by Neil Hunter
Coyote’s voice rose sharp and clear in the air.
“I want to talk!”
“Go ahead,” Bodie said. “I ain’t about to stop you.”
“You can’t get off this mesa, Bodie. I can keep you here as long as I want.”
Bodie glanced across at Eden. “I think he wants us to quit.”
A thin smiled edged Eden’s mouth. “That’s considerate of him,” she said.
“Bodie? You hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“I can wait, Bodie! For as long as it takes!”
Bodie sighed. “He’s starting to get on my nerves.”
“He’s got a point though,” Eden said. She indicated the sack holding their food. “We’re not going to survive on that for long. And there’s only half a canteen of water.”
“You on his side or mine?” Bodie asked dryly.
Eden smiled. She began to say something in reply and then her expression changed abruptly. She yelled a warning that brought Bodie whirling round.
“The son of a bitch!”
Running figures were coming across the mesa, already dangerously close to the overhang. They had moved in from the far sides of the mesa, plainly having scaled the sheer sides of the rock to enable them to reach the summit beyond the limits of Bodie’s range of vision.
Now they were angling in towards the overhang, guns up and firing. Bullets began to whack the rocks behind which Bodie and Eden crouched.
“Here,” Bodie yelled, throwing Eden one of the loaded rifles.
He raised his own weapon and opened fire, trying to pick off the bobbing, weaving figures. His third shot caught one of them, the bullet drilling into the running man’s head just above the left eye. It tore through the inner cavity and burst out through the rear of the skull in an ugly gout of blood and brains. The man ran on for yards before his legs ceased to function and he pitched face down on the dusty ground.
Sharp splinters of rock exploded in Bodie’s face as a bullet struck and then howled off the surface he was leaning against. Bodie jerked back, blinking his eyes against the sharp pain. He could feel hot blood streaming down his face. For a few hectic seconds he was out of the fight, unable to see and unaware of the closeness of the attackers.
Above the vicious rattle of gunfire he heard Eden’s desperate cry for help. Cursing his helplessness Bodie frantically rubbed at his eyes, and felt his vision clear slightly. He was left with a wavering, blurred image of Eden, sprawled back against the rock, struggling with a dark-haired figure. Bodie lurched forward, snatching out his Colt, and as he stepped up close to the man he jammed the muzzle of the Colt hard into the man’s side, firing three quick shots. There was the acrid stench of charred cloth as the muzzle-flash burned the man’s shirt. And then the dark figure was tossed aside by the point-blank range of the shots. He slammed up against the rear of the overhang, his mouth opening to scream, but no sound came out. Instead there was a sudden gout of blood. Pain overwhelmed the fatally wounded man and he arched over onto his back, his boot heels rapping against the ground. His right side, where the bullets had emerged, was a pulpy mass of torn flesh and splintered white rib bones.
Twisting round the moment he’d triggered the third shot Bodie caught sight of a looming shape coming over the top of the barricade. Bodie threw himself back as the figure came down at him. He was unable to avoid the man completely, and the two of them crashed to the ground, rolling and struggling to gain the advantage during the desperate first seconds of contact. Bodie lashed out with his heavy Colt. He felt it slam against the side of the man’s face, heard the man grunt in pain.
As Bodie’s eyes cleared he looked up into a snarling, sweaty dark face. The man’s lips were peeled back to show his big teeth. There was a jagged gash just over his right eye where Bodie’s gun had struck him and it was bleeding profusely, blood streaming down the side of the man’s face in bright runnels. Using his left hand to shove the man away from him, Bodie used the gun again, swinging it at the sweating face. The man threw up his left arm to try and block Bodie’s blow, but the barrel of the Colt smashed against his hand, breaking two fingers. The man yanked his arm back, gasping against the pain, and that gave Bodie the chance to drive the gun in again and again. He felt flesh give under the heavy blow. Bone cracked. The man’s face was sheened with flowing blood. Bodie felt his attacker’s resistance go. He jammed the muzzle of the Colt in under his chin, dogged back the hammer and pulled the trigger. The man’s body lifted as the bullet angled up into the skull and blew the top of his head clean off in a red explosion of flesh and bone and matted hair.
