“Like people trying to kill you.”
Dover had laughted, filled with bravado, and said, “Never happen…”
Well, Dover had achieved a certain degree of fame, and now he was dead.
And then there was that incident that happened when they were both twenty, when they became deputies, against Decker’s better judgment…
…they were passing through an Arizona town, stopping to sample the whiskey and other pleasures that a small town like that might have to offer. In the saloon they heard shooting in the street and rushed to the door with the other patrons. The bank was being robbed.
In front of the bank was a man holding five skittish horses. Four other men came piling out, each carrying a bag filled with money. Apparently the robbery had not gone smoothly and some shooting had been done inside the bank.
This had alerted the local law, and the sheriff and two deputies came running onto the scene, guns drawn. After a brief exchange the five bank robbers rode out and the sheriff’s two deputies lay dead in the street.
When the shooting had stopped, people began to file out onto the street. The sheriff asked for volunteers to carry the body of his two deputies off the street, and he got them.
Then he asked for volunteers for a posse to follow the bank robbers and track them…and he got none.
Dover stepped forward, pulling Decker along with him.
“We’ll volunteer,” he said.
We, Decker thought.
The sheriff said, “You boys are strangers in town. Why volunteer?”
Dover shrugged. “So? Why look a gift horse in the mouth?”
The sheriff stared at him.
“You’ve got a point there,” he said.
Then he bent down and took the deputy badges off his dead men and handed them to Dover and Decker.
“We’ll worry about the swearing-in later,” he said. “Get your horses.”
As they went to the livery for their horses, Decker said, “What the hell was that all about? Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s not healthy to volunteer for anything?”
“Hell,” Dover said, “do we have anything better to do?”
“I’ve always got something better to do than die,” Decker said.
On the train, Decker studied the poster of Oakley Ready.
He wondered why Dover had sent him a message to meet him in Harrison City. Had he known that he was going to need help with this Ready character? In spite of their friendship, their paths didn’t cross more than two or three times a year, and they had never worked together or split a bounty. Dover must have asked Decker for help because he knew that Ready was going to be especially tough to take.
That bothered Decker.
Dover was one of the toughest men he’d ever known, and he’d been taken the only way a man like him could be taken—from behind!
And that was the real reason Decker was in New York—the fact that Dover had been shot in the back!
The Tyrone brothers had pulled the trigger, but the odds were that Oakley Ready had paid them to do it.
As the train pulled into the station, Decker put the poster away and grabbed his bag. The trip had been planned—if that word could be used—on the spur of the moment, and he didn’t have much in the way of gear with him. He had his gun, his rifle and some extra clothes, and that was all.
As a conductor went by, Decker stopped him for a moment.
“How do I get to a hotel from the station?”
“You can take the horsecars, sir, or a private cab. The horsecars are cheaper.”
“Thank you.”
As the train began to discharge passengers at the station, Decker found himself in the middle of a pressing crowd. He’d never seen so many people in one place at one time before, trying to fit into the same space.
Being jostled did not sit well with him, so he broke free as soon as he could.
He spotted the horsecars immediately. They looked like railroad cars being pulled by horses.
“Need a cab, sir?” a voice asked.
He turned and saw a man standing nearby.
“What?”
“A ride?” the man said. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”
“Well, I was thinking of taking the horsecar—” Decker said, pointing.
“You don’t want to do that, sir,” the young man said.
“Why?”
The man made a face.
“You’ll save money, but they’re filthy, badly ventilated and full of vermin—some of it walking around on two legs, if you know what I mean.”
“You paint a fine picture.”
“Now, if you take my cab, it’s clean, and private.”
“And expensive?”
“Some people might think so,” the man said, “but since you just got to town, I’ll make you a special rate. What do you say?”
“Yeah, sure,” Decker said. “Why not?”
“This way.”
He followed the man to a horse-drawn cab, similar to ones he had once seen in Washington, D.C.
“Get in.”
Decker hesitated.
“You’re from the West, aren’t you?” the man asked. He was young, in his twenties, and very slim, with a shock of unkempt brown hair.
“Good guess.”
“You’re gonna need some clothes.”
“Clothes?”
“Unless you want to attract attention every time you walk down the street.”
“Do you know where I can get some?”
“Sure.”
“Cheap?”
“Well…let’s say inexpensive.”
“And then a hotel to match?”
“I know just the place,” the driver said.
“All right,” Decker said, “let’s go.”
Using the money generously donated by the Tyrone boys—Oakley Ready’s money—Decker bought himself two suits of clothes suitable for New York.
“Here’s the hotel.”
“It doesn’t look inexpensive.”
“I could take you to a hotel that could fit this one in the lobby.”
Decker looked out at the huge brick structure on Twenty-third Street, then back at the driver.
“OK,” he said, getting out of the cab. He grabbed his bag and his rifle and looked at the driver.
“You’re gonna need a gun,” the driver said.
“What makes you say that?”
The man smiled.
“You gonna wear those clothes with that gun on your hip?”
Decker looked down at the sawed-off shotgun in his holster and nodded.
“I see what you mean.”
“I can get you a gun.”
“A decent one?”
“Hell, a good one.”
“Yeah? How much?”
The man thought a moment.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said finally. “A hundred dollars. The ride, the gun, everything.”
Decker studied the man’s eyes.
“If I give you a hundred dollars—”
“Don’t worry,” the man said. “My name’s Billy Rosewood. Ask anybody in New York. I’m reliable.”
“Reliable,” Decker said.
Rosewood nodded.
Decker took out Dover’s lucky knife and asked, “Will you get this sharpened for me, too?”
Rosewood grinned and took it.
“Sure, no extra charge.”
“OK,” Decker said. He gave Billy Rosewood a hundred dollars, knowing he might be kissing it goodbye.
What the hell—It wasn’t his money, anyway.
Chapter Two
Decker found the room rate prohibitive, but he checked into the hotel anyway. At the rate that he was spending the money he got from the Tyrone brothers, it wouldn’t be long before he was broke.
When he saw the room, he found it almost worth the price. It was more lavish than any other room he’d ever had, save the one his friend Duke Ballard had given him when he went to San Francisco.
There were even a bathtub, which he made use of immediately. When he was drying himself, there was a knock on the door. He wrapped a towel around his waist and answered it.