Bodie 4

by Neil Hunter

  The US Marshal’s office covered up the incident as best they could. The publicity was something they didn’t need. It was lucky for them that Gallego happened to be a small, isolated community. The citizens of Gallego themselves had no desire to create any fuss. They were glad that it was all over and decided to try and forget that terrible day.

  Bodie vanished from sight. His badge arrived at the US Marshal headquarters in an envelope posted from Gallego. It was accepted as his offer of resignation, and since Kris Lund had died at the hands of Devlin and his men, the authorities let the matter rest there. There were those in high office who breathed a sigh of relief when they realized that Bodie was off their hands. He had become an increasing embarrassment to them. His harsh treatment of lawbreakers was way out of line with their policies, and though some of the older hands might have sympathized with him, they officially condemned his methods. They knew, too, that Bodie had nothing but contempt for the way they allowed the reformers to shackle them. As far as Bodie was concerned a lawbreaker was a lawbreaker, and if putting an end to the violence and suffering meant killing off a few renegade individuals, then the end justified the means.

  The irony of the situation revealed itself a couple of months later when the US Marshal’s office received reports that Bodie had reappeared. He had started to bring in wanted men, more often than not draped over their saddles, and was claiming the bounties. Lannigan, Bodie’s former superior, saw a black humor in the gesture. Bodie had turned in his badge, was still doing the job his way, and it was perfectly legal. Lannigan kept his opinion to himself, but he wished Bodie luck. His only regret was that he wasn’t going to be able to express how he felt to Bodie in person. But he had a feeling Bodie wouldn’t have cared one way or another. The man had always been something of a loner. A self-sufficient outsider. He had his way now, Lannigan thought, because his bounty-hunting would put him out on a limb, hated by the men he went after and mostly despised by the ones he was ultimately protecting. Most men, if they had the chance, would choose a way of life destined to bring them the best of any given situation. Bodie had gone to the other extreme, deliberately placing himself at odds with society. It was not a position Lannigan would envy, yet when he thought about it, he found that Bodie was the last one he might need to feel sorry for — it was the rest who were liable to have the rougher time

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You certain this train stops tonight?”

  Pike Cooley jerked his head away from the window of the swaying coach, his mouth tight. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he said.

  “Let’s hope so,” Silva remarked. “It’s about time something went right!”

  Cooley flopped back in his seat. “How many times I got to tell you I ain’t to blame for what Billy-Jack went and did!”

  “He was supposed to be your partner,” Silva pointed out. “Some partner!”

  “Yeah, well Billy-Jack never could resist a drink, an’ when he had too much he got to frettin’ over the bad times. He was still pretty mad ‘cause Bodie had us thrown in jail. I guess that an’ the drink got to him.”

  “Well, he’s cured of that habit for good,” Silva said.

  Cooley scowled. “I guess so,” he mumbled.

  Silva stood up and lifted a black hand case from the luggage rack. He laid it across his knees, snapping the catches open. Cooley craned his neck to see what was inside. He had been curious about the case ever since he’d noticed the way Silva looked after it.

  Inside the case was lined with thick, plush cloth. Recessed shapes had been cut out of a block of wood set under the protective cloth, and nestling in the cut-outs were the unmistakable parts of a handgun, but a gun that was unfamiliar to Pike Cooley.

  “Ain’t seen an iron like that before,” Cooley ventured.

  “Not likely to,” Silva said. “There isn’t another like it. I made it myself. Every last piece.”

  Cooley whistled softly. “Now I got to admire a man who can make a gun like that.” Silva picked up the various sections, snapping them together with practiced ease. He held up the finished weapon, openly showing his pride in its deadly, gleaming lines. His thumb drew back the hammer, the cylinder rotating with a mechanical perfection.

  “It do anything special?” Cooley asked.

  Silva’s smile was almost frightening. He glanced across the cold steel of the raised gun barrel, his eyes illuminated by some inner fire.

  “It kills people,” he said.

  “Hell, so does mine,” Cooley chuckled.

