Bodie 7 Read online

  Bodie was trailing three men who’d escaped from Yuma Pen – three men he’d helped to put there in the first place. But when they shot his horse out from under him, he found himself set afoot in the searing desert.

  If he was to turn the tables on the men now hunting him, he needs to reach the life-saving waters at Pinto Wells. But just when he figured he’s in the clear, he found another shock awaiting him.

  A face from his past. An equally dedicated killer – thought to be dead – who’s tracked Bodie down and plans to exact his own vengeance.

  Bodie figured he was safe after dealing with the escapees. But now he faces another challenge from the man called Silverbuck.

  This time it’s a struggle to the death, with no quarter and only one will walk away from the desert run…

  DESERT RUN

  BODIE THE STALKER 7

  By Neil Hunter

  Copyright © 2015 by Michael R. Linaker

  First Smashwords Edition: December 2015

  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

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Prologue

  His Apache name at birth had been Massai yet when he had grown and become a hunter of men he became known as Silverbuck…

  The Spanish word for him was Mestizo. To the Pinda Lickoyi he was a half-breed. His father had been a full-blood Mescalero warrior, his mother a young Mexican captive. His mother had died when he was ten years old and he had been raised within the family of his father, though never fully accepted by the tribe. When he was seventeen years old, already a proven fighter, Massai’s father was killed, along with a few other Apaches in a fight with the American cavalry in the rocky escarpments of the Canyon de Chelly.

  His mother had taught him Spanish and a cousin of his father coached him in English. By the time he reached his grown age he was conversant in both languages as well as his native tongue.

  With the deaths of his parents behind him and feeling unsettled due to his divergent bloodline he saw the isolation developing. It drove him away from the tribe and he took to living in two worlds. With his language skills he was able to pass among the Mexicans and Americans, dressing their way and remaining observant and at the same time quiet and subservient. His existence on the fringes of society allowed him to pass unnoticed and he learned to listen and not talk, picking up information that would be of use to him. At first he took on small jobs that enabled him to employ his Apache skills, though he played on his Mexican heritage which allowed him to move with less challenges. He tracked wanted men from the posters displayed and found he was good at this.

  Slowly his reputation built as he succeeded with each new hunt. From the start he asked to be paid in silver dollars. It became his trademark and before long he was being addressed by this affectation. By then he had become addicted to the lure of ready money his skills with the gun could bring and with each success his reputation grew. In addition to his man hunting he began to hire out his gun, unmindful of the reasons why he was being employed.

  So the half-breed Massai became the man hunter and gunman known as Silverbuck. He had chosen his path and found there was ample work for someone with his talents.

  He favored the impassive face of his people, his dark skin held tight over pronounced cheekbones, though the left one showed where it had once been broken. His black hair was chopped back to his neck, because it made him look more Mexican than Apache and helped him move around in the white man’s world, though he favored a traditional Apache headband that kept his hair away from his face. When he was on the hunt he abandoned his white man’s clothing and wore a faded blue shirt, a pair of washed out Levis and N’deh b’keh, the traditional, high Apache footwear. Around his waist hung a simple leather belt that supported the leather holster and the much-used .45 caliber Colt’s Peacemaker. A broad bladed knife was sheathed on his left side. He also favored a.44-40 Winchester rifle with a cut down barrel and stock. It went everywhere with him and was at his side when he slept. In a thick hide pouch, slung around his waist, Silverbuck carried additional loads for both rifle and pistol. He was proficient with them all and had no hesitation using them when needed.

  This day he squatted on a rocky outcrop, indifferent to the blistering heat, his gaze fixed on the lone figure moving slowly across the desert flats. A tall Pinda Lickoyi, he was known to Silverbuck. Alone and on foot, his steps slow and uncertain as he crossed the forbidding emptiness of the wasteland, he no longer appeared a threat to the lone Apache warrior as he had on other occasions.

  The big man was what the Pinda Lickoyi called a bounty hunter. He hunted men down for the rewards posted on them as did Silverbuck. Silverbuck knew this man as a powerful warrior. Swift with the gun he carried and merciless when he tracked his quarry.

  Among the Pinda Lickoyi he was known as The Stalker.

  Silverbuck knew him by his given name…he was called Bodie.

  And he was the man Silverbuck had come to kill.

  They had clashed when Silverbuck had taken a contract to side with men who were hired to seek Bodie. In a violent confrontation between them, the breed had barely survived. He had been left for dead by the man hunter. His face badly marked from Bodie’s attack, an arm and ribs broken and his throat slit open by a savage knife cut. If Bodie had not been in a running fight with others he might have seen Silverbuck still lived. Barely able to move, having lost much blood, the Apache had dragged himself away, found his horse and had ridden quietly from the scene after tightly binding his neck with strips of cloth cut from a shirt. He had travelled far enough to take him away from Bodie and had ridden out of the brasada. Back to the land of the Apache.

