by Neil Hunter
“For me?” Castillo said. “I think not, Bodie. You are not on American soil now. This is Mexico and here the rules are different. You will die and no one will ever be the wiser.”
“I will know, Father,” Victoria said. “Or are you planning to have me killed too?”
“Child!” Castillo snapped. “When I have resolved this matter you will once again take your place in this household under my direction! There will be no talk of threats, Victoria, because you have no strength behind your words. I have too much at stake to worry over the lives of two Americans or the juvenile rantings of a hysterical woman!”
“And what about the people you took from my village?” Lon asked.
Castillo sighed. “Those peasants? I fail to understand why you worry over them. People of no consequence. If you understood the ways of Mexico you would not waste your time on such trivial matters...”
A wild roar burst from Lon’s throat, his anger overriding his caution. Ignoring the gun that Preacher Kane held on him, the Kiowa lunged forward.
“Lon — no!” Bodie warned.
Kane’s gun went off with a thunderous crash. The bullet caught Lon in the chest. It failed to halt the Kiowa’s charge. He slammed into the Comanchero, and the two of them, locked together, reeled across the room.
Bodie, realizing that Castillo would not be standing idly by, took a long step towards the desk. He caught a glimpse of the Grandee straightening up from an open drawer, a revolver in his right hand. Catching hold of the edge of the big desk Bodie lifted it, tipping it back towards Castillo. A pained shout came from the Mexican as the dead weight of the huge desk slid him back against the wall, then pinned his legs to the floor.
As Bodie pulled away from the overturned desk he felt a sudden, smashing blow strike the small of his back. He was slammed against the desk, a heavy weight pressing him down. He arched his body round, fighting against the pressure on his back. Something slid around his neck and he felt his windpipe being crushed. He realized then that it had to be Preacher Kane. The Comanchero’s knees were pressuring his spine while the man’s arm coiled itself round his neck. He could feel Kane’s hot breath against the back of his neck.
Bodie began to choke, and there was a sudden roaring sound in his ears. Black spots swam before his eyes. He felt his Colt slide from his fingers. In desperation he brought up both hands, groping for a hold — any hold, anywhere. He had to break Kane’s grip on his throat. Deep down inside him, yet growing stronger with each passing second, he could feel the first stirrings of panic, and he knew he had to free himself — soon.
His clawing fingers caught hold of something. It felt like Kane’s shirt. Bodie hooked his fingers in tight. He jerked and felt Kane’s body slip to one side a little. He pulled some more and Kane’s knees released their pressure on his spine. Bodie dragged one knee under him, getting some leverage against the floor. He thrust upwards, away from the desk, and as he regained his feet he swung Kane’s body away from him. The Comanchero, his feet clear of the floor, was unable to stop himself, and Bodie let his own body be dragged round by the momentum of the swing. When he had faced about he let his body fall back, jamming Kane against the upthrust edge of the desk. A hoarse gasp broke from Kane’s lips. His grip on Bodie’s throat slackened. Bodie slammed a hard elbow into Kane’s exposed stomach. The man grunted in pain, slipping to the floor, throwing out his hands to stop himself, and he was on his hands and knees when Bodie turned to face him.
Bodie lashed out with the toe of his boot, smashing it into Kane’s side. A rib cracked under the impact. As Kane tried to crawl away Bodie ground the heel of his boot down onto his hand. Kane cried out in pain. He threw himself at Bodie’s legs, his body twisting violently. As Bodie stepped back he caught sight of the silver-bladed knife in Kane’s good hand. The blade flashed swiftly, catching the light as it arced up at Bodie’s body. The keen tip sliced through the material of Bodie’s pants, cleaving a long gash in the man hunter’s thigh. Blood pulsed from the wound.
Kane lunged to his feet, the knife held before him. He was beginning to smile despite the pain he must have felt. He came at Bodie, stumbling slightly, his left hand dangling at his side, dripping blood onto the floor.
Bodie pulled his body away from the searching tip of the blade. He reached for his own knife and found the sheath empty; the weapon must have slipped from its sheath during his initial struggle with Kane. A soft laugh rose in Kane’s throat as he realized that Bodie had no weapon. He closed in quickly now, the top of the knife tearing open the front of Bodie’s shirt. Another pass and the blade barely missed Bodie’s throat. Bodie jerked hurriedly away, half turning, and smashed heavily into the glass-fronted gun cabinet that stood against the wall at his back. Glass showered him, a sliver gashing his face just above one eye. Bodie ignored the broken glass tearing his flesh as he pressed back against the cabinet, and used it as a solid base from which to thrust himself at Kane. He ducked beneath the Comanchero’s knife, slamming his left shoulder into Kane’s stomach. Kane staggered back, clutching his injured body. Bodie followed him, slapping aside the hand clutching the knife, and slamming blow after blow to the gaunt face. Kane staggered back across the room, his body twitching each time Bodie hit him. Blood sprayed from his battered face. He lost his footing and fell back against the wall. Through the blood that streaked his face he glared at Bodie with his wild eyes. He suddenly became aware of the knife in his hand. It glittered in a deadly half-circle. Bodie caught hold of Kane’s wrist, twisting it brutally. Kane tried to wriggle out of his grasp. The two slid along the wall, their weight pressing against the nearest of the room’s windows. The thin glass cracked and shattered. Bodie shoved hard and Kane’s body bent back over the window frame. Twisting the hand which held the knife, Bodie put all his weight on it and drove the blade deep into Kane’s taut throat. Kane screamed, the sound rapidly changing to a muted gurgle. Blood erupted from his mouth. Bodie stepped away from him, leaving the Comanchero hanging across the sill, his legs kicking helplessly as he died, slowly and painfully.
