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  Marshal Ed Pruitt had been bringing Sam Trask to justice when the coach they were riding in was wrecked. Trask escaped, murdered the driver and took one of the coach’s horses.

  Now Pruitt wants Bodie to bring Trask in before the wanted man can ride out of the Dakotas and cross the line into Canada.

  Where Pruitt couldn’t easily cross the border into Canada, Bodie has no problems. But what should be a straightforward pursuit soon turns into something far more puzzling.

  Trask is a killer, many times over. Yet people are willing to cover for him. Beaten and shot, Bodie continues to risk his life to uncover what hides in the shadows. As he rides the savage hills, facing bullets and treacherous weather, Bodie is at his best, fighting the odds and proving that he’s the toughest manhunter the West will ever see.ne Jacobson on

  TO RIDE THE SAVAGE HILLS

  BODIE 9

  By Neil Hunter

  Copyright © 2016 by Neil Hunter

  First Smashwords Edition: July 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Author’s Note

  Until 1889 the Territory of what would become Montana and North Dakota was known as The Dakotas. A large expanse of land with little organized law. Wild and open, it was policed by the hard-pressed office of the US Marshals. Dedicated men who were responsible for enforcing the law over an uncompromising tract of land. Bringing law and order to The Dakotas was not easy. The Marshals were few, the problems many, and the Marshals had an unenviable task which they undertook with the dedication that became their legend…

  The formation of the states was recognized as unifying the former territory and opening a new era—yet in the time leading up to that time The Dakotas forged its own destiny and the US Marshal service did its part … though unofficially not without little assistance …

  Chapter One

  DAKOTA TERRITORY—1888

  Bodie opened his eyes and felt the harsh glare of the high sun on his face.

  He made no attempt to move because if did he knew it would hurt even more. He felt pretty sure his entire body was one solid bruise. If it wasn’t it should have been. He had been worked over on other occasions so he knew what it felt like. He closed his eyes again and shut out the bright light. He figured he might as well stay where he was until the pain eased off—but the way he was feeling that might not be for a long time. He could taste blood in his mouth from a cut on the inside of his cheek and explored with his tongue to see if any teeth had been loosened. No. He became aware of a sharp pain over his left eye and touching the spot he felt the ragged gash that was still bleeding. He let his fingers trace the contours of his face. More than one cut. Bruised and already swelling. Lips split and bloody.

  That would have been Cabot.

  He recalled the way the big man had worked his fists inside the rawhide gloves he wore. It had been Will Cabot who had been so eager to hit out. The man had been coiled. Ready to strike. And he had already shown his dislike for Bodie, so when the moment came he was the first to step forward, determined to prove himself. Maybe too determined.

  Cabot was there to defend his friend. That was the way he called it.

  Sam Trask was his friend and Bodie had no arguing with a man who stood up for his a friend.

  That was the pure problem.

  Cabot was defending his friend.

  Sam Trask.

  And Trask was the man Bodie was tracking. A wanted man on the dodge. He had been posted for the savage rape and murder of a woman. He had been on his way to jail when the coach taking him there had hit a section of broken trail and overturned.

  There had only been two passengers in the coach.

  Sam Trask, in manacles.

  And Marshal Ed Pruitt, his escort.

  On the box was the driver, Clem Bogard.

  The coach had been hired to take Pruitt and his prisoner to Yankton, where he would await trial. The unexpected accident had resulted in Pruitt being injured and while the lawman had been unconscious Trask had found the key to his manacles in the marshal’s pocket. He had freed himself, and had taken Pruitt’s handgun.

  When Pruitt had recovered enough to drag himself from the coach he had found Clem Bogard dead from a bullet would through the back of his head. If anything proved the point about Sam Trask, the cold-blooded murder of Clem Bogard was it.

  ~*~

  Bodie had learned this background when he had spoken to Marshal Ed Pruitt in Yankton. He had made a rendezvous with the Marshal, following a summons from him. Bodie had known Pruitt for a number of years and receiving a call from the man had aroused his curiosity.

