shotgun in his right hand and waited for the man to enter. In the light coming from the hall, he could see that his bed was empty. If he could see it, so could whoever had just opened his door.
He hit the door hard with his shoulder and felt it bang into someone. Coming around the door fast, he found he’d made a mistake.
There were two of them.
One of them was sitting in the hall with a bloody nose; the other one stepped into Decker’s path and returned the favor. He was a big man, and with one hand he grabbed the barrel of the shotgun. With the other he hit Decker in the face with a massive fist. Decker backpedaled quickly, trying to keep his balance, and finally went down at the foot of the bed.
His nose was bleeding, and his eyes were tearing. He felt he deserved it, for being so careless. He’d allowed the fact that he was in a strangae town, where nobody should know him, to lull him into a false sense of security.
The big man picked his partner up from the hall and pushed him into the room, then entered behind him. He turned up the lamp by the door and then faced Decker, holding his shotgun.
“Get up,” the big man said.
Decker stood up, wiping the blood from the lower portion of his face with the back of his hand.
“Sit on the bed.”
Decker started around the bed in the direction of his new .32, but the big man stopped him.
“Not that way!”
Decker turned and looked at him. He was well over six feet, with wide shoulders and huge hands, one of which was pointing Decker’s own shotgun at him.
“That way,” the big man said.
Decker went around the other side and sat down by the pillow.
“Get the other gun,” the big man told his partner, whose face was also covered with blood.
“Let me kill him,” the second man said. He was shorter, a slender man whose nose had been like a hawk’s— once.
“Just get the gun, stupid.”
“Don’t call me stupid,” the second man said sullenly.
“You said you could open the door,” the big man complained.
“I opened it, didn’t I?” the second man said, removing the .32 and shoulder rig from the bedpost.
“Yeah, it took you all night and you woke the whole hotel doing it.”
“You guys want something,” Decker said, “or are you going to argue me to death?”
“Funny man,” the big man said.
Decker took hold of the sheet with one hand and used it to wipe the blood from his face. His nose had stopped bleeding. Unlike the second man’s, his nose wasn’t broken.
“What did you do? Follow me from the train station?”
“That’s right.”
Another mistake. Dover had been on Ready’s trail for a long time. It made sense that Ready would have the station covered just in case he showed up.
Decker wondered if these two thought he was Dover because of his Western clothes and style.
“What do you want?”
“You,” the big man said.
Decker looked at the second man. He was standing there holding the shoulder rig in his hand. He hadn’t taken the gun out of the holster.
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the guy,” the big man said.
“I am?” Decker asked, putting his hand underneath the pillow.
“Yeah, you’re him,” the big man said, walking around to face Decker. The shotgun was pointing in his general direction.
“You fellas want to tell me what you want, or do you want me to kick you out of here?”
The second man laughed.
“Hey, Boil,” he said, “you hear that? He’s gonna kick you out of here.”
“How do you intend to do that, Dover?” the big man—Boil—asked. “We have your guns.”
“What’d you call me?”
“Dover.”
“You’ve got the wrong man, friend,” Decker said. “My name isn’t Dover.”
“Uh-huh,” Boil said. “And you didn’t get off the train today wearing Western clothes and looking like you just came in off the farm.”
“Is that it?” Decker said. “You don’t like farmers. I thought it was something personal.”
“Stop fooling around, Boil,” the second man said. “Let’s kill him and get out.” His hand was on the butt of the .32. Decker had to make a move before he palmed it.
“All right,” Boil said. “I guess the fun is over.” As he said this, he spread his hands, so that the shotgun pointed toward the wall for a split second.
Decker pulled Dover’s sharpened knife out from under the pillow and lunged forward, burying it in Boil’s stomach.
Boil screamed. Decker grabbed the shotgun from his hand and rolled on the floor a few feet, coming to a stop on his knees. The second man had already pulled the .32 from the holster and was pointing it at Decker. They pulled their respective triggers at the same time.
A .32 slug punched its way into Decker’s left shoulder as his blast took the second man in the belly, ripping him apart and throwing him back against the wall.
Decker stood up and checked both men to make sure they were dead. Then and only then did he check his own wound.
“Jesus,” he said, “I’m lucky I didn’t buy a Colt .45 from Rosewood.”
Chapter Four
“I think you’re going to need a new room, Mr. Decker.”
Decker looked up from the bed where he was sitting, holding a wadded-up pillow case against his wound. The man speaking had introduced himself as Lieutenant Tally of the New York City police department.
“This one’s kind of messed up.”
He looked over at the wall that Decker’s shot had thrown the second man against. The wall was smeared with blood, and the man was still lying against the base of it.
“Do you know these two?” Decker asked.
The first man had already been carried out, and now two men entered to carry the second man out.
“The gun near him is mine,” Decker said. “I’d like it back. Also the knife.”
“You’ll get them,” Tally said. “To answer your question, yeah, I do know them. For a dollar and a half they’d kill their own mother. As a matter of fact, they did.”
“They were brothers?”
“Yes. One was called Boil, the other Clyde.”
“I see.”
“Would you mind telling me what they wanted?”
“They said they wanted me.”
“What for?”
“They said they were going to kill me.”
“What for?”
“They didn’t say that.”
“What did they say?”
“That they followed me from the train station.”
