by Neil Hunter
“What you doin’ in Petrie?” he demanded.
“Brother and me figure to have a meal,” Bodie said.
The one who had spoken threw a quick glance at Lon, his face coloring angrily. “You tryin’ to be funny mister?” He jabbed a thick, dirty finger at Lon. “He’s an Indian!”
Bodie shook his head, glancing at Lon. “See, I told you he’d spot the difference.”
“Look, mister, you cut the crap! Last thing this town needs is a funny man! Now you talk straight. What’re you doin’ in Petrie?”
“Minding my own business, friend,” Bodie snapped, all the humor removed from his tone. “And until you can tell me what law I’ve broken — keep out of my way!”
The deputy who had been doing the talking let his right hand slip towards the butt of the gun holstered on his hip. As he did Lon drove the barrel of his rifle across the man’s knuckles. The deputy gasped, snatching his hand away from his gun.
“Goddam!” he said.
“That was a damn silly thing to do,” Bodie said to the deputy. “I should have told you my friend here gets a little jumpy when people make sudden moves. So when you boys walk away, do it nice and slow.”
The other deputies glanced at Lon, who had his rifle pointed in their direction. Any thought they might have been harboring drifted away. They backed along the boardwalk for a few yards then turned and slouched off in a tight group, as if they were all feeling the pain of the injured man and suffering with him.
“The way the law works in this town,” Bodie said, “I reckon we’ve just committed a hanging offence.”
He led the way inside the eating house. As they entered, a sharp-faced little man stepped hurriedly back from the curtained window.
“We’re closed!” he scowled. He wore glasses. Behind the lens his eyes were red-rimmed and watery.
Bodie glanced round the small room. Most of the tables were occupied.
“No, you’re not,” he said. He and Lon sat down at an empty table.
“I can’t…” the little man began. Then he broke off. “I don’t want any trouble!”
“Long as you don’t burn my food you won’t get any,” Bodie said.
“I don’t have to serve you,” persisted the little man, his voice rising sharply. “I can say yes or no!”
“Say yes,” Bodie suggested. “Be easier on everybody.”
The little man threw a pleading look in the direction of his other customers — but they had all become extremely interested in their meals.
“You eat then get out,” the little man said to Bodie and Lon. “I don’t need your trouble.” He turned and headed for the steaming kitchen at the back of the building.
“One hell of a nervous town,” Lon said.
“Maybe they got reason to be nervous,” Bodie said. “Couple of dead lawmen ain’t exactly the easiest kind of skeletons to have in your closet.”
“You figure they’re jumpy enough to hassle every stranger who rides in?”
“Could be.”
The meal came a little while later. Bodie ate slowly, conscious of the tension in the air.
The door opened with a crash and the three deputies eased into the room. A fourth man followed them. He was tall, with unusually broad shoulders. His brown face was severe, his mouth little more than a bloodless slit. He was dressed all in black and high on his left hip he wore a long-barreled Colt, butt forward and angled across his belly. He paused just inside the door, hostile eyes raking the assembled customers.
“Everybody out!” he rapped. “Now!”
Chairs scraped against the floor. A knife clattered against a glass. Half-eaten meals were forgotten as there was a general exodus towards the door.
“You reckon he wants us to leave as well?” Lon asked hopefully.
“Uh-uh. Something tells me we’re the main attraction.”
The black-clad man crossed over to their table. The silver badge pinned to his shirt glittered each time it caught the light. He positioned himself in front of the table.
“One of the rules I like to stick to,” said the man in black, “is the right to question anybody I figure needs questioning!”
“Mine is not answering questions while I’m eating,” Bodie said.
“The hell you say! Mister, you know who you’re talkin’ to?”
This time Bodie actually raised his eyes from his plate. He glanced up at the man. “Sure,” he said. “You’re the feller who’s spoiling my lunch!”
“You’re making it easy for me to get angry, mister!”
“Look,” Bodie said, “it doesn’t make any difference to me if you want to carry on playin’ the fool. You go ahead — but I’m finishing my meal.”
