Bodie and Brand 1

by Neil Hunter

  He figured he was entitled to a break, so he built a fire to heat water for coffee. It took him some time to find suitable dry wood but a half-hour later he was able to smell the aroma of coffee bubbling in the blackened pot over the flames. He decided not to cook a meal and made do with a couple of thick slices of jerked beef. It was pretty damn tasteless and made his jaw ache from chewing, but the strong coffee made up for that.

  Bodie sat with his back pressed against a slab of hot rock and watched a scaly lizard sunning itself a few yards away from him.

  ‘Hell of a life you got there, son,’ he said. ‘Just laze all damn day in the sun, flicking your tongue out ever’ time an insect gets close. Enough to make a man jealous.’

  Either the lizard didn’t hear him, or it was ignoring him. It lay motionless. Didn’t even turn its head when he spoke.

  ‘Well the hell with you,’ Bodie said.

  Then he decided he needed some human company to make up for the fact he was sitting there talking to a damn lizard.

  He finished his pot of coffee, doused the fire and rinsed out his pot and tin mug. He saddled up, then stowed his gear in his possibles sack and tied it on over the saddlebags. He checked his horse, looking for anything that might have stuck in the animal’s hooves. He inspected for cuts on the gray’s legs. A missed graze could easily become infected during a long ride through rough country. When he was done he swung into the saddle and turned in the direction of Monk’s faint tracks.

  He hadn’t missed the way they were angling in the direction of the distant mountains. Bodie raised his eyes to take in the peaks. The San Juan range covered the horizon. A lot of mountains. Plenty of places for someone like Monk to hide himself away. Bodie had been hoping Monk might avoid the range. It seemed he had been wrong. It didn’t make his job impossible—just harder once a man worked his way into those foothills and high slopes. A thousand places to hide. To disappear.

  Bodie kept the mountains in his sight as he rode. Something at the back of his mind was making itself known. He didn’t press the thought. Simply let it come until it was fully formed.

  ‘Monk, you just made life easier for me.’

  Bodie had recalled something he’d heard way back. A mention of Monk having family way back in the San Juan Mountains. They had an isolated outfit where they lived, not exactly welcoming visitors so the telling went. Bodie hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but now he figured maybe he’d learned where Monk could be going.

  Family ties were strong in some people. Thaddeus Monk might have been a mean son of a bitch, but even he had filial connections, and maybe right now he needed family around him. Bodie had seen the posters issued by various lawmen featuring Monk’s likeness, and the phrase a face only a mother could love had sprung to mind. Monk was a hulking brute of a man and his thick set face did little to offset that.

  Since Monk’s last crime spree, where he had killed three, including a young woman during a bank holdup that had netted him over 8,000 dollars, he had been on the move. The murder of the women had been the last nail in Monk’s coffin. His previous crimes were bad enough but the wanton killing of the woman had pushed Thaddeus Monk across the line. No one, not even those in the criminal fraternity, wanted any more to do with him.

  Added to Monk’s atrocities and the thing that now excluded him from any redemption was the fact he had shot the women in the back. That fact ostracized him from practically every level of society, marking him as a man alone. A pariah no one wanted to be associated with. Monk had never been a man who yearned for company. Now the few friends he might have had shunned him. He was on his own.

  And that was why he was on his way into the mountains. Away from civilization. Seeking the one place where he wouldn’t be judged. Into the circle of family.

  Well, hell, son, Bodie decided, that circle is about to get broken.

  He eased his way through the foothills, letting his horse choose its path. The gray was smart. It picked its way over the loose detritus that had tumbled to the base of the slopes. Bodie lounged in the saddle, scanning the way ahead. The tree lined slopes above showed dark and green against the starker color of the earth and rocks. The timber grew in close ranks, thick and spreading out in all directions. Once Bodie reached the trees he would have better cover, but so would Monk. That was always the way. What life gave with one hand it took away with the other.

  Bodie unhooked his canteen and took a swallow. The water had already started to lose the chill it had in the stream. At least it was fresh.

