by Neil Hunter
‘Good looking woman,’ he said as he took his seat again.
‘Always was polite. Friendly. Ran that restaurant well enough. Can hardly believe the way it’s turned out.’
‘They do say the face folk show to the world can be just one side of the coin. Never can tell what goes on the other.’
‘So what happens now? How long do we keep her locked up here? Drunks I get from time to time usually sleep it off overnight and get booted out come morning. Can’t do that with Monty.’
‘She’ll have to stay for the time being. I’ll contact Yankton. See how they want to handle things. Best I can do right now.’
‘I guess. This is going to stick with Colton. Give us a reputation. Killings. Murder. Gunfight in the street…’
LeRoy nodded. ‘And it isn’t over yet,’ he said.
He was thinking about Sam Trask. The wanted fugitive. A killer on the run.
And with Bodie still on his trail it most definitely was not over yet…
Chapter Seventeen
Sam Trask, also known as Lester Kincaid, Jack Bercow and Orrin Bassinger, was finding that multiple names were of little use, or comfort, when he was stranded on a rocky hillside in the northern Dakotas. He had ridden his spare horse over treacherous ground, causing the animal to step into a deep pothole and break a leg. He had ended the beast’s agony with a single shot to the brain and had then allowed himself a moment of wild rage, cursing his foul luck, the world in general, and anything else he could bring to mind. Only when he had screamed his way to silence did he sit down and allow his fevered brain to cool off. His wild rages came often and when they did he was uncontrollable. Anyone around him during one of his spells could count themselves lucky to escape untouched. He was likely to lash out with his fists, or anything he could get his hands on. Oddly he only ever inflicted these murderous rages on women. Never men. He had a particular obsession with hurting the female species. And as they were usually working girls these indignities were regarded as hazards of the job and seldom reported.
Though it never came to anyone’s attention, Trask’s motivation for the violence was simple enough. He punished women to hit back at the mother he saw as having failed him. Who had striven to better herself at any cost. That cost was near-abandoning him over long periods. Leaving him with other women who were supposed to care for him while she was away. Unfortunately, most of those women were barely able to take care of themselves, let alone a young boy. And there were those who mistreated him. Over the empty years that mistreatment came in the form of physical and sexual assault, leaving him bitter, full of hate towards the female sex, and yet still yearning for the love of a mother who only realized what had happened too late. The boy had been formed into a man who was near-incapable of true affection, and could only achieve his pleasure by hurting others, through violence or cruel sexual gratification.
He had made a big mistake when he had gone too far with one of his female victims. He had brutally raped her and in his sexual frenzy he had beaten and then strangled her. One of the girl’s friends had walked in before he could move on. She recognized him before he knocked her down and fled.
It wasn’t the first time he had killed, but the only time it had been a woman. Trask understood the trouble he could be in if he was caught. Murdering a man was bad enough. The unwritten rules of the frontier frowned upon wanton killing of women. He had marked himself by his actions and he knew he needed to clear out of the country until matters cooled down. If he could get across the border into the vast Canadian wilderness he could lie low for as long as he needed.
Trask didn’t concern himself too much with regret over the heinous crime. His unfeeling personality left him without the emotion. In his mind the girl had been responsible for her own demise. She had fought him as he ravaged her and that resistance had inflamed his rage. Once Trask was in that state of mind reasoning vanished. There was nothing to hold him back. The only clear thing he could bring to mind was the fact that the girl’s face as she died took on the look of his mother. It enraged him even more and forced him to increase his act of brutality.
Knowing he needed to get away from the area he had headed up country, taking himself by back trails and avoiding as much contact as he could. He only stopped to visit his father’s mustang camp and talk his way into being supplied with a fresh horse and supplies. He made no mention of his escape from the law. Or that he had killed the girl and the stage driver. By the time the news reached the isolated camp he would be far away. Hopefully across the border and lost in the Canadian wilderness. He knew there was poster out for him, bearing his likeness. It was as he was gradually working his way across country, avoiding communities, he had called in at the place run by Isaac Gibbs. He had intended taking a couple of fresh horses before he rode further north.
