Chapter XI
When the first blow struck Decker in the stomach, he thought about the sheriff’s warning.
He felt strong hands dragging him into an alley and tried to focus his eyes to see how many assailants there were. From the feel of it, there were definitely more than one.
In the alley he was hit again in the stomach, and he sagged against the wall of the saloon. While he was leaning there, somebody stepped in and hit him in the kidney, once, and then again, with a fist like a sledgehammer. He slid down the wall until he was lying on the ground. Then somebody else kicked him hard in the side and he started to cough.
He felt a hand tangle itself in his hair as his head was lifted off the ground.
“Stop asking questions about Brian Foxx and leave town.” The voice was raspy and unrecognizable. “It’ll be healthier for you.”
In his condition he couldn’t have recognized the voice even if he knew it, because his ears were ringing. When the hand released his head, however, he caught a quick glimpse of it. He got an impression of thick fingers and wiry black hair on the back of his hand.
Then he got kicked again and passed out.
Decker had entered the saloon a few minutes earlier, gone to the bar, and ordered a beer. He asked the bartender the same things he had asked the clerk in the general store.
“Red hair, you say?” the man said, frowning. “And freckles? A man like that should stay out of a place like this.”
“Why’s that?”
“A face like that is bound to start fights. Some-body has a little too much to drink and decides to pass a remark. You know how it is.”
“Sure. Did you see him?”
“Nope.”
“You’d remember if you had, right?”
“Sure.”
“And you’d tell me?”
“Now why wouldn’t I?”
“That’s a good question.”
He left the beer and started for the door.
“Hey, something wrong with the beer?”
As it turned out, it was a good thing he’d passed on the beer.
He surely would have thrown it up when the first punch struck him in the stomach.
He struggled to his feet and had to lean against the wall for support. He did that for a while, then pushed himself to a standing position and checked out his limbs. They all moved when he asked them to, and he took a few tentative steps without falling on his face. His stomach and side hurt, and his kidney ached, but aside from that he was in fairly good condition. His face had not been touched. It had been a very professional beating, administered by at least two men.
And he thought he knew one of them.
“You’re accusing me?” the sheriff demanded.
Decker looked at the black hair on the back of the sheriff’s hands again.
“Not accusing, exactly.”
“In broad daylight?” the sheriff went on. “Of beating you up in my own town?”
“I just thought I’d ask, Sheriff,” Decker said. “After all, we didn’t hit it off right away, did we?”
“That’s no reason for me to jump you and beat you up. If I disliked you that much, I’d tell you to your face.”
“Of course,” Decker said, although he did not believe it for a moment.
“I warned you not to ask questions in this town,” the sheriff said. “You’ll remember that I warned you.”
“Yes, you did warn me.”
“Were you asking questions in the saloon?”
“Yes.”
The sheriff spread his hands.
“That explains it, then.”
“Does it?”
“Somebody overheard you in the saloon and didn’t like the idea of you asking questions.”
“Why should somebody object Tomy asking questions about Brian Foxx?”
“He’s a well-known man, but like I said before, he ain’t wanted in Utah. Maybe somebody just didn’t like the idea of you hounding an innocent man.”
“Innocent,” Decker repeated.
“Mount up and ride out, Decker. It sounds like you were lucky this time.”
Decker decided to play it a little differently.
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it? You know something, Sheriff? I think I’ll take your advice.”
“Good. It’ll be better for everybody concerned.”
“Thanks for your help, Sheriff.”
“My pleasure.”
Decker looked at the man’s hands again, then left. From the boardwalk in front of the sheriff’s office, he looked across the street at the general store.
Sheriff Blocker was not the only man in town with large, hairy hands.
Chapter XII
Jerry Blocker was preparing to close his general store, taking in his wares from outside. He locked the front door and pulled the shade down. That done, he began carrying sacks of flour into his store-room in the back. As he walked through the cur-tained doorway, he felt something tighten around his neck.
A rope pulled Blocker up onto his toes. Another inch and he’d be hanging.
“What—” He tried to speak but could only make choking noises.
“Hello, Blocker. Your name is Blocker, isn’t it? The sheriff’s brother?”
Off to his left Blocker could see the man who had been asking questions about Brian Foxx. Now he was leaning against the wall, holding a rope in his hand—the other end of the rope that was around Blocker’s neck.
“I asked you a question,” Decker said, yanking on the rope a fraction of an inch. “Is your name Blocker?”
The man nodded.
“And you’re the sheriff’s brother?”
A shake of the head.
“Cousin, then?”
A nod.
“I guess hairy hands must run in your family huh, Blocker?”
A nod.
“What’s your name?”
The man tried to answer, but had difficulty getting it out.
“Go ahead,” Decker encouraged him, loosening the rope just a bit. “It’s just one word. You can get it
