“I get the whole bundle.”
“I don’t understand—”
“This man does,” Decker said, moving closer to Wellman, who stood up hastily.
“Take it easy, Decker.”
“Well then, fill me in,” the sheriff said. He was an older man, in his early fifties, and had probably been the sheriff here for a good many years. “I want to know what’s going on.”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Decker said. “He stole my meat.”
“What?”
“He’s crazy,” Wellman said.
“I caught up to Parmenter’s sidekicks before I caught up to him. They made their choice and I killed them. Then I hung them up so they’d still be there when I got back with Parmenter,” Decker explained.
“You…hung them up?”
“I tied a rope around their ankles and hung them from a tree to keep the critters from getting at them. When I got back with Parmenter, they’d been cut down. I didn’t know by who until just now.” He knew Wellman, and he knew his horse, so he knew who he’d be facing when he entered the sheriff’s office.
Wellman was a hard man, but only when he had things going his way.
That wasn’t the case here.
“He stole my meat, and he’s trying to steal my money.”
“Meat?” the sheriff said. “Is that what those men are to you?”
“It’s what they are now,” Decker said. “You sign my chit for five thousand, Sheriff. The rest I’ll get from Wellman, here.”
“Not in my office—”
“You want me to take him to court for it?” Decker asked. “Or are you telling me I’m not entitled to that money?”
The sheriff wiped his mouth nervously, withering beneath Decker’s hard gaze.
“I ain’t saying that at all—”
“Then sign my chit.”
Defeated, the sheriff sat down and started writing.
“Let’s have it, Wellman.”
“What? You’re crazy, Decker—”
“On the desk.”
“Wha—”
Decker closed his eyes just for a second, displaying tolerance for the last time.
“Put the chit on the desk, Wellman,” he said, enunciating each word very carefully. Nervously, Wellman looked at the sawed-off, cut-down shotgun Decker wore in a specially constructed holster.
“Decker, we can split—” Wellman started, but the look in Decker’s eyes caused him to hurriedly pull the chit from his shirt pocket and put it on the desk, his hands shaking. That done, he stepped away from the desk and moved his hands away from his sides to show that they were empty.
“All right, all right,” he said, backing away from the desk. “Jesus, Decker, they were just hanging there, swinging in the breeze. How was I to know they were yours?”
“You know me, Wellman,” Decker said, picking up the chits. “If I ever catch you stealing from me again…” he began, but thought better of threatening the man in front of a witness—especially a lawman.
“Get out of here,” he said, his voice low and threatening.
Wellman rushed from the office, slamming the door behind him.
“Your chit for Parmenter,” the sheriff said, handing it to Decker.
“I’ll take him over to the undertaker.”
“What did you mean, he knows you?” the sheriff asked.
“Nobody else hangs their meat up the way I do, Sheriff,” Decker explained. “Wellman’s in the business. He knows my trademarks.”
“Like the hangman’s noose you always carry with you?”
Decker stared at the sheriff, who apparently knew that trademark pretty well.
“Yes, like the hangman’s noose. Have you got any new paper in, Sheriff?”
“Don’t let any grass grow under your feet, do you?” the lawman said. “Well, as a matter of fact, I got some paper in on the Baron.”
“On the Baron?” Decker said, surprised. “He’s a killer, but he’s usually careful enough to avoid drawing paper.”
“Well, not this time,” the sheriff said. “He gunned down a kid, a twelve-year-old boy.”
“What? He’d never take a job like that. Not on a boy.”
“You know him?”
“I know his rep.”
“Well, he killed a man named Carver and two others. One of them was probably the target. The kid came along later, and the Baron gunned him down.”
“It must have been an accident.”
“That mean you don’t want any part of the reward?”
Decker looked at the figure on the poster the sheriff handed him. Ten thousand dollars.
“Or do you just not want any part of the Baron?” the sheriff asked. “Be an interesting matchup, you gotta admit.”
“Thanks for the chits, Sheriff. I’ll go over to the bank after I drop Parmenter off.”
He left the sheriff’s office, still holding on to the Baron’s poster. After he took care of the body, and his horse, Decker entered the saloon. He ordered a beer, took it to a table, then unfolded the poster and stared at the picture of the Baron.
The Baron had been plying his trade as a hired killer for more than seven years without ever having made a mistake that Decker knew of. He guessed that the old saying was never more true.
There’s always a first time.
Chapter One
Under normal circumstances, Decker’s first move when he started hunting someone was to go to the place his quarry had last been seen. In this case, that would be Kendall, Wyoming.
This, however, was not a normal circumstance.
This time Decker was chasing another professional—not that bank robbery or train robbery weren’t professions, but there was something about bounty hunting and hiring out as a killer that made them more closely related.
They were both man hunters. The only difference was that when the killer found his man, his job wasn’t over until he killed him. At least the bounty hunter had the option of bringing his man in alive.
No, now that Decker was hunting a pro, there was no need to go to Kendall, Wyoming. There would be nothing there to help him. What he had to do was talk to another pro, another professional killer.
And he knew just the man—Joe Rigger.
There was only one problem with that. Joe Rigger had sworn that the next time he saw Decker, he’d kill him.
That was just something that Decker would have to deal with the best he could.
Finding Joe Rigger would be no problem. He always stayed in the same town between jobs. His profession had once been the same as Decker’s, but five years ago he had switched from hunter to killer. Decker had always felt that Rigger changed professions because, with Decker around, he could no longer claim to be the best bounty hunter in the business.
Until the arrival of the Baron he had been the best professional killer around. Now his status was open to debate—to everyone but Rigger.
That was what Decker was counting on to get Rigger to help him.
Rigger was a Texan, and although it wasn’t general knowledge, Decker knew that between jobs he stayed in the town of El Segundo, right across the border from Mexico. It was the perfect place; in case the law ever came looking for him, the border would be readily accessible. Of course, before the law came looking for him they’d need some kind of proof that he had killed in cold blood. Rigger was too good, too careful to ever leave anything like that behind him. Even if he couldn’t get his target to face him fairly, he killed him anyway—and managed to be able to claim to be somewhere else at the time of the killing.
Everyone knew that Joe Rigger was a killer, but no one could ever prove it.
Except Decker. He’d been an eyewitness to one of Rigger’s murders, but since the target had been a man Decker was hunting, and since Rigger had walked away from the body, Decker had been able to turn the corpse in for the bounty. That was the reason Rigger had sworn to kill him, for collecting a bounty on a man he had killed. He claimed it wasn’t fair, or right, but Decker couldn’t see the sense of letting the corpse rot without someone collecting the reward.