The unexpected appearance of the man called Bodie, who Trask knew as a bounty hunter, had alerted him. It had only been the intrusion of the three men from his father’s mustang crew that had given Trask the opportunity to turn matters to his advantage and escape. He had put Gibbs and his daughter down and had shot Bodie when the man stepped through the door.
Trask had used the time on his own to set himself up with a fresh horses from Gibbs’ stable. He had chosen a powerful dun colored animal he knew could get him up country and across the border. He was more than familiar with the way. He had taken himself into Canada on a number of occasions when he needed to hide away and was able to stay off regular trails. With his horse prepared and gathering supplies from the house, Trask had set off. He didn’t hurry because he felt safe in the knowledge no one knew where he was headed. He had dealt with witnesses including the manhunter. And Bodie himself had put down the men his father had sent so he was free and clear.
The inclement weather would help to clear his trail. Trask felt confident his ride to Canada would be trouble free. The country was big and thinly populated and Trask knew places he could go to and stay
Rain had given way to colder weather that in turn brought snow down off the high peaks. It wasn’t the first time Trask had faced the changeable climate here in the rugged slopes so at first he was not overly concerned. He had buttoned up the long, heavy coat he wore, pulled on thick gloves, and set himself for the ride ahead. The snowstorm developed into something he had not anticipated and even Trask found himself foundering after a few hours. A look at the sky told him this was going to be a really bad storm. The temperature plummeted and he felt the cold despite his thick clothing. He felt the snow forming thin ice on his cheeks, clinging to his skin. The layer of snow on the ground slowed his horse as it plodded forward reluctantly. It hesitated a number of times and Trask struggled to keep it moving.
He realized he was going to need to find cover before too long. He could easily perish out here while this storm continued. Trask looked around. He was still able to recognize landmarks the storm had not yet covered. He turned the horse and crossed a stretch of ground that brought him to a rocky section where he knew there was a refuge. He eased out of the saddle, taking the reins and leading the horse the final yards that brought him to a dark space in the rock wall. It was the entrance to a cave Trask had used a couple of times previously. There was enough height to allow his horse to walk inside and Trask led it in deep. A little drifting snow lay just inside. Trask knew the cave went back a long way into the rock formation and he would be protected.
He shook the snow off his coat and hat, swept off as much as he could from the horse. In the light that came from the entrance Trask checked out the space. He inspected the cave floor, noting that there were no signs of previous occupation. Neither human or animal. He took his rifle and paced deeper into the cave formation. He knew it went back a couple of hundred feet, making a right hand curve some way in. Partway along water seepage had created a small pool where countless years had worn away at the rock to form a small pan. The water was always cold, summer or winter. As a priority Trask went and collected his canteen, filling it with fresh water,
then led the horse to the pan and allowed it to drink. From the substantial supply sack he took a bag of oats and fed the dun, then left it by the water, taking his possibles sack back with him, along with his blanket roll. He had taken food from the kitchen at the Gibbs. Cold meat and a loaf of bread. He had the makings for coffee but no means of having a fire inside the cave. He had found a half-bottle of whiskey at the house so that was going to have to make do.
He placed his blankets on the floor as a cushion and sat with his back to the cave wall. From where he sat he could see the entrance and the still falling snow. He ate, finding the cooked beef tasty. A swallow of liquor helped it go down. Later he rolled himself a smoke and watched the light fade outside. Shadows lengthened inside the cave.
Trask pulled his coat tight. He was not as warm as he would have liked but at least he was out of the storm and he was prepared to put up with a degree of discomfort. He could hear the dun’s hoofs on the rock floor. It had been fed and it had water. It wouldn’t be going anywhere. He stared at the open entrance of the cave for a while and when he had finished his quirly he folded his arms over his chest and closed his eyes. He was asleep quickly as always.
