Before long a couple of cowboys ambled over to his table and said, “We hear you’re looking for a game.”
“That’s right.”
“What stakes?”
“Just killing time.”
“Sounds good to us.”
“You fellas brothers?”
“Nope. We happened to be at the bar when the bartender asked if we were interested in the game,” one man said, and the other nodded.
“Take a seat, gents,” Decker said, reaching for the deck and thumbing the seal open, “the game is about to start.”
Chapter VII
“Can we talk now?”
Brent Foxx stared across the table at his brother. He had just polished off a huge steak with some potatoes and biscuits and a pot of coffee. Now he poured himself a drink and addressed his brother.
“We’ve got to lay low for a while.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because you killed somebody, that’s why!’Brian Foxx’ is not just a bank robber anymore, he’s a killer.”
Brent shrugged.
“You’re the one who wanted his name used.”
“Nobody was ever supposed to get killed, Brent. We agreed. It’s bad enough you like to beat up on people —”
“I explained all of that!”
“Never mind,” Brian said. “I’ve already decided. We’re not going to pull a job for a while. In fact, we’re gonna pull up stakes and move east.”
“East? To where?”
“Louisiana.”
“New Orleans,” Brent said knowingly.
“Yes. We pull our jobs in Arkansas and Missouri—”
“I don’t want to go east, Brian. I like it here.”
They locked eyes and Brian knew that if he flinched first he would be lost. It had become harder and harder to match his brother’s mad stare lately. Finally Brent’s eyes flicked away and then down to his plate.
“Sleep on the idea, Brent. We can talk about it in the morning.”
“Sure, Brian,” Brent said. “Sure.” He stood up.
“Where you going?”
“I’ve been on the trail a long time. I need a woman. You coming?”
“No, you go ahead.”
Brent paused and asked, “You mind if I use both girls?”
“You been on the trail that long?”
“Seems like it.”
“Sure, they’re all yours.”
“Thanks. See you in the morning, Brian.”
“Good night.”
Brent left the saloon with a spring in his step, like a little boy on his way to a candy store.
Sam came over, a small man in his thirties who had a special deal with the Foxx boys to provide them food and shelter whenever they showed up.
“Want another bottle?” he asked, claiming the empty.
“No, Sam. Thanks.”
“Coffee?”
Brian thought a moment, then said, “Yeah, coffee.”
He knew it was going to be one of those nights when he couldn’t sleep.
Chapter VIII
Once the game started they quickly acquired two more players. They played for two hours, and at the end of that time Decker was up about a hundred dollars.
They were starting the third hour of play when the batwing doors opened and Felicia Wheeler walked in.
“Felicia—” the bartender said.
“Relax, Ted,” she said, waving a hand at him. She surveyed the room until she spotted Decker and then hurried over to his table.
He saw her coming, but kept his eyes on his cards.
“Decker,” she said.
He looked at her then.
“Shouldn’t you be home in bed?”
“I went to the livery and saw your horse and gear,” she said accusingly.
“So?”
“You said there had never been any dime novels about you.”
“There haven’t, to my knowledge.”
“But you didn’t tell me who you really were!”
Decker lowered his cards and looked directly into her eyes.
“Go home, Felicia. We can talk tomorrow.”
“That’s a laugh. You’re leaving early in the morning.”
She must have gotten that from the liveryman.
“Felicia—”
“You didn’t tell me you were the Hangman!”
“You’re a hangman?” one of the players asked him curiously.
“No, I ain’t,” he said, annoyed now. “What the hell are you talking about, girl.”
“You ride with a hangman’s noose on your saddle, don’t you?”
He felt all the eyes in the room fall on him, which he didn’t like.
“I’m out of this game, gents,” he said. He collected his money, stood up, and took Felicia by the ear.
“Good night, Decker,” Ted the bartender called out. Decker waved his free hand and was aware of the laughter that filled the room as he led the girl to the door by her ear.
“Jesus, that hurts!” Felicia squawked, but Decker didn’t release her until they were outside.
“Are you trying to get me killed?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, rubbing her ear.
“Any one of those men in there might have taken exception to who I was—and where the hell did you get this crap about me being called the Hangman?” he demanded.
“From this,” she said, producing a curled-up book from her back pocket.
Decker took it, unfolded it, and looked at the cover. It showed a man on a horse with a hangman’s noose