  Pruitt had come directly to the point which was not unusual for him. The marshal was an experienced star packer, a man who had known his share of miscreants over the years. Good, bad, and downright miserable, he had seen them all.

  ‘Now I ain’t one for bad-mouthing a man,’ Pruitt said, ‘but what can I say about what Trask did. The stories are he’s a mean sonofabitch. What he did to Clem—well it just tells all. Am I talking crazy, Bodie, or what? Maybe that bang on my head kind of left me addled, but what reason could he have had for that?’

  Bodie was sitting across from Pruitt in the marshal’s office, nursing a cup of coffee. He would have made the trip to see Pruitt for the coffee alone. ‘How is the head by the way?’

  Pruitt still wore a bandage over the wound.

  ‘Grateful I have a hard one,’ he said.

  He picked up a flyer from the desk and handed it to Bodie. It gave a description of Sam Trask, had a neat sketch of the man and advertised the fact that there was a reward for the man.

  ‘I can tell you, Bodie, that is damn good likeness of the man. Better than any photograph.’

  Bodie read the flyer again—Wanted Dead or Alive.

  ‘So why bring me in on this, Ed?’

  ‘Tracks from the coach were headed due north. Up towards the high country. Pretty lonely up there. And him on foot with no real supplies ’cept what he took from the coach. Just the clothes he was wearing and a horse with no saddle. But he did take a rifle and a handgun. My guns.’

  That had left a question in Bodie’s mind.

  Where was Trask heading?

  He answered his own question when a map of the area pinned to the office wall drew his eye.

  Canada.

  Across the border lay Saskatchewan and Manitoba where a man might easily lose himself. Big, wide-open country, sparsely inhabited and where US law would be out of its jurisdiction. It was as good a place as any for a wanted man to ride.

  ‘Now I could go through all the motions and ask the Canadians for help,’ Pruitt said, ‘but damnit, Bodie, by the time I got all that signed and sealed, Trask could be up in the Yukon.’

  Pruitt knew the border wouldn’t stop Bodie. He would track his quarry wherever he chose to go. Which was why Ed Pruitt had brought the manhunter to Yankton.

  ‘No paperwork. No tin star, Bodie. Just you trailing Trask and bringing him back. Hell, man, it’s what you do best.’

  Bodie stood and examined the wall map. From the point where Trask had walked away from the coach, the terrain was wild and empty. There were a hundred places a man could lose
himself. Pruitt had pointed out the remoteness of the area. His point about Canada fit the picture too. There was little between Trask and the border. Nothing to prevent him disappearing into the great expanse of the border country and vanishing.

  ‘Bodie?’

  The manhunter emptied his cup and crossed to refill it. Pruitt was watching him closely, awaiting Bodie’s decision.

  ‘I get supplies provided by your office?’

  Pruitt gave a stifled laugh. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Bodie.’

  ‘Man has to make a living.’

  ~*~

  A living? Getting beaten down by a bunch of mustangers.

  If that’s the case, Bodie thought, I need to change my priorities.

  He made the decision to stop debating matters and get to his feet. It was an easier said than done proposition. It hurt. It hurt a lot, but Bodie was, if nothing else, a stubborn individual. Moving caused ripple of pain that felt as if they started at his feet and ran though him all the way to the top of his head. It wasn’t the first time he’d been on the receiving end of a sound beating, but never one as thorough. He made himself a promise that somewhere along the line, Will Cabot would be repaid for what he’d done. Bodie admitted his thinking was petty, even childish, but he also decided the hell with that. He was in a petty and childish frame of mind right now, and the thought of the satisfaction to be gained from giving Cabot a taste of what he was suffering right now gave Bodie a warm feeling.