“Son of a bitch!” the man yelled. “We’ll see who’s the foo…”
He had grabbed for his gun as he spoke, swinging the long barrel in Bodie’s direction — but the man hunter had moved before the weapon cleared the holster. He rolled sideways out of his seat, swinging his right foot up into the man’s groin. It struck with a soft thud, drawing a howl of agony from the pursed lips. He stumbled back, his gun swinging towards the ceiling.
There was a moment when the room stilled — and then it literally exploded with violent action.
Bodie lunged up off the floor, head down, and hurled himself at the three deputies as they came towards him. The force of his forward motion drove them back across the floor. One of them collided with a table and went down with a heavy crash. Curling his fingers over the butt of his gun Bodie slid it from the holster, swinging it up and round, the hard length of the barrel clipping one deputy under the jaw; the man gave a strangled yell, clutching his hands to the gash that was spurting bright blood. Out of the corner of his eye Bodie spotted the remaining deputy dragging his own handgun into play. Jerking his body to one side Bodie felt heat from the muzzle-flash as the gun went off, the bullet chewing a ragged hole in the floorboards. Closing his hand over the barrel of the gun, Bodie forced it aside and slammed his shoulder against the deputy’s broad chest. He rammed the man against the wall and heard him grunt softly. The deputy’s face twisted into an angry mask, lips peeling back to expose his stained teeth. He lifted a hard knee, aiming for Bodie’s groin. The blow never landed. Bodie’s Colt smashed down across the deputy’s skull, opening a raw gash that spilled blood down the man’s face in glistening streaks. A second blow drove the deputy to his knees, pitching him face down on the floor.
Bodie turned away from the falling deputy. He was halfway round when a gun went off. Something caught him a stunning blow on the side of his head. The room blazed with brilliant light, which faded just as swiftly, plunging Bodie into total darkness. Dimly he heard more shots, each one growing fainter and fainter, and then there was nothing.
Chapter Four
Somebody woke him by tossing a bucket of cold water over him. Bodie swallowed a mouthful and half choked. He rolled on his side, and noticed that he was lying on a stone floor. He lay for a while, coughing up more water, wishing that the fierce throbbing inside his skull would go away.
Without warning a boot smashed into his left side. Pain burned its way to his very gut. He heard movement close by. Then strong hands caught hold of his wet shirt and he was dragged to his feet. Before he could get his balance he was thrust forward. At the last moment he saw the stone wall rushing at him; he was too late to avoid it. The impact made him gasp. He felt blood ooze from the cut on his left cheek. Somehow he stayed on his feet, turning away from the wall, facing his attackers.
They were all there. The three deputies and the big man dressed in black. None of them appeared to be in a friendly mood.
“All right, you son of a bitch!” the black-clad man said. “You want to explain this?” He thrust out his hand. There was a sheet of paper in it. Bodie only needed a quick glance to recognize it as the claimer for his bounty money, signed by the one-eyed marshal back in Dry Fork.
“What’s to explain?” Bodie asked. “It’s legal.”
�
��Legal? Haw!” one of the deputy’s snorted. “Tell that to Preacher!”
“Shut your mouth, Mose!”
“Now you got problems,” Bodie said.
“I got problems?”
Bodie wiped a smear of blood from his mouth. “I just said that.”
“I’ve heard you’ve got some kind of a hard reputation, Bodie. Let me tell you, mister, it don’t scare me. I ain’t no half-growed kid out lookin’ to make his name. I made mine a piece ago. Likely you heard of me — Buck Dade.”
The name stirred a distant memory in Bodie’s mind. The face had started him thinking, though the action had been subconscious; too much had been going on at the time. Now it came to him. Buck Dade had been something of a minor gunfighter seven, maybe eight years back. He’d been involved in a number of incidents, hiring out his gun during a spate of short-lived range wars in Texas and New Mexico. Then about three years ago he’d dropped out of sight. At the time Bodie had wondered what had become of him; now he knew.
“They do say if you wait long enough a rat eventually crawls out from the hole it’s dug,” said the man hunter.
“From what I hear, Bodie,” Dade sneered, “you ain’t exactly gone up in the world. From US Marshal to bounty hunter!”
“It’s a living.”
“Could be the death of you, Bodie.”
