Bodie 4

by Neil Hunter

  “Lady, maybe you ought to know who you’re talking to,” the man said.

  The woman reached up and brushed her dark hair away from her face. She exposed herself as both young and attractive. She fixed her unwavering gaze on the scowling face before her, a hint of a mocking smile playing across her full, soft lips.

  “Seeing as I’m not in the mood for guessing games,” she said tartly, “maybe you had better tell me.”

  “They call me Coyote!”

  If the name meant anything to the woman she didn’t show it. Her face remained expressionless. Only her eyes moved, searching the face of the man before her as though she was searching for something which wasn’t there.

  “I’ve often wondered what you’d look like,” she said after a time. “Frankly, I’m disappointed. You don’t live up to all the tales I’ve heard about you.”

  Coyote’s dark, hard face twisted in anger, thick lips peeling back from large, square teeth. “Keep up that kind of talk, lady, and I’ll do more to you than just disappoint you!” He turned then, jerking a hand at the waiting riders. “Get off your butts, you lazy bastards! Strip that coach for everything it’s got, then we can get the hell out of here!”

  As the raiders swung down off their horses, converging on the stage like a pack of vultures, the man called Coyote turned back to the woman. He took her arm and pulled her along behind him as he crossed to where his horse stood. From one of the tightly packed saddlebags he drew a length of rawhide cord. Jerking the woman’s wrists together he tied them securely.

  “You feel safer now?” the woman asked scathingly.

  A wild curse exploded from Coyote’s lips. His heavy right hand swung up and round, clouting the woman across the side of the face. A large red mark appeared on her cheek. Regaining her balance and shaking the tears from her eyes she stared coldly at Coyote.

  “Now I see how you got your reputation as the scourge of the southwest,” she said softly. “Coyote — the child-killer and the woman-beater!”

  This time her words only drew a mirthless smile from Coyote. “Then beware I do not kill you!” he told her.

  He turned his back on her then, fighting down the surging anger that threatened to explode inside him. No woman had ever spoken to him in such a way before. The experience angered him but mystified him all in the same moment. He knew that at any other time he would have killed anyone who defied him. Yet there was something about this woman that puzzled him.

  She was different. For one thing she was not frightened of him. That in itself was unusual, especially in a woman. She stood up to him and defied his threats and his physical superiority, and she had an acid tongue to match her fiery spirit. Killing a woman like that would be a damned waste, Coyote thought. She was worth keeping alive for the time being. She had to belong to someone. Maybe she was worth a ransom. And there was always the possibility he might take her for himself. If her spirit extended as far as the bedroom she would make a man fight for everything he wanted — but it would be one hell of a victory!

  Coyote saw the man called Jigger coming across to him, and moved out to meet him. He moved lightly, this Coyote, in his Apache moccasins, carrying his tall, big-boned frame with deceptive ease. He was a half-inch short of six feet tall, broad shoulders framing a powerful chest. From his Apache mother he had inherited his dark skin and jet-black hair, which he wore long. His Indian blood showed, too, in the broad, flat face, with its wide-flaring nostrils and narrow eyes. The eyes themselves were pale and gray, looking out on a hostile world with an expression of distrust and cold disdain. Coyote had found his place in the world early in his life. He was an outsider — neither Apache nor white. Both races mistrusted him, both were all too eager to disown him. So Coyote walked his own path, existing in a physical limbo, balanced on an ethnic fence, knowing that whichever way he fell he was going to end up badly hurt. The pain of his early life blossomed into hate, directed against both races, and by some twisted logic part of that hate was channeled back against himself for what he was — a half breed who brought out the worst in everyone he made contact with. And the hate grew, consuming him, destroying his feelings and creating an obsessive need for relentless vengeance.

  He satisfied his need in senseless brutality, favoring neither white or Indian. Each was the enemy and therefore prey to Coyote’s endless lust for savage reprisal. He struck wherever and whenever an opportunity presented itself, content if the act created suffering and hardship, pain and death.

