Chapter Eleven
After they finished eating, Frenchie led Decker to Dani Boone’s cabin.
“Are you coming in?” Decker said.
“Nope. This is between you and her.”
Decker knocked, and when the young woman opened the door he noticed two things. Number one, she was indeed extremely pretty, as Frenchie had said. Her hair was chestnut colored and hung down past her shoulders. She was wearing a heavy plaid work shirt that did nothing to hide the proud thrust of her full breasts. And her jeans molded themselves to the curve of her hips.
The second thing he noticed was the scent of coffee in the cabin.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.
“Please.”
“Come in, then,” she said, stepping back.
He entered and found himself in a cluttered room dominated by a huge table that was covered with papers. Off in one corner was a cot, and on a potbellied stove sat a pot of coffee.
“Take off your jacket,” she said, “and have a seat. We have something to talk about.”
There was no note of hospitality in her voice, and her expression was stern. She had sent for him, and she had expected him to come.
Then she walked to him and handed Decker a cup of coffee.
Accepting the hot cup gratefully, he asked, “Who says we have something to talk about, Miss Boone?”
“Frenchie does.”
“Do you listen to everything Frenchie says?”
“My father trusted Frenchie completely,” she said. “If Frenchie had taken the job, he’d be foreman instead of Reno.”
“How does Reno feel about that?”
“He knows it and accepts it.”
“I don’t know how a man can accept knowing that if another man wanted his job, he’d have it.”
“Reno does,” she said with certainty. “But I didn’t send for you to discuss my business.”
“You didn’t send for me at all, Miss Boone,” he said. “As I understood it, you asked me to come here and talk.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and said, “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”
“All right, then. What does Frenchie say we have to talk about?”
“You know that my father was killed two weeks ago?” she asked sadly.
“Frenchie told me.”
“We believe that a hired killed did it.”
“I see,” Decker said, and he was starting to. Frenchie was in the saloon tent when Decker asked the bartender about the Baron. After that, Frenchie took a sudden interest in John Henry, which allowed him to meet Decker.
“Who do you think did the hiring?”
“I have no idea. That’s what I want to find out.”
“What’s that got to do with me?”
“Frenchie says you’re a bounty hunter.”
“So.”
“He says you’re the best at what you do.”
“That’s a lot to say about someone you’ve just met.”
“He says he’s heard of you.”
“That’s news to me.”
“Decker, I would like to hire you to find the man who killed my father, then find out who hired him. I’ll pay you well.”
“Sounds like a job for a Pinkerton detective, not a bounty hunter.”
“You have more at stake here than a Pinkerton detective would have.”
“Like what?”
“You’re already looking for the man.”
“Am I?”
“We believe that the man who was hired to kill my father was the Baron.”
“I see,” Decker said thoughtfully. “So that’s why Frenchie told me I could stay here.”
“I apologize for his bringing you up here on false pretenses.”
“He didn’t, really. He promised me a meal and a place to sleep. I’ll have those, won’t I?”
“Of course.”
“Even if I don’t accept your job?”
She bit her lip before answering. “Of course.”
Decker sipped his coffee, considering what had happened. No matter how you looked at it, Frenchie had lured him up here on false pretenses, but Decker was not the kind of man whose feelings bruised easily. In fact, he felt vindicated that he had questioned Frenchie’s apparent friendliness and had now been proven right.
“Your father’s been dead two weeks, Miss Boone,” Decker pointed out. “Seems to me the trail is pretty cold.”
“You and I both know that the Baron is up here somewhere around the Powder River.”
“Why would he take a job so close to where he hangs his hat?”
“I have no idea.”
“What makes you think that he’s the one who killed your father?”
“It would take the best to kill my father,” she said.
“That’s fine, Miss Boone. It makes a nice epitaph, but what proof do you have?”
“I don’t…have any real proof.”
Decker stood up and put his empty cup down.
“Miss Boone, I can’t accept your offer. It would constitute a conflict of interest.”
“But you’re already hunting for him.”
“If that’s true, then when I find him and bring him in, I’ll be paid.”
“Look,” Dani Boone said, “maybe I’m not doing this right. Maybe I’m not asking nicely enough, but I’m not used to asking for anything.”
“Maybe you should learn how, then.”
She compressed her lips and then said, “Maybe I should.”
Decker walked to the door and then turned.
“In return for your hospitality,” he said, “if I find the Baron, I’ll question him about your father’s death. Anything I find out, I’ll relay to you. Is that to your satisfaction?”
She thought a moment and then, not looking happy, said, “I guess it will have to be, won’t it?”
Decker nodded and left. Outside, he wondered why he had given her such a hard time and why he had gotten a certain amount of satisfaction from it.
Chapter Twelve
Outside, Frenchie was waiting for Decker.
“Well?” he asked.
“If you weren’t so much bigger than me I’d take a poke at you.”
“And I’d deserve it,” Frenchie said. “But my guess is, if you were that mad, my size wouldn’t stop you.”