Sam Trask never had problems getting to sleep. He figured it was because he had a clear conscience. Trask had never suffered guilt. Not for anything he had done, or anything he thought. When he slept, with the snow swirling about the mouth of the cave, he slept with all the innocence of a newborn baby.
Chapter Eighteen
Light flurries of snow had drifted partway along the cleft but didn’t reach where Bodie had made his bed for the night. He came awake with first light, climbing slowly to his feet and feeling every ache and sore spot.
Every time, he told himself, you take a beating and still carry on.
He knew it and he did just the opposite of good sense. If Ruby could see him now she would not be amused, and he wouldn’t have blamed her. He managed a grin at the thought.
Crossing to the chestnut he laid the blanket in place, then swung the saddle across its back, causing a surge of pain from his ribs. Moving carefully he cinched the saddle in place and loaded the rest of his gear, tying on his blanket roll and possibles sack. He hoisted himself on her back, took up the reins and guided the horse outside.
The night’s heavy storm had abated for the most part. A light fall still came down from the pale sky. At least the wind had dropped to a light breeze. The cold air chilled Bodie’s skin. He sat for a moment, checking the way ahead.
The fallen snow had laid a white blanket over everything, softening outlines and hanging from the drooping limbs of the trees. The low temperature had formed a light crust on the surface, the horse’s hoofs making brittle sounds as it moved forward. Bodie patted the sleek neck, feeling the chestnut’s flesh ripple.
‘Let’s find that sonofabitch,’ Bodie said. ‘Maybe then we can both get some real rest.’
~*~
It was full light when Trask led his horse from the cave and mounted. Only a light snow was falling, the main storm having spent itself out. He had given the dun the remaining oats, fed himself with the last of the beef, so at least any hunger pangs would be held off for a while.
He sat for a time, setting his trail. Despite the covering of snow that seemingly altered the lay of the land, Trask knew where he was. His gaze followed the higher peaks and was able to recognize particular formations. By his reckoning he estimated another day would see him over the border. He took into account that his progress would be dictated by the snow covering the ground. It would slow him. And he would need to take extra care because any ground hazards were covered by the smooth layer of snow. He thought back to the accident that had lost him his second horse. He admitted that had been down to his own carelessness. Taking risks. He had paid the price.
Trask kicked in his heels and the dun moved off, its gait cautious as it pushed through the snow. He didn’t force the pace. The horse would find its own path.
He kept his long coat closed tight around his body against the temperature, which was still low. Trask knew the higher he rode the colder it would turn. Before he reached the final pass through the peaks it would get even colder. It was unavoidable. He could feel the chill starting to penetrated his clothing and thrust his gloved right hand inside his coat. He wasn’t about to risk having his fingers turn numb with cold in case he need to get to his gun.
Sam Trask had found it wise to always anticipate problems. If something happened to present him with a challenge, being unable to react could turn out to be fatal. He hadn’t stayed alive and free for so long because of making such mistakes. That was all it took.
One mistake.
Make that mistake and it was the end.
Slow as his progress was Trask figured he would at least reach the pass before dark. He might not ride through due to the weather conditions, which meant another night out here. He would be satisfied to get to the pass and camping out on the American side was acceptable. There were difficult sections to cross taking the pass. Trask saw no reason to put himself in danger just to gain few hours. Slipping and falling into some deep crevasse was something he had no wish to face. He had already lost one horse due to his lack of care. He wouldn’t let that happen a second time. A man would be foolish to ignore chance such a thing. He had come this far and had no desire to give it all up now.
The dun labored along a long slope where wind had drifted the snow to a thin layer. In some sections Trask could see the fractured surface of the slope’s surface. He let the horse rest and shifted in his saddle, turning his stiff body left and right to ease the muscles. He made no conscious effort to check behind him be when he did look back the way he had come a harsh sound came from his lips.
