The Lawman

  The Lawman

  Robert J. Randisi

  ROBERT J. RANDISI

  The Lawman

  To Gordon Shirreffs.

  LUCKY SHOT

  “Señor, I am sure you have taken the wrong attitude. We are not bandidos, we are just a little bit down on our luck. We would appreciate it if you could help us out.”

  “No.”

  Gold Tooth’s face went from amiable to stern.

  “Señor, please, you are being insulting.”

  “Not yet,” Decker said, “but I’ll be getting there soon if you and your friend don’t ride…now!”

  “Ay-yay-yay-yay,” Gold Tooth said, shaking his head at the gringo’s folly.

  His compadre was obviously watching Gold Tooth closely, for when the leader made his move for his gun, so did the other man.

  Decker never even pulled his sawed-off, cut-down shotgun from its holster. He simply swiveled his holster up and fired that way. The cloud of double-o came out and spread just enough to catch both men. Had they remained side by side he might have missed one, but in moving back the second man had positioned himself not perfectly, but certainly more helpfully, giving the shot pattern time to spread. At the proper distance, a shotgun is simply a devastating weapon that not only kills, but disfigures and dismembers as well.

  Prologue I

  Pemberton, Colorado Territory

  Johnny “Red” Moran woke to a warm presence next to him. A warm, naked presence.

  He frowned, trying to remember who it was without looking. Finally, he had to give up, turn over and take a look.

  Hell, that didn’t help. She was naked and blonde, but he couldn’t remember her name.

  “Wake up!” he said, slapping her on the ass.

  “Hey!”

  The girl’s head snapped up and she looked around. Red got a good look at her face then, but the name still didn’t come to him.

  “Good morning, honey,” she said, smiling.

  She shouldn’t have smiled. She had a decent body, though a little heavy in the breasts and flanks, but her teeth were bad. She really shouldn’t have smiled.

  “Time for you to get moving,” he said.

  “Now?” she asked. “It’s early.”

  “It’s gettin’ later all the time.”

  She frowned at him, then said, “You don’t remember my name, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. Get out.”

  She sat up so he could see her breasts. They were large and beginning to sag. From behind she looked like a girl, but from the front he could see that she was creeping up on thirty pretty quick.

  “You ready to give me a wakerupper?”

  “I’m always ready, honey.”

  He slid his hand down over her fleshy belly to her thigh, where he pinched her flesh between his fingers.

  “Oh—” she said, closing her eyes and biting her bottom lip in pain. “Hey—”

  “I told you to get out,” he said, “and I meant it.” He let her go and snapped, “Now get dressed and get out.”

  “Okay, okay” she said, her eyes wet with pain.

  She stood up and he watched her as she hurriedly dressed. If she was the best this town had to offer him after two months, then it was time to move on.

  When she was dressed she rushed to the door and opened it, then stopped and turned.

  “Mandy” she said.

  “What?”

  “My name is Mandy,” she said, and then burst into tears and ran from the room.

  “Jesus,” he said, shaking his head.

  Moran got dressed, strapped on his gun, chucked some belongings into his saddlebags and carried them downstairs with him.

  “Goin’ someplace, Sheriff?” the desk clerk asked.

  “No place in particular, Jed.”

  He left the hotel and walked over to the livery stable.

  “Would you mind saddling my horse, Arnold?” he asked the towheaded sixteen-year-old who worked there.

  “Sure, Sheriff. Goin’ someplace?”

  “No place special, son.”

  When his horse was saddled, Red Moran, sheriff of Pemberton, rode him over to the bank. He sat tall in the saddle, tall and wide shouldered. No one knew why Moran called himself “Red.” It certainly wasn’t because he had red hair. He had hair so blond that it sometimes seemed as if he had no hair at all. Still, when asked what people should call him, he always answered, “Call me Red.”

  And so they did.

  Sheriff Red Moran.

  Moran had been sheriff of six different towns in the last eight months, towns that had been looking for lawmen. When he got tired of a town he moved on, and he usually got tired within two or three months.

  Before he moved on, though, there was something he had to do—something he always did.

  He went to the bank.

  He left his horse outside and walked into the bank. It was early, and there were only two customers. He asked the teller to get the bank manager, Mr. Hampton.

  “Sure, Sheriff.”

  When Hampton came out he said, “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  “I’m taking a trip, Mr. Hampton, and I need to make a withdrawal.”

  Orville Hampton frowned.

  “I wasn’t aware that you had an account with the bank, Sheriff,” the older man said. He was in his late fifties, at least fifteen years older than Moran, a stocky man who wore three-piece suits.

  “I don’t,” Moran said, “but I’m making a withdrawal anyway.”

  “You mean you want a loan?” Hampton said in an effort to understand what the sheriff was driving at.

  “No, I mean I’m making a withdrawal.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hampton said, confused. “How much—”

  “Just take a sack and fill it up, Mr. Hampton,” Moran said. He drew his gun, pointed it at the bank manager and added, “Now.”

  “W–what—what are you doing?”

  “I just told you. I’m making a withdrawal.”

  “B–but you can’t. You’re the sheriff!”

  “Not anymore. I got bored, and I need some travelling money.”

  “This town has treated you good, man! How can you do this?”

