Robert J Randisi

by Bounty on a Baron (v5)

  Why couldn’t the Baron have hid out in Mexico, like a lot of other outlaws? he wondered.

  After he moved about a hundred yards in a semicircle Decker stopped and listened again. This time when he heard them they were much closer.

  “Where did he go?” one man asked.

  “I told you to keep your mouth shut!” a second voice said.

  They were about ten yards to his left and in front of him.

  He moved cautiously, not wanting to alert them, and when he thought he was directly behind them he decided on his course of action. If he called out to them they could split up and would immediately gain the advantage. He was better off taking a more direct course.

  He raised his sawed-off and fired both barrels ahead of him. While the men screamed in anguish he quickly ejected the two empty shells and replaced them.

  He moved forward then, gun held out ahead of him, and approached what had become a stream of steady moans.

  “God, Jesus!” one man yelled. “I been cut in half!”

  The other was simply groaning, holding himself with both arms.

  Decker moved to the shouting man, but as he leaned over him the man stopped yelling. An instant later he emitted a sound that could only be a death rattle. This man would never give him any trouble again, Decker knew.

  He turned to approach the other man, whose wounds appeared less serious. Still, he was surprised when the man rolled over with a gun in his hand. Without even thinking, Decker squeezed off one barrel, striking the man in the face, obliterating it totally.

  There was an eerie silence after the shots, and Decker checked both men again. From his vantage point he had a clear look at his campfire. If they had been better marksmen—or if he had not been so cold—he would be dead now instead of them.

  Decker was about to step out into the open when there was a shot from the opposite side of the campfire.

  “Shit!” Decker said, hitting the ground. Apparently these men had not been alone but were simply the first wave.

  Decker rolled over, removed the spent shells from his gun, and loaded two more. It was at times like this—and a lot of others—that he wished he was a competent shot with a six-shooter, simply because they had six shots.

  “Dave!” a voice called out. “Steve!”

  Well, now Decker knew the names of the two dead men. Of course, that still didn’t tell him who they were.

  Keeping low, Decker crept over one of the bodies, intending to move back into the brush, but he stopped short. He holstered his gun, picked up one of the dead men’s rifles, and then began to circle to his right, facing the campfire. Maybe whoever was on the other side—one man? two?—would think that Decker was as dead as his two friends, and step out into the open.

  Moving slowly but steadily, Decker heard someone say, “Shit!” under his breath, and he followed the sound of the voice.

  He was opposite the place where he’d left the two bodies when someone suddenly shouted, “Hey, Steve! You hit?”

  Decker started, because the voice came from right in front of him, about ten feet away. Decker could see that the man was wearing a plaid jacket and heavy pants. From the look of him, he was a lumberjack—an interesting point.

  Peering through the brush, he saw a lone man lying on his stomach, a rifle in his hand. He came up behind the man, who heard him too late.

  “Freeze,” Decker said, putting the barrel of his rifle right against the man’s ass. “Let’s have a talk.”

  “I got nothing to say.”

  “We can talk now, or I give you another asshole and then we can talk.”

  “Jesus! Wait—”

  “All right, then,” Decker said. “Toss your rifle out into the clearing.”

  The man obeyed, flinging the rifle away from him.

  “Who sent you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What the hell—” Decker said, pressing the rifle butt harder against the man’s ass.

  “I mean it,” he said. “I just came along for the ride.”

  “And the money?”

  “Sure. And the money.”

  Decker backed away from the man and said, “Okay, roll over. I want to take a look at you.”

  The man rolled over and Decker saw his hand inside his jacket. Before the man had time to bring the gun out, Decker fired. The bullet struck the man in the throat, bringing a gusher of blood from his mouth, and then he slumped back with his eyes still open.

  “Damn!” Decker said.

  He moved through the brush until he found a branch approximately the size and thickness of his arm, then walked to his campfire and lit one end of it. Using it as a torch he went back to check the first two bodies. He did not recognize either of the men, but he did recognize the way they were dressed.

  There was no doubt in his mind that all three men were loggers.

  As he drank some strong black coffee, Decker pondered on the significance of the attack. Someone from a logging camp had sent those two men after him, and the only logging camp he’d been anywhere near was the Boone camp.

  Who was really in command there? he wondered. How much real authority did Dani Boone have? She had just taken over from her father. How much loyalty would she command from her men? And why, if she was so anxious for Decker to find her father’s killer, would she send two men to kill him.

  No, it wasn’t Dani Boone.

  The logic that eliminated Dani Boone, however, did not apply to the other person who was in authority: Big Jeff Reno. Decker had had no contact whatsoever with Reno during the short time he’d been in the camp, yet whenever the man looked at him, it had been with distinct displeasure.

  Why? What could Reno have against him? Perhaps Reno recognized Decker. It wasn’t impossible that Decker had once brought in or killed a relative of his. Decker couldn’t count the times that someone’s brother or father or wife or even daughter had tried to kill him out of revenge.