  “Hey Coyote, we got ourselves some cash money here,” Jigger yelled, waving a handful of banknotes. “Stage was carryin’ a strongbox for some bank in Sierra Vista!”

  “Make sure you get it all,” Coyote said. “And check the pockets of that feller inside the coach.” As Jigger nodded and turned away Coyote glanced over his shoulder at the silent woman, smiling at her frosty glare. “Maybe I ought to search you — see if you’re carrying any valuables around.”

  “I haven’t gotten a thing you’d be interested in,” the woman replied stiffly.

  Coyote tilted his head to one side, his eyes roving freely over the woman’s supple young body, following the curves and hollows of the snugly fitting dress. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he observed.

  One of Coyote’s men came across to where the half-breed was standing. Nearing Coyote the man slapped a hand against his own thigh, letting out a satisfied yell. “Damn me, I knew I was right!”

  “What the hell you on about, Milt?”

  Milt grinned. He thrust a grimy finger in the direction of the woman. “I’m on about her,” he said in triumph. “Been rackin’ my goddam brains ever since you dragged her out that coach. See, I figured I’d seen her before. But I couldn’t recall where. Then it come to me of a sudden ... !”

  “So?” Coyote asked impatiently.

  “About a year ago the Army picked me up and threw me in the stockade at Fort Huachuca. I would’ve been there yet if I hadn’t broken out. But I was there long enough to see most of the people at the fort. And she was one of ‘em! Yessir, I remember her all right. Struttin’ round that fort, twitchin’ her pretty little ass at all them soldier boys, an’ them not able to do a damn thing about it, on account of her bein’ the daughter of an officer.”

  “She’s an army brat?”

  Milt nodded. “Yeah — and not just any Army brat! Hell, Coyote, she’s old Owen Chantry’s girl. Eden, they call her — Eden Chantry and her daddy is Major Owen Chantry hisself! Judas Priest, Coyote, ain’t that a son of a bitch?”

  Coyote turned and walked to where Eden Chantry stood. He stood before her, his hands resting on his hips, staring into her face, his eyes filled with a pitiless gleam.

  “If I had a god I would offer a prayer of thanks,” he said. “This is turning out to be a good day.”

  “I’m glad someone’s enjoying it,” Eden Chantry snapped.

  Coyote smiled coldly. “Don’t you worry over a thing. I aim to take good care of you, lady! When your daddy finds out you’re missin’ he’s going to come running — and he’ll come a lot faster when he gets to knowing it’s me who’s got you! He’s goin’ to come after you like a bat out of hell, and that’s just fine with me, ‘cause I’ll be waitin’ on him, primed and ready. An’ the minute I get him in my sights I’m going to blow his goddam head right off his shoulders!”

  “Don’t be too confident,” Eden said. “My father has been a soldier for a long time. He knows this country as well as any man and better than most. And he isn’t fool enough to let his emotions cloud his judgment. Oh, he’ll come after you, Coyote, because he owes you for those soldiers you massacred at Salt River Canyon.”

  A harsh burst of laughter erupted from Coyote’s throat. “Damn me, I’ll bet that still stings! Black mark on his record, was it? Wouldn’t sit right with a regular like your daddy! Judas Priest, I wish I could of seen his face when he had to count his dead that day!”

  Eden Chantry didn’t say any more on the subject. She could sense Coyote�
�s mood was bordering on the edge of change. His elation could rapidly vanish, leaving him bitter with anger, and that anger might be directed at Eden herself. She was fully aware of her precarious position, and capable of controlling her reactions. Until she knew exactly what was in store for her it would profit her to tread carefully. Eden Chantry was more than just an Army brat. She was an intelligent and perceptive young woman, with a strong personality and a stubborn nature. It had often been said that she had inherited these characteristics from her father, and in that instance Eden found little cause for complaint. In her present circumstances she was going to need every quality she possessed and maybe more — for nothing else except to keep her alive. Surviving was going to be her prime concern. If she could do that she would be satisfied.

