by Neil Hunter
The US Marshal’s office had been brought into the picture by the now deceased sheriff of Tulsa County, and that’s what had brought Bodie and his partner, Kris Lund, to Gallego. They rode into town two days after the sheriff’s funeral. They found Gallego scared and inhospitable, and they spent a couple of fruitless days trying to persuade someone — anyone — to give them some kind of evidence they could use against Rafe Devlin. They got absolutely nowhere, and the lack of progress did nothing at all for Bodie’s temper.
“Give it a couple more days, Bodie,” Kris said.
Bodie turned away from the window. His face was set, eyes glittering, and Kris knew that there was trouble coming.
“Back off,” he snapped. “You can’t afford any more trouble. You know what Lannigan said. One more time you forget the rules — you’re out! And he means it, Bodie. Lannigan’s gotten the Reform Committee on his back and he ain’t about to ruin his career by backing you if you foul up again.”
“Lannigan ain’t here,” Bodie said.
“I am,” Kris replied.
“You going to stop me, Kris?”
Kris’s mouth hardened into a controlled, mirthless smile. “If I have to,” he said.
“So how many more are we going to let die before we do anything, Kris?”
“Oh no,” Kris said. “Don’t pull that one on me! You know as well as I do the way things work. Either we get hard evidence or somebody steps forward to make a complaint. Until then we leave Devlin alone.”
“Then why are we wearing these damn badges, Kris? Why are we chasin’ from hell to breakfast every which way? So that a son of a bitch like Devlin can sit back and laugh in our faces! We know damn well he’s guilty, but there ain’t a thing we can do about it!”
“Devlin’s going to make a mistake, Bodie. All we have to do is be there when he makes it.’ Kris picked up his hat. “I’m going to get something to eat. You coming?”
Bodie shook his head. “I’ll grab something later,” he said.
“I’ll be at the jail if you want me.” Kris paused at the door. “Bodie, just take it easy. We let Devlin make the first move.”
Bodie nodded. “Yeah. Sure, Kris,” he said.
He hung around the hotel room for another hour, completing one of the written reports they were obliged to send to their headquarters at frequent intervals.
It was around two o’clock when Bodie emerged from the hotel, pausing on the verandah to pull his hat down against the glare of the afternoon sun.
Almost immediately Bodie was aware of the silence. He glanced the length of Gallego’s dirty, rutted street. It was deserted. Anticipation rose in his mind: something was wrong, something had happened, or was about to happen. He could feel it.
He crossed the street, angling for the jail. The heavy door was ajar. The tiny office empty, dust motes floating in the shafts of sunlight streaming in through the barred window.
“Kris?”
Bodie’s voice echoed through the silent building. He checked the cell block. It was empty too. Bodie went outside. As he reached the edge of the boardwalk his right hand moved to the Colt on his hip, his fingers releasing the rawhide loop hooked over the hammer.
Where was Kris? The question nagged at Bodie’s mind as he wandered along the sidewalk and went into the café he and Kris used.
He made his way across to the greasy, sweating Greek, who appeared to be sweating more than usual, and pretended not to notice Bodie’s tall figure.
“How long ago did Marshal Lund leave?”
The Greek rattled a stack of plates, ignoring the question.
“When did he leave?” Bodie repeated.
Again the Greek made no response.
Bodie’s anger spilled over in a wild burst, and he strode across the room., grabbing hold of the Greek’s crumpled shirt.
“Don’t treat me like the horse’s ass, feller.” he rasped, slamming the Greek back against the counter with enough force to topple the pile of plates. They crashed to the floor.
“Hey!”
Bodie threw a hard look over his shoulder in the direction of the man who had spoken. “You got business with me?” he asked. The man’s gaze faltered and he turned back to his meal.
“Now,” Bodie said to the Greek. “You hearing me better?”
The Greek gave a scared smile. “I hear good, Marshal.”
“Was Marshal Lund in?”
“Yes.”
“When did he leave?”
“Half an hour ago.”
