Bodie 8

by Neil Hunter

  He slid his right hand casually to rest against his thigh, then down to the holstered Colt, neatly slipping the hammer thong free. His Winchester was close, the butt rising from the leather sheath.

  Bodie didn’t enjoy being followed. Not knowing why simply added to that feeling. He halted the chestnut and reached for his canteen, taking a slow drink. While did that he filtered the sound coming from close by. The movement of leaves, stirred by the light breeze. A creak from a tree branch. The flutter of wings as a bird launched into the air. They were normal sounds. Bodie drew them in and dismissed them, listening for something not normal. His tracker had made such small mistakes they would have been passed over by anyone else.

  Like the faintest creak of leather as someone shifted position. The softest breath from a waiting horse. Easily missed if you were not paying attention.

  But the man hunter was. Over the years he had developed the ability to pick up on oddities. Sounds that were easily overlooked by someone not attuned. He depended on that skill. It had saved his life on more than one occasion.

  And it was about to do it again…

  ~*~

  Charley Crow felt the slight tremor in his hands and flexed them impatiently. He knew what caused them. Too many sips from his rum bottle. His own fault and there was no one else to blame. He had taken a couple too many and his system, unused to the potent liquor, rewarded his foolishness by taking his sharpness down a notch or two. Charley Crow corked the bottle and twisted round to push it deep into his saddlebag pouch. He felt the pinto start at his sudden move and he quickly hauled back on the reins to bring it back under control.

  He took his eyes off the man he was trailing for a few seconds.

  A brief mistake, but that was all it took.

  ~*~

  Bodie caught the closing shape coming up on his left side, emerging from the greenery that fringed the slope he was riding across.

  ~*~

  Briefly exposed as he crossed the shallow slope Charley Crow almost failed to see the horse and rider off to his right, breaking from a stand of timber. He saw them but was too late to pull back. The rider had to have seen him.

  Charley Crow raised his bow and took swift aim. He gripped the pinto with his muscular thighs as he lined up the arrow. The second he let his arrow fly at the rider, he jabbed in his heels in to urge the pinto forward, reaching for a second arrow as he did.

  ~*~

  Bodie heard the hiss of sound as the arrow burned the air close by. It thudded into a tree just beyond him.

  He saw the black haired Indian mounted on a pinto pony as the rider used his legs to guide the animal and set himself to loose off another arrow. The moment he let fly Charley Crow slid from his pony and ran for cover, knowing he was a big target on the pinto’s back. He crashed through the thicket growing around the trees, half turning to loose another shaft that flashed by Bodie’s chestnut.

  Snatching his Winchester from the saddle boot Bodie kicked free of his stirrups and rolled out of the saddle. As his feet touched the ground he slapped the chestnut on the flank and gave a yell that spooked the animal. It ran clear, leaving Bodie in the open, where he turned his rifle on the spot where the Indian had vanished and triggered a four rapid shots into the greenery. The .44-40 slugs chewed and slapped at leaves, tore chunks of bark from the trees.

  The brass casings were still in the air as Bodie took a long dive, sprawling full length on the ground. He levered and fired a couple more shots into the thicket, rolled to the right and pumped a couple more shots into the timber.

  ~*~

  Charley Crow had not been expecting such a speedy response. The chestnut’s rider had left his saddle, dropped and returned fire with barely a pause. As the Indian pulled back he heard the fusillade of shots, heard the whine and crack as the slugs peppered the timber. He had the sense to crouch low and stayed down until the shooting ceased, though he knew it would start up again if the white spotted where he was crouching.

  Nocking a fresh arrow Charley Crow peered through the tangle of the thicket, eyes searching for any sign coming from the white. He saw the man’s horse some yards off, grazing, but there was no sign of the man himself. A sheen of sweat beaded Charley Crow’s face. He acknowledged the man had proved he was good. It made Charley Crow realize the white was no novice. Which made him a man to respect.

