“Why thank you, Mr. Decker.”
“And you’re a good waitress, too.”
“Tell my boss.”
“I will. Thank you, miss…”
“Benbow, Julia Benbow.”
“Miss Benbow.”
As Decker and the sheriff left, Julia Benbow experienced a breathless feeling and a tingling in the pit of her stomach.
In the bank Decker asked the same questions of Wilbur Posten, the young teller, and Andrew Billingsworth, the bank manager. Both men described Brian Foxx. Posten added that he had recognized him right away.
“I read the papers,” the young man said.
“Do you know Miss Benbow at the hotel?” Decker asked.
The man blushed and said, “I, ah, may have met her.” He had obviously met her, since she had an account in this bank, and he had just as obviously noticed her.
“You should go and talk to her. You and she have a lot in common.”
“Really?” the man asked, brightening.
“Yeah. She reads the papers, too. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”
“Anything else I can do for you?” Wilson asked, outside the bank.
There was, but Decker didn’t want to tell him. He shook his head no and walked away.
He stopped at the telegraph office and found that a reply had come in. He read the message, and it told him just what the four witnesses here had told him.
The bank had been held up by a man in his twenties, with red hair and freckles, who made no attempt to hide his face from three witnesses.
By all accounts, Brian Foxx.
Impossible.
There was only one difference between the two jobs. Here in Heartless, no one had been hurt. In Doverville, a man had been shot and killed.
Brian Foxx was now wanted for murder, as well as bank robbery and train robbery.
That meant an increase in the reward.
Chapter III
The town of Fenner’s Fork, in the Utah region, was small and sparsely populated. It did, however, have a saloon and two whores, which made it a perfect place for the Foxx boys, Brian and Brent, to hole up between jobs.
Brian, however, had no intention of allowing either one of them to be caught.
Brian was not only the smartest, he also kept a level head. No one had ever been injured during one of his jobs.
Brent, on the other hand, rarely pulled a job with-out hurting someone, and Brian usually resigned himself to that fact—but this time Brent had gone too far.
Brian was the first to arrive at Fenner’s Fork, and while he waited for Brent, he wondered if—with this recent turn of events—they shouldn’t change their area of operation. So far their jobs had been pulled in Wyoming, Arizona, and New Mexico. Never in Utah, since this was where they rested in between and made their plans.
Maybe, Brian thought, it was time to move things farther west. Maybe try Nevada, Idaho, and Oregon, or even California. On the other hand, they could go east—Kansas, the Indian Territory, and Texas, even to missouri and Arkansas. If they did that, they could hang their hats in Louisiana. He had always wanted to see New Orleans!
When Brent arrived, he’d have to broach the subject gently in order to get him to agree. His brother had changed since they began this charade. Brent liked the feeling of power and Brian knew that his brother’s violent acts were an extension of that. Now that he had actually killed someone, what would he be like? And how long would it be before he killed again?
Brian shuddered to think.
Sometimes his brother scared him.
It was a good thing Brent didn’t know that, because Brent was intimidated by Brian’s superior intelligence, and usually bowed to it. If he ever sensed that Brian was afraid of him…
He ordered another beer and wondered if he should continue to wait in the saloon or go over and wait with the girls.
Chapter IV
When Decker got to the newspaper office, it was almost six and they were getting ready to close up.
“Excuse me?”
There were two people in the place, an old man and a young girl with pigtails. She was very cute and looked to be about fourteen.
“Gettin’ ready to close,” the old man snapped.
“Oh, Grandpa, don’t be so grumpy,” the girl said. She walked up to Decker with a big smile on her face. “My name is Felicia Wheeler, what’s yours?”
“Decker.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Decker. That there’s my grandpa, Harrison Wheeler, but everybody just calls him Harry He’s the editor of this newspaper.”
“Then he’s the man I want to see.”
“Well now, like Grandpa said, we’re just getting ready to close.”
“I would just like to take a look at some back issues of your paper.”
“Oh, then you don’t want to talk to the editor,” Felicia Wheeler said, “you want to talk to the staff.”
“The staff? And who might they be?”
“Me,” she said proudly. “I’m them.”
Her grandfather came up behind her and said, “Felicia, you gonna be jawing with this stranger all day?”
“Just a little while, Grandpa.”
“Well, don’t forget to lock up when you leave.” The man’s hair was as white as snow, and his skin was pink and shiny. His eyes were a crystal-clear blue, and he turned them on Decker now. “This here’s my only granddaughter and she’s fourteen years old. If you do anything to her besides talk, I’ll have to kill you. You understand that?”
“I’ll remember, Harry.”
The threat was ludicrous, since Harry Wheeler was at least sixty, only about five foot four, and frail, but the sentiment was clear.
“All right.”
“See you later, Grandpa,” Felicia said.
“Will you be home in time to cook supper, or should I go out?”
“I’ll cook, Grandpa. I always cook.”
The old man left, muttering something that Decker could not catch.”
“What back issue you want to see, Mr. Decker?”
“Just call me Decker.”
“Fine, and you can call me Felicia.”
“I’d like to see whatever issue has stories about Brian Foxx.”
“The robber?” she asked, eyes widening. “Are you a lawman?”
“No, I’m not.”
She studied him for a moment and then said, “A bounty hunter.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re mean-looking enough for it. What kind of a gun is that for a bounty hunter to carry?”
He looked down at the sawed-off in its special holster and said, “That’s so I can be fairly sure I’ll hit what I’m aiming at.”
“Can’t you do that with a forty-five?”
“Never could get the hang of firing a pistol. A rifle’s more my weapon. Can I see those papers? Do you have back issues?
“Oh, sure, in the back room. Come on, I’ll get them out for you.”
He followed her into the back room, which was filled with stacks of newspapers.
“This looks like a real firetrap,” he said. “One match in here…”
“All newspaper offices are firetraps, Decker. You just got to be careful.” She was looking through stacks of papers and turned to give him a stern look. “You don’t smoke, do you?”
“I’ve been known to on occasion, but I don’t have anything with me.”
“Well, that’s good.”
She started to lift a pile of newspapers, and Decker rushed forward to do it for her.
“Just put it on the floor for now. Here’s an issue that will interest you. It’s dated three months ago, when he held up that bank in Bekins, Wyoming, and the one in Mesquite, New Mexico.”