Bodie swung the Greek away from the counter, the force of the move throwing the man across one of his own tables. The table tilted, spilling the Greek to the floor. By that time Bodie was already out of the place, trying to figure out where his partner was.
Kris had said he would be in the jail after he’d eaten. So why wasn’t he? It was out of character for Kris to go off without letting Bodie know. And Kris was the one who stuck to the rules.
Bodie spent the next hour combing Gallego from one end to the other. His apprehension grew with the increasing refusal of the townspeople to impart any kind of information. No one, it seemed, had seen or heard a thing. Bodie’s frustration turned to anger, his mood having a worsening effect on his already poor relations with the people of Gallego. But Bodie didn’t give a damn about that. He wanted to find Kris.
At the far end of town stood the livery stable. A high, barnlike building with corrals at the rear. It stood on its own, isolated from the town proper by a wide, hard-packed strip of land. Dust began to drift across Bodie’s path as he approached the stable. A low, moaning wind had started to blow. It tugged at his clothing and Bodie could feel its heat against his face. Somewhere Bodie could hear the faint rasping sound of dry hinges on a swinging door.
He stood outside the stable. The tall double doors were half open, the interior of the building in shadow. There should have been an old man in charge of the place, but like everyone else in Gallego he seemed to have taken the day off.
From deep inside the stable a horse stirred restlessly. Bodie swore softly. There had to be somebody around.
He walked inside the stable, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom — and found what was left of his missing partner.
Kris Lund had been beaten to a bloody pulp. His face resembled little more than a mass of raw meat. Cheekbones, jaw and nose were all broken, the lacerated flesh swollen and discolored. His sagging mouth exposed torn, bleeding gums, out of which his teeth had been brutally smashed. Both hands were cruelly distorted, fingers crushed and broken, blood caking the split flesh. Where Kris’s blood-stained shirt gaped open, Bodie could see that his body was a solid mass of dark, ugly bruises.
But it was the way Kris had been left that pushed Bodie’s wild anger over into blind, unreasoning hate.
They had stood Kris up against one of the stable support beams and had wound lengths of barbed wire around his throat, pulling it tight enough for the jagged barbs to bite deeply into the living flesh. More wire had been lashed around Kris’s wrists, pinning his arms to a crossbeam. His blood had darkened the straw-littered stable floor at his feet.
“Kris — you hear me?” Bodie asked.
There was a flicker of recognition in Kris’s dull eyes. From the depths of his throat came a low, hurt sound. Frothy blood oozed from his mouth. “Bodie?”
“Yeah. Kris, was it Devlin?”
Kris forced an ugly chuckle from his swollen lips. ‘You son of a bitch, this is just what you’ve been waiting for!’
“Cut it out, Kris,” Bodie said. He was trying desperately to loosen the coils of wire tearing into Kris’s throat.
Kris groaned softly against the savage pain. “Judas Priest, I never knew it could hurt so much!”
“Why’d they do it, for God’s sake?”
“We were startin’ to worry him. He got scared we’d find evidence against him. Devlin’s got plans for the whole damn county. It’s going to be rich country when the railroad comes through. Devlin found out about it
before the news should have gotten around. The more property he owns and the more land, the richer he’ll be.”
“He’ll get a six-foot strip is all!”
“Bodie — don’t be a damn fool! He’s just waitin’ for you to go against him. He knows your rep. He done this to me to let you know he ain’t foolin’!”
“Goddam it, Kris, you figure me to just let it go?”
Kris didn’t reply. His brutalized body, already weakened, failed him. His legs refused to support him and he sagged against the constricting wire, the jagged, brutal barbs ripping into his throat. Blood began to spurt thickly from the side of his neck as the main artery was torn, bubbling in a red torrent.
Bodie tore frantically at the wire, the barbs cutting into the flesh of his fingers. But he couldn’t loosen the taut coils. They had been expertly twisted together at the ends, as secure as links in a chain. Even as he struggled he grew increasingly aware of the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to help Kris. He could do little more than watch his partner bleed to death.