  Still a man to kill, but one who would be worthy of an Absaroka warrior

  Easing back into the trees Charley Crow circled around, aiming to move in from the side after he had gained some distance. He was in no hurry. A man who rushed his moves was simply asking for trouble. He slid easily between the trees, through the thicket, his passing making barely a sound. His skill at moving unobserved did not fail him. Charley Crow was as good now as when he had been a younger man.

  As a true Absaroka he carried the legacy of his people, who had run free in this land before the white men came, and though the strength of the tribes had been reduced those who remained still carried the warrior spirit. Gallman and his men treated him like a servant and he took whatever they threw at him. Because it suited him. Because there was little else left for the people of the crow. So Charley Crow did their biding. Even their killing—but only because it suited him at this time.

  Charley Crow froze. He had picked up a sliver of sound to his right. In the open beyond the fringe of the trees. It was not a natural sound. Not a noise of The Mother Earth. So it had to have come from the white. He was close.

  Only Charley Crow’s eyes moved separating the light and shade. Seeking what was not part of the land. Something alien. Not even an animal, because the sound they made in their passing would have been recognized by Charley Crow.

  So this had to be the white. Who was showing much patience. Charley Crow allowed a smile to edge his lips. There was no shame in praising an enemy, and this man, Bodie, had shown himself to be just that.

  He raised his bow and drew back on the arrow, because he had seen the motionless form in the gently moving brush. He focused his eyes and drew down on his target. Heard the bowstring sigh as he put it under pressure and the seasoned wood creaked slightly as it bent.

  Charley Crow had to move to clear the tangle of the thicket. Just enough to give himself a clean shot at the white.

  ~*~

  Bodie had made out the Indian’s presence as he lay stretched out on the ground. He watched and waited, his rifle in both hands, held sideways on until he chose his moment to fire. The indistinct form, sheltered by the thicket and the half-light in amongst the trees, offered him a poor target. He wanted – needed—a clearer shape. Not a figure in shadow, broken up by the tangle of intertwining foliage. If he fired too soon and only wounded the man the Indian might be able to slip back into deeper cover. Losing Bodie any advantage. This had to be a clean shot. A one-time only because Bodie didn’t want to have to go into the thicket to draw his man out.

  So he bided his time. Aware the Indian was most likely doing exactly the same thing. Watching him and waiting until he had his shot. It was a nerve-tensing time. Each man wanting his moment to come, yet holding back lest he fire too soon and miss…

  ~*~

  …Charley Crow felt the tension in his arm and shoulder muscles from holding the bow ready. In his younger years he would hold such a stance for long periods, maybe waiting until a deer strayed into the right position for a killing shot, so he could release his arrow and take the animal down. Then his shots were clean and sure, the barbed flint arrowheads piercing and sinking in deep. The same applied when he was firing on an enemy. A true arrow would end a man’s life with certainty. Yet now, though the spirit was strong, the flesh was weaker. Charley Crow understood this. Admitted his years were slipping by and his body was not as powerful as it had been. And he knew the poison of the rum he had been drinking was also weakening his strength and his resolve.

  You must do this, because you are of the Absaroka. Still a warrior and better on a bad day than any white you stand against.


  A bead of sweat ran down Charley Crow’s brow and stung one of his eyes. He clenched his teeth.

  He leaned out a few inches further and dropped his line of fire. Made a final pull against the tenseness of the bow—and released the arrow. He heard it sing as it flew and felt sure he had his kill…

  ~*~

  …the shape emerged from deep cover. Head and shoulders. A drawn bow in his hands. The angle of the Indian’s body suggested he was aiming directly at Bodie.

  He responded in kind, gathering his legs under him and pushing to his knees, the Winchester sweeping round to target the man.

  The arrow came slicing through the air between them.

  Bodie fired.

  Felt a wrenching shock as the arrow hit the Winchester’s wooden stock. The rifle was knocked out of his hands.

  Out the corner of his eye Bodie saw the Indian jerk back a step as his .44-40 slug hit his left shoulder. The bow dropped from his grip.

  On his feet Bodie snatched his Colt from the holster, hammer snapping back as he moved forward...

  ~*~

  …Charley Crow felt the stunning smack of the slug as it hit his shoulder. His fingers opened and he let go of the bow. He reached for the pistol in his belt and drew back the hammer.

