There was a chair and desk in one corner and he went there to read the paper. There was still some light coming in through a window over the desk.
He read the accounts of both robberies, and they were much the same as the one in Heartless. In both cases the man had red hair and freckles and never made an attempt to cover his face. In Bekins no one was hurt, but in Mesquite a man was pistol-whipped, though not killed.
“Here’s another,” she said from behind him. He turned and accepted the paper, dated some five months ago. Same story.
“And another.”
He took this one from her—dated a full year back—and asked, “Don’t you have to cook for your grandfather?”
“He’ll wait.”
She provided him with nine newspapers in all, but told him that there were more robberies than that.
“I think there were twenty-three all told in two years,” she said, “but these eighteen were the only ones committed at the same time.”
“Apparently.”
“What?”
“I said they were apparently committed at the same time by the same man.” He touched the stack of papers on the desk and said, “We know that’s impossible, though.”
“Why is it impossible?”
He looked at her to see if her question was serious.
“Felicia, these robberies were all committed hundreds of miles apart. No one can be in two places at one time.”
“Maybe,” she said, “and maybe not. I have some ideas on the subject.”
“How do you know so much about this? How were you able to pick these newspapers out so easily?”
“That was easy. I read everything I can about men like Foxx and Wild Bill Hickok. I read dime novels, too.”
“You do, huh?”
“Sure.” A thought struck her. “Were there ever any dime novels about you?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Decker, Decker…” she repeated, thinking. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Good,” he said, standing up.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m finished here.”
“Don’t you want to hear my ideas?”
“Not right now, Felicia. I appreciate your help, but you’d better get on home and cook supper for your grandfather. He looks like he can use all the meals he can get.”
“But I can help you—”
“You already have,” he said, taking out two bits to give her.
“I don’t want your money!” she snapped, backing away.
“Take it. It’s the only way I have of thanking you.”
“Go on, get out of here!” she shouted. “Big-shot bounty hunter, too big to let a girl help you.”
He put the money down on a stack of papers and said, “Thanks, Felicia.”
“Get out!”
He left feeling bad that she was angry. She’d been very helpful and he liked her. Maybe he should have listened to her ideas.
Maybe later….
Chapter V
Brian Foxx was eating dinner when Brent Foxx walked through the door of the saloon.
“Hello, brother,” Brent said.
“You’re late.”
His younger brother, dusty from the trail, dropped his gear to the floor next to the table.
From behind the bar the bartender stared at the two men. He’d seen them together before, but it never ceased to amaze him. They were identical! Same hair, same freckles, same build. If Brent hadn’t been so dirty, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart.
Or was the dirty one Brian?
“I got held up,” Brent Foxx told his brother. “It’s good to see you, too.”
“Had to throw off a posse, you mean.”
Brent gave Brian one of his little-boy looks.
“You heard.”
“Did you have to kill somebody?”
Brent sat down and poured himself a drink from his brother’s bottle, then grabbed a piece of meat from his plate with dirty fingers and stuffed it into his mouth.
“I don’t kill unless I have to, Brian,” Brent said. “You know that. He was gonna draw down on me. What was I supposed to do?”
Brian thought that was bullshit, but he didn’t say so. There was no use in starting an argument, not now. He still had some talking to do first.
“Why don’t you get cleaned up and then come back and have something to eat?” he suggested. “We’ve got some talking to do.”
“Planning, you mean?”
“Yeah, planning.”
“When do we pull our next jobs?’” Brent always asked that question with such eagerness.
“We don’t.”
“Whataya mean, we don’t?”
“Get cleaned up and we’ll talk about it.” Brent was going to complain, but Brian said, “Go on.”
“All right,” Brent said, relenting. “I could use a bath.” Brent turned to the barkeep and said, “Sam, a steak that thick. Okay?” He held his fingers apart to indicate how thick he wanted his steak.
“You got it.”
Brent waved, then picked up his gear and went upstairs to his room.
Brian had decided while waiting for his brother that they were going to lay low for a while. This was the first time someone had gotten killed during a job, and that made it a special case.
Now all he had to do was convince his brother.
Chapter VI
After a late dinner, Decker went to the saloon again. This time he wanted a beer and a relaxing poker game. He’d gotten all he could get out of the witnesses and the sheriff, and it was time to start searching. He intended to travel a straight line from Heartless, Wyoming, to Doverville, Arizona, and see what popped up. He’d told the liveryman to have his horse ready at first light.
Tonight he wanted to relax because early the next morning he’d be on the trail again.
“You must like this place,” the bartender said after he ordered a beer.
“It’s the beer, not the company.”
“Thanks loads.”
“Any chance of a poker game?”
“If there is, you’ll have to get it up yourself. I don’t run any games in here.”
“I’ll take a table in the back. If anyone shows any interest, send them over, will you?”
“Sure.”
“And make sure they have some money.”
“Of course.”
The man gave him a fresh deck of cards, and Decker took them to the table with him and put them right in the center, unopened.
Before long a couple of cowboys ambled over to his table and said, “We hear you’re looking for a game.”
“That’s right.”
“What stakes?”
“Just killing time.”
“Sounds good to us.”
“You fellas brothers?”
“Nope. We happened to be at the bar when the bartender asked if we were interested in the game,” one man said, and the other nodded.
“Take a seat, gents,” Decker said, reaching for the deck and thumbing the seal open, “the game is about to start.”
Chapter VII
“Can we talk now?”
Brent Foxx stared across the table at his brother. He had just polished off a huge steak with some potatoes and biscuits and a pot of coffee. Now he poured himself a drink and addressed his brother.
“We’ve got to lay low for a while.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because you killed somebody, that’s why!’Brian Foxx’ is not just a bank robber anymore, he’s a killer.”
Brent shrugged.
“You’re the one who wanted his name used.”
“Nobody was ever supposed to get killed, Brent. We agreed. It’s bad enough you like to beat up on people—”