Bodie traversed the steep slope, letting his horse pick its way over the uneven ground. He sat easy in his saddle, still conscious of the tender condition of his ribs. His face was still sore so he passed on trying to shave. He was determined not to allow his physical condition to cause him to lose his concentration. He had found the faint tracks left by Trask and Bodie was hell bent on not losing them. Tracking the man was turning out to be easier than he might have expected. Trask was not making any attempt to hide his trail. Most likely intent on making time and distance against anyone following him. It made no real sense. And because of that Bodie was concerned. A running man might be lax in his efforts to hide where he was going, but even the moist desperate would make some attempt to cover his back trail.
‘Horse, I don’t like the way this is stringing out,’ Bodie said. ‘It’s like he doesn’t care if he’s followed.’
The powerful chestnut, used to picking up its rider’s verbal comments, simply dipped its head and gave a low nicker of sound.
‘You’re a great help.’
He heeled the chestnut forward, still conscious of the nagging doubt in his mind. It was that doubt that made Bodie lean forward to slide the rifle from the saddle boot.
And that move drew him clear of the slug coming from behind. He felt the ripple of it passing him close. Kicked his feet free from the stirrups and rolled off the horse. Bodie managed to keep his feet under him as he landed, dropping to a crouch and bringing the Winchester into play. He bit back the surge of pain from his ribs as the impact of his sudden move disturbed them …
He heard a second shot. The slug kicked up a gout of dirt, a couple of feet to his left. Grit peppered his legs. Bodie spotted a dip in the ground and slid into it, twisting over onto his stomach and searched in the direction of the shooter. Saw a fading drift of powder smoke coming from a clump of brush. His sighting was confirmed when a third shot came, the hard crash of the weapon echoing across the slopes. His ambusher was using a rifle. Confirming that didn’t ease Bodie’s situation any.
He heard the thump of the chestnut’s hoofs as the animal moved away.
He stayed motionless and waited. He had the shooter’s position marked now, and though he hadn’t yet been able to see him in amongst the close vegetation, he knew he would be able to spot him if the man made to change position. Bodie’s rifle rested on the lip of the depression, butt against his shoulder and his finger hovering over the trigger.
Come on you son of a bitch. Show yourself.
It happened a couple of minutes later when the brush was disturbed and the manhunter’s patience was rewarded by a dark bulk easing to one side. Light flickered off the barrel of a rifle, only briefly, but enough to give Bodie his target.
He took a breath. Held it and led his target before stroking back on the rifle’s light trigger. He felt the Winchester kick back. Bodie levered and fired again. The shots were loud in his ears.
A man cried out. There was thrashing movement in the brush.
Bodie pushed to his feet, this time ignoring the pain in his ribs as he cut across the slope. He came on the clump of brush from the side. Picked up the groans coming from the heart of the brush.
The shooter was hunched over, his dark clad legs pulled up almost to his chest in obvious agony. His hands were clutching at the bloody wounds high up on his chest where Bodie’s slugs had hit off to the left side and due to the short range had gone all the way through and exited his shoulder, leaving behind large ragged wounds. Blood was flowing from both side of his body, already having soaked his buckskin shirt in excess.
The man was moaning in a continuous high-pitched voice, the sound grating on Bodie’s nerves. He bent over and cleared away the man’s dropped rifle and the .44 caliber pistol in the holster.
The man twisted his head round to stare up at Bodie who didn’t recognize him. The man had a pinched face with pocked skin and a straggly sandy mustache. He had lost his hat, exposing a bald skull.
‘I’ll bet that hurts something awful,’ Bodie said.
The man stared at him. Tears were running from his screwed up eyes leaving pale tracks in his dirt smeared cheeks.
‘I nearly had you there, pilgrim,’ the man whispered.
‘Nearly ain’t good enough,’ Bodie said. ‘You feel like telling me why?’
‘Gold pieces in my pocket. That do?’
‘Damn shame you won’t get to spend them.’
