Bodie 4

by Neil Hunter

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  The half-breed Coyote was a ruthless killer. It needed an equally ruthless man to run him down, and Bodie was the only gunman who could measure up. He set out to find Coyote, but the first complication came in the voluptuous form of Eden Chantry, a girl he knew from way back. The second big problem was Silva, a hitman from the East. Bodie’s reputation had spread even as far as New York, and somebody there had decided that The Stalker was too dangerous to live . . .

  THE KILLING TRAIL

  BODIE THE STALKER 4:

  By Neil Hunter

  First published by Star Books in 1978

  Copyright © 1978, 2013 by Neil Hunter

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: February 2013

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Cover © Westworld Designs 2013

  This one is for David Whitehead because he is keeping the faith

  Chapter One

  A faint, dust-dry wind drifted across the arid land. It caught the pale smoke rising from the small fire and smeared it over the cloudless expanse of sky. Heat waves shimmered in the air, distorting the landscape, giving the bleached rocks a false life. Gaunt cactus thrust their ungainly shapes skywards, twisted and curved in silent protest against the overwhelming, unrelenting heat.

  Leaning forward Bodie lifted the blackened coffee pot off the fire and poured himself a cup of the steaming brew. He placed the pot over the flames. Raising his head, he squinted from under the curled brim of his hat, eyes scanning the barren slopes surrounding him. Nothing moved within his sight, but that didn’t mean a thing out here. He picked up his cup and tried the coffee. It was still too hot. Just like the damn country, he thought sourly.

  At his back there was a slight sound. No more than a whisper of supple leather against the gritty earth. A humorless smile edged Bodie’s mouth.

  “You must be getting old, Chuy,” he said. “I heard you.”

  A soft laugh drifted over his shoulder. From his rear a lean figure stepped into view — a brown, light-stepping Apache, dressed in white cotton pants and a blue shirt. The Apache’s gray hair was held by a faded red headband. He was easily sixty years old, yet he moved with the casual ease of a sixteen-year-old boy.

  “Sit with me,” Bodie said, and watched Chuy squat in the dust on the far side of the fire. “Coffee?”

  Chuy nodded quickly, his face expressionless, the dark, glittering eyes following every move Bodie made. When the coffee had been poured he took it with a birdlike nod of his head, the battered old rifle he carried now cradled in the crook of his arm.

  “Has the Pinda Lickoyi put a bounty on my old gray head, Bodie?”

  Bodie shook his head. “If that was so, we wouldn’t be sitting here talking!”

  The old Apache inclined his head. He pointed a gnarled finger at Bodie. “If they do, Bodie, I will ask the spirits to let you be the one to come after me!”

  “What do the spirits say about Coyote?”

  Chuy’s eyes blazed with anger. He turned his head and spat on the ground.

  “That one is all evil, Bodie! Any man who touches him is cursed! From the day he sprang from his mother’s womb he was evil. Did I not watch him grow? From baby to child. From child to young man. And always there was the evil.”

  “Far as I’m concerned, Chuy, he’s just a half-breed gone all bad,” Bodie said evenly. “He’s a mean son of a bitch, and that bunch of renegades he leads is no better.”

  “Is it Coyote you hunt?” Chuy asked, and when Bodie nodded the Apache went on, “What is it you want of me, Bodie?”

  “Been a lot of people chasin’ Coyote for a long time, Chuy. Ain’t none of them even come close. Tell me where to look, Chuy, and I’ll put him where he won’t do any more harm to the Apache or the Pinda Lickoyi.”

  Chuy studied the manhunter sternly. “Many times we have faced each other as enemies, Bodie,” he said, “and also as friends. Were it anyone but me, you would be dead now. There is still talk in the camps of the Apache of those you killed in the big Canyon of the San Andres.”

  “I lost a good friend that day, Chuy!”

  Chuy nodded. “Rostermann. Though he wore the soldier’s uniform he was a good enemy, and he died well.” The old Apache fell silent for a time. “I will tell you all I know of Coyote.”

