. And he’d led Bodie a hell of a chase — all the way across New Mexico and down to this arid corner of Arizona. For thirty-five dollars! Bodie shook his head. He thought of the butchered family, the four graves where they were buried. Only the human animal could kill so wantonly for so little!
He walked back and found Tarrow’s horse. Leading it to the body he draped Tarrow face down across the saddle, tying him down with his own rope. Then Bodie caught up his own mount, climbed into the saddle, and began the ride back to Ridgelow, the town he’d passed the day before. He might as well collect his bounty there, let the law in town deal with Tarrow, because sure as hell was hot, Bodie wasn’t going all the way back to New Mexico with Tarrow’s body.
It was mid-morning of the next day when Bodie rode in along Ridgelow’s dusty main street. He paid no attention to the interested crowd of spectators who followed him all the way to the jail. At least Tarrow’s ripe smell kept them from getting too close.
The town marshal was lounging in an old rocking chair on the boardwalk outside his office. He watched Bodie ride up and dismount, glancing half-heartedly at the body draped across the led horse.
‘Looks like you come a fair way, mister,’ the marshal said, running his gaze over Bodie’s dust-streaked clothing. He gave a good-natured smile. ‘Mind, you look in better condition than your friend.’
Bodie pulled a folded poster from his pocket and tossed it to the marshal. ‘His name’s Tarrow. They posted a bounty on him back in Las Cruces. So there he is. Read the poster. Be obliged if you’d confirm my claim and wire the marshal in Las Cruces so I can collect my money.’
The marshal studied the poster, nodding to himself. ‘Heard about this,’ he said. ‘Things some folk’ll do for money,’ he added, fixing his eyes squarely on Bodie.
Bodie thumbed his stained hat to the back of his head, a mirthless smile playing around the corners of his taut mouth. ‘I know what you mean, Marshal. It’s a mean world.’
‘Ain’t it just!’ the marshal said. ‘All right, leave it to me. I’ll have somebody take him away and bury him. Come by in the morning and I’ll try and have your money ready.’
Bodie nodded. He turned and picked up his horse’s trailing reins.
‘What name do I put on the wire?’
‘Bodie.’
The marshal climbed to his feet and watched the tall man make his way along the street. So that was Bodie! Now that he had actually seen the man the marshal could begin to believe all the tales he’d heard. About how hard Bodie was.
What a mean, out-and-out son of a bitch he’d become since throwing away his badge and building himself a reputation as a bounty hunter. He had become a legend. The marshal walked to the edge of the boardwalk and watched Bodie turn in at the doors of the livery stable at the far end of town. He glanced along the street and saw Ridgelow going about its business. He stared at the bunch of men who had gathered near the jail, and he wondered if any of them realized who Bodie was. ‘
‘Hey, Ike,’ he called to a skinny man dressed in soiled, threadbare clothing. ‘Go on down to Nate Hawley’s. Tell him I got a customer for him.’
Ike nodded. ‘Sure, Marshal.’
‘And, Ike, tell him I don’t want any of his fancy coffins. Cheapest he’s got!’
Ike made off down the street. The marshal made sure that the horse carrying Tarrow’s corpse was secured to the hitch-rail, then he went into his office, closing the door. He sat down behind his desk, deep in thought, staring out of the window. He was still there when the man called Ike appeared, followed by a gaunt, grim man dressed in dusty black. A smile touched the marshal’s lips as he watched Ridgelow’s undertaker pause beside the waiting horse at the hitch- rail, take out a tape measure and begin to size up Tarrow. Nate Hawley took his work very seriously. He had a proper respect for the dead, which, the marshal admitted, was all right. The trouble was, Hawley tended to carry his professional manner into his private life. It didn’t make for very cheerful conversation with the man.
The office door opened and Ike stuck his head in. ‘I brung him,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Ike.’ The marshal beckoned Ike into the office. ‘Something else you can do for me.’
Ike grinned with self-importance. ‘Sure, Marshal.’
‘That young woman who came to see me yesterday. The one who took a room at the hotel. Take a walk over there and ask her would she like to come and see me.’
‘All right.’
‘Ike. just tell her I might have an answer to her problem.’
Ike’s head bobbed as he digested the message. ‘I’ll tell her, Marshal.’
‘When you get back, Ike, I’ll have a couple of dollars for you.’
Ike left the office with all the dignity of a diplomatic courier off on a matter of national importance. The marshal I followed him outside and stood watching as Nate Hawley finished writing Tarrow’s measurements in a little black book. The undertaker was as fussy as a tailor measuring someone for a suit.
‘Hey, Nate, ‘the marshal said.
‘Yes, Marshal?’
‘I think you overlooked his inside leg!’
The look on Hawley’s face was more than the marshal could bear. He turned and went back inside his office, barely managing to close the door before he doubled up with laughter.
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About the Author
Neil Hunter is, in fact, the prolific Lancashire-born writer Michael R. Linaker. As Neil Hunter, Mike wrote two classic western series, BODIE THE STALKER and JASON BRAND. Under the name Richard Wyler he produced four stand-alone westerns, INCIDENT AT BUTLER’S STATION, THE SAVAGE JOURNEY, BRIGHAM’S WAY and TRAVIS.