  As he hung the canteen back in place Bodie’s downcast eyes spotted faint horse tracks. He reined in the gray and swung out of the saddle, crouching over the hoof prints. They were a few hours old he judged, but they were moving in the right direction. Tugging on the reins Bodie walked his horse for a while, following the trail.

  ‘You keep on running, Monk. Just don’t look back because I’m on my way, you sonofabitch.’

  The gray turned its head and stared at him. Bodie stroked its sleek neck.

  ‘I ain’t crazy, horse. Just craving someone to talk to.’

  As the afternoon wore on Bodie found himself moving into the timber. Once he rode through the first spread of the forest he felt the heat slip away. He was enclosed in the shadowed coolness of the trees, the high canopy of intertwined branches acting like a protective shield against the sun’s heat. Bodie didn’t mind. The oppressive heat of the sun made for uncomfortable riding. Out of the sun’s direct glare he felt better.

  Bodie dismounted again, leading the horse as he checked Monk’s trail. The crisscross shadows from the trees and undergrowth cut down the amount of light. It would be easy to lose the trail he was following if he allowed himself to ease off. Bodie stopped often to maintain contact with the tracks. He figured he was still on line. Monk was moving in a pretty straight line. The man knew where he was going and it was plain he knew his piece of the country up here.

  Maybe too damn well, Bodie decided as the sudden crash of a rifle shot broke the silence.

  The .44-40 slug burned past his ear.

  The gray pulled away in panic and Bodie went to ground, his breath driven from his lungs as he landed. The shot had come from his left and from behind.

  A damned back shooter.

  Bodie could respect a man who faced him with a gun. He considered a back shooter nothing more than a coward. And the thought made him mad.

  As he dropped he cleared the heavy Colt from his holster and hugged it close as he feigned injury.

  He was hoping that playing dead might draw out the shooter. It might get him a slug in the back but Bodie was figuring the man might be curious enough to want to take a look.

  Chapter Five

  Time dragged. Bodie stayed where he was. After a time the birds that had scattered with the sound of the shot returned and settled. Bodie felt the sun warm on his back. The smell of the loamy forest floor was strong in his nostrils. His senses told him whoever had driven that shot at him was still around. Most likely patiently watching and waiting. He was aware he was in a vulnerable position lying where he was, but he had no other option. It was a waiting game.

  Bodie’s horse had moved off a number of yards. He could hear the creak of saddle-leather as it moved, searching for grass, air blowing through its nostrils.

  Then he heard the tread of boot steps coming up behind him. Not one set. Two. The brush of clothing against the undergrowth. The added sound of led horses.

  ‘Ol’ Thad was right,’ one of them said. ‘That’s one sly boy.’

  ‘That’s why he allus comes back alive,’ the second man said. ‘He don’t trust nothin’ ’cept hisself.’

  The boot steps halted.

  ‘Who you reckon he is?’

  ‘Lawman. Maybe a bounty hunter. Sure won’t be a friend ‘cause Thad don’t have any friends.’

  One of them laughed ‘Right enough there. If’n it weren’t for family Thad would be right lonely.’

  ‘Hey, Cletus, you sure you
hit this yahoo?’

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘I don’t see no blood.’

  ‘Don’t make no fuss about it. Got him on the other side. He’s done.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Just go get your piece ‘fore we get too close.’

  Bodie heard the drag of feet as one of them turned.

  This is the time, he told himself. Before they both have their hands filled with guns.

  He rolled over onto his back, hauling his upper body off the ground, the Colt in his big right hand already cocked as he sighted the two men.

  They were ten, maybe twelve feet away.

  The closest one faced him.

  The second man had his back to Bodie as he moved towards his waiting horse, one hand reaching for the rifle jammed in a leather sheath.

  The first man had his own weapon cradled in the crook of his arm and as Bodie moved he swung the rifle around, a wild yell bursting from his lips.

  Bodie fired twice, the .45 slamming out heavy sound. He placed a slug in each knee. Blood, flesh and shattered bone misted the air as the big slugs blasted their through the delicate kneecaps. The man, Cletus, screamed, staggered and fell, his rifle slipping from his grasp and he collapsed to the forest floor.