  After refilling the Apache’s cup Bodie sat back and waited. Chuy took his time, and there was no hurrying him. He drank his coffee slowly, eyes lifted to the far land beyond, his attention fixed on something only he could visualize. After much deliberation he placed his empty cup on the ground.

  “There are those who will tell you that Coyote is not as other men,” Chuy began, “that he cannot be killed. That he is a god in human form. All this is foolish talk, fit only for the women to chatter about. Coyote is only a man. But he is wild and not to be trusted. Hear my words, Bodie, and do not forget them. If you seek Coyote and find him, kill him the moment you can. If you do not he will surely kill you.” Chuy touched a gnarled finger to the side of his skull. “There is a sickness inside his head only a bullet can cure. From the moment of his birth the evil had a hold on him, and it grew as Coyote grew. He has no place in the Apache world, or the places of the Pinda Lickoyi. This he knows and his hate feeds on the knowledge. And he lives only to destroy. His way is evil. The Apache fights for his land, for his right to live. The Pinda Lickoyi fights because he wants what belongs to the Apache. Coyote kills and destroys for no reason except the hate he carries for Apache and white alike.”

  “You heard any talk of him lately?” Bodie asked.

  Chuy nodded. “He was seen two months ago on one of the old Apache war trails, leading his band down into Sonora. Coyote is as the summer breeze, Bodie. He comes and goes without reason or plan. A strike here, another there, and then he vanishes. The land is too big and Coyote is small. He can hide in a thousand places.”

  “No talk of him having a fixed camp?”

  “Once he stayed for six months upon the Mogollon Rim. Then he had a woman with him. She was a Mexican from a trading post on the Gila.”

  “Is there a name, Chuy?” Bodie asked.

  The old Apache shrugged. “I heard little about this woman. Only that she was young. She wished to stay with Coyote, but he sent her back to the trading post to wait for him.”

  Chuy’s information was scant, but it was the best Bodie had been able to gather concerning the renegade called Coyote. If Bodie had been anything other than a practical man he might have had cause to believe the tales that were told about Coyote — the ones that hinted at Coyote’s less than human characteristics, giving credence to the near myth that had the half breed pegged as a phantom, a walking spirit, indestructible and elusive. Coyote was alive all right. A vicious, wily, hit-and-run maniac, driven by hate and a seemingly unquenchable bloodlust. Given the right place and time a man could stop Coyote — for good — and Bodie figured he had as good a chance as anyone.

  “I wish I could tell you more, Bodie,” Chuy said. “But how much can one say about the wind? It is there or it is not. From nowhere it comes to plague you, and when you try to catch it in your hand it slips away, leaving you alone and foo
lish. Coyote is kin to the wind. He comes and goes as his will dictates, but his sting is worse than any wind.”

  They sat and talked for another hour, Bodie feeding the old Apache coffee while he probed the warrior’s mind, easing out tiny scraps about the man called Coyote, and when they were done he felt he knew the half-breed a whole lot more.

  “It is done,” Chuy said abruptly. Nodding quickly the old Apache rose to his feet and trotted off into the sun-bleached rocks. With the Apache’s departure the empty silence descended, rolling over Bodie in a smothering flood.

  Bodie stayed where he was for a long time. He wanted to give Chuy time to ride well clear of the meeting place. Finally he climbed to his feet, stretching his long body to iron out the stiffness brought on by such a prolonged sitting. He put out the fire and gathered his gear, making his way to his waiting horse. Packing away the empty coffee pot and cups Bodie picked up the reins, swung into the saddle and moved off.

  He rode north for the rest of the day, camping that night in the shadow of a looming mesa. By first light he was already back in the saddle. Towards late afternoon of that day he reached his destination, and was riding in along the dusty main street of Tombstone.

