“That’s one of them over there,” he said. “That there’s Virgil.”
“And the other two?”
“Up-upstairs.”
“Good,” Decker said. “Now disappear.”
“Y-yessir.”
Decker downed the whiskey, and as it burned its way down his throat, he turned and faced Virgil Tyrone.
“Tyrone?”
The man looked up. He had the biggest ears Decker had ever seen.
“Who are you?”
“Decker.”
“I don’t know you.”
“But I know you. You killed a friend of mine.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Dover.”
“Oh, yeah. The bounty hunter.”
“That’s right.”
“And you? Are you a bounty hunter?”
“Yes.”
“And now you wanna
“I don’t have a choice,” Decker said. “This town doesn’t have any law to speak of.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed that myself,” Tyrone said. “You know there are two more of us, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you intend to kill them, too?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” Tyrone said, standing, “I guess you’ll have to start somewhere.”
The man was a fool. While he was spreading his legs and readying himself for a fair draw, Decker pulled his sawed-off shotgun and killed him.
“Shit,” Decker said. “If I fought fair, I’d have been dead long ago.”
Decker went up the steps slowly, reloading his gun. He had no way of knowing if the bartender had told the truth, but he played it as if he had—figuring the other two Tyrone brothers were upstairs, doing what men did upstairs in a saloon.
On the second floor he paused to listen. What he heard gave him the impression that two men were having a good time.
He started down the hall, moving cautiously, on the lookout for creaking floorboards—not that anyone would have heard him. By this time a man was moaning loudly and a woman was making a high-pitched, keening sound. One of the brothers was real close to finishing his good time.
Decker found the door where most of the noise was coming from. He held his gun in his right hand and braced himself against the wall opposite the door with his left. He pushed off and kicked out at the door, hitting it right next to the doorknob with his heel. The door splintered and slammed open.
On the bed he could see a man’s naked ass and a woman’s legs. The man turned and stared at him, open- mouthed, and a girl leaned sideways to take a look.
“What the—” the man said. He pushed himself off the girl and onto his back. “Who are you?”
“The question is, who are you?” Decker said. The question was unnecessary because the family resemblance was striking—especially around the ears.
“Matt Tyrone.”
“My name’s Decker,” Decker said. “Dover was my friend.”
“Dover?”
“The man you and your brothers killed about two hours ago.”
Virgil looked at the sawed-off in Decker’s hand and licked his lips.
“You can’t shoot me while I’m unarmed.”
“There’s your gun,” Decker said, gesturing toward the gun belt hanging on the bedpost.
At that moment a man’s voice from behind Decker said, “Jesus, Matt, what’re you doin’ to the bitch? It sounds like—”
When he saw Decker, the man quickly backed out and ran down the hall. No doubt he was after his gun.
The man on the bed took the opportunity to move for his own gun, knocking the woman off the bed as he did. As it turned out, he knocked her out of the line of Decker’s fire.
As Matt Tyrone’s hand closed over the butt of his gun, Decker fired, catching the man in the back of the head and blowing it apart.
The woman—who was forty if she was a day—started to scream. Blood had splattered her naked body.
Decker put his back to the wall and quickly reloaded. The third Tyrone brother had his gun by now, and he was either gone or waiting in the hall.
The woman on the floor was still screaming, and Decker shouted, “Shut up!” Shocked, she fell silent, except for an occasional sob.
Quickly he moved past the woman to look out the window. It was a sheer drop to the street below, no ledge, no balcony. He moved back over to the wall next to the door and listened intently.
“Mike, what the hell is—” called a woman.
She was talking to Mike Tyrone. “Jesus,” Tyrone yelled, “Shut up! Get back inside!”
Both voices came from the hallway.
Decker moved away from the wall and jumped out into the hallway, keeping low.
Mike Tyrone was square in the center of the hall with his gun out. He’d just pushed someone into his room, and when he looked back down the hall, Decker was there. Tyrone—there were those family ears again—brought his gun up, but Decker pulled the triggers on his shotgun and splattered him all over the hallway.
“I told you I’d be back.”
The sheriff looked up from his desk and stared at Decker for a long moment.
“Heard some shooting,” he finally said. “The Tyrone boys dead?”
“Yep.”
“All three, huh? You’re good.”
“The best,” Decker said, moving toward the desk. “Now it’s your turn.” The sheriff looked as if he might reach for his gun.
“You make a move for that gun and this town’s going to need a new sheriff.”
“What do you want?” the sheriff asked warily.
“Is there paper on the Tyrone boys?”
“No.”
“Then why did they kill Dover?”
“The only reason those boys did anything is because someone told them to.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sheriff—”
“I really don’t know,” the lawman said. “Dover had a room at the hotel. Maybe you’ll find something there.”
Decker shook his head and said, “How did you get that badge, anyway—by default?”
“How’d you know that?”
“Lucky guess. By the way, I want Dover’s personal effects.”
“I-I don’t have them,” the sheriff said. “Ask the undertaker.”