  Chapter Four

  Bodie’s visit to Tombstone was brief and more or less furtive. He had ridden in as the setting sun threw long black shadows over the town, making his way to one of the lesser saloons where he was able to lose himself in a gloomy corner. Sometime after midnight he walked his horse around to the rear of Allen Street and broke into Spangenberg’s Gunshop. With a deftness that would have shamed many a so-called professional thief he located the gunshop’s storeroom and helped himself to a dozen brand new .44 caliber Winchester carbines and two wooden boxes of .44 caliber cartridges. Bodie bundled the rifles together and wrapped them in a canvas sheet he found on a shelf. Carrying his spoils outside he roped them on his horse, behind the saddle, then mounted up and rode north, towards the distant Gila River and a solitary trading post where he hoped to make contact with a Mexican girl who knew Coyote.

  It was a fair distance from Tombstone to the Gila. Close on a hundred miles. Bodie didn’t rush the trip. He let his horse choose its own pace. A few more days weren’t going to make all that difference. Bodie had a reason too. During the long, dusty ride, he never bothered to wash or shave, so that by the time he sighted the Gila he had taken on the appearance of a genuine border drifter. His clothes were sweat-stained, layered with dust, as was his horse and gear. Beneath the brim of his hat his brown face was half hidden by a heavy growth of dark beard stubble. And even Bodie himself had taken a dislike to the stale scent he gave off.

  He drifted down out of the dusty wasteland, leaving a fine mist hanging in the heated air behind him. Ahead lay the sluggish ribbon of water, glinting like dull metal. The Gila. And on its bank the trading post — a desolate place in complete harmony with its equally desolate surroundings.

  The main building itself was a long structure constructed in the fashion known as the Texas house, often referred to as the saddlebag house, which was simply two separate buildings joined together by a roof section. The centre section was often used as a roofed veranda, more often than not as a place to store saddles and gear. As Bodie took his horse across the hard packed yard fronting the post he could see that he was being watched by an elderly Mexican, seated in a rocking chair which had been placed in the shade beneath the roof section. Turning his horse in at the sagging hitch rail, Bodie dismounted, thankful to be out of the saddle. He looped the reins around the bleached rail and took his hat off, using the pretext of dusting himself off to take a look around. There wasn’t a deal to see. There was a corral to one side of the post, holding a bunch of scabby horses. There was a small tack shed with a door sagging half-open. Odds and ends of tackle were dotted about the place. There was a flatbed wagon with all its wheels off, supported by four sturdy barrels.

  Bodie jammed his hat back on and strolled towards the open door of the post. He had to duck his head as he stepped through. Inside he found the same lack of care. The place, which obviously served as both store and saloon, was an untidy jumble of goods. The stale air reeked of liquor and sweat and that curious mixture of aromas emanating from foodstuffs and dry goods.

  On the far side of the cluttered room, behind a makeshift bar, stood the fattest man Bodie had ever seen. He was dressed in homemade buckskins that were black from wear and numerous stains. Yet even these garments failed to allow for the man’s gross development. The man must have been six feet tall to start with. Coupled with his unnatural size this made him grotesque. His head, perched atop a short, thick neck, was square, the features losing themselves in the rolls of fat. The eyes were deeply sunk in soft flesh, the corners of the wide mouth pulled down by the weight of the fatty tissue. Thick, shaggy hair hung down to the man’s bulging shoulders.

  “Got a whisky?” Bodie asked as he reached the bar.

  Out of the corner of his eye he had spotted the pair of hard-faced men against the wall at the end of the bar. They were gaunt, wild-eyed individuals, and Bodie’s instinct warned him to watch out for them.

  The fat man reached for a bottle on the shelf at the back of the bar. He yanked out the cork and poured a measure of whisky into a thick glass. He watched Bodie drink it off in one swallow, then place the glass back on the counter.

  “I’ll take another,” Bodie said.

  “You look like a man who’s come a distance,” the fat man said, pouring Bodie’s second glass.

  “You might say that,” Bodie offered.

  The fat man placed the bottle on the counter. He watched Bodie draw a quick breath as the second whisky burned its way down his throat, leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

  “Any chance of a meal?” Bodie asked.