The man didn’t reply and when Bodie checked he was unconscious. Blood was still coming from the wounds in copious amounts. The man’s breathing was shallow. Bodie understood the signs. The loss of blood was becoming too much. The man was close to death. It would have taken the skill of someone like Doc Meerschaum to keep the man alive and even he would have struggled. The man had taken money with the intention of shooting the manhunter—in the back as well—and that annoyed him.
Bodie crossed to where the man had been concealed. Thirty feet further back in the brush he found the man’s horse. He led it back to where the unconscious man still lay. He stripped off the saddle and trappings and swatted the horse on the rump, setting it free. He took the man’s blanket roll and slid it under the man’s head. He felt the man’s eyes on him.
‘Thanks … name’s Dorn ... Linus Dorn.’
‘Don’t mean we get to hold hands in the moonlight,’ Bodie said.
‘I made a mess of it,’ Dorn said, his voice hushed. ‘Shouldn’t have let that woman talk me into it. She made it sound like easy money … ’
Bodie felt a shiver of expectation crawl the length of his backbone.
‘Monty,’ he said.
Not a question.
More a statement of fact.
‘Monty,’ Dorn said. ‘Hell of a name for a woman. Don’t you … ’
His voice trailed away. Faded to silence. And he was dead.
Bodie removed the blanket roll from under the man’s head and shook it out. He draped the blanket over the body. Covered the face. He pushed to his feet and raised his eyes to view the rise of the high slopes. The sun was stronger now on his face.
‘Monty,’ he said. He walked to where his horses stood waiting, mounted up and picked up the faint trail again.
~*~
Late in the afternoon Bodie turned in his saddle and saw three riders briefly outlined against the sky. They rode into a dip and vanished but he knew they were still coming in his direction. He figured they were two miles behind and the landscape would hold them back from making a fast ride.
He also had a feeling he knew who they were.
Cabot’s mustangers.
On his trail and making no attempt to hide from him. It seemed Will Cabot was full intentioned on forcing Bodie’s hand.
While he rode, checking the way ahead, Bodie had plenty of time to think. To try and work out the whole damned mess. Because that was how it seemed to him.
There was Sam Trask—the man who had brought Bodie to the Dakotas. A wanted man on the run. Accused of rape and murder. Who had taken murdered the coach driver even though he had left Eli Pruitt alone.
Now Will Cabot and his mustanger crew. There had to be a connection between Cabot and the fugitive. A connection Bodie needed to find.
And now the paid gunman sent out after Bodie by the woman called Monty. He had only met her the once in her restaurant and now she was sending out a hired gun to kill him. Thinking about her brought back the way she had acted on the matter of Bodie going after a wanted man.
Bodie figured there had to be a thread in the mix. One thing that linked everything together. He wasn’t going to solve it while he had a sorry bunch of individuals on his ass, and none of them offering much in the way of comfort.
Would Sam Trask be able to offer a key to the puzzle?
It was a possibility, though with the way the man was acting Bodie had his doubts.
Bodie realized he could be expecting too much from Trask. Maybe the man had no idea how much interest he was creating by going on the run.
~*~
Bodie was topping yet another ridgeline. He reined in to allow his chestnut to take a rest. The horse had carried him all this way without complaint and Bodie felt guilty. It wasn’t as if he had been hard riding. Far from it, but the sheer strain of climbing the Dakota high country must have placed a great deal of pressure on the mare. So he slid from the saddle, loosened the cinch on the saddle and tipped water from one of his big canteens into his upturned hat, allowing the horse to drink. When it had slaked its thirst he shucked out the remaining drops of water and hung it from his saddle horn, letting the warm sun start to dry it out. He took a drink himself before hooking the canteen strap back in place.
While the chestnut took time to crop the grass around them Bodie scanned the way ahead and in every other direction. Over the last few hours the thin trail had led him ever higher, but Bodie didn’t forget the trio of riders he’d seen earlier. There had been no sign of them since. Either they had realized that they had been spotted and were keeping out of sight—or they were drawing closer and awaiting their chances.
Chances to what?
To gun him down?
Capture him?