“Hey, Buck,” grumbled the deputy named Mose.
Dade glanced at him, frowning, as Mose leaned in close and spoke. Dade shook his head, Mose mumbled fiercely.
“All right! Take Cushman with you,” Dade said. “If you find him — bury him there! I don’t want him brought back! Understand?”
“Yeah! Sure, Buck!” Mose said. “Hey, Cush, you come with me!”
The two deputies crossed the room, leaving by a heavy wooden door.
“You won’t catch him,” Bodie said, making a calculated guess they’d been talking about Lon Walker; it was Bodie’s first thought of the Kiowa; obviously he had got clear during the fracas in the eating house — which was fine for the Indian.
“I think we will,” Dade grinned. “Mose and Cushman are damned good trackers. Better than a lot of Indians I know!”
“Thing is,” Bodie said, “you’ve got to get him one way or another!”
Dade’s expression hardened. “Meaning what, Bodie?”
“Hell, Dade, we all know what you’re up to here in Petrie. Playing watchdog for Preacher Kane and his bunch!” Bodie knew he was pushing his luck. If Dade decided that he’d been exposed he could easily kill Bodie on the spot. “Way I see it, your time’s just about up!”
“The hell with you, Bodie!” Dade yelled. “I figure you’re bluffin’. I don’t reckon you know as much as you want me to believe.”
“Why don’t we kill him, Buck?” asked the remaining deputy.
“Because dead he can’t tell us a damn thing, Tully. I don’t aim to cut and run until I know the game’s been bust wide open.”
Tully moved across the room in Bodie’s direction. He slid a thick, leather-bound club from his rear pocket, swinging it in his big hand.
“You want him to talk? He’ll talk!”
Buck Dade caught Bodie’s eye. “Believe him, Bodie. He could get a month-old corpse talking.”
Bodie put his back to the wall, tension washing over him. His aches and pains were blanketed as his body readied itself for the action ahead.
“You going to tell Dade what he wants to hear — or do I beat the shit out of you?” Tully asked; he was starting to smile, his face glistening with oily sweat.
“Go screw yourself!” Bodie said.
Tully stiffened as he absorbed the suggestion. In anger he lashed out with the club, a mistimed blow aimed at Bodie’s skull.
It was easier than Bodie had anticipated. Tully’s blow missed by inches. As the deputy’s body followed through, his bulk turning in towards Bodie, the gun holstered on his hip jutted in Bodie’s direction. It took no longer than a second for Bodie to snatch the gun from its holster. As it slid into his hand Bodie leaned in towards Tully, thrusting the gun at Buck Dade, hammer back and triggering…
His first shot caught Dade high in the left shoulder, blasting away a pulpy chunk of flesh. Dade was spun round in a circle. This meant that Bodie’s second bullet ripped through Dade’s back, tearing into the chest cavity and out the front in a gush of blood and tatters of flesh. Dade threw his arms wide as he pitched face down on the slab floor.
Tully, regaining his balance, made a grab for the gun. He failed to reach it, and moments later he felt the muzzle of the gun jam into the flesh of his side. His ears rang to the blast of a shot. There wasn’t even time to scream, to register a protest at the way his life was being abruptly and brutally ended. Tully’s eyes glazed with shock, mouth falling open in an empty gesture. His body shuddered under the impact of the .45-caliber bullet. It cleaved through flesh and living organs, pulverizing anything in its destructive path. Tully was hurled aside, blood spouting from the gory hole made by the bullet’s exit from his right side. He hit the floor hard, squirming in agony against the pain flooding his body, blood spattering the stone slabs around him.
Bodie swung the smoking Colt towards Buck Dade. The man was still alive; in pain and coughing up blood, he had dragged himself against the wall. Sweat beaded his face as he tried to lift and cock his own heavy gun. Bodie crossed the room in quick strides, kicking the weapon from Dade’s trembling hands. The man’s ashen face, creased with pain, jerked upwards, angry, defiant eyes staring at the man hunter.
“I should have remembered you were a tricky bastard!” he said.
“Beats the hell out of being smart,” Bodie observed. He crouched beside Dade. “Now — you want to tell me all about Parson Kane?”