  Still, if he’d had some contact with a relative of Reno’s in the past, and if there had been any resemblance at all, surely he’d remember.

  Was he leaving someone out? What about Frenchie? If he’d been so close to Dani’s father, wouldn’t he have some authority with the men? He could have given the order, but it had been Frenchie who’d brought Decker into camp in the first place.

  Reno was Decker’s choice, but he decided not to go back to camp now and find out. He could do that later. It would be some time before Reno knew that his men had failed, and by that time it would be too late to send anyone else after him.

  Decker fed some more mesquite into the fire, then lay back with his head on his pillow. He’d sleep lightly to night. He filed Jeff Reno away in the back of his mind as unfinished business.

  Back in Douglas, Wyoming, Sheriff Calder was sitting in his office, wondering how long he would remain sheriff there.

  He hadn’t heard from the Baron in some time, and he was beginning to wonder if Decker hadn’t actually found him and brought him in—or killed him. Without the Baron to back him up, Calder wouldn’t be able to hold on to Douglas. As soon as the news broke that the notorious hired killer had been brought in, the town would turn on him.

  Nervous, the sheriff tried to calm himself. He knew what the Baron was capable of. Before he panicked, he’d wait until he either heard from him or heard that he’d been caught.

  In Broadus, Brand realized that it had been a while since he had contacted Calder to find out if anyone was asking about his services.

  He was sitting on the porch of Josephine’s house, waiting for her to close the store and come home to cook him dinner. It wouldn’t take long for him to walk over to the telegraph office and send word, but that would tell Calder where he was. What he usually did was travel to a different town to contact the sheriff. That way no two messages ever came from the same place.

  Right now he was too comfortable to saddle a horse and ride to the next town, so he just settled back and continued to wait for Jo.

  Chapter
Fifteen

  Broadus was by far the largest town Decker had come across along the Powder River. It had not one, but two hotels, two saloons, a telegraph office, and many other shops that only show up in a growing town. To his surprise, it even had an ice cream parlor.

  Decker found the livery and gave John Henry over to the liveryman’s care. He was happy to be in a real town again, where he’d be able to get a real meal and sleep in a real bed. Although his stay at the logging camp had been comfortable enough, it would not be able to rival a stay in a true town.

  He entered the hotel lobby, put his saddlebags on the floor, and leaned his rifle against the front of the desk.

  There was no clerk, but just moments later a man stepped out from behind a curtained doorway. He was a small, rather portly man with thinning black hair and a small moustache.

  “May I help you, sir?” he inquired politely.

  “Yes, I’d like a room.”

  “Certainly. Please sign the register.”

  While he was signing, Decker asked, “Who’s the sheriff here?”

  “Our sheriff’s name is Kyle Roman, sir.”

  “How long has he been sheriff?”

  “I’d say…almost two years.”

  “Is he a good one?”

  “I’d say he was quite adequate.”

  “Adequate” was not a word Decker would use to describe a lawman. He was either good or bad—and if he was adequate, that was the same as being bad. Still, two years seemed long enough for the man to know the area.

  Decker finished signing in and asked for a room that did not overlook the street.

  “Of course, sir,” the clerk said. “Here you are.”

  He gave Decker the key and told him the room number.

  “Do you have bath facilities?” the bounty hunter asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir. If you go out the front door, make a left, and then another left, we have a bathhouse at the rear of the hotel.”

  “Thanks,” Decker said.

  He went to his room, dropped off his gear, and then followed the clerk’s directions to the bathhouse. Inside, he found bathing facilities for almost a dozen people. Three of the stalls were in use.

  “A bath, sir?” an elderly man asked. He was sweating, because it was oppressively hot inside the building.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Decker announced, feeling himself begin to sweat.

  “Please undress out here and hang your clothing on a hook.”

  “Out here?”

  “Don’t worry, sir. Everything will still be here when you come out.”

  Decker, looking dubious, undressed and accepted a towel from the man, which he wrapped around his middle.

  “You can have stall number 7, sir. The water is plenty hot.”

  Decker picked up his gunbelt and headed for the back.

  “Oh, sir, you can leave your gun out here.”

  “Maybe I can,” Decker said, “but I sure as hell won’t.”

  The man didn’t know how to react to that.

  “P-Please,” he stammered. “It’s the rules—” Decker ignored him and kept going, closing the door behind him.

  The stall was a little larger than a jail cell. The tub was made of white porcelain, and the water was as hot as promised. There was no chair in the stall, so Decker was forced to leave his holster on the floor, but in a place where he’d still be able to get at it.

  Decker soaped himself down, and after he rinsed off he simply lay back and allowed the heat to soak into his tired body. He realized that he had almost fallen asleep in that position when he heard the door to his stall open.

  In an instant he had his gun in his hand, but a voice said to him, “There’s no need for that.”