  More dead than alive Silverbuck had reached the place of an old Apache who practiced the healing arts. The Apache’s primitive home had been isolated in the unbleached high country, far from prying eyes. The old man saw to Silverbuck’s injuries, setting the broken arm, binding his ribs and sewing the gash in his throat. The treatment was basic but it closed the wound, leaving a thick, ragged scar. What the Mexican could not do was repair the internal damage to Silverbuck’s vocal cords and when his wound healed the breed found he was left with virtually no ability to speak. Anything he said came out as a low, harsh whisper of sound. Silverbuck stayed with the Apache for over three months, letting his ravaged body heal as best it could. He had lost two teeth and his nose, broken in the fight, though reset by the old man, had remained off center. The broken cheekbone showed as a lump beneath the skin. None of these things worried Silverbuck. He had no vanity where his looks were concerned. He was a warrior, not a weak woman concerned over her appearance.

  Over the long weeks of his slow recovery Silverbuck was barely able to eat while his mouth healed and he was in considerable pain. He accepted his limitations because he was Apache in spirit and the Apache bore pain and suffering as part of life. The old man brought Silverbuck Apache remedies that offered relief from the pain. There were herbs and plants that offered pain relief, known only to the healers for generations. And the Apache gave Silverbuck Peyote to calm his spirits and allow him the visions so he could pass the long days and nights in a restive stupor.

  While he rested, slowly gaining in strength, Silverbuck saw in his mind what he needed to do in order to restore his spiri
t. He understood the need for vengeance. It was a feeling he had carried inside himself for a long time.

  And when he was recovered and able to move on he left the old Apache’s place and took to the even higher ground to brood and make his plans.

  He understood he was now more alone than he had ever been. Many of The People were ready to surrender to the whites. Their days were numbered if they remained at war. It had become a lost cause and though many Apaches understood the changes might not be the best way it had become a choice between life or death. The leaders looked at the starving, sick children. Saw the inevitable end of the Apache way and they counseled their people to lay down their weapons and submit to the law of the whites. The majority did this but there were a few who stood apart and refused, determined to fight on.

  Silverbuck was one of those. He took himself into the mountain fastness, up high where few could follow, using the age-old Apache trails that remained unknown to the Pinda Lickoyi. Here, in the sun baked emptiness Silverbuck made his camps, moving often, only emerging when he needed to replenish his food supplies and to make raids on isolated homesteads where he gained more plunder. Building his store of ammunition. Taking anything that appealed to him. And always driven by his desire to find the man called Bodie so he could claim his revenge.

  He found his lone status worked for him and it also allowed him the freedom to search for the man called Bodie. Over long months Silverbuck searched. Sought information about the man. It was difficult keeping track. As a man hunter Bodie travelled far and wide, often going great distances that took him away from the haunts of the Apache.

  One of the Apache’s few contacts, always willing to trade information for the white man’s whisky, or money, spent much time around one of the Army posts and it was from this man Silverbuck received news that Bodie was back in the southwest area on the hunt for Pinda Lickoyi who had escaped the prison on the Colorado. From his man Silverbuck heard that it had been Bodie who captured the men and had them imprisoned in the place called Yuma. Silverbuck knew about the prison. It was a bad place where men existed in a living hell. That these men had escaped might not have interested Silverbuck but when he learned Bodie had been asked to go after them he became very interested.

  Bodie’s pursuit of the escapees brought him into Silverbuck’s territory. His hunting ground. It was a chance he could not ignore. An opportunity to claim his vengeance on the man hunter. To make him suffer long before he died.

  Knowing this allowed Silverbuck to become a watcher over the chase. It pleased him to watch it unfolding. As much as Silverbuck wanted to see Bodie die, he was also ready to witness the outcome as the chase took place.

  So he stayed out of sight and would remain that way until the pursuit below reached its climax and it was his turn to take on Bodie.

  Silverbuck could have killed Bodie even now, from where he sat. Yet he held back because there was reason to stay his hand. The Apache was waiting to see the outcome of the events that had brought Bodie to this place. He was curious. And he wanted to see how the game played itself out.

  One of the three whites had shot Bodie’s horse from under him. The man hunter had evaded them but they had pushed him into the desert and now they were forcing him to run ahead of them.

  Silverbuck saw the three whites had a strong hate for Bodie. He understood their feelings. Bodie had been instrumental in having them convicted and sent to Yuma where they had spent three long years in the brutal prison. It would have been with them the whole time. And when they escaped, as Silverbuck carried his need for vengeance, they would want the chance to get even with the man who had taken away those years.

  As he sat and watched the scene below Silverbuck rubbed a calloused hand back and forth across the ridged scar on his neck. It remained as a permanent reminder of what Bodie had done to him. More than the scars around his mouth, or the cheekbone that had remained distorted, even the ache in his arm that came and went. The knife wound to his throat, leaving him with barely the ability to speak, had affected him more than any other wound.