Far behind him, still on the lower slope but moving in a direct line that followed the tracks he had left since moving out from the cave, was a lone rider.
Too far for Trask to recognize, but visible enough to see he was on Trask’s trail. There was no doubt.
Trask was being followed.
The rider came on. Slow and deliberate. Fixed on his path.
If he had been able to spot the rider, had Trask been seen as well?
Something told him the answer would be yes.
Trask felt anger rising. Starting to bubble up from deep inside. He knew if he didn’t clamp down on it that anger would turn to blind rage. Affect him so strongly he would not be able to control it, and right now the last thing he could afford was to allow himself to lose that control.
He slid his rifle from the saddle boot and raised it. He had it to his shoulder before he saw the stupidity of his action. The rider was far beyond his rifle’s effective range. Too far. The slug wouldn’t even reach halfway before it dropped. Even if the rider had been within range it would have been a difficult shot. Trask would have been the first to accept he was not that good with a rifle. At close range maybe, but not at a distance. He preferred the close work a pistol offered—or even closer with a knife. Really close when it came to employing the cold steel of a blade. Just the thought brought a smile to his face. Nothing suited him better than the feel of a silent blade slipping into yielding flesh and bringing the shocked expression to the face of the victim. Working a length of razor-sharp metal into a body, feeling it cut through flesh and organs. Releasing the warm flood of blood…Trask was aware of the sensation of pleasure rising in his body at the images crowding his mind and had to push them aside before they took him over too much. If he lost track of what was important right now…
He jammed the rifle back into the saddle boot and snapped back to reality. Clasping his hands across the saddle horn he concentrated on the distant rider. Still too far away to recognize. Not that it mattered in the end. Trask would blow him out of his saddle once he came into range.
Keep coming, friend, because I’ll be waiting for you. The longer you take to get closer means the longer you stay alive.
But only until Trask decided otherwise. He liked the thought. That this str
anger, unwittingly riding directly into Trask’s sights, would only remain alive on a whim.
Chapter Nineteen
Bodie saw the distant rider pause. He felt certain Trask had seen him and was sizing him up. There was too much distance between them for the fugitive to do anything about it. The rifle Trask carried didn’t have the range to reach Bodie. He would think on that now and most likely consider waiting until his pursuer rode closer.
That presented Bodie with a problem. Trask was going to want to either kill him outright, or at least take down Bodie’s horse and put him on foot. If that did happen Bodie would find himself in a bad situation. So he was going to need to stay well out of rifle range yet still attempt to reach the man.
Bodie had figured Trask was aiming for the pass up ahead. It would be his way over the peaks and take him into Canada. From his observation of the surrounding formations in the area the pass was the only viable way Trask could get through. His past knowledge of the territory would offer him this opportunity and Trask would take it. The thought of losing the man now, after all that had taken place, didn’t sit right with Bodie. He never liked to lose. It was what defined him as a manhunter. The fact his mantra was to start a chase and not quit until it was settled. It had been that way from day one and Bodie had no intention of going back on it.
That went double where Sam Trask was concerned. His actions had put him at the top of Bodie’s current list. Too many people had died and others had been hurt. All that was down to Trask. Wrongs that needed redressing.
This pursuit had a personal edge to it now. The Gibbs apart, Bodie had his own score to settle. Trask had shot him out of hand and Bodie knew he had been lucky the slug had not caused him more than it had. Bad enough. The wound still made itself known as a persistent ache that acted up each time he put pressure on it by arm movement. That was something Bodie was living with. It was near impossible to make any move without it affecting the sore muscles. If life had been just Bodie would have been taking it easy in some warm place where the only exercise his arm received was from him lifting a glass of whiskey. That was something he wouldn’t be doing for some time yet. Instead he was riding up a snowbound mountain slope, close to freezing off his butt as he sat a rocking saddle. Somewhere in there he figured things were far from perfect.