It was over in a couple of minutes. To Bodie it was an eternity. A drawn-out and agonized time as Kris’s lifeblood drained from his body — and Bodie’s humanity went with it, leaving behind a living, breathing shell. A bitter man who was consumed from within by a relentless urge to kill, to destroy, to revenge himself on the animals who had done this thing to his partner, to his Mend.
Bodie took out his Colt. He checked that it was fully loaded.
“Kris, you said to let Devlin make the first move. I wish to God I hadn’t listened to you.”
He turned, making for the door. He was almost there when he stopped, reached up and tore free the burnished US Marshal badge from his shirt. It lay in his palm, burning into his flesh, and it was as if it had never meant a thing to him. All those years — the laws he’d upheld — the men he’d had to face. None of it made any sense. Bodie flung the badge from him and strode out of the silent stable.
Approaching the hotel he saw two men step off the veranda. Bodie didn’t need a second look to know who they were.
“Hey, Marshal, where’s your partner? ”
Bodie stopped, waiting.
The other one grinned. “I hear he’s kinda tied up with his work right now!”
Bodie’s right hand dropped and came up holding the big Colt. It exploded with sound as Bodie fired off all six chambers into the taut bodies of the two gunmen. They were driven back across the dusty street, flesh and blood ripped from them, bones shattered by the heavy bullets. Stumbling, falling, they jerked away what remained of their lives in the dirt, numbed minds barely able to understand what had happened.
Bodie ejected the spent cartridges and reloaded his Colt. Without a backward glance at the two bodies Bodie went inside the hotel and up to his room. He stayed long enough to pick up his rifle, and then left.
Rafe Devlin ran a freight company with its warehouses and offices at the north end of town. Loaded wagons rolled in and out of the busy yard, men went about their business. It seemed that no one had taken any notice of the gunfire. Bodie didn’t let himself be fooled by the outward calm.
Nearing the main building he saw a tall figure detach itself from the shadows of a lean-to. The man wore his profession like a physical scar, and he was sure of himself to the point of over-confidence.
“This is private property. Marshal,” he said. ‘You ain’t invited!’
“Go to hell,” Bodie said and shot the man through the head with a single bullet from his rifle. The man was flung back, his right hand flying away from the butt of his holstered Colt. He crashed up against the side of the lean-to, blood and brains spouting from the huge hole in the back of his shattered skull.
Bodie ducked low and ran for the main building. Before him men scattered, seeking cover. Bodie ignored them. They were not the gunmen he was looking for, only the regular teamsters who drove Devlin’s wagons. The men Bodie wanted were inside the building.
A rifle opened up from an upstairs window. But the rifleman had waited too long. Bodie was already close to the building and the bullets peppered the ground around him as he covered the few remaining yards. He thrust forward, tucking in his head and went in through a window, smashing frame and glass. He struck a low table with his shoulder, overturning it, sending books and papers flying across the room. As Bodie rolled across the floor he heard raised voices, the thud of booted feet. A wild-eyed figure appeared in the doorway, a gun in his hand. Bodie put two bullets into him, sending the man spinning back across the corridor outside, blood spraying from the holes in his chest. Before the man had hit the floor Bodie was on his feet and out in the corridor. A gun blasted from further along the corridor, the bullet ripping a long splinter of wood from the wall above Bodie’s head. Bodie flattened himself against the wall, levering a fresh cartridge into the Winchester’s breech. He held himself still for a few seconds, then snaked forward. He heard the soft creak of a floorboard off to his right, twisted, and fired through a partly-closed door. The thin panel splintered and Bodie heard a soft grunt. Footsteps dragged and a man began to cough. There was the sound of a heavy body falling and then silence.
Bodie eased along the corridor. He paused at the foot of the stairs leading to the upper floor and then began to climb. He reached the top without trouble. Before him lay a corridor and a number of closed doors.
