“It must have been an accident.”
“That mean you don’t want any part of the reward?”
Decker looked at the figure on the poster the sheriff handed him. Ten thousand dollars.
“Or do you just not want any part of the Baron?” the sheriff asked. “Be an interesting matchup, you gotta admit.”
“Thanks for the chits, Sheriff. I’ll go over to the bank after I drop Parmenter off.”
He left the sheriff’s office, still holding on to the Baron’s poster. After he took care of the body, and his horse, Decker entered the saloon. He ordered a beer, took it to a table, then unfolded the poster and stared at the picture of the Baron.
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.
Under normal circumstances, Decker’s first move when he started hunting someone was to go to the place his quarry had last been seen. In this case, that would be Kendall, Wyoming.
This, however, was not a normal circumstance.
This time Decker was chasing another professional—not that bank robbery or train robbery weren’t professions, but there was something about bounty hunting and hiring out as a killer that made them more closely related.
They were both man hunters. The only difference was that when the killer found his man, his job wasn’t over until he killed him. At least the bounty hunter had the option of bringing his man in alive.
No, now that Decker was hunting a pro, there was no need to go to Kendall, Wyoming. There would be nothing there to help him. What he had to do was talk to another pro, another professional killer.
And he knew just the man—Joe Rigger.
There was only one problem with that. Joe Rigger had sworn that the next time he saw Decker, he’d kill him.
That was just something that Decker would have to deal with the best he could.
Finding Joe Rigger would be no problem. He always stayed in the same town between jobs. His profession had once been the same as Decker’s, but five years ago he had switched from hunter to killer. Decker had always felt that Rigger changed professions because, with Decker around, he could no longer claim to be the best bounty hunter in the business.
Until the arrival of the Baron he
That was what Decker was counting on to get Rigger to help him.
Rigger was a Texan, and although it wasn’t general knowledge, Decker knew that between jobs he stayed in the town of El Segundo, right across the border from Mexico. It was the perfect place; in case the law ever came looking for him, the border would be readily accessible. Of course, before the law came looking for him they’d need some kind of proof that he had killed in cold blood. Rigger was too good, too careful to ever leave anything like that behind him. Even if he couldn’t get his target to face him fairly, he killed him anyway—and managed to be able to claim to be somewhere else at the time of the killing.
Everyone knew that Joe Rigger was a killer, but no one could ever prove it.
Except Decker. He’d been an eyewitness to one of Rigger’s murders, but since the target had been a man Decker was hunting, and since Rigger had walked away from the body, Decker had been able to turn the corpse in for the bounty. That was the reason Rigger had sworn to kill him, for collecting a bounty on a man he had killed. He claimed it wasn’t fair, or right, but Decker couldn’t see the sense of letting the corpse rot without someone collecting the reward.
That had been a few years ago, just before the Baron had appeared on the scene. Decker wondered if Rigger was still angry.
He’d find out soon enough.
Decker entered El Segundo under the cover of night. He didn’t want to run into Rigger by accident. He had a definite idea about how to handle their first face-to-face meeting in three years.
He knew that Rigger owned the Hunter Saloon and kept the entire second floor for his own use. If anyone wanted to dally with one of Rigger’s girls after hours, he’d have to supply the hotel room.
Decker walked his gelding, John Henry, behind the saloon and left him there. He moved around to the front of the saloon again and peeked through the window to make sure Rigger wasn’t there. If he had been, Decker would have made his entry through the second floor. Since Rigger wasn’t inside, that meant he was already upstairs.
Unless he was away on a job. If that was the case, Decker knew he’d have to find another angle to work.
He entered the saloon and walked to the bar. The place was about half full. It wasn’t the biggest saloon in town, and Decker wondered how much business it usually did. Of course, Rigger’s livelihood didn’t depend on it, so half full was probably fine with him.
Decker ordered a beer from the bartender, a heavyset man with hands like hams and the face of a pig.
Beer in hand, he turned his back to the bar and checked the room. There were two girls working it, a fairly attractive blonde who had seen better days and a young brunette with the face of a schoolteacher and the body of a—well, no schoolteacher Decker had ever known had had a body like that.
The blonde was sitting on a man’s lap, and the brunette, who had just dropped off some drinks at another table, was returning to the bar.
He didn’t see anyone else working the saloon, so he assumed that either the bartender or one of the girls would know where Rigger was.
Looking closely at the younger girl, he decided she was his best bet. She’d be most likely to give Rigger’s whereabouts away without meaning to.
As she approached the bar he touched her arm lightly.
“Two beers, Carl,” she said to the bartender, then she turned her eyes—violet eyes, he noticed—toward Decker and went to work. “Can I help you?” she asked flirtatiously.
“Sure can,” he said and smiled. She smiled back, a slow, sexy smile that would come easier and better after some more practice.
“You gonna tell me how?” she asked.
“Where’s Rigger?”
Her smile slipped and for an instant—just for a split second—she glanced up at the ceiling.
“Who?” she asked innocently, but her eyes had said, “He’s upstairs.”
“Joe Rigger, the fella who owns this place.”
The bartender returned with the beers the girl had ordered. He leaned across the bar and said, “Trouble, Viola?”
“This man is looking for someone named Rigger,” Viola said. “He says he owns this saloon.”
“I own this place, friend,” the bartender said. “Can I help you?”
“No,” Decker said, “you can’t.”
“There’s no Rigger here.”
“Fine, if you say so.”
“I say so,” the man said.
As the big man’s right shoulder dipped, Decker pulled out his gun and laid it across the bar so that no one in the room could see it but the bartender and Viola.
“Put the shotgun on the bar, slowly,” Decker said, his low voice menacing. Clutching the tray of beer, Viola