  His partner yanked his rifle from the sheath, twisting his head as Bodie’s shots echoed through the trees. He brought his rifle round, sliding his finger across the trigger as he frantically worked the lever.

  Bodie two-handed the Peacemaker as he targeted the man. This time he made no attempt to wound. Two shots again. This time into the man’s broad forehead, between the eyes, the solid slugs ripped into the man’s skull, blowing out through the top of his head and taking off his hat in a shower of bloody debris. The man toppled over backwards, his finger jerking the trigger of his rifle and sending a .44-40 slug up through the branches.

  Bodie pushed to his feet. The barrel of his revolver held on the kneecapped Cletus who was sitting hunched over, clutching his ruined, bleeding limbs, moaning against the pain. Crossing over Bodie took away the man’s rifle and the heavy Dragoon Colt tucked behind his belt.

  ‘Son of a bitch, oh, you son of a bitch,’ the man screamed. ‘You done crippled me. Shot out my goddamn knees.’

  ‘Seeing as how you tried to back shoot me,’ Bodie said, ‘should I feel sorry for you?’

  ‘Bastard. You were dogging Thad’s trail. He’s family. We protect our own. Had to be done.’

  Bodie stood over the moaning man.

  ‘Mister, that family man overreached himself this time. Three people shot dead so he could help himself to 8,000 dollars, and one of the dead was a young woman he shot in the back. This time he really went over the line.’

  ‘He’s still family.’ Cletus’s face twisted in a grimace of pain. ‘Why didn’t you just kill me?’

  ‘I had me a notion to let you suffer.’

  Bodie scooped up the man’s weapons. He crossed to where the dead man lay and collected his guns. He wrapped them in the slicker he took from behind the saddle of the closest horse and tied them behind his own saddle. Then he stripped saddles and bridles from the two horses and chased them off.

  ‘Hey, you son of a bitch, what about me? I ain’t happy with what you’re doin’.’

  ‘Leaving you here to think about how you were ready to kill me is what I’m about to do.’

  Cletus clutched his ruined knees, hands dripping with blood. He raised his head to stare at Bodie. His eyes were bright with rage.

  ‘I get out of this,’ he said, ‘I’ll track you to Hell and back. By God, you’ll look round one day and I’ll be walkin’ after you for a reckoning.’

  Bodie glanced at the man’s bloody, smashed knees.

  ‘Boy, you just won’t have a leg to stand on for something like that.’

  He mounted up and turned his horse back on the thin trail Monk had left behind. Letting his horse pick its way Bodie shucked out the empty brass shells and reloaded, filling all six chambers before he holstered the Colt. He felt damn sure he was going to be needing the weapon again—and soon.

  He scanned the wide sky above the mountain peaks. Dark clouds were showing. That was all Bodie needed. A storm.

  Then he thought about it. Maybe a rainstorm would help to hide his approach to Monk’s place. Anything to give him an advantage was welcome.

  If Thaddeus Monk was anything to go by the rest of the clan were likely to be the same. The two he had just clashed with had already shown they had little respect for anyone not part of the family. Bodie wondered just how many of them there were. If they were as close knit a family as they seemed and followed the Bible’s recommendations about begetting, there would be a fair number of them up on the mountain. Increasing their family numbers was obviously something they believed in, but loving their fellow man looked to be low on the list of priorities.

  Chapter Six

  The second day out and Brand was well into the San Juans. He had negotiated the lower slopes and was moving into the tree line. There was an abundance of timber, and as he moved higher the stands grew denser. Grass and bushes were scattered among the trees. In all it was verdant terrain. Quiet, too, which didn’t bother Brand at all.

  It allowed him time to think about the son he had just acquired. Trouble was the more he thought about Adam, the more he had to admit to a degree of unease. He hadn’t had much truck with young boys and especially one he had sired.

  How, he wondered, did he handle Adam? Being a father was one hell of a responsibility. And Brand had no idea how to handle that responsibility. He had been one his own since his own teenage years. Actually from the day the Comanche had slaughtered his family he had been on his own . He had made his way into adult life and despite all the mistakes he’d made—and there had been a hell of lot of those—he was still alive. When he thought about it his past record didn’t hold much of a promise for him becoming a good parent.

