“Hey,” Rosewood said, taking a good look at Decker, “were you ever a boxer?”
“No.”
“You look like you could’ve been…although those don’t look like boxing scars.”
Glancing at the scars on his torso, Decker said, “They’re not. What have you got for me?”
“Ah—here.”
Rosewood took out a leather shoulder rig with a gun in the holster from inside his jacket. He removed the gun and showed it to Decker.
“It’s a Colt New Line,” Rosewood said. “Thirty-two caliber. That was the biggest caliber I could find in a gun this small.”
Decker took the gun and held it.
“It holds five shots,” Rosewood said. “I can get you a twenty-two-caliber gun that holds seven shots if you like.”
“No, this is fine,” Decker said. “If five shots doesn’t do it, I don’t think two extra will matter.”
Decker checked to see that the gun was fully loaded, then put it down on the dresser.
“Here,” Rosewood said, handing him the shoulder rig, “no extra charge.”
“I’m touched by your generosity, Billy,” Decker said, accepting it.
“I’m not so generous really. I figure if you’re gonna be here awhile, I might get some repeat business.”
“Well, I will need someone to show me around.”
“I’m your man. You know how to put that thing on?” he asked, indicating the shoulder holster.
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Anything I can do for you now?”
“Not today,” Decker said. “I’m going to walk around a bit, find a telegraph office and a decent restaurant.”
“Well, don’t eat in the hotel dining room. There’s a restaurant two blocks west that makes a pretty good steak dinner.”
“Thanks.”
“Three blocks to the east and then a block north, you’ll find a telegraph office.”
“Well,” Decker said, “that’s all I need for now.”
“If you had more money to spend and were staying in a better hotel, there’d be a telegraph line right in the hotel itself.”
“I’ll remember that next time I’m here. Can you meet me out front at nine in the morning?”
“Nine sharp,” Rosewood said. “I’ll be there.”
“See you then. I’ll buy you breakfast.”
“You got a deal.” Rosewood started for the door. “Oh, I almost forgot.”
He took Dover’s lucky knife from his belt.
“Got you a real nice edge on this,” he said, handing it to Decker. “Why’d you let it get so dull?”
“It belonged to a friend of mine. He carried it only for luck.”
“I presume he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Well, with an edge like that on it, you should have more luck with it than he did.”
“I hope so.”
“See you in the morning.”
“Right.”
Rosewood left, and Decker got dressed. He slipped on the shoulder holster and then slid the gun into it. It was uncomfortable, but he’d get used to it. His only worry was that he was not a good marksman with a pistol, and the gun was only a .32. With the small caliber, it would have been better if he could hit what he wanted when he wanted, but this would have to do.
He put on one of the suits he’d just bought and checked himself in the mirror. The gun was nestled beneath his arm and hardly showed at all. It would take a tailor’s expert eye to catch it.
Satisfied, he left the room to take a little get-acquainted-with-New-York walk.
Chapter Three
Decker didn’t think he could ever live in New York. The streets and sidewalks were too hard on a man’s feet, and he was damn sure that the streets were too hard on a horse’s hoof, too. He was glad he’d left John Henry with a friend in St. Louis, the farthest east he’d ever been before this trip.
He found the restaurant Billy Rosewood told him about and ordered the steak dinner. It came with potatoes, onions, two other vegetables and biscuits. He had two cold beers with it, and it all went down fine. Not like Western cooking, but fine.
He walked the other way then and found the telegraph office where Billy Rosewood said it would be, on Fifth Avenue and Twenty-fifth Street.
Inside, he composed a message to his friend Duke, in San Francisco. He wanted to know if Duke knew who Oakley Ready was and what he might be doing in New York. If not, he asked if Duke knew anyone in New York that could give him the answers.
“If I get an answer, can you have someone run it over to my hotel?” he asked, handing the clerk some money.
“Sure thing, mister.”
“Thanks.” He started to leave, then turned back and asked, “Is there any place nearby I could get a drink?”
“A couple of places, but try the bar across the street, near Twenty-sixth. Better atmosphere.” The clerk wriggled his eyebrows.
“Thanks again.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
Decker went over to Twenty-sixth and entered the bar.
“Yes, sir?” asked a fat bartender. “What can I get for you?”
“A cold beer.”
“Only kind we serve, sir.”
“Fine.”
Decker looked around, wondering why anyone would put so much money into making a bar look so grand. The seats were cushioned and leather covered, and there were chandeliers made of metal and glass—and this was just a street bar, where somebody would stop for a drink after work, or something?
It was barely dark out, and the place was only half full. There were a few girls working the place, and they were as dressed up as the bar. All three of them were under twenty-five and pretty. If Decker were interested, he would have picked the dark-haired girl over the two blondes, but that was not what he was here in New York for.
He finished his beer and walked back to his hotel.
Decker tensed, not sure what had wakened him. He kept perfectly still, listening intently. The shoulder rig with the New Line was hanging on the bedpost, but his shotgun was close by, within reach on a small night table.
He listened for a few moments and finally heard it again, a scratching noise at the door.
Somebody was trying to get in.
He leaped off the bed. Grabbing the shotgun, he stood next to the door, so that he’d be behind it when it opened.
Whoever it was didn’t have a whole lot of experience. It took him a few more minutes to get it done finally.
Once it was unlocked, the door swung open slowly until Decker was standing right behind it. He raised the