Bodie rolled the limp body aside and rolled to his feet, running back to where Eden was still firing out across the mesa. His eyes scanned the area. All he saw were dead bodies. Those who had died earlier and the ones who had failed to survive the present attack.
“Hey,” Bodie said. He put out a hand and eased Eden’s finger away from the trigger. “You’ve scared ‘em all off.”
She let go a long, deep sigh, her body shuddering with the release of tension. Letting go of the rifle she turned and pressed herself against Bodie, wrapping her arms around his body. Bodie held her tightly, the thought occurring that it was the nicest thing to have happened to him for some time. And it had been so long since he’d seen Eden Chantry he had almost forgotten how nice she could be.
“Bodie,” Eden said after a while.
“What?”
“He can’t have many men left.”
Bodie lifted his head, staring out across the mesa. She was right, he thought. Eden was right. Coyote’s bunch must have been pretty well cut down by now. The half breed had used them carelessly, maybe without thinking. So he couldn’t have too many behind him right at this moment . . .
“Hey, Bodie, where are you going?” Eden asked. She watched as he moved away from her, picking up his rifle before bending over one of the ammunition boxes. He didn’t say a word. Just loaded the rifle and then did the same to his Colt. She saw him turn, step out from behind the barricade and start to walk across the mesa in the direction of the spot Coyote’s men had first appeared. “Bodie?”
He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “You stay here,” he said. “You’ve got the food and water. Plenty of ammunition for those rifles.”
Eden put her hands on her hips. “Where are you going, Bodie?”
“I’m going to finish what I came out here for,” was all he said, and he walked on.
He was going after Coyote. And this time he wouldn’t be satisfied until the half-breed was good and dead.
Chapter Eleven
Coyote and his men were gone. The ledge below the rim was deserted. Only a few crushed cigar butts and some scraps of food showed that they had been there. For some reason the half-breed had decided to back off. Bodie stared down the deep fissure he and Eden had climbed, and which Coyote and his bunch had used. He stepped over the edge of the mesa and began the long climb down.
It was easier this time. He wasn’t carrying the weight of all those damn guns. Bodie climbed steadily, pausing every few yards to listen. Just in case there was someone waiting. Nothing happened. Not until he reached the base of the fissure.
He could see along the dry floor of the ravine. It lay no more than ten feet below him. Bodie crouched down, pressed against the side of a tall boulder, his gaze wandering back and forth, searching, checking. There didn’t appear to be anything to see. The way ahead looked clear — silent and deserted. Bleached rocks and shriveled brush. Fine dust hanging in the hot air.
Bodie’s head turned. Damn fool! He’d almost missed that. He narrowed his eyes, reducing the harsh glare of the hot sun. Now he could see it clearly. A fine mist of dust, still settling slowly. Which meant that someone had passed that way not too long ago. Going where? Bodie checked the dense brush that lay close to the raised dust. That was a damn good place for a man to hide. He’d be hard to spot in that tangled mass of vegetation.
He stood up and completed his descent. With h
is rifle in his hands he moved off along the ravine. Bodie couldn’t have explained it to anyone, but he knew that he was being watched.
He drew level with the spot where he’d spotted the dust hanging the air. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a half smoked cigar and stuck it between his lips. Then he fished a match out. Bending he struck the match on a rock and as it flared Bodie touched it to a clump of thick, dry grass sprouting at the base of the tangled brush. The grass caught and burst into flame. Bodie straightened up and put the match to his cigar, and walked on.
He’d only covered a few yards when he heard the sweeping crackle of flames. At his back the brush was being consumed at an alarming rate. Flame ate greedily at the tinder-dry vegetation, smoke rising in thick clouds. Bodie smiled coldly, visualizing the discomfort the man concealed in the brush.
“Goddam!”
The curse rose above the crackling, and Bodie reacted instantly, turning as he went down on one knee, throwing the Winchester to his shoulder. A running figure appeared out of the smoke and flame. The man was slapping frantically at the left sleeve of his shirt where it was smoldering. As he lurched out of the brush, stumbling along the ravine, his eyes came to rest on Bodie and he dropped his right hand to the gun holstered on his hip. His fingers had only just touched the butt when Bodie’s Winchester exploded with a flat sound.