  Okay, he thought, let that sonofabitch stand up to this. I can play the white man’s game.

  He always cross-notched the lead slugs so they made big, messy wounds when they hit. So if he did hit the white man he would go down hard. No doubt on that score…

  ~*~

  …Bodie saw Charley Crow go for his handgun.

  He pushed his own Colt forward and fired. Saw the slug impact against the Indian’s chest. Charley Crow stumbled, his pistol going off and sending a slug wide. Bodie hit him a couple more times, the .45 slugs pounding his body. One blew out his spine in a shower of blood and gore. Charley Crow’s legs simply collapsed under him and he pitched down on the ground.

  Bodie moved to stand over him, smoke drifting from the muzzle of the Peacemaker.

  ‘Lost your touch there, chief,’ he said. ‘

  ‘That arrow would have skewered you, white man if your rifle had not got in the way.’

  ‘Might have—could have—it didn’t. I ain’t about to get into a sweat over maybes.’

  Charley Crow started to cough up blood, his body trembling from shock.

  ‘You are not going to get Lew Gallman.’

  ‘Got three of his boys already. Now you. I’m cutting the odds pretty close. You boys are not so tough after all.’

  ‘Lagrange and Stringer at the trading post? They are dead—not captured?’

  ‘They pushed their luck too far.’

  ‘I saw the woman there.’ Charley Crow stared up at the man towering over him, eyes narrowed against the light. ‘And I know you. ‘

  ‘Yeah, I’m the feller who just shot you.’

  ‘Back a ways I saw you at a Green River rendezvous. Few years back now. You were hunting then. I remember. Damn bounty hunter...for money…’

  ‘Certain sure I ain’t doin’ it for the good of my health.’

  Bodie shucked out the empty casings and reloaded the Colt, never trusting enough to take his eyes off Charley Crow.’

  ‘You waiting for me to die?’

  ‘Makes no difference to me. I ain’t got paper on you, so there’s no reward.’

  A gleam of recognition shone in Charley Crow’s eyes. ‘I heard you caught up with Silverbuck a while back too. That right?’

  ‘Right enough.’

  Charley Crow’s lips curved in a bloody smile. ‘Could be Gallman’s in for a surprise then.’

  Bodie slipped his reloaded Colt back in his holster. He heard a soft sound come from Charley Crow and when he looked again the man had died. Eyes wide open and smile on his lips.

  ‘That surprise,’ Bodie said. ‘Gallman could die from it as well.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lang Wilkerson went across the cabin and stood looking out across the basin. He had a bottle in his hand and kept taking gulps of the raw whisky. His mood was becoming increasingly dark. He leaned against the door frame.

  ‘Something ain’t right,’ he said, his words beginning to slur.

  ‘That’s what you been saying for the last couple of hours,’ Gallman said. ‘Gettin’ a little tedious there, Lang.’

  Wilkerson turned around, his face flushed—mainly from the whisky—and waved the bottle.

  ‘Well excuse me all to hell for being worried about our friends.’

  ‘You think I’m not?’

  ‘Don’t exactly look to be so.’

  Lubbock and Dawson, engaged in a hand of poker, heard the conversation. They stayed out of it. This was something between Gallman and Wilkerson and it wasn’t done to step into a private argument. So they kept their heads down and stared at each other over their cards.

  ‘Those boys know how to handle themselves,’ Gallman said.

  ‘So did Ramon. You forgot he’s dead?’

  ‘No,’ Gallman said in a calm voice, ‘I know Ramon is dead. Had to happen to one of us sooner or later. Jesus, Lang, we ain’t going to live forever. None of us. It was Ramon’s time. Could easy happen to you or me. We chose this business and it comes with risks. Ask Jake. Ask Kris. They’ll tell the same. Their luck went south and that’s why they come here. To sit it out until things cool down for them.’

  ‘Yeah, but they ain’t had anyone killed.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Lubbock said, seeing a way into the conversation. ‘That bank we busted. Well it turned into a regular shootin’ gallery. Lucky for us those pen pushers hardly knew one end of a gun from t’other.’