“Go to hell,” Dade scowled.
“You got a doctor in this town?” Bodie asked.
Dade frowned. “Why?”
“I could get him to come and look at you.”
“You son of a bitch!” Dade hissed. “By God, you’d do it too! Let me die while you sat and watched! You miserable bas…”
Bodie rapped him across the mouth with the barrel of the gun. Something snapped in Dade’s lower jaw. He groaned, his head flopping back, blood dribbling from one corner of his slack lips. After a minute he shook his head slightly, raising it a little. Slowly he opened his eyes and saw that Bodie had replaced the gun with a knife he’d plucked from one of Tully’s boot-tops.
“What’re you aiming to do with that?” Dade asked. He spoke slowly and with difficulty, his face already badly swollen where Bodie had struck him.
“Trying to make up my mind where to start cutting,” Bodie said. “I figure I owe you, Dade. Hospitality ain’t one of your strong points. Since I’ve been in Petrie you sons of bitches have parted my hair with a bullet, kicked the hell out of me, and done everything possible to get me upset. And you’ve done that all right — so now it’s my turn, Dade, and the more I think about it the more I’m starting to like the idea!”
Dade tried to bluff it out. “You trying to scare me, Bodie?”
“No. Just tell you I ain’t playing games…and Mr. Dade, you’d better believe it!”
A nervous twitch started in the corner of Dade’s bloody mouth. He tried to force a confident grin. He still didn’t believe Bodie would use the knife. He carried on thinking that way up to the moment Bodie made the first cut. That was when he started screaming.
Chapter Five
Petrie had the appearance of a ghost town. Bodie emerged from the jail, pausing to buckle his retrieved gun belt. He checked the Colt, then eyed the deserted street. He didn’t trust what he saw. Somewhere out there were Dade’s remaining deputies, Mose and Cushman. Bodie wondered whether they’d located Lon. Or had he found them? The Kiowa was no novice. Bodie grudgingly admitted that the Kiowa carried a great deal of sense inside his head — it hadn’t been Lon who’d ended up in the cellar of Petrie’s jail! Cut it out, Bodie cautioned himself.
He stepped casuall
y down to street level, boots crunching the gritty earth. He could sense the eyes watching from behind shaded windows along the street. They were all there — the good citizens of Petrie — waiting for somebody to get shot. Bodie wondered who they’d prefer dead — him or Dade’s gunslingers?
Towards the north end of the street a figure stepped into view from between two buildings. There was something familiar about the man. Bodie watched the figure move up the street, boots dragging in the dust. It was the deputy called Mose.
The heavy Colt in Bodie’s hand began to rise. The approaching Mose didn’t seem to be aware of him. A frown creased Bodie’s face as he walked out to intercept the deputy.
The deputy stumbled, halted, eyes rolling skywards. He took another step, faltered, then fell face down in the dirt. Bodie was close enough to see the heavy-bladed knife sunk deeply between Mose’s shoulders. Blood had spread in a wet, dark patch down the back of his shirt.
Lon! It had to have been Lon!
Bodie twisted round, scanning the length of the street. Nothing. Damn! Where was Cushman! Maybe Lon had already taken him…
He almost missed Cushman. The deputy burst into sight fifty yards along the street, ran a few feet then dragged himself to a halt as he spotted Bodie. He lifted the rifle he was carrying and loosed off a jerky shot. It whacked up a spout of earth a yard short of Bodie. The man hunter cut off across the street, then angled towards Cushman. The deputy levered another round into the breech of the rifle, swinging the muzzle round in an attempt to keep it on Bodie. Even while he was doing that Bodie changed direction again, lunging forward and throwing himself flat. Cushman’s eyes flickered wildly, head jerking. The rifle barrel traversed, the muzzle dropping. Bodie steadied his Colt with his left hand, let his finger caress the light trigger and felt the gun lift as it fired. Cushman’s head rocked back, a dark hole appearing just above his right eye. The back of his skull exploded outwards and Cushman went over backwards, hitting the dusty earth with a heavy sound. Blood began to pool under his shattered skull, soaking rapidly into the dust, and a booted foot kicked, heel gouging the earth . . .