  Brand leaned forward to stroke his horse’s neck. Slipped off his hat and ran fingers through his dark hair. He felt the ridged scar there, courtesy of the Chinese, Kwo Han, who had almost ended Brand’s life with a Tong hatchet. The wound had been the cause of Brand’s memory lose. It had taken him a long time to recover. Brand jammed the hat back on and spurred the horse forward, his eyes constantly on the move as he searched the rising slopes.

  Needle in a haystack came to mind.

  The mountain range spread for miles in all directions.

  McCord had told him it would be an easy assignment to let him get a feeling for the job. The only feeling Brand was experiencing right then was the ache in his butt. He swung out of the saddle and led the chestnut for a while.

  By the late afternoon Brand was becoming more than a little irritated with his lack of progress. He had to remind himself he was trying to find a couple of men in a hell of a lot of territory. His impatience came, not just through is lack of achievement, but from the realization he might be moving in the wrong direction. Travelling well away from where the two men might have been going. There were four points to the compass and the two men he was looking for—Calvin and Rankin—could have been moving in any one of those four directions.

  Brand decided he’d had enough for one day. He spent another half hour searching for a place where he could bed down for the night. He chose a spot at the base of a rock face that showed through the trees. After seeing to his horse he made a small fire so he could boil water for coffee. He had hard biscuits and dried beef. Not the most palatable food, but then he wasn’t on a picnic. He had a few of his thin cigars wrapped in a bundle and he lit one and settled back, resting against his saddle.

  Inactivity forced him to think about Adam. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. Brand was still accepting the fact. Not just a son but a near grown man. Thinking on it he decided he would rather have it that way than a youngster of nine or ten. At least Adam was of an age where he could fend for himself if the need arose.

  When the need arose.

  That
need had come for Brand when his family had been killed, abandoned by the three working hands his father had hired, his sister taken by the Comanche where she had died. His choices had been non-existent. There had been no other way for him except to go out and avenge their deaths. Still a boy, untried, and walking in a man’s world, where violence and betrayal had shadowed him. He had achieved his revenge in the end—but at what cost? When it was over he was still alone. His life stretching ahead of him and his only skill the gun in his hand…

  Brand saw that his cigar had gone out and his mug of coffee was cold. The sun was already setting. He was no closer to solving the problem of his son, or the missing men.

  ‘Damnit to hell,’ he growled.

  He tossed aside the dead cigar and threw out the coffee. He unrolled his blanket and pulled his slicker over it in case of rain. When he lay down he found sleep eluding him and lay staring into the coming darkness.

  Come morning Brand woke stiff and in a sullen mood. He broke camp, packed his gear and saddled up. His horse was ready to go. It had obviously had a better night than him. He sawed its head around and thumped it with his heels. The chestnut protested until Brand hauled the reins up short. It did a frisky jig, stamping its hooves. Brand let it get rid of the steam.

  ‘You feeling better now?’ he asked when the horse settled down.

  When he gigged the chestnut it moved off and Brand settled in the saddle. The horse blew air from its nostrils in a final moment of rebellion.

  ‘Damn horses and women,’ Brand said. ‘Always got to have the last word.’

  He rode for a hour, covering ground before it became too hot. Brand noticed the tree line was thinning out. Up ahead he could see open slopes.

  He needed some kind of human contact. Someone who might be able to offer insight into where the two missing men might be. It was a notion, Brand thought. But maybe not something that would be easy to achieve. This was empty country. Isolated and the possibility of having folk wandering around…

  He recalled the Marshal back in Santa Fe mentioning the homestead in the hills somewhere. If he could locate it he might gain some information. All he knew was it lay in the general area. At least it was a possibility. Vague. But at least it offered a chance. Brand had little else to go on. So he kept riding, searching. Listening, and sometime in the afternoon he picked up the unmistakable sound of gunshots. A fair distance away. The sounds echoed. Brand pinpointed the direction.