Chapter Twelve

“Bodie.” Angela’s voice was low, softly inviting. He glanced at her, conscious of his tiredness. “Yeah?”

“Don’t be long!” It was as much a plea as it was a directive, and its meaning wasn’t lost on Bodie.

He watched Angela vanish inside the house. He took the reins of their horses and led them across the yard at the rear of the house, pushing open the door of the stable. Taking the animals inside he led them to separate stalls, tethered them, then unsaddled and fed them. He tidied away the saddles and trappings, bent to pick up his rifle and gear, and that was when the world exploded around him.

The blow might have killed a lesser man. The force behind it, slamming down between Bodie’s shoulders, hurled him across the shadowed stable. He smashed into the plank wall, spinning off it to fall face down on the dirt floor. He lay stunned. For long seconds he was utterly helpless. Then life began to drift slowly back into his numbed mind, and Bodie’s survival reflexes took over.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a huge shadow moving across the stable floor. His attacker moved on silent feet, lightly for such a big man. But light or not he was almost up to Bodie, and that left him hardly any time at all.

Bodie rolled, twisting over onto his back. And looked up into the scarred, brutal face of Beth Arling’s mulatto bodyguard — Mantee. Seeing the mulatto’s huge, powerful frame, Bodie realized he would be in trouble if he didn’t do something quickly, and something positive.

His right hand slid down to the heavy Colt holstered on his hip, fingers closing over the butt. Bodie lifted the gun, easing back the hammer. Yet before the Colt was leveled Mantee had lunged forward, his left hand sweeping round in a brutal curve. He caught hold of Bodie’s gunhand, twisting cruelly. The gun slid from Bodie’s fingers, slithering off into the shadows. Still holding Bodie’s gunhand Mantee yanked him off the ground, pulling the manhunter towards him. Bodie sensed Mantee’s intention. He knew he couldn’t allow himself to be encircled by Mantee’s huge arms.

Bodie allowed Mantee to pull him close, then just before the mulatto swept both arms around his body, Bodie reached down and closed his fingers over the handle of his sheathed knife. Slipping it free he brought it up from his left side, the blade glittering in the early light. The blade cut through Mantee’s shirt and sank into the flesh of his right side. Hot blood spurted from the wound as Bodie shoved hard, twisting the knife as it penetrated deep. Mantee grunted. His right hand lashed out, catching Bodie across the side of the head, a solid blow that knocked Bodie back across the stable. Mantee, the knife still protruding from his side, lumbered across the stable. His great hands reached out and caught hold of Bodie’s shirt. He swung Bodie with all the ease of a child lifting a doll, releasing him at the apex of the swing. Bodie was literally thrown across the stable. He was brought up short by the wall again, his body bursting with pain. Dragging his feet under him Bodie lurched upright, ducking beneath Mantee’s lunging fists. Bodie drove a hard right into Mantee’s stomach. The mulatto grunted and hammered his fist down across the back of Bodie’s neck, spilling him to the floor again. Before Bodie could react Mantee had bent over him, his huge hands closing around Bodie’s neck. Mantee dug in his thick fingers and began to squeeze. Almost immediately Bodie began to choke. The pressure on his neck was tremendous. He couldn’t breathe and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he blacked out. He thrust out his right arm, fingers groping the air, seeking something, anything he could use as a weapon. At first there was nothing. Then Bodie’s fingers brushed something hard. He reached again and closed his fingers around the object. It took precious seconds for him to realize what it was. He had hold of the handle of his knife, still jammed in Mantee’s body. The handle was slick with blood. Bodie gripped the handle tight and yanked. The blade slid free from Mantee’s body, drawing a spurt of blood. The moment he had the knife in his hand Bodie thrust the upturned blade above his head. He was hoping desperately that the blade might find the vulnerable flesh of Mantee’s throat. It was a wild hope, but it was all Bodie had. He thrust and kept thrusting, jabbing at the unseen, empty air above his head, not knowing how near or how far he might be from his intended target.

