by Neil Hunter
Pressed against the snow bank, feeling the chill touch of falling flakes on his face, Trask gathered his thoughts.
Kill Bodie.
Take his horse.
Cross the border and ride to a settlement where he could get treatment.
It all sounded so easy in his head.
He forced himself to consider what he needed to do. Clear his mind of all but the immediate thoughts.
Trask glanced down as he became aware he was cocking and uncocking the Colt. He could see the fingers of his gloved hand were streaked with blood from his head. He raised the hand to the improvised bandage and felt the wetness there. The wound was still bleeding. Not a good sign. He needed to move. To get into position so that when Bodie reached him he would have the opportunity to hold the man in his sights long enough for that killing shot.
But first he needed to rest. Just for a couple of minutes until the nagging pain subsided. His vision might be affected by the pain. Maybe even blurred. Coupled with the still falling snow it was going to hinder him. Preventing a clear shot. Trask couldn’t allow that to happen. He might only get one chance at Bodie. If he failed he would more than likely end up dead. Bodie’s reputation preceded him. He had no worries about bringing in a fugitive dead.
Trask opened his eyes, startled into consciousness and realized he had drifted. He twisted his body round and peered over the snow bank. A moment of panic seized him. Bodie was no longer in sight.
Where was … then he saw the manhunter. He had already moved on by Trask’s hiding place.
Trask realized he had missed the man as he drowsed. He could hardly believe his mistake. Bodie had walked on by while Trask closed his eyes against the pain in his head. Trask held back from making any undue movement to avoid attracting unwelcome attention. Yet a bullet in the back would kill Bodie just as well as one to his front. There was still a way he could make this work for him. He had no worries about a backshot. In the end it was who was still standing when it was over. There was no one around to see whatever happened. It was between Trask and Bodie—and Trask had no conscience when it came to his own survival. He never had. It was too late to start now.
All he had to do was fix Bodie in his sights and drop the hammer.
Step up close and put a .45 slug into the man’s back.
If he placed it right all it would take would be one.
A single slug to clear the way. Open the trail for Canada and his new start.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bodie noticed there were no fresh tracks in the snow ahead of him. The falling snow was not heavy enough to have covered recent tracks so quickly. If Trask had passed by his trail would still be visible.
Off to Bodie’s side a dark, blurred shape caught his eye. He took a closer look and realized it was the bulk of a horse, part buried. He was able to make out the bloody wound in the animal’s side.
Trask’s horse.
There was no sign of the man himself. The possibility of Trask being down there as well nudged its way into Bodie’s mind. Maybe his earlier thoughts had been wrong and Trask was lying under the snow. Dead? Injured?
There was no way he could go searching the area. Trask could have been thrown a distance. Be down under feet of snow. The feeling he might never know didn’t sit too well with Bodie. He liked to know for definite that his quarry was dead. It was preferable to having a lingering doubt.
He stood in the silence of the mountain solitude, the snow dropping gently around him.
And it was that quiet that alerted him when his ears picked up a faint, but unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked. It was something Bodie was familiar with. The metallic click of a hammer going back as the weapon was readied for firing.
It came from behind him.
Close.
To close to be comfortable.
Bodie didn’t think too long. He let himself fall sideways, taking the impact on his left shoulder, dropping, twisting his aching body and ignoring the discomfort, because he knew if he didn’t carry this off it wasn’t going to end well for him …
… the sound of the shot was loud. The encompassing silence of the high country seemed to amplify it. The shot missed, scorching the air over Bodie’s moving form.
Snow kicked up beneath Bodie as he brought himself around, the Winchester snapping into position as he picked up on his target.
Sam Trask, only yards away. A bloody bandage around his head. The glistening red running down the side of his unshaven face. Lips peeled back in a snarl of defiance as he made to adjust his aim.
The long dark coat he wore flaring open as he angled his body round. The muzzle of the pistol gaped wide as it dropped in towards Bodie’s prone form.
Bodie tripped the trigger. Felt the rifle jerk in his hands as it let go its .44-40 slug. He saw Trask step back as the slug struck him in the chest. Bodie levered and fired again. Came up on one knee, still cocking and firing until the Winchester clicked empty.
He saw Trask fall back, his gunhand swinging wide. The pistol fired its final shot skywards. Trask hit the ground on his back. His front was bloody, so was the snow around him.
Easing to his feet, his abused body protesting, Bodie stepped forward and walked over to where Trask lay. The man still held his Colt. Bodie swung a booted foot and kicked it from his grip.
‘If I’d got through the pass I’d have it made,’ Trask managed.
‘You’ll never know,’ Bodie said.
Trask stared up at the grim-faced manhunter. He made to speak but nothing came from his mouth but a well of blood and when his heart stopped beating even that ceased.
Bodie leaned against the chestnut’s bulk. His last reserve of strength drained away and he felt he wanted to lie down and do nothing. What he had to do was turn around and ride back down out of the high country. Away from the snow and the cold, back to what passed for civilization in the Dakotas, and beyond … well that would have to do for a start.
He took a final look at Sam Trask’s body, debating, then shook his head.
‘The hell with it, horse, I ain’t even going to think about hauling that all the way back to Colton. Anybody wants his body they can come get it themselves.’
He jammed the rifle back in the sheath, then slowly, so slowly, hauled himself into the saddle and sat for some time until he had enough energy to tug on the reins and turned the chestnut around.
‘At least it’s all downhill going back,’ he said. ‘That’s got to be worth something.’
The adventure doesn’t end here …
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