  ‘They was bustin’ caps all over,’ Jake Dawson said. ‘Could have been one of us took a bullet if they’d not been so scared.’

  ‘Scared?’ Lubbock managed a grin. ‘They wasn’t the only ones. Tell you, Lang, we scooted out that town like cats on a hot tin roof. We come that close.’

  ‘Never rode so fast, so far,’ Dawson said. ‘Damn it, Lang, we moved so hard we outran our own shadows.’

  Wilkerson swayed back into the room. He dropped onto one of the wooden benches at the table. He grasped his bottle in both hands. Stared with hazy eyes at Gallman.

  ‘You figure they’ll be okay?’

  ‘Take a damn good man to beat ’em,’ Gallman said.

  He didn’t know it at the time but it had taken a better man.

  And his name was Bodie.

  ~*~

  He didn’t bury Charley Crow. He neither had the time or the inclination. Bodie dragged the body into an overhang of brush, letting the natural overhang cover it. He pushed the dead man’s bow in alongside him. Bodie picked up Charley Crow’s handgun and tucked it behind his belt. Picking up his Winchester Bodie stared at the arrow sticking out of the stock. He worked the arrowhead out of the wood and tossed it aside. He examined the wood, relieved that although there was a hole the stock wasn’t split. He took out his knife and shaved off the ragged edges of the damage. Next time he was in the vicinity of a gunsmith he would have the stock replaced.

  Bodie saw Charley Crow’s pinto tied up in amongst the trees. He led the horse out into the open. He dumped the saddlebags on the ground before he stripped off the full trappings, setting the pinto free with a hard slap across its rump.

  His own horse was grazing close by, unconcerned. Bodie slid his rifle into the saddle boot. When he went through the Indian’s saddlebags the only useful thing he found was a hide bag of .45 caliber bullets which he placed in one of his own saddlebag pouches, along with the Colt he had tucked in his belt. Additional firepower was always handy. There was a brown bottle of rum. He left that where it was. Bodie didn’t take to the liquor. Rum always left a mealy taste in his mouth. That was all he found except for a number of tribal items. The Indian’s medicine cache. If the man had been expecting them to offer him a charmed life they hadn’t exactly worked this time around.

  Mounting up Bodie cast around until he f
ound Charley Crow’s trail where he had headed down in the direction of the trading post. Saw where they returned and moved into the stand of timber where Charley Crow had waited for Bodie. He sat and studied the hoof prints for a time, then swung the chestnut around and began to backtrack.

  He had no idea how far the man had come. That didn’t concern Bodie. He had his way in front of him. All he needed to do was follow it back to where Charley Crow had started from. He was pretty well satisfied he would find Lew Gallman and Lang Wilkerson at trail’s end, and as far as Bodie was concerned that was all he needed.

  ~*~

  As smart as Charley Crow had been there was one thing he couldn’t do. That was to eliminate the hoof prints his pinto had made. Which Bodie was thankful for. By late afternoon Bodie had backtracked the Indian to the cave where Vasquez’s body still lay. By this time the corpse had been visited by wild life and was not a pleasant sight. The only good thing about the cave had been meeting Ruby Kehoe and Bodie concentrated on that rather than the body.

  From the cave Bodie had seen the tracks left by the Gallman bunch, those of Lagrange and Stringer breaking off as they headed away, while the others had ridden off in the opposite direction. He fell in line with the signs of the moving north and taking to the higher slopes.

  Bodie followed until daylight faded. He made camp. Built himself a small fire so he could cook himself a meal and brew coffee. With darkness the temperature dropped and Bodie shrugged into his coat. He sat nursing a second mug of coffee and without even consciously thinking of her, the image of Ruby came into his mind.

  Ruby Kehoe.

  The young woman from back east. Though not exactly out of her depth. From what Bodie had learned she had done some travelling with her cousin. She had an adventurous streak a mile wide. It had been bad luck to have run into Lew Gallman and his bunch of killers. Her escape had saved her life. Despite the threat to her she had kept her head and even if Bodie hadn’t shown up, there had been a chance she might have survived.