  Eventually he stood upright—not as straight and tall as normal—but was on his feet. He remained there until the world stopped spinning. Forced the sickness from his stomach and took long, deep breaths. Even that hurt. Bodie closed his arms around his body, pressing against his aching ribs, and convinced himself there were no breaks. His battered body still hurt but at least he was standing again.

  He took a long look around. Recognized where he was. Yards away his horse stood, still tethered to a low tree branch. Bodie glanced down at his right hip. His Colt was still in his holster, held secure by the hammer loop.

  They had left him his weapons. He checked his horse again. Spotted the stock of his rifle jutting from the saddle-boot.

  Bodie had tracked Trask up country, spotting where his trail led to the mustanger camp. He had even seen the horse from the coach in the corral, its company brand showing on its hip. When he had asked the question the mustanger boss, Will Cabot, had turned on him and backed by his crew, had set on the manhunter with a vengeance. The physical and verbal warning had been the same.

  Stay away from Sam Trask. Leave him alone.

  So Cabot had initiated the beating, leaving Bodie bruised and bloody, but had let him keep his weapons.

  That left questions to be answered, but at that moment in time Bodie neither had the urge, or the ability to go into it. That would come later. The only concern in his mind was the fact Sam Trask had passed through the area. It was why Bodie was here. He had come looking for Trask and one way or another he would find the man and haul him back to Yankton.

  First he needed to get himself doctored. It wasn’t going to do him any good chasing all over creation if he required tending. As reckless as he might be on occasion, Bodie had sense enough to know when he needed the services of a doctor.

  Chapter Two

  When Bodie reached the town of Colton he first stabled his horse at the livery, asked where the town’s doctor resided and made the slow walk to the office.

  Doc Meerschaum was in his early sixties. A round shouldered and broad-faced individual with a fierce expression and a personality to match. Pale eyes viewed the world from behind steel-rimmed spectacles. He wore heavy mutton-chop whiskers as gray as his thick head of hair. He stared at Bodie silently pursing his lips as he examined the cuts and bruises on his face, and then told him to remove his shirt.

  ‘I do not recognize you from the town,’ he observed, his words revealing his German accent. ‘Are you new here?’

  ‘Yeah. And up to now I’m not impressed by the hospitality.’

  For whatever reason Bodie’s remark amused the medical man. He gave a raspy chuckle.

  ‘I never seem to be amazed at the propensity you Americans have for inflicting violence on each other.’

  ‘Just one of the things that makes us such a likable bunch.’

  Meerschaum made soft tutting sounds as he viewed the livid bruises over Bodie’s ribs. His powerful, square hands were surprisingly gentle as he made his examination. He murmured to himself in his native tongue, carefully probing and after a couple of minutes he nodded to himself.

  ‘The good news is there are no broken bones. Your ribs are badly bruised. No breaks. The bruises on your face also will heal in time. And the cuts. You are a lucky man, Herr Bodie.’

  ‘Doc, we have different views on what being lucky means.’

  ‘Ja. I meant you are lucky no broken bones have penetrated any organs. You will be extremely sore for a few days, but I can see you are a healthy and strong man. Tell me, do you heal quickly?’

  ‘In my business I don’t get much time to sit around taking it easy.’

  Meerschaum said, ‘And out of interest—what is your business?’

  ‘I look for men who have broken the law.’

  ‘So a lawman?’

  ‘Not officially … ’

  Meerschaum peered over his spectacles, working out what Bodie meant. He held up a finger.

  ‘A bounty hunter. So … ’

  ‘Doc, I hope that isn’t disapproval.’

  ‘Herr Bodie, you are the first bounty hunter I have ever met.’

  ‘Hell, you’re the first German doctor I’ve ever met.’

  Meerschaum’s laugh was genuine. ‘Then it is a special day for us both. Can you tell me who you are looking for?

  ‘Feller called Sam Trask.’

  ‘Not a name I’m familiar with.’ Meerschaum brought a bottle of liniment and applied it generously to the bruises. ‘This may sting a little but it will help to ease the bruises.’