  Silva plucked six fat, brass-cased cartridges from the padded case, checking each one carefully before slipping them into the chambers.

  “I can guarantee, without a doubt, a kill when I put one of these in a man,” he said. There was no trace of bravado in his voice. It was a simple statement of fact from a professional.

  “You could end up lookin’ a damn fool if it didn’t work out.”

  “I’ve used this gun thirty times,” Silva said. “Thirty shots — thirty dead men!”

  He closed the case and laid it on the seat beside him. The gun went under his coat, slipped into an underarm holster. Silva took a gold watch from his vest pocket and checked the time. “What time do we stop?”

  “Eleven-thirty,” Cooley said. “Half-hour wait while they pick up fuel and water.”

  “Should be enough time,” Silva said.

  “Might not be as easy as you figure,” Cooley suggested.

  “Oh?”

  “Bodie’s bound to be watching for trouble. He’s going to be wondering why I didn’t show back in Adobe Junction.”

  “I’d anticipated that,” Silva said. “This man Bodie is a professional himself. I’d expect him to be permanently alert. But I don’t let that worry me. I enjoy a challenge — even though the end result will be the same!”

  Cooley smiled to himself. I wonder if Bodie looks at it that way, he thought. He shrugged the question aside. What the hell. It was Silva’s worry — let him deal with it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Why are we slowing down?” Eden asked.

  Bodie leaned across and stared out of the dust-streaked window. Lights were beginning to show up ahead. A small town rising out of the darkness.

  “The conductor said something about a late stop to take on fuel and water.”

  Eden yawned. “How entertaining. I think I’ll turn in, Bodie. You coming?”

  He stood up, slipping on his coat. “You go ahead. I need to stretch my legs.”

  He stepped out of the Pullman and waited on the observation platform as the train rolled to a halt in the depot with a great deal of hissing and clanging. Bodie climbed down from the Pullman on the side away from the platform. He moved along the cinder track beside the rails until he was able to cross them in front of the locomotive. He stepped quickly up onto the platform and eased into the shadows of the empty ticket office. His position allowed him an unobstructed view of the platform.

  A number of passengers had stepped off the train, taking advantage of the break to get a little fresh air before the long night haul. At the far end of the platform was a small refreshment room where hot coffee was being sold. Most of the passengers eventually made their way inside.

  Bodie noticed one man who did not. He watched the lone figure move restlessly along the platform, and it was only when the man paused in the light of an overhead lamp that Bodie recognized Pike Cooley.

  So he had been right after all. The son of a bitch had followed him! Bodie edged his way along the platform, thankful for the poor lighting. He pressed close in against the depot wall as Cooley resumed his pacing and let the man come to him. Bodie pulled his knife and stepped silently up to Cooley’s hunched figure. He placed the tip of the knife in the small of Cooley’s back, using just enough pressure to penetrate Cooley’s clothing and nick his flesh. He felt Cooley’s body stiffen, begin to pull away.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Bodie warned.

  “Bodie? Sweet Jesus, man, go easy with tha
t blade!”

  “Move then!”

  Cooley did as he was told. He allowed Bodie to direct him off the platform and round to the deserted side of the depot building.

  “Take the gun out,” Bodie said. “Hand it to me.”

  Cooley eased out his gun and passed it over. He heard it thud to the ground somewhere in the darkness. Then Bodie put a hand on his shoulder and spun him round, shoving him back against the plank wall. Before Cooley could react Bodie had pressed the blade of his knife across his taut throat.

  “Now we talk,’ Bodie said.

  “Push any harder with that knife and I ain’t goin to be able to say a deal!”

  Bodie’s cold grin matched the look in his eyes. “Don’t give me any ideas, Cooley,” he said.

  “So what do we talk about?” Cooley asked, wondering where the hell Silva had got to.

  “How about Billy-Jack trying to blow holes in me?”

  “Hell, Bodie, he was pure mad ‘cause you got us tossed in jail.”

  “And you ain’t?”

  Cooley hesitated. “I ain’t laughin’ about it, but ...”

  “You telling me you took the train because you like the scenery? Or did you figure to take me on as well?”