“You’re right.”
“Did you agree?”
“No.”
“What?”
“I won’t work for her.”
“Why not?”
“Because I work for myself, Frenchie. That’s one of the reasons I do what I do.”
Frenchie hesitated a moment, then said, “I can understand that.”
“Good.”
“You want some coffee?”
“You wouldn’t have something a little stronger, would you?”
“As a matter of fact,” Frenchie said, “I would.”
Frenchie took Decker to a tent where there was a five-handed poker game going, and another man watching it. The tent was filled with smoke.
“What’s this?”
“This is where we come to relax if we don’t want to go into town.”
He led Decker past the game to a makeshift three-foot bar in the back.
“Can’t offer you much of a variety,” Frenchie said, reaching behind the bar. “We’ve got rotgut, and more rotgut.”
“I’ll take it,” Decker said. He took a swig from the bottle and felt it warm his insides instantly, like liquid fire. He handed it to Frenchie, and the big logger took a huge swallow.
“So, what’s the story?” Frenchie asked.
“If I hear anything I think she should know, I’ll tell her,” Decker said.
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“And she went for it?”
“She wasn’t about to get any more.”
“She’s one stubborn woman, you know.”
“She’s hardly a woman.”
“Wel
l, she ain’t no kid, you could tell that by looking at her.”
“And just what is she to you?”
“Mmm, I’m sort of like an uncle.”
“An uncle who calls her ‘Miz Boone’?”
“She’s also my boss.”
“Did she work here with her father?”
“No,” Frenchie said. “She lived in the East, but she was on her way here when he was killed.”
“He was dead when she got here?”
“Yes,” Frenchie said. “She arrived the day after he was killed. They hadn’t seen each other for five years, and they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. This was supposed to be a reconciliation.”
“I see.”
“Do you? She feels real guilty about her father’s death. She wants to catch the man who did it, and the man who ordered it.” Frenchie leaned on the bar and said, “I guess you figured out by now that I heard you asking about the Baron in the bar. I thought you might be able to help her. When I met you, and heard who you were, I knew you were the man we needed.”
“You knew—”
“Look, I don’t care if you help her on her terms, or on your terms. All I care about is that you help her.”
“Just so you know,” Decker said, “that my main concern is not to help anyone but myself.”
Frenchie put his huge paw on Decker’s shoulder and said, “I’ll bet even you don’t believe that.”
“I still think you should let me ride along with you,” Frenchie said.
It was morning, and Decker was getting ready to ride out. He had the supplies he’d bought at the “general store” plus a few things that Frenchie had thrown in.
Decker was astride John Henry, while Frenchie was standing at his side. Off to one side Big Jeff Reno was watching, and from the look on the man’s face Decker knew the foreman didn’t wish him luck. In front of the lone cabin in camp stood Dani Boone, her face expressionless.
“I think you’d do better to stay around here and keep an eye on things, Frenchie.”
“What do you mean?” Frenchie asked.
Decker looked at Reno and Dani again, and then back at his new friend.
“I don’t know. Just a feeling I have. While I’m gone, be more of an uncle than an employee, eh?”
“While you’re gone?” Frenchie asked. “Does that mean you plan on coming back?”
“Plans are made to be broken,” Decker said. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Decker rode out of the lumber camp, wondering how whoever had hired the Baron to kill Jack Boone felt about Dani Boone coming in to run things.
Chapter Thirteen
Farther up the river, in a town named Broadus, the man who called himself Brand—but whom others called the Baron—rolled over in bed and came into contact with a warm female body.
Brand looked at the woman who was lying next to him. She was a big woman, with long black hair and a broad, very sexy behind. He slapped it loudly.
“Hey!” he said as her head snapped up.
“What?”
“Breakfast!”
“Oh, Lord,” she said, rolling over. Her front was just as impressive as her back. Her name was Josephine Hale. “My head is killing me.”
“That will teach you to try and drink like a man,” Brand said.
“Can all Russians hold their liquor as well as you can?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Russians are famous for their ability to drink—and eat. Breakfast, woman!”
“I’m getting it, I’m getting it,” she said, jumping out of bed. He watched her as she walked naked across the floor, acres of bare flesh sprouting goose bumps until she slipped into a robe.
“Eggs and bacon?” she asked.
“For a start.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she said. “It’s going to be one of those mornings. Flapjacks and sausages, too?”
“Yes.”
“How can you eat so much the night after you’ve drunk so much?” she asked, shaking her head as she left the room.
Brand reclined on the bed, hands behind his head, and thought about his little hideaway on the Powder River.
He had found Broadus quite by accident. What he had been looking for was a part of the United States that had a climate similar to Russia’s. Montana filled the bill, especially in the winter. Finding Montana, he had then found Broadus, and there he found Josephine.
Josephine owned a store in town that sold women’s clothing, and she owned a small house that she lived in alone. That is, she lived there alone when Brand was away.
