Double The Bounty

Chapter I

Decker directed John Henry, his nine-year-old gelding, down the main street of Heartless, Wyoming. Somebody was in a piss-poor mood when they named this town, Decker thought.

Decker commanded attention as he rode down the street. His tall, muscular frame sat straight in the saddle beneath a flat-brimmed black hat, and he rode with an air of confidence that women found arresting and men, threatening. Men found the dark eyes penetrating, as if Decker was able to look inside of them and discover their deepest secrets.

Women, on the other hand, found his eyes expressive. He looked as if he was concerned with how he could please them the most. Most women enjoyed the feeling it gave them in the pit of their stomachs.

Of course, the fact that Decker looked at all men with suspicion, and upon all women with respect, may have had something to do with it. Women sensed the respect he had for them, and appreciated it. Men feared he would see them for what they were, while women feared he would not see them at all.

And then there was that hangman’s noose, which quickly identified him to one and all. And if that wasn’t enough, there was the weapon he wore on his hip. It was a shotgun that had been sawed off at both the barrels and the stock and then slipped into a specially made holster. The whole rig had been designed for him by a gunsmith friend when Decker discovered that he was almost hopeless with a handgun. With the shotgun he rarely had to aim to hit his target, and with a rifle he was…adequate.

With a rope, however, he was deadly.

Decker rode up to the Bank of Heartless and halted. He didn’t dismount but simply gazed at the bank, taking in every aspect of the structure. This was one of the two banks that Brian Foxx was supposed to have robbed. Foxx could not have been in both banks at one time, but Decker had to start somewhere, and he chose Wyoming over Arizona, since Denver, where he had picked up the poster, was closer to Wyoming.

He asked ol’ John Henry to walk again, promising him that it would only be as far as the livery stable.

“After that you get a well-deserved rest, you old scudder.”

John Henry shook his head in reply and started walking. Decker claimed no friends, unless a man could be friends with a horse.

When he reached the livery, he dismounted and was met by the liveryman, a grizzled old soul who looked close to seventy.

“Old horse,” the man said, accepting the reins.

“This horse will run anything you have in your livery into the ground.”

The man cast a critical eye over John Henry’s lines, spat a gob of tobacco juice, and said, “Don’t doubt it.”

“Treat him good and maybe he won’t bite your hand off.” Decker tossed the man fifty cents.

“I always treat them right,” he said, waggling both hands at Decker and adding, “that’s why I still got all my fingers after thirty years of handling horses.”

“Then I’ve got nothing to worry about, do I?”

The old-timer spat another gob of tobacco juice at some unseen target and said, “Nope.”

Decker took his saddlebags and rifle from his saddle and was about to leave when the old man said, “What about this thing?”

Decker turned and saw the old man pointing to the hangman’s noose.

“Just leave it where it is,” Decker replied. “It’s not hurting anybody.”

Decker set off in the direction of the hotel. First stop was the saloon for a drink, and then the sheriff’s office for a talk.

The saloon was called the Oak Tree Saloon. Over a cold beer he questioned the bartender about the name.

“Well,” the man said, rubbing the lower portion of his florid face with a thick-fingered hand, “when they started to build this here town, there was this big oak tree standing right on this spot. Well, they cleared all the land around here, but that dang oak just didn’t want to budge. They finally decided to use dynamite, but some dang fool used too much.” He pointed over to the wall over the bar where a long oak branch was hanging and said, “That’s all that was left of that stubborn old oak.”

Decker doubted the validity of the story, but had to admit that it sounded good.

“Who’s the sheriff of this town?” he asked.

“That’d be Hack Wilson.”

Decker put his beer down.

“Thomas’Hack’ Wilson?”

“That’s right. You know him?”

“I know him. How long has he been sheriff here?”

“’Bout eight months or so.”

Eight months. Well, maybe the people of this town had already caught on to old Hack’s ways and were ready to vote him out come next election. It wasn’t any of Decker’s business. He was only concerned with the Brian Foxx bank robbery. All he wanted was to talk to Hack Wilson.

“Thanks for the beer.”

“Stayin’ in town?”

“Might be.”

“If you are, come on back for another. I got another story for you if you didn’t like that one.”

“I liked it fine,” Decker said. “If I’m staying, I’ll be back.”

He walked from the saloon directly to the sheriff’s office. A wooden sign saying, THOMAS WILSON, TOWN SHERIFF, hung outside. He rapped his knuckles on the door a few times and entered.

“Sheriff,” he said.

Sheriff Wilson’s head was bowed over his desk as he perused some paperwork, and when he looked up Decker saw that it was indeed Hack Wilson.

And Wilson recognized Decker.

“Decker!”

“Hello, Sheriff.”

“What can I do for you, Decker,” Wilson asked nervously. “Hunting somebody?”

“That’s what I’m doing, all right.” When Decker dropped his saddlebags onto the back of a straight-backed wooden chair, Wilson jumped at the sound, looking nervous again.

“Relax, Wilson,” Decker said, “I ain’t gonna bite you.”

It had been three years ago when Wilson had decided to try his hand at bounty hunting. They had a disagreement over a prisoner and Wilson—a large man even then—decided he wanted to fight about it. Well, after a few minutes he realized he’d made a mistake. His bulk worked against him while Decker, whipcord thin and fast, had given Wilson a lesson in hand to hand. That was before Wilson decided to use his teeth. He sank his teeth into Decker’s arm, making Decker angry—he’d been only mildly annoyed until that point. Decker knocked Wilson cold. After that, he’d had to go to a doctor to have the human bite disinfected. Upon returning to the scene of the battle, he found Wilson and the prisoner gone!

“Now, that was three years ago, Decker—” Wilson began nervously.

“You remember, eh?”

“I been sorry as hell about that ever since, but I needed the money.”

“Nobody needs money that bad, Wilson. Do the people of this town know what kind of a thieving buzzard they’ve got for a sheriff?”

“I been a good sheriff here, Decker. I—I’m trying to do right for a change.”

“Is that so?”

“And I’ll prove it to you. Just tell me what you want and it’s yours.”

“All right,” Decker said, deciding to take the man up on his offer. “Brian Foxx.”

Wilson was taken aback, then realized that it made perfect sense.

“I should have known you’d get on his trail sooner or later. There ain’t much I can tell you. I got to the bank after it was all over. I never saw the man.”

“You can tell me who did.”

“Sure, I can do that. In fact, I’d be glad to take you around to the witnesses myself.” Wilson rose from behind his desk to do just that. In his midthirties, he had let his gut grow to alarming proportions.

“We can go in a little while,” Decker said. “I’d like to get a hotel room first, freshen up, and get something to eat. Two hours all right with you?”

“Sure, Decker, fine,” Wilson said.

“All right.” Decker picked up his saddlebags and said, “Two hours, then.”

“I’ll be here.”

Decker pinned the man with a hard stare.

“I know you will.”