  “You want to know something, Cooley? I don’t think you got it in you!”

  “Bodie, you don’t scare me!”

  Bodie put some weight on the knife, letting the razor edge cut into Cooley’s flesh.

  “Who the hell said anything about scaring you? I might just kill you, Cooley, if you don’t give me the right answers to a couple of questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Who’s the feller riding with you?”

  “Him?” Cooley laughed softly. “I was wonderin’ when you’d get round to him. He’s special, Bodie, that Silva. Come all the way from New York to find you.”

  “What’s his line?”

  “He’s a hired killer, Bodie, and you’re the one on his list!”

  For once Bodie was without an answer. Just why should a professional killer come halfway across the continent looking for him? Bodie couldn’t figure a reason at all.

  “So tell me why, Cooley?”

  “Jonas Randall? He was fronting for an organization back east. Some big crime syndicate the way Silva tells it. They’re pretty powerful. One thing they don’t like is having their business upset. And you lost ‘em a lot of money on the High Grade deal. Seems they’re kinda upset with you, Bodie. Silva’s their errand boy, come to pay you off.” Cooley licked his dry lips. “They pulled me and Billy-Jack out of jail so we could lead Silva to you. Took us some doin’ but we tracked you to Adobe Junction — and then Billy-Jack went and got himself liquored up. Damn fool stunt he tried to pull!”

  Bodie nodded. “I come up against a lot of that kind of thing.”

  “So now you know what it’s all about,” Cooley said.

  Bodie’s face was stone in the pale moonlight. For a moment Pike Cooley looked into that face, trying to read something in the manhunter’s impassive stare. Then he felt the sudden chill as realization hit him and he broke out in a cold sweat of pure fear. He knew what Bodie was about to do. Knew with the awful certainty of a man aware of his own vulnerability. Words fought to rise in his throat, a garbled plea for his own defense, a last, desperate justification for his continued existence.

  But he was too late. He knew in that final moment of clarity that time had started to run out for him the moment he and Billy-Jack had agreed to ride with the man called Silva.

  Cooley sensed movement. He saw Bodie back away from him. He began to frown, misunderstanding. And then the pain hit him. The terrible agony as his body reacted to the deep, severing cut Bodie’s knife had made across his throat. Cooley reached up, clasping both hands over the huge, gaping wound. He felt the hot rush of blood spilling over his hands, drenching the front of his shirt. He began to choke against the lack of air in his lungs, fighting the sensation of rising panic. The dark night swirled about him, closing over him, enveloping him in cloying folds, and he slid almost gratefully into the deep, eternal vortex of death.

  Bodie walked to the steps leading up to the platform. He took his time, casually strolling the length of the platform and back again. Pushing open the door of the refreshment room and stepped inside, his eyes raking the gathered passengers. There wasn’t one amongst them Bodie considered capable of taking a gun out of a holster the right way, let alone using it to kill a man. He crossed to the counter and bought a cup of coffee. He lingered over the coffee, draining the cup as the call went out for all passengers to board the train.

  He boarded the train midway along, and began to make his way to the far end, and the Pullman.

  The train slid away from the tiny town, curving off along the track, rapidly picking up speed on a long downgrade. The whistle blasted a mournful echo out across the night-shrouded land.

  Bodie reached the observation platform of the Pullman. He stood gripping the iron rail, the wind tearing at his clothing. The coach swayed under his feet, couplings rattling. The stench of smoke from the locomotive stung his nostrils. Bodie stared at the door leading into the Pullman. This man Silva, this professional killer — he wasn’t about to go ahead and make his kill in plain view of the rest of the passengers. One of the marks of a successful assassin was his anonymity — which depended upon his circumspection. If Silva was a true professional, and Bodie believed he was, then he would make his kill quickly and unobserved. Perhaps that explained Pike Cooley’s appearance on the platform during the halt. A decoy, luring Bodie away long enough for Silva to position himself? Maybe Cooley hadn’t expected to die — but that was incidental as far as Bodie was concerned.

