Broadway Bounty

Chapter Three

Decker didn’t think he could ever live in New York. The streets and sidewalks were too hard on a man’s feet, and he was damn sure that the streets were too hard on a horse’s hoof, too. He was glad he’d left John Henry with a friend in St. Louis, the farthest east he’d ever been before this trip.

He found the restaurant Billy Rosewood told him about and ordered the steak dinner. It came with potatoes, onions, two other vegetables and biscuits. He had two cold beers with it, and it all went down fine. Not like Western cooking, but fine.

He walked the other way then and found the telegraph office where Billy Rosewood said it would be, on Fifth Avenue and Twenty-fifth Street.

Inside, he composed a message to his friend Duke, in San Francisco. He wanted to know if Duke knew who Oakley Ready was and what he might be doing in New York. If not, he asked if Duke knew anyone in New York that could give him the answers.

“If I get an answer, can you have someone run it over to my hotel?” he asked, handing the clerk some money.

“Sure thing, mister.”

“Thanks.” He started to leave, then turned back and asked, “Is there any place nearby I could get a drink?”

“A couple of places, but try the bar across the street, near Twenty-sixth. Better atmosphere.” The clerk wriggled his eyebrows.

“Thanks again.”

“Enjoy yourself.”

Decker went over to Twenty-sixth and entered the bar.

“Yes, sir?” asked a fat bartender. “What can I get for you?”

“A cold beer.”

“Only kind we serve, sir.”

“Fine.”

Decker looked around, wondering why anyone would put so much money into making a bar look so grand. The seats were cushioned and leather covered, and there were chandeliers made of metal and glass—and this was just a street bar, where somebody would stop for a drink after work, or something?

It was barely dark out, and the place was only half full. There were a few girls working the place, and they were as dressed up as the bar. All three of them were under twenty-five and pretty. If Decker were interested, he would have picked the dark-haired girl over the two blondes, but that was not what he was here in New York for.

He finished his beer and walked back to his hotel.

Decker tensed, not sure what had wakened him. He kept perfectly still, listening intently. The shoulder rig with the New Line was hanging on the bedpost, but his shotgun was close by, within reach on a small night table.

He listened for a few moments and finally heard it again, a scratching noise at the door.

Somebody was trying to get in.

He leaped off the bed. Grabbing the shotgun, he stood next to the door, so that he’d be behind it when it opened.

Whoever it was didn’t have a whole lot of experience. It took him a few more minutes to get it done finally.

Once it was unlocked, the door swung open slowly until Decker was standing right behind it. He raised the shotgun in his right hand and waited for the man to enter. In the light coming from the hall, he could see that his bed was empty. If he could see it, so could whoever had just opened his door.

He hit the door hard with his shoulder and felt it bang into someone. Coming around the door fast, he found he’d made a mistake.

There were two of them.

One of them was sitting in the hall with a bloody nose; the other one stepped into Decker’s path and returned the favor. He was a big man, and with one hand he grabbed the barrel of the shotgun. With the other he hit Decker in the face with a massive fist. Decker backpedaled quickly, trying to keep his balance, and finally went down at the foot of the bed.

His nose was bleeding, and his eyes were tearing. He felt he deserved it, for being so careless. He’d allowed the fact that he was in a strangae town, where nobody should know him, to lull him into a false sense of security.

The big man picked his partner up from the hall and pushed him into the room, then entered behind him. He turned up the lamp by the door and then faced Decker, holding his shotgun.

“Get up,” the big man said.

Decker stood up, wiping the blood from the lower portion of his face with the back of his hand.

“Sit on the bed.”

Decker started around the bed in the direction of his new .32, but the big man stopped him.

“Not that way!”

Decker turned and looked at him. He was well over six feet, with wide shoulders and huge hands, one of which was pointing Decker’s own shotgun at him.

“That way,” the big man said.

Decker went around the other side and sat down by the pillow.

“Get the other gun,” the big man told his partner, whose face was also covered with blood.

“Let me kill him,” the second man said. He was shorter, a slender man whose nose had been like a hawk’s—once.

“Just get the gun, stupid.”

“Don’t call me stupid,” the second man said sullenly.

“You said you could open the door,” the big man complained.

“I opened it, didn’t I?” the second man said, removing the .32 and shoulder rig from the bedpost.

“Yeah, it took you all night and you woke the whole hotel doing it.”

“You guys want something,” Decker said, “or are you going to argue me to death?”

“Funny man,” the big man said.

Decker took hold of the sheet with one hand and used it to wipe the blood from his face. His nose had stopped bleeding. Unlike the second man’s, his nose wasn’t broken.

“What did you do? Follow me from the train station?”

“That’s right.”

Another mistake. Dover had been on Ready’s trail for a long time. It made sense that Ready would have the station covered just in case he showed up.

Decker wondered if these two thought he was Dover because of his Western clothes and style.

“What do you want?”

“You,” the big man said.

Decker looked at the second man. He was standing there holding the shoulder rig in his hand. He hadn’t taken the gun out of the holster.

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the guy,” the big man said.

“I am?” Decker asked, putting his hand underneath the pillow.

“Yeah, you’re him,” the big man said, walking around to face Decker. The shotgun was pointing in his general direction.

“You fellas want to tell me what you want, or do you want me to kick you out of here?”

The second man laughed.

“Hey, Boil,” he said, “you hear that? He’s gonna kick you out of here.”

“How do you intend to do that, Dover?” the big man—Boil—asked. “We have your guns.”

“What’d you call me?”

“Dover.”

“You’ve got the wrong man, friend,” Decker said. “My name isn’t Dover.”

“Uh-huh,” Boil said. “And you didn’t get off the train today wearing Western clothes and looking like you just came in off the farm.”

“Is that it?” Decker said. “You don’t like farmers. I thought it was something personal.”

“Stop fooling around, Boil,” the second man said. “Let’s kill him and get out.” His hand was on the butt of the .32. Decker had to make a move before he palmed it.

“All right,” Boil said. “I guess the fun is over.” As he said this, he spread his hands, so that the shotgun pointed toward the wall for a split second.

Decker pulled Dover’s sharpened knife out from under the pillow and lunged forward, burying it in Boil’s stomach.

Boil screamed. Decker grabbed the shotgun from his hand and rolled on the floor a few feet, coming to a stop on his knees. The second man had already pulled the .32 from the holster and was pointing it at Decker. They pulled their respective triggers at the same time.

A .32 slug punched its way into Decker’s left shoulder as his blast took the second man in the belly, ripping him apart and throwing him back against the wall.

Decker stood up and checked both men to make sure they were dead. Then and only then did he check his own wound.

“Jesus,” he said, “I’m lucky I didn’t buy a Colt .45 from Rosewood.”