  “Mister, you can have what you like here,” the fat man said, “if we’ve got it. All you need is the money to pay for it.”

  Bodie drew a grubby sleeve across his mouth. “Ain’t no cause for you to fret over that, feller,” he said. He jammed a hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a wadded roll of banknotes. “All right?”

  The fat man nodded. “Sure. I just like to make sure. Don’t set too well with me when a customer can’t pay for what he’s had.”

  “I could eat a thick steak,” Bodie said. He glanced round the room, as though he was looking for someone.

  “You lookin’ for something?” the fat man asked.

  Bodie smiled thinly. “Could be,” said the manhunter, sensing the fat man’s interest.

  “That mean you’re here on some kind of business?”

  Bodie pushed his empty glass across the bar. “I’ve been in the saddle too long to have to answer questions right now, feller. Just fill her up and give me time to iron out the creases.”

  The fat man stiffened slightly but held back. As he filled Bodie’s glass he made a quick gesture with the fingers of his free hand, and the two men at the far end of the bar casually eased their way past Bodie and across the room.

  Picking up the glass Bodie put it to his lips, giving no indication that he’d noticed the fat man’s signal, or the movement of the two men. He drank slowly, savoring the whisky.

  “How about that steak, feller?” he asked conversationally.

  The fat man nodded. “Sure.” Turning he made his way to the far end of the bar and vanished through a door.

  Bodie put the empty glass down on the bar. Loosening the hammer-thong on his Colt he strolled down the room until he was able to look out through the open door to where his horse stood at the hitching rail. The two men were there, one on each side of the animal, doing their best to free the ropes securing the canvas pack. Bodie stepped silently out through the door and stood watching them for a while.

  “Nobody ever tell you boys what bad habits you got?” he asked.

  The man nearest to him glanced over his shoulder. He scowled at Bodie, his expression that of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “You know what’s good for you, pilgrim, you’ll stay put ‘til we’re through!” He was a surly individual, his face battered from countless fights, his nose badly flattened from too many hard fists.

  “If you’d asked,” Bodie said, “I might have told you what’s in there.”

  “Yeah?” Flatnose sneered. “Well don’t bother ‘cause we’ll look for ourselves.”

  Bodie took three long strides away from the door, his right fist drawin
g back. He was almost up to Flatnose when the man heard the sound of his boots on the hard ground and began to turn. Bodie never even hesitated. His right fist sledged round in a looping punch that caught Flatnose across the side of his unshaven jaw. The solid impact slammed him back across Bodie’s horse, and the weary animal snorted in alarm, stepping sideways. Its rear quarter hit Flatnose between the shoulders, bouncing him forward, directly into Bodie’s left fist which drove deep into his unprotected stomach. Flatnose grunted, gasping for breath. As the man bent forward Bodie hit him again, his fist crunching brutally against the man’s mouth. Flatnose’s lips pulped under the blow, blood squirting across his face. He gave a garbled yell and made a desperate grab for his holstered gun. Bodie sledged his cupped fists down across the back of Flatnose’s neck. Flatnose went down in the dust with a hard thud.

  In the few seconds it took for Bodie to deal with Flatnose, the man’s partner had snatched his own gun free from its holster. He was leveling it at Bodie as Flatnose went down, his finger already easing back on the trigger. But in the same moment that he struck the final blow that put Flatnose on the ground Bodie let himself drop. He lunged forward in the same motion, going under his horse’s belly, his shoulder catching the second man at knee level. The man gave a startled yell as he was driven off his feet. His finger jerked the trigger on his gun, the bullet howling skywards. And then he hit the ground with enough impact to stun him. He caught a blurred glimpse of Bodie standing over him, face taut with anger; then the toe of Bodie’s boot was laid across the side of his face and he lost interest in the whole episode.

  Bodie sighed wearily. He snatched up the man’s gun, then moved round his horse and did likewise with Flatnose’s weapon. Swinging his arm up he tossed both guns upon the roof of the trading post.

  “Hell, that means somebody has to go up there and fetch ‘em down!”