And then the keen blade struck something solid. Bodie struck again, putting all his remaining strength into the blow. There was a soft, moist sound, the knife sinking into something fleshy. A deep, shuddering moan burst from Mantee’s lips. A hot wetness dribbled down the side of Bodie’s face. And Mantee’s hands were drawn away from his neck. Bodie lunged forward, dragging his feet under him, struggling to draw air back into his starved lungs. He could hear Mantee behind him moaning softly like some hurt animal, stumbling about across the stable floor.

Pulling himself upright by one of the stall posts Bodie turned, his eyes seeking Mantee. The mulatto was in the center of the stable, on his knees, his hands raised to his face. Mantee’s hands and arms were covered in blood. So was his face. The blood was oozing heavily from around the blade of Bodie’s knife, which was buried deeply in the mulatto’s righteye socket. The razor-like blade had penetrated Mantee’s eyeball, destroying it completely, slicing its way into the inner cavity. As Bodie turned in his direction Mantee closed his hands over the handle of the knife and yanked it out of his flesh. A gout of blood erupted from the wound.

Mantee stared at Bodie with his good eye. He seemed to be grinning through the bloody mess covering his face. He held up the knife and began to move down the stable.

Bodie backed off. He drew level with the stall he’d used for his horse. The horse was busy with the feed Bodie had forked into the trough only minutes before. It paid no attention to what was going on around it.

Damn! The pitchfork. Where the hell had he put it? Bodie backed up against the next stall. He heard something slither along the wooden partition and out of the corner of his eye he saw the long handle of the two-pronged pitchfork, disturbed by his contact with the stall, sliding towards the floor.

Bodie threw a swift glance in Mantee’s direction. He saw the mulatto pause, head cocked to one side, and then, as if anticipating Bodie’s thoughts, Mantee lunged forward, knife held before him, slashing at Bodie’s body.

Bodie turned in at the stall, dropping to one knee, hands reaching for the pitchfork. He took hold, began to turn, bringing the two shiny prongs up in a glittering arc. He sensed Mantee’s huge bulk rearing over him, the mutilated face red with blood, and then he thrust the pitchfork up at his body.

The prongs ripped deep into Mantee’s taut throat, one bursting out of the back of his neck. The moment he felt the prongs penetrate Bodie began to push, driving Mantee back, shoving hard. Mantee fought the terrible push of the cold metal buried deep in his flesh. Then he was pushed into a corner of an empty stall, and there was nowhere else to go. He dropped the knife and curled his fingers round the handle of the pitchfork, desperately trying to remove the offending prongs from his throat. He began to twist and jerk his great body from side to side, but all he managed to do was to worsen the effect of the prongs. The edge of one prong severed the main artery and blood began to spurt from the wound in his throat.

Bodie let go of the pitchfork. He moved away from Mantee. The man was as good as dead. Searching the stable floor Bodie found his gun. Checking it he put it away.

He caught a slight sound by the stable door and turned. It was Angela. She came into the stable, her tired face registering shock when she saw the state he was in.

“Bodie…what’s happened?” she asked, and then her gaze was drawn to the silently struggling figure of Mantee, locked in his death throes. “Oh…God…Bodie!”

“He was waiting for me,” Bodie said. “You know who he is?”

Angela was silent for a time. “Yes, I know who he is.”

“Well?”

“He’s called Mantee. He’s a bodyguard. For ... for Beth Arling!”

Bodie didn’t say a word. He scooped up his hat from the floor and made for the door.

“Bodie, where are you going?” Angela asked, knowing the worst was still to come.

“I’m going to see a lady about a mulatto,” Bodie snapped.

“Bodie…please!” Angela called.

He stopped, looked back over his shoulder. “Angela, something stinks about all this! I’m going to find out what.”

“I’m sure Raymond isn’t mixed up in it.”

Bodie’s stare was bleak. “The hell you’re sure,” he said, and turned away.

He walked away from the house. He hated having to do it, because he knew that the truth, if it happened to be the truth he expected, was going to hurt Angela badly. But there was no nice way round it. If Angela’s brother was mixed up in some scheme, and Bodie was damn sure now that he was, then there was no way she could be protected from that fact.

He made his way down the hill towards High Grade. The sun was barely showing over the horizon. If the rest of the day went the way it had started, Bodie figured it might have been better to have stayed in bed.