  Chapter Two

  Two weeks previous to Bodie’s meeting with Chuy in the arid wastes of Arizona, another meeting had taken place. It was conducted in an office on the other side of the continent, in a room reeking of wealth and unlimited power.

  Behind a huge desk, sitting rigidly upright in a thickly padded leather chair, was the man who had called the meeting. He was a dark-complexioned man in his mid-forties, with a broad, heavy-boned face. Beneath a curving nose his mouth was held in a taut line, faint tracings of pale flesh at the corners indicating the powerful emotions barely held in check. The man sat motionless, waiting, only his dark, glittering eyes moving.

  There was a swift rap on the door of the office.

  “Come!” the man snapped.

  The door opened to admit two figures. Both were dressed, as was the man behind the desk, in dark suits and white shirts. Crossing the expensively carpeted floor the two men seated themselves in front of the desk.

  “Fabio?” the man said.

  The man called Fabio inclined his head in deference to his superior, then cleared his throat.

  “It is as we had expected,” he said. “The Government contracts have been awarded to the companies offering the best terms. With our operations in High Grade suspended we were in no position to compete ...”

  The man behind the desk glanced up as Fabio’s voice trailed into an awkward silence. He made a quick gesture with a strong hand.

  “So?”

  “So we have lost a great deal of money,” Fabio murmured in a voice that trembled slightly.

  There was a trace of a smile on the grim lips. “Do not be afraid to say it, Fabio. You were not responsible for the loss so you have nothing to fear. Even I can bear to hear such news without falling dead from my seat.”

  Fabio looked uncertain. He was not used to hearing what amounted to almost a joke coming from the lips of such a man as Don Luchino Trattori.

  “Fabio, I am sure that I can leave the reorganization of the High Grade operation in your capable hands,” Don Trattori said. “From what I saw of the production figures we can still realize a substantial profit from the mines. With Government involvement at its peak this is not the time to force our hand in High Grade. We must step into the shadows for a while.”

  Fabio nodded. “I will take care of everything, Don Trattori.”

  “Good. Now leave us.”

  Don Trattori waited until Fabio had left the office, quietly closing the door behind, him. Then he turned to the remaining man.

  “So,” he said. “You are well, Silva?”

  The man called Silva nodded his dark head.

  “Silva, I want this man dead! This Bodie! There is need of a lesson here. Allowing this man to escape punishment would be a sign of weakness. In any animal society weakness is rewarded with death. Show such weakness and our rivals will tear us to pieces. There is a code we live by, Silva, and it decrees we pay this man — Bodie — in his own coin! Without mercy!”

  Silva stood up. “From this moment, Don Trattori, as far as you are concerned, this man Bodie is dead!” And then he silently left the room.

  Don Trattori leaned back in his seat, allowing his mood to mellow. Positive action always pleased him, and if there was one man who could be guaranteed to precipitate positive action it was Silva. A man of few words, but incredible single-mindedness as far as his profession was concerned.

  One week later Silva was thousands of miles away from New York, having endured a long, transcontinental rail journey that had brought him to Arizona. After the train had come an equally uninspiring trip by horse to a dusty, dirty ugly sprawl of buildings that went under the collective title of Ridgelow. Here he met the two ex-Jonas Randall employees recently freed from their jail cell, by means of some extremely involved and, to a degree, underhand, legal chicanery by the highly paid and shrewdly skilful lawyers brought in by Don Trattori. Their success was a vindication of an old, tried and trusted belief — that if you had enough influence, power, and above all else, money, then anything and everything was possible.

  As far as Billy-Jack Struthers and Pike Cooly were concerned, it was enough to be set free. After that everything else was a bonus.

  Sitting in a Ridgelow saloon across a table from the tall, grim figure of Silva, the two gunmen exchanged satisfied glances. Billy-Jack helped himself to another drink from the bottle Silva had provided. Lifting the glass to his mouth he drained it in one swallow, running his tongue across his lips.