She didn’t know what Brand did when he wasn’t in Broadus, and she didn’t care. All she cared about was that when he was finished he came back to her.
Montana, Broadus, and Josephine had come to mean a lot to Brand, which was the reason he’d decided never to ply his trade in Montana.
He smelled the bacon grease as it hit the pan, and he got up. When he dressed he did not bother to strap on his gun.
He often wondered what the townspeople would say—and what Josephine would say—if they ever found out that he was the hired killer known as the Baron.
Sometimes he wished he could take Josephine up on her offer to simply live off what she made at the store, but he knew he’d never be able to do that. He was in too deep ever to do that—and besides, in a year the store could never bring in what he could make from one job.
Of course, all he ever did with his money was put it in the Bank of Broadus, but it pleased him to know that it was there. If anything ever happened to him, if he didn’t return one day from a job, the money would go to Josephine.
She didn’t know about that, and she’d never find out until after he was dead.
As he left the bedroom the smell of coffee mingled with that of the bacon, and his mouth watered as he entered the kitchen.
“Is it ready?” he asked, seating himself at the table.
Josephine turned away from the stove, a cup of coffee in her hand. She set it down in front of him, kissed him, and said, “Anybody ever tell you that you were too demanding?”
“I have never had any complaints from my other women,” he said as she returned to the stove.
“Ha!” Josephine said over her shoulder. “I happen to know that no other woman would have you. No other woman would put up with your kind of behavior.”
She often wondered, however, whether or not he had other women in other parts of the country. He was never gone for much more than a month or two at a time, but he was sometimes away several times a year. At least that meant that even if he had other women, he spent most of his time with her.
For Josephine, that was enough.
She knew that she was a big woman, and that most men had trouble measuring up to her. She also knew that although she might have been described as “handsome,” she was certainly no beauty.
Brand had been one of the few men who hadn’t been intimidated by her or put off by her. Many other men had wanted her, she knew, for one night, just to see what it would be like, but Brand had never been like that. In fact, he had known her for months before he had even tried to kiss her.
No, although she had had affairs with a few men Brand was the only man for her, and even if he had found it necessary to have other women, she would be satisfied with the time he gave her.
She did still wonder, though, what sort of business took him away for those long periods at a time.
She wondered, but she had never asked.
And she never would.
Chapter Fourteen
The first night Decker camped on the trail after leaving the Boone lumber camp made him appreciate Frenchie’s offer of hospitality—whatever the man’s motives—even more. Sitting in front of his fire, he pulled his jacket closer around him and put his fur collar up to ward off the chill. As it turned out, being cold saved his life, because it was when he leaned over to grab his blanket and wrap himself in it that the shot was fired—missing him by inches.
After the first shot he rolled away fro
m the fire as quickly as he could and drew his gun. It was in situations like this that Decker wished he were a better shot with a handgun. His cut-down shotgun had a limited effective range, and was of almost no use in instances like this. True, he could have fired into the brush, and his double-O shot would cover a wide area, its pattern spreading more the farther it went, but at some point—when it spread too much—it became ineffective.
Decker looked over at his rifle on the other side of the fire. He had rolled away from the fire instinctively, trying to get out of its light, but in doing so had also rolled farther away from the rifle.
Anxiously, he looked at John Henry, who seemed unconcerned about the goings-on. Had he been ambushing someone he would have gone for the horse first, either to free it or kill it. He was relieved that his ambusher—or ambushers—had not thought of that yet.
They might, though, which gave him three possible choices. He could stay where he was, but that wasn’t such a great choice. He might be away from most of the fire’s light, but he was still out in the open.
The second choice was to move over by John Henry, to protect the horse, but then he’d still be waiting for them to make a move.
His third choice was to move into the brush himself, out of sight, which would put him on more equal footing with his attackers.
Lying on his belly, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, Decker wondered why there had only been that one shot. As if to answer his question there were suddenly two more, sounding as if they had been fired from two different guns. Each kicked up some dirt on either side of him, and he knew he had to move or he’d be dead in seconds.
He took a deep breath, then rose and ran for the brush. Three or four more shots rang out, narrowly missing him, and then he wasn’t out in the open anymore.
He stopped when he had cover and crouched down, staying perfectly still. He listened intently, trying desperately to hear something that would give away the position of his assailants.
“Jesus, we missed—” he heard, and then someone said, “Shhh!” forcefully.
That was enough for him to pinpoint their position. He started to move through the brush, hoping to come up behind them before it occurred to them to go after his horse.
As he moved along, Decker started to wonder if he wasn’t getting a little old for this business. The two men had managed to get close enough to take a shot at him without his hearing them. This was just another in a series of lapses he had noticed since he had started out after the Baron. Even the usually reliable John Henry had not detected the presence of the men before they could fire. Decker wondered if the cold had affected the horse’s sense of smell and hearing. Maybe it had even affected his.
Robert J Randisi Page 6