  Bodie felt the liniment’s warm flush increase until it became uncomfortable hot.

  ‘Doc, what’s in that damn stuff?’

  ‘Only good things to help you heal.’ Meerschaum produced rolled bandage and proceeded to bind it tightly around Bodie’s torso. Very tightly. ‘This will need to stay in place for a few days. You should not do anything that will put a strain on those ribs.’

  Bodie kept silent on that. Sitting quietly in a rocking chair was not on his list. Sooner or later he was going to have to get back in the saddle and pick up on Sam Trask’s trail, sore ribs or not. Allowing too much time to slip by would only give Trask more time to get out of the area. Bodie was already losing out. He didn’t intend to let that go on.

  As he paid Meerschaum what he owed, Bodie asked, ‘Doc, couple of things. There a lawman in town? And where would I get a good meal?’

  ‘The marshal has an office back down the street. Turn right when you leave and you cannot miss it. For food there is Monty’s Restaurant across the street there, just across from the jail. Monty is good cook and the food is wonderful.’

  ‘Grateful for that.’ Bodie pulled on his shirt, taking his time because every move caused problems. He picked up his hat. ‘I know where to find you.’

  ‘When I hear you say things like that, I worry you are not about to do what I suggested.’

  ‘I’m not about to go looking for trouble.’

  ‘Something warns me you are a man who attracts it. Das ist so, ja?’

  ~*~

  The marshal’s office was located next to a general store on one side and a gun shop on the other. There was an ally between the law office and the gun shop, but not between the office and the store. They butted up together—Bodie was to find out the store owner, Ezra Pointer, was also Colton’s part-time lawman.

  The marshal’s office was closed up. Bodie was still at the door when a solid-looking man wearing an apron over his clothes stepped out of the store. In his forties, he had thinni
ng dark hair and keen eyes. He wore a thick, neatly trimmed mustache on his upper lips. He held a broom in one hand and paused when he saw Bodie.

  ‘Might not look like it, but I’m Marshal Pointer. Part-time. Rest, I’m Ezra Pointer, store owner.’

  ‘Nice to know there’s only a need for a part-time lawman. Suggests Colton is a peaceful town.’

  Pointer smiled. ‘Other way to look at it is we’re close to being a pretty dull town.’

  He reached out a long hand. His grip was firm. Bodie took it.

  ‘Name’s Bodie. I was directed here by the doctor.’

  ‘Oh? I can from your face you been hurt?’

  Bodie related his run in with Cabot and his crew. A look of concern showed on Pointer’s face.

  ‘Not that I’m surprised. That outfit tends to cause trouble come rain or shine, and Will Cabot is the worst of them all.’ He indicated the marks on Bodie’s face of a sudden. ‘They because of Cabot?’

  ‘And a set of bruised ribs the doc strapped up,’ Bodie said.

  ‘You here to swear out a complaint?’

  ‘No. I just wanted to ask if you knew the man I’m trailing. Name of Sam Trask.’

  Pointer’s shifting eyes told Bodie the man knew the name.

  ‘Will you give me a minute. We can go in the office.’

  The man turned and went back inside the store. He emerged, minus the broom and apron, shrugging into a dark jacket and brushing self-consciously at the badge pinned to his striped shirt. Back outside he led the short way to the jail, producing a key and unlocking the timber door. Bodie followed him inside. He noticed in passing that the windows on either side of the door had strong iron grilles over them.

  It being a warm day the inside of the office was close and dry. Pointer left the door open. Their footsteps echoed on the plank floor. It was a lawman’s office just like a dozen Bodie had seen before. Gun rack holding a number of rifles and brace of shotguns. Greeners, Bodie saw. All securely chained in place. A wooden file cabinet. Wanted posters on the whitewashed walls. A door at the rear, made from iron bars that would likely allow entry to the cell area. The place had the look of being well maintained.