friends, and step out into the open.
Moving slowly but steadily, Decker heard someone say, “Shit!” under his breath, and he followed the sound of the voice.
He was opposite the place where he’d left the two bodies when someone suddenly shouted, “Hey, Steve! You hit?”
Decker started, because the voice came from right in front of him, about ten feet away. Decker could see that the man was wearing a plaid jacket and heavy pants. From the look of him, he was a lumberjack—an interesting point.
Peering through the brush, he saw a lone man lying on his stomach, a rifle in his hand. He came up behind the man, who heard him too late.
“Freeze,” Decker said, putting the barrel of his rifle right against the man’s ass. “Let’s have a talk.”
“I got nothing to say.”
“We can talk now, or I give you another asshole and
“Jesus! Wait—”
“All right, then,” Decker said. “Toss your rifle out into the clearing.”
The man obeyed, flinging the rifle away from him.
“Who sent you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What the hell—” Decker said, pressing the rifle butt harder against the man’s ass.
“I mean it,” he said. “I just came along for the ride.”
“And the money?”
“Sure. And the money.”
Decker backed away from the man and said, “Okay, roll over. I want to take a look at you.”
The man rolled over and Decker saw his hand inside his jacket. Before the man had time to bring the gun out, Decker fired. The bullet struck the man in the throat, bringing a gusher of blood from his mouth, and then he slumped back with his eyes still open.
“Damn!” Decker said.
He moved through the brush until he found a branch approximately the size and thickness of his arm, then walked to his campfire and lit one end of it. Using it as a torch he went back to check the first two bodies. He did not recognize either of the men, but he did recognize the way they were dressed.
There was no doubt in his mind that all three men were loggers.
As he drank some strong black coffee, Decker pondered on the significance of the attack. Someone from a logging camp had sent those two men after him, and the only logging camp he’d been anywhere near was the Boone camp.
Who was really in command there? he wondered. How much real authority did Dani Boone have? She had just taken over from her father. How much loyalty would she command from her men? And why, if she was so anxious for Decker to find her father’s killer, would she send two men to kill him.
No, it wasn’t Dani Boone.
The logic that eliminated Dani Boone, however, did not apply to the other person who was in authority: Big Jeff Reno. Decker had had no contact whatsoever with Reno during the short time he’d been in the camp, yet whenever the man looked at him, it had been with distinct displeasure.
Why? What could Reno have against him? Perhaps Reno recognized Decker. It wasn’t impossible that Decker had once brought in or killed a relative of his. Decker couldn’t count the times that someone’s brother or father or wife or even daughter had tried to kill him out of revenge.
Still, if he’d had some contact with a relative of Reno’s in the past, and if there had been any resemblance at all, surely he’d remember.
Was he leaving someone out? What about Frenchie? If he’d been so close to Dani’s father, wouldn’t he have some authority with the men? He could have given the order, but it had been Frenchie who’d brought Decker into camp in the first place.
Reno was Decker’s choice, but he decided not to go back to camp now and find out. He could do that later. It would be some time before Reno knew that his men had failed, and by that time it would be too late to send anyone else after him.
Decker fed some more mesquite into the fire, then lay back with his head on his pillow. He’d sleep lightly to night. He filed Jeff Reno away in the back of his mind as unfinished business.
Back in Douglas, Wyoming, Sheriff Calder was sitting in his office, wondering how long he would remain sheriff there.
He hadn’t heard from the Baron in some time, and he was beginning to wonder if Decker hadn’t actually found him and brought him in—or killed him. Without the Baron to back him up, Calder wouldn’t be able to hold on to Douglas. As soon as the news broke that the notorious hired killer had been brought in, the town would turn on him.
Nervous, the sheriff tried to calm himself. He knew what the Baron was capable of. Before he panicked, he’d wait until he either heard from him or heard that he’d been caught.
In Broadus, Brand realized that it had been a while since he had contacted Calder to find out if anyone was asking about his services.
He was sitting on the porch of Josephine’s house, waiting for her to close the store and come home to cook him dinner. It wouldn’t take long for him to walk over to the telegraph office and send word, but that would tell Calder where he was. What he usually did was travel to a different town to contact the sheriff. That way no two messages ever came from the same place.
Right now he was too comfortable to saddle a horse and ride to the next town, so he just settled back and continued to wait for Jo.
Broadus was by far the largest town Decker had come across along the Powder River. It had not one, but two hotels, two saloons, a telegraph office, and many other shops that only show up in a growing town. To his surprise, it even had an ice cream parlor.
Decker found the livery and gave John Henry over to the liveryman’s care. He was happy to be in a real town again, where he’d be able to get a real meal and sleep in a real bed. Although his stay at the logging camp had been comfortable enough, it would not be able to rival a stay in a true town.
He entered the hotel lobby, put his saddlebags on the floor, and leaned his rifle against the front of the desk.
There was no clerk, but just moments later a man stepped out from behind a curtained doorway. He was a small, rather portly man with thinning black hair and a small moustache.
“May I help you, sir?” he inquired politely.
“Yes, I’d like a room.”
“Certainly. Please sign the register.”
While he was signing, Decker asked, “Who’s the sheriff here?”
“Our sheriff’s name is Kyle Roman, sir.”
“How long has he been sheriff?”
“I’d say…almost two years.”
“Is he a good one?”
“I’d say he was quite adequate.”
“Adequate” was not a word Decker would use to describe a lawman. He was either good or bad—and if he