  The voice was mild and unhurried, and Decker turned his head to see who it belonged to. The man was standing just inside the door, his thumbs hooked into the front of his belt. He was tall and stocky and wore a star on his chest. Seeing that there was no threat to him, Decker put his gun back on the floor. The man’s beard and mustache made it tough to figure out his age.

  “Sheriff Roman, I presume.”

  “That’s right,” the sheriff said, moving farther into the stall. “How’d you know my name?”

  “I asked about you at the hotel.”

  “And I asked about you at the hotel,” Roman said. “You scared old Billy when you broke the rules and brought your gun in here.”

  “Sorry about that, Sheriff, but I don’t go very many places without my gun.”

  Roman cocked an eyebrow and asked, “On the run, are you?”

  “No. My name is Decker. I’m a bounty hunter.”

  “Ah, I see,” Roman said. “You must have a lot of trouble with people looking for revenge.”

  “Some.”

  “Some,” Roman repeated derisively. “A man like you—”

  “What do you know about a man like me?”

  “I’ve heard of you, Decker,” Roman said. “You’re good, or so they say.”

  When Decker didn’t support or deny the statement, Roman continued. “What are you doing in Broadus?”

  “Maybe we could talk someplace else.” Decker said. “After my bath.”

  “Yeah, I guess this is sort of awkward.”

  “The reason I was asking for you was that I was going to come and see you after my bath and discuss what I’m doing here. Does that suit you?”

  “That suits me.”

  “Fine. Can I get on with my bath now?”

  “Sure…but give me your gun.”

  “No.”

  “I could take it from you,” Roman said, indicating his badge.

  “I wouldn’t want you to try.”

  They stared at each other for a moment, and then Roman said, “In my office, after your bath.”

  “See you there,” Decker told him and fished around at the bottom of the tub for the soap.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Roman was seated behind his desk, drinking a cup of coffee, when Decker entered the office.

  “Grab yourself a cup,” he said. “The pot’s a fresh one.”

  Decker did so, then took the chair in front of the sheriff’s desk. The office was small, but it was clean and well cared for.

  Sitting so close to Roman, Decker realized the lawman was younger than he was. The beard made him look older, but Decker didn’t think the man was yet thirty.

  “So?” Roman said.

  “I’m looking for a man,” Decker told him.

  “That’s what you do,” Roman said. “What’s this par tic u lar man’s name?”

  “He’s called the Baron.”

  “The hired gun?”

  “That’s him.”

  “What makes you think he’s here?”

  “I don’t know if he’s in Broadus,” Decker said. “The word I got was that he was up here around the Powder River somewhere.”

  “Know what he looks like?”

  “Just what it says on his paper,” Decker said. He handed the poster to Roman.

  “I must have a copy of this somewhere,” the sheriff muttered, accepting the poster.

  He read it, then passed it back.

  “From that description he could be anyone.”

  “The talk about him says he’s foreign. Comes from Russia or someplace,” Decker said. “Maybe he talks with an accent. That ring a bell?”

  Roman thought a moment, then said, “No, not right off.”

  “Mind if I take a turn around town?”

  “How long you planning to stay?”

  “How big is this town?” Decker asked. “How long does one turn take?”

  “Be my guest,” Roman said. “If you find him, though, I want to know about it.”

  “You will,” Decker promised, putting the coffee cup down on the desk, “just as soon as I bring him in.”

  “Alive?”

  Decker turned and said, “You know, you make a lousy cup of coffee.”

  Decker walked around town, wondering what he was
looking for. Did he expect to find a man with a Russian accent twirling a gun or shooting the eyes out of flies? In order to find out if anyone had an accent, he’d have to talk to every man in town. He wasn’t prepared to do that, not here and not in any other town he came to.

  And what about other towns? Broadus was the first decent-sized town that he’d come to. Were there others farther along the river?

  Decker decided to see about Broadus’s two saloons.

  One was called the Broadus House, the other the Dice Box. He guessed that the difference between the two was that the Dice Box would offer more gambling. He decided to try the Broadus House first.

  Going to the bar, he ordered a beer. Surprised to find it a cold one, he downed half of it while the bartender watched, an amused look on his face.

  “Been a while, huh?” the man said.

  “Been a long while since I had one as cold as this,” Decker admitted.

  “Got our own ice house.”

  Finishing the beer, Decker said, “How about another one?”

  “Sure.”

  The second one was cold, too, but nothing ever seems quite as cold or good as the first one. He decided to take his time with this one.

  “Passing through?” the bartender asked.

  “Yeah. Riding along the river for a while. This is the first town of any size that I’ve come to.”

  “Only one like it along the Powder River.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Got to go east or west of here to get to another town. Up north you’ve got to go where the Tongue River meets the Yellowstone. That’s about twenty—five miles west of the Powder.”

  “What town is that?”

  “Miles City. If you keep following the Powder until it joins the Yellowstone, you’ll be about six miles from Terry.”

  “And between here and there?”