  He took out his Colt, easing back the hammer. There was only one way to find out if his suspicions were founded on anything more than simple gut-feeling. A faint grin edged Bodie’s mouth. He was going to look a damn fool if he went bursting in there to find Eden alone. On the other hand, he figured he’d rather look an idiot and stay alive than end up right but dead.

  Bodie turned the handle of the Pullman door, slipping the catch free. Then he stepped back, raised a booted foot and kicked the door wide. As the door crashed open Bodie went in, diving low, full length across the carpeted floor of the lounge.

  He heard the heavy blast of a powerful handgun, felt something rip into his left shoulder, lodge against the bone. The force of the bullet turned Bodie over on his back. He caught a glimpse of a dark figure on the far side of the lounge, legs spread to give him balance against the swaying of the coach. There was an impression of a grim, dark-complexioned face, eyes glittering with feral rage. And the dull gleam of a long-barreled revolver in the man’s slim, pale hands, the muzzle swinging down at Bodie’s prone figure.

  Bodie ignored the pain spreading out from his shoulder, the rising sickness brought on by the bullet’s stunning impact. He had less than seconds to act before Silva fired again. His instincts served him well, as they had done many times before. Even as he was turned over by the bullet striking his shoulder, Bodie’s right hand controlled the heavy Colt, keeping it aimed in Silva’s direction, so that as Bodie rolled again, coming belly down, the muzzle still remained on Silva. Bodie pulled back on the trigger, eased back the hammer and fired again, even as Silva’s shape blurred in front of his eyes.

  Bodie let his head drop to the carpeted floor, struggling to stay conscious. He fought the pain and the weakness threatening to overwhelm him. He lay with his face pressed against the floor, peering through heavy lidded eyes, blinking away the dullness sliding over his pupils like a grey mist.

  Sounds began to penetrate his senses. The distant rattle of the moving train. The creek of the Pullman’s superstructure as the train rounded a curve. Dimly he could hear a repetitive banging, over and over. He realized it was the coach’s open door, still swinging on its hinges, and banging against the inner wall.

  Slowly, so slowly, Bodie struggled up off the floor, fighting the lethargy that was t
rying to keep him there. He flopped back against the side of the coach, staring round the lounge.

  It was empty. He was alone. No sign of Silva anywhere. Bodie corrected himself as he spotted fresh blood spattered on the far side of the coach. There was a heavy trail of it across the carpet too, leading towards the open door.

  Bodie climbed to his feet. The effort left him swaying, sick and giddy.

  Sweat beaded his face as he lurched across to the sleeping compartments at the far end of the lounge. Both doors were locked. Bodie kicked them open. He found Eden in the second compartment. She was lying across the bed in her night clothes. There was a dark bruise across the side of her face where Silva had hit her. Bodie checked her breathing and found it steady. She would have a bad headache when she came round but that was all.

  He turned away, meaning to leave the compartment, and caught sight of himself in the vanity mirror screwed to the wall. His entire left shoulder was a pulsing, bloody mess. Bodie eased back his coat and took a quick look at the wound. Blood was pulsing steadily from the ragged hole and his shirt was sodden down to the waist. He made the mistake of flexing his shoulder and let out a strangled gasp as the bullet ground against the bone.

  He lurched, rather than walked, out of the compartment, across the lounge, and out onto the Pullman’s platform. The chill wind slapped at his face, driving away a little of the sickness. Bodie leaned against the rail, watching the dark ground rush by in a dizzying blur. The sight was almost hypnotic and Bodie dragged himself away from the rail with an abrupt jerk.

  Stepping across to the next coach Bodie saw that there was blood on the handle. He shoved his way inside, following the large splashes of fresh blood staining the worn carpet. He was passing through a sleeping car and all the occupied bunks were dark, closed off by drawn curtains. Most probably the passengers had slept through the entire episode, shooting and all. Bodie reached the far end of the coach and crossed to the next. It was another sleeping car. The one after was a smoking car. Here, male passengers could drink, play cards, and generally relax. At this time of night the car was empty. The air still reeked of cigar smoke and the stale tang of whisky.