Bodie took a hesitant step away from the window, wiping blood from his face. He began to turn, then stopped as he heard the familiar click of a gun being cocked.
He cursed himself for every kind of a fool. He’d forgotten about Armando Castillo. But the Grandee hadn’t forgotten about him!
Bodie twisted his body aside in a desperate move to get out of range of the gun. He heard the crash of the shot and the bullet smashed into the wall inches from his head. Plaster exploded away from the hole.
Facing about Bodie caught a glimpse of Castillo. Somehow he’d freed his legs from beneath the desk and had found his gun. Braced against the top edge of the desk he was cocking the gun for a second time when a gun blasted from across the room. A second shot followed. Castillo grunted. He flew back from the desk, driven against the wall by the heavy bullets. The front of his white shirt turned red. Castillo’s gun went off, his bullet plowing into the ceiling. His head thudded back against the wall, mouth dropping open, blood frothing from it. For a moment his gaze held Bodie’s, the eyes still blazing, angry, defiant, then glazing with pain and death.
Bodie turned and saw Lon Walker half-sitting against the wall. The Kiowa’s chest was a pulsing mass of blood. He held a smoking gun in one hand.
“You took your time over that shot,” Bodie said as he knelt beside the Indian.
Lon smiled. “I didn’t want to hit the wrong son of a bitch,” he said, and passed out.
“I will fetch help,” Victoria said.
She went to the door and opened it. A bunch of white-clad servants were gathered in the room beyond. They stared over Victoria’s shoulder with curious eyes.
“Maria,” Victoria said.
A fat, middle-aged woman pushed to the front of the group. “Si, Señorita Castillo!”
“Go and bring Pascal. I have instructions for him. Then I wish to see Garcia and Julio. I also want someone to go to the cabin of Tomas Silvana, and bring him back to t
he hacienda. He must be well looked after. I will hold you responsible, Maria. Do you understand?”
“Si, señorita. But what will Don Castillo say? He does not favor Tomas Silvana.”
Victoria’s voice abruptly held an edge of steel. “Don Castillo is dead!” she said evenly, and ignoring the collective gasp she added, “He is no longer patron of this house. From now on you will all take instructions from me. I am now mistress of Hacienda Castillo!”
Bodie couldn’t help but glance at her. He saw the way she held herself. Noticed the new authority in her voice. He smiled.
“I am now mistress of Hacienda Castillo?”
That was what she’d said. And by God so she damn well was!
Chapter Fifteen
The death of Don Armando Castillo had far-reaching effects on everyone concerned with the great estate.
Victoria assumed control of the affairs with an ease that was sometimes frightening to watch. Bodie, who stayed close by her side during the next week found he was constantly being surprised at her knowledge of the way things were run. He quickly realized that the estate would in no way suffer from the loss of Don Castillo. From what he could see it was more likely to benefit.
One of the first things that Victoria did was to close down the silver mine and free Lon’s people. The Kiowas were brought back to the hacienda, fed and clothed, and their wounds tended to. The hacienda’s big kitchen was preparing food without pause.
Lon Walker was pulled through by the diligence of Victoria’s nursing. After the bullet had been dug out of his chest he was settled in one of the upstairs rooms. The constant care he received made it impossible for him to do anything but get well.
Other matters were not so easily dealt with. There were still a number of Preacher Kane’s Comancheros around. They were reluctant to quit the hacienda and the promise of good money. It took the combined forces of the Castillo vaqueros and Bodie’s ready gun to finally convince them. There was a short, sharp gunfight. Two Comancheros died, another took a bullet in the leg, and the rest figured it wasn’t worth the trouble.
The Mexican pistoleros who had hired on to aid Don Castillo rode out the minute they realized that the Don was dead.
