Bounty on a Baron
Robert J. Randisi
Royal Flush
“Your chit for Parmenter,” the sheriff said, handing it to Decker.
“I’ll take him over to the undertaker. Have you got any new paper in?”
“Don’t let any grass grow under your feet, do you?” the lawman said. “Well, as a matter of fact, I got some paper on the Baron.”
“On the Baron?” Decker said, surprised. “He’s a killer, but he’s usually careful enough to avoid drawing paper.”
“Well, not this time,” the sheriff said. “He gunned down a kid, a twelve-year-old boy.”
“What? He’d never take a job like that. Not on a boy.”
“That mean you don’t want any part of the reward? Or do you just not want any part of the Baron? Be an interesting matchup, you gotta admit.”
Decker looked at the figure on the poster the sheriff handed him. Ten thousand dollars. He unfolded the poster and stared at the picture. The Baron had been plying his trade as a hired killer for more than seven years without ever having made a mistake that Decker knew of. He guessed that the old saying was never more true.
There’s always a first time.
They called him “the Baron,” and that’s exactly what he was, a bon-i-fidey Baron, from Russia. He never talked about it, though, not to anybody. It was a painful memory, fleeing Russia to escape his enemies, coming to the United States without a penny to his name. He tried working at different jobs, but none of them ever paid off. So, he turned to what he knew best.
Killing.
Even in Russia he had been a hired killer, but it was done differently there. Killing was killing, but he’d had to learn the new trappings that surrounded his profession in America.
In Russia, a rifle had been his weapon, and a knife. In America, he had to learn how to use a handgun, and he found that he had a natural talent with it. He had speed, he had accuracy. It soon became as natural as pointing his finger—the way it was with all the good ones.
He also needed a new name to go with everything else. Keeping the old one would allow his enemies to track him down too easily—even in this far-away country. He decided to use Brand—he liked the way it sounded. The first time he’d heard the word in the American West it had been something you did to a steer. Now it was his name.
Then there was his accent. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t lose it completely. It became more pronounced whenever he tried to speak quickly, so to counteract that, he rarely spoke unless it was absolutely necessary—
Like now.
“Outside,” he said to Stu Carver.
Carver turned and looked at him, and so did the other men in the saloon. There were about half a dozen but the Baron had eyes only for Carver.
“The Baron,” Stu Carver said, the two words a terrified whisper.
No one knew about the Baron’s background, but during the three years since he’d started his new life many people had commented on how regal his bearing always was. Some men even said he acted like royalty. Like a king or a duke or a baron, somebody had said. The name “Baron” stuck, even though he had never called himself anything but “Brand.”
Now, Carver was no coward, but when he saw the Baron standing there his blood ran cold and his stomach did flip-flops. There was only one reason the Baron came to town—and he had called Carver’s name.
“Me?” Carver said.
The Baron nodded.
“But, why me?”
The Baron shrugged. He had never asked why before taking a job, and he never intended to. It didn’t matter to him.
“Listen—” Stu Carver said, standing up.
“Outside.”
If it was avoidable, Brand liked to kill his man without taking anyone else with him. Extra killings brought in no recompense.
Carver had two friends in the saloon, and they straightened up now. Brand saw them but did not make a move.
“Outside,” he said for the third time, then backed out of the saloon into the darkness.
Carver came out of the saloon first, sweating. He was followed by his two friends, who fanned out on either side.
“Baron?” Carver called.
“Step away from the light.”
It was good advice, but it wasn’t meant to be. Brand didn’t want any stray shots going into the saloon and hitting some innocent bystander.
The three men stepped into the street, and Brand walked into a shaft of moonlight.
They all drew and fired.
Carver fired in haste and missed. Brand’s shot took him square in the chest. Brand never fired in haste.
Carver’s two friends fired several shots, but Brand leaped quickly to the left and heard the bullets whiz by him. He calmly squeezed off two more shots and then the whole town seemed to grow quiet.
He walked over and checked the bodies, Carver’s last.
“Damned waste,” he said. He’d been paid to kill one man, and he’d killed three. That was wasted lead for him.
He heard a noise behind him, then. Spinning around, he drew and fired. A man fell dead, and Brand went over to check the body. Carver must have sent someone out a back window, he thought. He knew the saloon had no back door.
Using his foot, he turned the body over. A muscle in his jaw began to jump when he saw that he’d killed a boy. Big for his age, but probably no more than twelve.