Bodie reached out and took down one of the oil lamps suspended from a hook on the wall. He turned up the wick and thumb-nailed a match from his pocket into flame. He lowered the glass chimney over the burning wick and tossed the lamp along the corridor. It bounced along the floor, coming to rest against the wall. Bodie lifted his rifle and put a bullet through the bottom of the lamp. Oil began to spread across the floor. It crept towards the flaming wick. There was a soft plop and the pool of oil ignited. Bodie watched the flames rise as they ate into the dry timber floor and wall. Then he went back downstairs, repeating the procedure with a lamp he found partway down the steps.
Bodie stepped outside and leaned against a wagon. He tucked his rifle under his arm while he lit a cigar. He didn’t have long to wait. From what he’d observed while he’d been inside the building the only windows in the place were in the front. That meant there was only one way out of the building.
One of the upstairs windows slid open and a man thrust his head and shoulders into view. Thick smoke trailed out of the window, rising above the level of the roof The man twisted his body and swung his legs over the sill. He lowered himself by his arms, craning his neck round so he could judge how far he had to drop.
Bodie picked up his rifle and put a bullet through the man’s right leg. The man screamed as the bullet smashed his thigh bone, splitting the flesh open in a gout of blood. He opened his fingers and let himself drop. He hit the ground in a writhing heap, his agonized screams rising in volume. Clutching both hands around his leg he began to crawl away from the burning building. Bodie shot him again, blowing away the top of his skull. The force of the bullet lifted the man clear of the ground, spinning him over onto his back.
A gun began to fire from the open window. Bodie had time to make out the shape of a man framed against the rising orange glow of flames before he threw himself away from the side of the wagon. He could hear the flat thud of bullets driving into the wooden sides of the wagon.
The man at the window, seeing Bodie drop to the ground, took his chance. He swung himself over the sill and let himself drop to the ground. He hit hard, rolling, but kept hold of his gun. Thrusting to his feet he ran clear of the building, searching for Bodie.
There was a single shot. Bodie’s bullet struck the man in the left side, puncturing the stomach as it passed through the body. The man had time for a pained grunt before Bodie’s gun blasted a second time. Something hammered against the side of the man’s skull. There was a moment of blinding, incredible pain, and then his head burst apart. Blood and bone and flesh filled the air as the lifeless corpse collapsed.
Bodie climbed to his feet.
He left the rifle on the ground, taking out his Colt, and moved towards the building. Flames were bursting into view from every window now. Thick smoke rose in dark clouds. Bright rushes of red sparks sailed skywards.
A stumbling figure ran out of the building, clothing alight, screaming, arms flailing wildly. Bodie put a bullet through the man’s chest, bursting the heart apart. Blood spurted briefly, bubbling as it came into contact with the flaming clothing. The man went down on his face, legs kicking before becoming still.
Another human torch erupted from the blazing building. Even the hair was alight, streaming back from the contorted face, the mouth held in a savage line. The features were already badly burned, flesh blistered, peeling away from the bones, but Bodie recognized the man. Rafe Devlin. There was a moment when Devlin’s eyes locked on Bodie’s face, and he half-turned towards him. His clawing hands reached out, trembling, the blistered, blackened flesh parting as Devlin flexed his fingers. There was no pity in Bodie’s gaunt face, no trace of feeling in his eyes. He moved the muzzle of the Colt and shot Devlin’s left leg from under him. Devlin flopped to the ground, blood rushing from the ruined leg. He tried to raise himself, hoarse grunts of sound rising from his heat-seared lungs. Bodie fired again, destroying Devlin’s other leg. Devlin’s pain-wracked body coiled up and then stretched out, and he began to scream as the flames consuming his ruined body flood him with fresh agony.
The high, shrill sound rose and reached out so that the whole of Gallego was forced to listen. There was only one man in the town who was deaf to the sound! Bodie!
He walked away from the blazing building, the sprawled corpses, and made his way back to the livery stable at the end of town. He had a job to do before he rode out of Gallego. He had a friend to bury. And then?