Robert J. Randisi
DOUBLE
THE
BOUNTY
To Steve McQueen.
Prologue
I
Heartless, Wyoming
Brian Foxx knew he was a legend.
Oh, maybe he wasn’t as much of a legend as he wanted to be—but then no man ever is—except for Wild Bill Hickok. Hickok was the only man in history who might have been more famous than even he believed.
And Brian Foxx was certainly no Wild Bill Hickok.
Brian Foxx was a bank and train robber, and he was wanted in three states for robberies committed over the past two years. What made Brian Foxx a legend was the fact that he had robbed two banks on the same day on more than one occasion—hundreds of miles apart! It was physically impossible, yet witnesses in both places had identified the man as Brian Foxx, whose face had adorned enough posters and newspapers to be recognized.
Brian Foxx sat in a straight-backed wooden chair across the street from the Bank of Heartless, Wyoming. He was observing the bank’s activities, as he always did before robbing one. Also, he knew that he still had two days before everything would be set for the robbery to take place.
He had to wait for his twin brother, Brent Foxx, to get into position hundreds of miles away in Doverville, Arizona. This was they could rob their respective banks at the same time.
Witness would swear that the man who robbed the bank was the infamous brain Foxx.
This would certainly add his legend!
II
Denver, Colorado
In Denver, Colorado, inside the federal marshal’s office, Marshal Charles Edward Chesbro counted out one thousand dollars into the hand of a tall, dark-haired man with dark, penetrating eyes and a heavy mustache.
“Cole was a little worse for wear when you brought him in here yesterday,” the marshal said after he’d finished his counting.
“He was alive, wasn’t he?” the other man asked. He counted the money himself, which seemed to annoy the marshal.
“Uh, what are you going to do with all that money?”
The man put the money away and looked at the marshal.
“That’s none of your damned business. You got any new paper?”
“Outside on the wall,” the marshal said, stung by the reproach.
Without a word of thanks or good-bye, the man turned and walked outside.
The marshal shook his head, watching the man’s retreating back. He couldn’t understand why the man’s presence—no matter how many times he had dragged a prisoner back here—always unnerved him.
Outside, the man looked over the posters. He stopped at the one that said:
WANTED: BRIAN FOXX
$1500 REWARD
DEAD OR ALIVE
The man took the bottom of the poster between his thumb and forefinger and snapped it off the wall.
Poster in hand, he walked to his horse, a small but powerfully built gelding, and mounted up. Hanging from his saddle pommel, in plain sight, was an expertly tied hangman’s noose.
The man’s name was Decker. And he was something of a legend himself.
He was a bounty hunter.
PART ONE
FOXX HOLE
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.”