Decker doubted the validity of the story, but had to admit that it sounded good.
“Who’s the sheriff of this town?” he asked.
“That’d be Hack Wilson.”
Decker put his beer down.
“Thomas’Hack’ Wilson?”
“That’s right. You know him?”
“I know him. How long has he been sheriff here?”
“’Bout eight months or so.”
Eight months. Well, maybe the people of this town had already caught on to old Hack’s ways and were ready to vote him out come next election. It wasn’t any of Decker’s business. He was only concerned with the Brian Foxx bank robbery. All he wanted was to talk to Hack Wilson.
“Thanks for the beer.”
“Stayin’ in town?”
“Might be.”
“If you are, come on back for another. I got another story for you if you didn’t like that one.”
“I liked it fine,” Decker said. “If I’m staying, I’ll be back.”
He walked from the saloon directly to the sheriff’s office. A wooden sign saying, THOMAS WILSON, TOWN SHERIFF, hung outside. He rapped his knuckles on the door a few times and entered.
“Sheriff,” he said.
Sheriff Wilson’s head was bowed over his desk as he perused some paperwork, and when he looked up Decker saw that it was indeed Hack Wilson.
And Wilson recognized Decker.
“Decker!”
“Hello, Sheriff.”
“What can I do for you, Decker,” Wilson asked nervously. “Hunting somebody?”
“That’s what I’m doing, all right.” When Decker dropped his saddlebags onto the back of a straight-backed wooden chair, Wilson jumped at the sound, looking nervous again.
“Relax, Wilson,” Decker said, “I ain’t gonna bite you.”
It had been three years ago when Wilson had decided to try his hand at bounty hunting. They had a disagreement over a prisoner and Wilson—a large man even then—decided he wanted to fight about it. Well, after a few minutes he realized he’d made a mistake. His bulk worked against him while Decker, whipcord thin and fast, had given Wilson a lesson in hand to hand. That was before Wilson decided to use his teeth. He sank his teeth into Decker’s arm, making Decker angry—he’d been only mildly annoyed until that point. Decker knocked Wilson cold. After that, he’d had to go to a doctor to have the human bite disinfected. Upon returning to the scene of the battle, he found Wilson and the prisoner gone!
“Now, that was three years ago, Decker—” Wilson began nervously.
“You remember, eh?”
“I been sorry as hell about that ever since, but I needed the money.”
“Nobody needs money that bad, Wilson. Do the people of this town know what kind of a thieving buzzard they’ve got for a sheriff?”
“I been a good sheriff here, Decker. I—I’m trying to do right for a change.”
“Is that so?”
“And I’ll prove it to you. Just tell me what you want and it’s yours.”
“All right,” Decker said, deciding to take the man up on his offer. “Brian Foxx.”
Wilson was taken aback, then realized that it made perfect sense.
“I should have known you’d get on his trail sooner or later. There ain’t much I can tell you. I got to the bank after it was all over. I never saw the man.”
“You can tell me who did.”
“Sure, I can do that. In fact, I’d be glad to take you around to the witnesses myself.” Wilson rose from behind his desk to do just that. In his midthirties, he had let his gut grow to alarming proportions.
“We can go in a little while,” Decker said. “I’d like to get a hotel room first, freshen up, and get something to eat. Two hours all right with you?”
“Sure, Decker, fine,” Wilson said.
“All right.” Decker picked up his saddlebags and said, “Two hours, then.”
“I’ll be here.”
Decker pinned the man with a hard stare.
“I know you will.”
Chapter II
Decker, refreshed and fed, stopped off at the telegraph office before going to the saloon for a beer. He composed a short telegram to the sheriff of Doverville, Arizona, asking for a complete and de-tailed description of the man who had held up their bank the month before. He also asked for a quick reply. He paid for the telegram and told the clerk he’d check in for an answer later.
When he entered the saloon, the bartender recognized him.
“Another beer?”
“Yep.”
“And another story?”
“Just the beer. I’ll make do with the first story.”
“Coming up.”
When the bartender came back with the beer, Decker said, “Tell me about the sheriff.”
“What about him?”
“What kind of a lawman is he?”
The man shrugged.
“Fair Tomiddlin’, I guess. He keeps the peace, stops in for a free drink every once in a while.”
“He looks like he’s getting a lot of free meals.”
“Might be, but he was shaped like that when he ran for the office.”
Decker noticed something odd in the bartender’s voice and mentioned it.
“Well, to tell you the God’s honest truth, Mr.…”
“Decker.”
“Name’s Ted Daniels,” the bartender said, and they shook hands. “To tell you the truth, Decker, Hack Wilson ran unopposed for the office because nobody else wanted the job.”
“Why’s that?”
“Would you like to be the sheriff of a town called Heartless?”
“That’s another thing. Why is the town called Heartless?”
The bartender leaned on his elbows and said, “Somebody was in a piss-poor mood when they named it.”
Wilson was waiting at his office when Decker arrived.
“Ready?” Decker asked.
“I’m ready.”
They left the office and Wilson dictated the direction they would take.
“How many people were in the bank that day?”
“Four. The manager, the teller, and two customers.”
“Let’s do the customers first. We can find the other two at the bank.”
“It closes at five.”
“We’ve got an hour. I just have a few questions.”
The first witness was Thaddeus Bidwell, who ran and owned the hardware store. He replied willingly enough to Decker’s questions. He said that he wasn’t particularly familiar with Brian Foxx’s face, but that the man in the bank had red hair and freckles and had made absolutely no attempt to cover his face.
“Crazy huh?” the hardware man said.
“Not so crazy when you consider his motive,” Decker replied.
“Which was?”
“He wanted Tomake sure he got the credit.”
The second witness was a young woman who was a waitress in the hotel dining room. In fact, it was the waitress who had waited on Decker earlier.
She had been in the bank Tomake a deposit.
“A small deposit, mind you,” she said, smiling crookedly. “On my salary, that’s the only kind I can make.”
She was a pretty little thing with brown hair and eyes. Probably had suitors up the ass, Decker thought—a pretty ass it was, too.
She described the man exactly as Bidwell had, and added that she knew it was Brian Foxx as soon as she saw him.
“How did you know that?”
“I read the papers, Mr. Decker. I’m not just another pretty face, you know.”
“Pretty enough, though, miss,” Decker said, tipping his hat. “Darned pretty enough.”