One of the jobs Bodie undertook was to ride up to the canyon in the hills and look for Father Lucero. He was certain that the priest was dead. To his surprise, and relief, he found that the priest was alive and well. Father Lucero explained that he had almost come under the guns of the raiding Mexicans and Americans, but had foregone his dignity in a desperate attempt to escape from them: he had waited for an opportune moment and had then run, finding cover in the dense timber behind the cabin. He had stayed hidden until the canyon became deserted, and had eventually returned to the cabin to rest and recover from the beating he’d received. Father Lucero returned to the hacienda with Bodie and stayed to help Victoria.
“You sure you got to go, Bodie?” Lon asked. He was propped up in a cane armchair, watching the man hunter prepare his horse.
“Nothing to keep me here any longer,” Bodie said. In a way that wasn’t strictly true, because Victoria had asked him to stay; in fact she’d been asking every night, using her pliant, sensual body to great effect. But the signs were clear as far as Bodie was concerned. Life at the hacienda was fine. It was slow, measured, leisurely. There was plenty to eat, plenty to drink. The weather was fine and the evenings were full of surprises.
That was the problem: it was becoming too predictable, too comfortable. And Bodie couldn’t stand the stifling effect it was having on him. He had business to conduct. There was the problem of collecting his bounty money on Preacher Kane’s Comancheros. Kane himself had been buried, along with all the dead resulting from Lon’s explosive episode, so Bodie wasn’t going to have tangible proof that the bunch had been broken up. He figured he’d have to do it through his ex-boss Lannigan. Bodie couldn’t see any problem there. Bodie had done Lannigan a favor by getting rid of the crooked law in Petrie. So the man owed him! Lannigan wouldn’t like getting involved, but he wouldn’t have much choice. And Bodie figured he was entitled to as much bounty as he could get from this job. He’d gone through enough to collect it. And anyhow, the money never lasted him long. A couple of weeks living it up soon cut down a fat roll of bills. If he took the flyer through to San Francisco it would be gone in less time. A man could have himself one hell of a time in Frisco, but he paid for every damn minute of it.
“You going back with your people?” Bodie asked the Kiowa.
Lon shrugged. “Maybe I’ll ride ’em back to the village. See they get settled again.”
“You ain’t staying with ’em?”
“No.” Lon glanced up at Bodie. “I can’t go back to that now, Bodie,” he said. “I ain’t no damn reservation Indian. Hell, Bodie, could you?”
“Ain’t no such thing as going back, I suppose. You move on and life changes. It changes you and it changes whatever you left behind. You go back it just ain’t what you left.”
“Plenty of cattle outfits I can choose from. I’ll find my way. And someday I’ll find whatever it is I’m looking for.”
Bodie took the Kiowa’s hand. “Maybe see you sometime, Lon,” he said. “You take care now, you crazy Indian!”
“Yeah, sure,” Lon said. “You too, Bodie.”
Victoria was waiting at the front of the hacienda.
“I do not want you to go, Bodie,” she said.
“Ain’t that far I can’t ride down to see you one day,” he said.
Victoria pouted for a second. “I am very selfish,” she admitted. “I want you for myself, Bodie. I do not like to think of any other women sharing you.”
“Honey, you make it sound like I was a plucked chicken straight out of the oven.”
“A chicken you are not,” Victoria smiled. She put her arms round him. “Can I not persuade you to stay longer?”
“I’ve stayed long enough, Victoria. Best I go now — before it gets too complicated.”
“I should know there is no way to hold a breeze in my hand,” she said wistfully. “You are like the breeze, Bodie. You come out of nowhere and linger for a while. And you bring fresh scents, strange feelings — and then you go.”
Bodie climbed into the saddle. “One day I’ll come calling,” he promised. “When you’ve had time to make something of this place.”
“I hold you to that. And I will make something. The Castillo name will be as it was before. A good name, Bodie. A fine, proud name.”
Bodie raised his hand and touched his heels to his horse, taking it across the terrace and out through the high gates of the Hacienda Castillo. Once clear of the town he turned the animal to the north and rode on…
About the Author
Neil Hunter is, in fact, the prolific Lancashire-born writer Michael R. Linaker. As Neil Hunter, Mike wrote two classic western series, BODIE THE STALKER and JASON BRAND. Under the name Richard Wyler he produced four stand-alone westerns, INCIDENT AT BUTLER’S STATION, THE SAVAGE JOURNEY, BRIGHAM’S WAY and TRAVIS.
ALSO BY NEIL HUNTER
Featuring BODIE THE STALKER
Trackdown
Bounty Hunter
The Killing Trail
Hangtown
Featuring JASON BRAND
Gun for Hire
Hardcase
Lobo
High Country Kill
Day of the Gun
Featuring THE TYLERS
Brigham's Way
Jacob's Road
Featuring CADE (Science Fiction)
Darkside
Hardcase
Firestreak
Scorpion (Horror)
Writing as Richard Whyler
Incident at Butler's Station (Piccadilly Publishing Presents #1)
Piccadilly Publishing
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