  “So if this fancy organization of yours is so damn smart, how come you need Pike an’ me?” he asked.

  “If I was in New York, or anywhere back east, I could handle this in my sleep,” Silva said. “But this is new territory to me. I need people who know the country, who can read the land.”

  Pike grinned. “Well, that’s us, mister. Me an’ Billy-Jack, we know this country inside out.”

  “I hope you do for both your sakes,” Silva said evenly. “My people had to spend time and money getting you two out of jail. They wouldn’t like it if they didn’t get a good return on their investment.”

  “Silva,” Billy-Jack said, “you want Bodie? Then you got him!”

  “Hell, I’ll drink to that!” Pike agreed.

  Chapter Three

  The stage from Tucson had reached the halfway point in its journey to Sierra Vista when the raiders struck without warning. The first indication of the attack came in the form of a rifle bullet that struck the driver just behind the right ear and ripped a fatal path through his skull. The dying man’s scream was lost in the thunder of the stage’s passing, but the shotgun guard became aware of something wrong when the driver slumped forward across the swaying box, letting the leathers slip from between his fingers. The guard took one look at the glistening hole in the driver’s bloody skull and swung his weapon to the ready.

  And that was when the bunch of armed riders burst into view, yelling and firing as they converged on the runaway stage. As they closed in on the stage they split into two groups, forming a deadly escort on either side. The guard loosed off a couple of wild shots, which went wide, due to the fact that he was shooting from the top of a rocking vehicle. His two shots were answered by a vicious volley from half a dozen guns. The guard was hit by a number of bullets. He half-rose, his body jerking under the impact of the shots, blood spreading across the front of his shirt. Another shot caught him in the throat, opening the carotid artery and a bright fountain of blood jetted forth. The guard lost his balance and plunged off the box, his body bouncing as he hit the ground.

  The stage rolled on for almost a quarter of a mile before the driverless team drifted off the trail. The front wheels of the stage hit a hard ridge and it slewed violently. A wheel splintered. Dust billowed up in yellow clouds as the crippled stage crashed over o
n its side. Leather traces parted and the team, wide-eyed and spooked, thundered off across the empty land. As the sound of their hooves faded and the dust drifted away, a menacing silence fell over the downed stage. One wheel still rotated, squeaking on a twisted hub.

  The raiders caught up with the stage, drawing their panting horses in a ragged circle around the vehicle. For a time they just sat and stared at the stage.

  “Ain’t anybody goin’ to take a look?” somebody asked. “We goin’ to just set all day?”

  “Go ‘head, Jigger!” another man called. “We’ll watch!”

  The one called Jigger chuckled. “Hell, I ain’t that crazy,” he yelled. “Ain’t goin’ to catch me stickin’ my goddam head inside that coach ‘til I know for sure there ain’t no son of a bitch waitin’ to shoot it off!”

  “Jigger, if your brains matched the size of your mouth you’d be a genius!”

  Saddle leather creaked as one of the raiders dismounted. Leaving his horse he crossed over to the stage. With his revolver in his hand he climbed lightly up onto the stage. For a moment he hesitated, then stepped quickly forward until he could look down through the door. His right hand jerked the heavy gun forward and down. He triggered two shots. From inside the stage a man screamed in pain. Then there was silence. The man standing on the stage reached down and jerked open the door. He made an impatient gesture with the smoking gun. From inside the stage came a rattle of sound. The man bent over the open door, extending his hand. A moment later he began to straighten up. As he did so he pulled a female figure into view, hauling her roughly out of the stage. The moment he had her standing beside him he let go of her hand, and without warning pushed her off the stage. The woman gasped as she fell, hitting the dusty ground with a thump, lying where she fell as the man sprang down off the stage. He took hold of her dress and dragged her to her feet.

  “Get your hands off me!”

  A burst of laughter followed the woman’s outburst. It ran around the circle of mounted men, faltering as the man who had brought the woman out of the stage threw a hard look at the raiders.