Bodie breathed in the clean air. It was fresher up here on the higher slopes. Despite the sun there was a noticeable coolness there. The high altitude would most likely turn the air colder as the afternoon wore on. Once the sun set the hill country would rapidly lose the daylong heat and the temperature would drop. Here in the Dakota high country the climate could change with unexpected swiftness. When it did the results could be severe and extreme in some cases …
~*~
… in January 1888, the so-called Schoolchildren’s Blizzard had killed two hundred and thirty five people, many of whom were children on their way home from school. The bitter, powdered snow spread across the Northwest Plains region of the United States. It came without warning, and it was said that the temperature fell nearly a hundred degrees in one day. It was a Thursday afternoon and there had been unseasonably warm weather the previous day from Montana across to the Dakotas, even as far as Texas. Suddenly, within a few of hours, Arctic air from Canada swept south. Temperatures plunged to forty below zero in much of Northern Dakota. Along with the cool air, the storm brought high winds the unstoppable, blinding snow. The combination created terrible conditions. There was nothing anyone could do to prevent it, or hope to resist its grip. In this high country due to its position, severe weather could set in quickly and there was little that could be done to prevent it … it was nature’s way to be unpredictable and for all his cleverness man had no chance when she decided to strike …
~*~
Bodie checked his holstered Colt to confirm it was fully loaded. He did the same with the rifle in the saddle boot. He was simply taking precautions. Not through feeling paranoid. From having stayed alive so long by always making sure his available weapons were primed and ready for use.
He found the tracks he was following led along the ridgeline and picking up the chestnut’s rein he walked it in that direction. Although the ridge had a rocky strata beneath the grass and mossy patches Bodie had no trouble keeping the hoof prints in sight. Having followed them for some time now he was able to recognize the shape, so he knew he was following the right man. The slopes he had ridden were dotted with stands of timber. A varied mix of aspen, oak and birch. Further north the timbered tracts grew thicker, interspersed with thick brush and swathes of grass. Bodie picked out the gleam of meandering streams coming down from the higher reaches of the hills. It was good looking country, maybe isolated, but that at least meant it was still mainly uninhabited. He wondered if that was because the area was way off the regular trails, or had not yet had its natural potential realized.
‘Take a good look, horse. Come the day it’ll change.’ The chestnut lifted her head at the sound of his voice. ‘Time you earned your keep.’
Bodie tightened the saddle, gathered the reins and mounted up. He turned the horse and put it along the line of hoof prints. Something told him he was about to ride higher, taking himself to the uppermost point of this section.
Bodie had his eyes above the top peaks and scanned the open sky. Gray cloud formations were moving in his direction. They had that heavy look that held the threat of rain. Nothing surprising for this far north and the altitude.
Now Bodie never welcomed rain. In most cases it was cold and not stating the obvious, it was wet. Gentle spring rain, or downright vicious, he had an aversion to it. Up on these open slopes it would come in with a chill and heavy hand, so Bodie unfurled the oilskin slicker from his blanket roll and shook it out. He draped it across the rear skirt of his saddle, there for fast retrieval if—no, when, he corrected—he needed it.
Overshadowing his personal objection to the rain was the certain knowledge that any prolonged downpour could easily wipe away the thin trail he was following. He pushed the chestnut on a little faster, his eyes fixed on the tracks.
Twenty minutes later he felt the first raindrops. Coming in at angle that indicated they were being driven by the breeze from the higher peaks. Over the next few minutes the opening spatter grew. Bodie felt the increasingly larger drops were coming at a faster rate. A sudden gust of wind slapped the rain into his face. It was cold and stung the tender bruises still showing. Thinking about the bruises concentrated his attention on his ribs. The dull ache was still there, reminding him what had happened. Doc Meerschaum had warned him about doing anything too strenuous. The hours he had since spent in the saddle were making themselves known.
He halted. Dragged the slicker from behind the saddle and pulled it on over his head. The dark clouds were pushing in faster now and he could see they would be overhead in a short time.
Bodie sighed. Nothing he could do but stay on line. Trask appeared to be continuing north. The ride towards the border and Canada seemed more than ever the man’s destination. So Bodie stayed on the same course.