  Bodie had left him for dead but Silverbuck had survived and he would follow the Pinda Lickoyi until the time came for him to strike…

  Chapter One

  One minute he had been following the trail leading across the sun-blasted Arizona desert, his concentration on the faint hoof prints, when the sound of a rifle broke the silence. Bodie felt the horse beneath him shudder. It gave a harsh cough, snorting blood, and then went down, taking him with it. He had the presence of mind to clear the stirrups before the bulk of the dun colored horse collapsed. Bodie swung sideway, wanting to clear the heavy bulk to avoid getting trapped. He hit the dry dust of the ground, taking the weight on his left shoulder, the impact sending a burst of pain through him. He rolled, half reaching his feet, then went down again and caught a mouthful of the fine alkali dust. The sudden hard landing kicked the breath from his lungs and he was immobile for long seconds. Seconds he hated to lose because close, or near, there was someone out there with a long gun and they were always that much more accurate than any revolver. The second he was able to draw a solid breath again he got his hands under him and pushed upright, turning fast and diving over the bulk of the downed horse, pulling himself into cover. The rifle shot had come from his right, so his move put the horse between him and the unknown shooter.

  He could taste the acrid alkali dust in his mouth. Bodie spat but couldn’t clear it all. He needed water to rinse it away and immediately remembered his canteen hanging from the saddle horn. Bodie slithered along the downed horse and raised himself in order to make a grab for the canteen. He hooked his fingers around the strap and pulled the canteen towards him.

  The second shot smashed into the canteen, the lead slug going all the way through and burying itself in the saddle. Bodie felt water spurt from the bullet holes. He continued dragging the leaking canteen to him, ducking down again. Water was pulsing from the holes. He didn’t spend time staring. Bodie took a swallow, rinsed his mouth and spat. With his mouth clear he was able to take a drink before the rest of the water drained away, letting the final dribbles run across his sweating face. He stared at the canteen for a moment before throwing it aside.

  ‘Ain’t lookin’ too good for you, bounty man. No damn horse. Now no water. What you goin’ to do?’

  The shooter was taunting him. Knowing he had Bodie in a difficult position and was bound on letting him know.

  ‘Now I see why Elkins didn’t come back from pickin’ up supplies. You done for him. Sonofabitch, now it’s your turn.’

  Bodie knew the owner of the voice. It wasn’t one he was ever likely to forget.

  Billy Dancer. Young. Mid-twenties. A whip-lean individual with a bad complexion, a livid scar down the right side of his face and receding pale hair, Billy Dancer was sick in the head. A scary individual with an overriding need to main and destroy. Even at his comparatively young age Billy Dancer could lay claim to a number of kills. Dancer was known to be impulsive and took offence in a breath. As long as he had a gun in his hand Dancer believed himself immortal. Without a weapon he was nothing. Then he depended on his partners.

  Tobe Benedict. Thick mustache drooping over his upper lip. Six foot tall, with a solid, powerful build. A man who was the complete opposite of Dancer, Benedict showed little in the way of fear, armed or not. He was a violent, brutal individual who held no one – or anything – in any kind of respect. Benedict saw the world as his for the taking and he lived by that code.

  The third of the trio was the undoubted natural leader. The others all walked in his shadow. Followed his orders and never questioned him. His name was Vince Cagle. A sharp thinker when the need arose. A planner. And a man who would kill if his path was blocked.

  In truth there had been five of them. Walt Elkins and a man named Teeler had made up the group. Like the rest Elkins had been a man who figured he had a right to take what was not his own.

  Chapter Two

  Walt Elkins had masterminde
d the break. He had learned from one of the prison guards, during a long drinking session, that a work party would be assigned to repairing the public road a mile from the town of Yuma. There had been a partial collapse of a section of the road following a storm and the prison was going to supply a gang to be used on the reconstruction. Elkins had been trying to figure out how to work the escape for weeks. The work gang was like a wish come true. As soon as he found out he began to make his plans.

  He kept his crew down to two men he knew he could trust and with two days to go before the prison crew was due to start Elkins made his preparations.

  The work crew would be transported from the prison by wagon. A big, heavy-wheeled wagon pulled by a pair of strong horses. There would be eight of them, accompanied by five armed guards from the prison. The crew would be hauled to the damaged section of the road, handed tools and put to work. It would be hard, digging and moving earth and rocks under the Arizona sun, but the men were long term prisoners, sent to Yuma to serve out their time in the harsh environment of the brutal regime. No one was going to show much sympathy for them and especially the time served guards who were not known for their soft attitude.

  ~*~

  By eight o’clock the work crew was well into their long day. The only relief provided was a large wooden water butt strapped to the side of the wagon. There was a wooden ladle, fastened to the side of the butt, so the prisoners could help themselves to water. Under the blazing sun, breathing in dust and sweating heavily, the prisoners needed regular visits to refresh themselves. It was a known fact that most of the guards would have denied them the water of they had been given their way, but common sense dictated the need to replenish lost moisture or the prisoners would start dropping like flies.

  By mid-morning the repair was progressing steadily. The work crew had developed a steady rhythm and the guards were starting to relax.