His bullet smashed in through the man’s ribs, driving sharp slivers of bone into the heart. Deflected slightly the bullet angled on to sever the spine, ripping apart the delicate linkage of fragile bones. Stunned by the terrible pain from his savaged heart, and already in his dying moments, the man staggered drunkenly. Without being full aware he walked straight back into the rising brush fire, plunging face down as his destroyed body ceased to function.
Bodie stood up. He levered a fresh round into the Winchester’s breech, turned about and carried on along the ravine.
Somewhere up ahead a horse snorted as it caught the scent of burning brush. A man’s muffled curse followed, then the sudden rush of a spurred horse. Bodie ducked to the side of the ravine, following the sound as it came closer.
A horse and rider burst into view, drumming wildly along the dusty ravine. Sunlight glinted on the swinging barrel of a gun. It exploded with sound, the muzzle flash winking Bodie’s direction. He felt the snatch of the bullet as it clipped his sleeve. Bodie drove forward, firing from the hip. The approaching horse squealed as one of the .44-caliber bullets ripped into its neck. Blood pumped out in a thick stream. The horse veered to one side, the rider trying to control it and still keep his gun on Bodie. It was impossible. The horse lurched over on its side, legs thrashing wildly. The rider was thrown clear. He hit the ground lightly, twisting his lean body, rolling over and over, Bodie’s bullets whacking the earth around him. He gained his feet and took a wild leap over a low rock, vanishing from sight. The last bullet from the Winchester drove into the rock, exploding sharp chips of stone in the wake of the lean shape.
Bodie tossed the empty rifle aside, yanking out his Colt. He drove forward across the open ravine, eyes searching the rock-strewn area before him. He spotted a flash of movement yards ahead, lifted the Colt and fired. His bullet whined off crumbling sandstone. Bodie ran on, flattening himself against the huge sandstone boulder. He waited, listening, trying to ignore the pounding of his own heart. Sweat trickled down into his eyes and he flicked it away. Off to his right he caught the faint crunch of a boot lowering onto loose gravel. Bodie held himself motionless. He heard the sound again, still to his right, but close. Close enough to be on the far side of the boulder he was standing against. Bodie let the seconds slip by. There was no sound for a while. And then, once more, the cautious descent of a heavy boot on the gravel. Bodie glanced at the ground. Jutting out at the far side of boulder was a dark shadow. Part of a man’s head, a shoulder and an arm. The hand at the end of the arm held a gun. Bodie sucked in his breath, gathered himself, and then drove away from the boulder, launching himself in a long drive towards the ground. He let his left shoulder break his fall, tucking in his head, and let his momentum carry him as he twisted his body round. As he faced about, his Colt already extended, hammer back and finger on the trigger, he saw the lean figure stepping away from the boulder. The man, dark and Mexican, was pulling his own revolver round, trying to center on Bodie’s prone figure. Bodie pulled back on the Colt’s trigger, felt the big gun slap back in his palm as it fired. He saw the puff of dust blossom up from the man’s grubby shirt, then the blood welled up out of the hole. The man slammed back against the boulder, throwing out his free hand to brace himself. His swarthy face was twisted up in pain, lips peeling back to expose crooked teeth. Yet even in that moment of pain he managed to continue his previous action, and his gun jerked into line. It went off with a crash and a thick cloud of powder smoke billowed up, briefly obscuring the Mexican. Bodie felt the lash of the bullet as it ripped a bloody furrow across his left shoulder and part way down his back. The pain created a wild response, and he emptied the Colt into the Mexican’s body. The four bullets tore a ragged line from the Mexican’s chest, up through his throat, and ended by reducing his face to a smashed and bloody mask, flesh and bone torn apart in a hideous gout of blood. The Mexican slithered helplessly along the surface of the boulder, leaving behind a long streak of glistening redness on the bleached sandstone.
Sitting up Bodie ejected empty cartridge casings from his Colt and thumbed in fresh ones. He got to his feet, wincing against the burning pain running down his back. He could feel the sticky cling of his shirt against his flesh.
He walked back along the ravine, passing the Mexican’s dead horse, trying to guess where Coyote might be hiding himself. If the half-breed was still around. Bodie didn’t figure Coyote would worry too much about loyalty to his men if things got too hot. Coyote, above everything else, was a survivor. He would judge each and every situation on its merits, and if the safest bet was to pull out he would do it, and to Hell with the rest!
