him, and said, “Anybody ever tell you that you were too demanding?”
“I have never had any complaints from my other women,” he said as she returned to the stove.
“Ha!” Josephine said over her shoulder. “I happen to know that no other woman would have you. No other woman would put up with your kind of behavior.”
She often wondered, however, whether or not he had other women in other parts of the country. He was never gone for much more than a month or two at a time, but he was sometimes away several times a year. At least that meant that even if he had other women, he spent most of his time with her.
For Josephine, that was enough.
She knew that she was a big woman, and that most men had trouble measuring up to her. She also knew that although she might have been described as “handsome,” she was certainly no beauty.
Brand had been one of the few men who hadn’t been intimidated by her or put off by her. Many other men had wanted her, she knew, for one night, just to see what it would be like, but Brand had never been like that. In fact, he had known her for months before he had even tried to kiss her.
No, although she had had affairs with a few men Brand was the only man for her, and even if he
She did still wonder, though, what sort of business took him away for those long periods at a time.
She wondered, but she had never asked.
And she never would.
The first night Decker camped on the trail after leaving the Boone lumber camp made him appreciate Frenchie’s offer of hospitality—whatever the man’s motives—even more. Sitting in front of his fire, he pulled his jacket closer around him and put his fur collar up to ward off the chill. As it turned out, being cold saved his life, because it was when he leaned over to grab his blanket and wrap himself in it that the shot was fired—missing him by inches.
After the first shot he rolled away from the fire as quickly as he could and drew his gun. It was in situations like this that Decker wished he were a better shot with a handgun. His cut-down shotgun had a limited effective range, and was of almost no use in instances like this. True, he could have fired into the brush, and his double-O shot would cover a wide area, its pattern spreading more the farther it went, but at some point—when it spread too much—it became ineffective.
Decker looked over at his rifle on the other side of the fire. He had rolled away from the fire instinctively, trying to get out of its light, but in doing so had also rolled farther away from the rifle.
Anxiously, he looked at John Henry, who seemed unconcerned about the goings-on. Had he been ambushing someone he would have gone for the horse first, either to free it or kill it. He was relieved that his ambusher—or ambushers—had not thought of that yet.
They might, though, which gave him three possible choices. He could stay where he was, but that wasn’t such a great choice. He might be away from most of the fire’s light, but he was still out in the open.
The second choice was to move over by John Henry, to protect the horse, but then he’d still be waiting for them to make a move.
His third choice was to move into the brush himself, out of sight, which would put him on more equal footing with his attackers.
Lying on his belly, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, Decker wondered why there had only been that one shot. As if to answer his question there were suddenly two more, sounding as if they had been fired from two different guns. Each kicked up some dirt on either side of him, and he knew he had to move or he’d be dead in seconds.
He took a deep breath, then rose and ran for the brush. Three or four more shots rang out, narrowly missing him, and then he wasn’t out in the open anymore.
He stopped when he had cover and crouched down, staying perfectly still. He listened intently, trying desperately to hear something that would give away the position of his assailants.
“Jesus, we missed—” he heard, and then someone said, “Shhh!” forcefully.
That was enough for him to pinpoint their position. He started to move through the brush, hoping to come up behind them before it occurred to them to go after his horse.
As he moved along, Decker started to wonder if he wasn’t getting a little old for this business. The two men had managed to get close enough to take a shot at him without his hearing them. This was just another in a series of lapses he had noticed since he had started out after the Baron. Even the usually reliable John Henry had not detected the presence of the men before they could fire. Decker wondered if the cold had affected the horse’s sense of smell and hearing. Maybe it had even affected his.
Why couldn’t the Baron have hid out in Mexico, like a lot of other outlaws? he wondered.
After he moved about a hundred yards in a semicircle Decker stopped and listened again. This time when he heard them they were much closer.
“Where did he go?” one man asked.
“I told you to keep your mouth shut!” a second voice said.
They were about ten yards to his left and in front of him.
He moved cautiously, not wanting to alert them, and when he thought he was directly behind them he decided on his course of action. If he called out to them they could split up and would immediately gain the advantage. He was better off taking a more direct course.
He raised his sawed-off and fired both barrels ahead of him. While the men screamed in anguish he quickly ejected the two empty shells and replaced them.
He moved forward then, gun held out ahead of him, and approached what had become a stream of steady moans.
“God, Jesus!” one man yelled. “I been cut in half!”
The other was simply groaning, holding himself with both arms.
Decker moved to the shouting man, but as he leaned over him the man stopped yelling. An instant later he emitted a sound that could only be a death rattle. This man would never give him any trouble again, Decker knew.
He turned to approach the other man, whose wounds appeared less serious. Still, he was surprised when the man rolled over with a gun in his hand. Without even thinking, Decker squeezed off one barrel, striking the man in the face, obliterating it totally.
There was an eerie silence after the shots, and Decker checked both men again. From his vantage point he had a clear look at his campfire. If they had been better marksmen—or if he had not been so cold—he would be dead now instead of them.
Decker was about to step out into the open when there was a shot from the opposite side of the campfire.
“Shit!” Decker said, hitting the ground. Apparently these men had not been alone but were simply the first wave.
Decker rolled over, removed the spent shells from his gun, and loaded two more. It was at times like this— and a lot of others—that he wished he was a competent shot with a six-shooter, simply because they had six shots.
“Dave!” a voice called out. “Steve!”
Well, now Decker knew the names of the two dead men. Of course, that still didn’t tell him who they were.
Keeping low, Decker crept over one of the bodies, intending to move back into the brush, but he stopped short. He holstered his gun, picked up one of the dead men’s rifles, and then began to circle to his right, facing the campfire. Maybe whoever was on the other side—one man? two?—would think that Decker was as dead as his two