Chapter Twelve
“I thought we were gettin’ the hell out of here, Coyote?” Jigger, the only one of Coyote’s men to survive, was justifiably nervous. He saw no profit in staying around now, and couldn’t understand Coyote’s sudden change of mind.
“He’ll be coming soon,” the breed muttered.
“What the hell you on about?” Jigger shook his head, “Judas Priest, Coyote, let’s move!”
“You got learn to be patient, Jigger,” Coyote said. He picked up his rifle again, checking that it was fully loaded and ready for use. He’d been doing the same thing over and over for the last couple of hours. “Ain’t no way to hurry something like this. Man needs to bide his time.” The breed chuckled. “That’s about the only thing I can thank my Apache kin for. If there’s one thing an Apache can do it’s sit an’ wait for his enemy. ‘Pears I got that in me.”
Jigger cleared his throat and spat. “Yeah? Well ain’t that the horse’s ass! Far as I can see it’s all that goddam breed blood that gets us most of our troubles!”
An ugly expression clouded Coyote’s eyes. He didn’t say a word, and Jigger breathed easier after a few seconds. But Coyote wasn’t letting it go so lightly. He turned without warning, the hard stock of his rifle lashing out. It struck Jigger across the jaw, tearing open the flesh around his mouth and snapping teeth out of the gums. As Jigger fell back, clutching at his bleeding face, Coyote hit him again, this time the solid butt end of the stock smashing down between Jigger’s wide staring eyes. Jigger’s nose flattened under the brutal blow, blood squirting in thick streams. He lost his balance and fell back on his back, dazed by the blow, a low moan dribbling from the slack mouth.
“You bastard,” Coyote snarled. He squatted on his heels beside Jigger’s trembling form. “All of you — every last one — you all figure I’m nothing. A dirty half-breed. Good for a laugh. Some poor son of a bitch to poke your finger at. We’ll see. I’ll bury you all, an’ I’ll be the one doin’ the laughin’ then.”
Reaching
to his belt Coyote drew out his knife. He held it up so that the sunlight glanced off the cold steel. A mirthless smile touched his grim mouth and he chuckled softly as he looked down at Jigger.
“A goddam breed, am I? A stinkin’ Apache? All right, you fuckin’ white man, let’s see you make fun of this!”
The knife arced down, the razor edge of the blade describing a curved incision just below Jigger’s hairline. As the soft flesh parted there was a rush of blood that streamed down Jigger’s face. Coyote’s left hand reach out and he took hold of Jigger’s hair. He smiled again as Jigger became aware of the pain and began to scream. Coyote’s smile became a wild, uncontrolled laugh as he used the knife again and then began to pull at Jigger’s bunched hair until the scalp came free with a wet, sucking sound.
When he rose to his feet a short time later Coyote was still chuckling. He thrust the bloody knife back under his belt. Raising his right arm he stared at the mass of dark hair dangling from his fingers, blood dripping from the raw flesh still clinging to the hair. For a time Coyote held the grisly scalp up in front of him. Then his face twisted in an ugly scowl and he threw the bloody hair aside, snatching up his rifle.
“Damn you, Bodie, you son of a bitch! Run you bastard, ‘cause I’m comin’ to get you!”
He moved off at a steady lope, crossing the long slope that led back towards the ravine. Somewhere down there, in amongst the rocks and the twisted brush, was the man Coyote needed to kill. He reached the bottom of the slope, slipping silently down a rock ledge, carefully retracing the tracks he’d made not so long ago. He moved with natural ease, barely making any noise as he slid through tangled brush. He obeyed all the rules of law applying to hunting an enemy. Never once did he skyline himself against some bare ridge, nor raise enough dust to be seen by keen eyes still a distance away. Neither did he allow the metal of his rifle to reflect the bright sunlight, or the movement of his feet disturb loose rock that might make a sound. These were things he had been taught by his Apache kin. From his white ancestors he carried a burning hatred of the man called Bodie — the man who had invaded his camp and who had taken away the girl, Eden Chantry. Coyote had been dreaming of the moment when he killed her father — the hated Owen Chantry the man who had pursued and harried Coyote for too many years. But now even that opportunity had been taken from him. Coyote had nothing but his own self-respect and Bodie had been instrumental in shattering even that.