  “This makes it easy,” Moran said, waving his gun. “Now tell your teller here to fill up a sack. The rest of you just stand easy.”

  The customers, a middle-aged woman and an older man, watched in shock as their sheriff robbed the bank.

  “I won’t,” Hampton said.

  “Mr. Hampton—” the teller said.

  “This is outrageous!”

  “Mr. Hampton—”

  “Don’t make this hard, Mr. Hampton. It’s a simple transaction.”

  “I won’t do it!” Hampton said firmly.

  Moran took two steps forward and smacked the barrel of his pistol against the bank manager’s head. Hampton slumped to the floor, barely breathing.

  “What about you, sonny?” Moran asked the teller.

  “I’m filling a sack, Sheriff, I’m filling a sack.”

  “Good boy.”

  When the canvas sack was filled the teller handed it to Moran, who backed towards the door.

  “I’d advise you people to stay inside for a while after I leave.”

  He went out the door, mounted his horse and rode out.

  Heading for the next town that badly needed a sheriff.

  The people in the bank were all thinking the same thing. Their bank had been robbed, the bank manager pistol-whipped, and what they would normally do in that instance would be to send for the sheriff, who would then get up a posse.

  Only their sheriff had just robbed their bank. Once, Red Moran had been an honest sheriff in a Wyoming town, but eventually he had gotten tired of having the townspeople look
down on him. For the most part they considered him their elected servant, and they treated him as such. He got a free meal here and a free drink there, and when things went right everybody was happy, but let just one thing go wrong, and they were ready to kick him out of office.

  Well, one day he just up and kicked himself out of office. He had gone over to the bank, robbed it, rode out and never looked back.

  Five more times he had done that, finding five towns who needed a sheriff very badly. Moran’s biggest weapon was his innocent face, and he used it to his best advantage.

  He still had all six badges that he’d worn, for he always kept the badge as a souvenir.

  Now he’d take the money from the Pemberton bank, ride on down to Mexico, piss it away on food and booze and whores, and then come back over the border and find himself another town.

  It was as easy as that.

  Prologue II

  Hastings, Kansas

  Decker paused in front of the Hastings, Kansas, sheriff’s office to read the posters that were affixed to the oustide wall. There were a few possibilities, but the one that caught his eye was a poster for a man named Moran.

  The poster also called him “The Lawman.”

  It explained that Moran had ridden into six different towns, gotten himself appointed sheriff and then within anywhere from two weeks to two months he would up and rob the bank and leave town. The latest case in point was a town called Pemberton, in the Colorado Territory, and that had been a scant week ago. The poster was very recent.

  The drawing on the poster showed a man with a face that was easy to trust. It was smooth and youthful, even though the poster gave his age as thirty-five.

  This one would be interesting, he thought. He pulled the poster down off the wall and studied it.

  What irony, he thought, a bounty hunter tracking down “The Lawman.”

  “Does that one suit your fancy, bounty hunter?” a voice asked.

  Decker looked up and saw the sheriff of Hastings, Kevin Rändle, a man he knew well enough to call by his first name—which by no means meant that they were friends.

  “This fella is sure giving you and yours a bad name, Kevin.”

  “Go after him, then.” Rändle reached over and tapped the poster with his forefinger. “This is one time I wouldn’t mind seeing you make some money.”

  As the sheriff went into his office Decker looked at the poster again. The reward was twenty-five hundred dollars, because in Pemberton “The Lawman” had made one big mistake.

  He had hit the bank manager too hard, and the man had died.

  So added to the bank robbery charges in six territories was the charge of murder in one.

  Decker took the poster with him and went into the sheriff’s office.

  “That the one you’re takin’?” the sheriff asked from behind his desk. He had poured himself a cup of coffee, but he did not offer Decker one.

  “This looks like the one. How much do you know about him, Kevin?”

  Rändle shrugged. He was a youngish man—early thirties or so—and had worn a badge in this town for about three years. Before that he’d been a deputy in several other places.

  “Just what every other lawman in the country knows. He hits a town and then lays low for a while before hitting another one. Rides in, becomes sheriff, stays anywhere from two weeks to two months, then robs the bank and rides out again. Boom, disappears for weeks, months at a time.”

  “Spending the money.”

  “Most likely. He sure as hell don’t seem to be saving it.”

  “That kind never does. What about the badges?”

  Rändle frowned.

  “What about ’em?”

  “Does he leave them behind?”

  “Damned if I know that. Why?”

  “Just wanted to know all the facts before I took out after him.”

  “I do know one thing about him.”

  “What?”

  “He’s a pretty arrogant sonofabitch!”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He uses his real name. He used to be a lawman, you know, a legitimate lawman in Wyoming. He robbed the town he worked in for two years, and he’s been going ever since. Six towns in thirteen months.”

  “Where’s he been concentrating?”

  “All over, never the same state or the same territory twice. The Wyoming Territory, the Dakotas, Nebraska, Nevada, the Utah Territory, and the Colorado Territory. Also, you’d think that using his real name he’d have built up a reputation that would warn people.” Rändle shook his head. “The only people who know him are lawmen and bounty hunters, because we read the posters. Why, I’ll bet that the people in the towns he’s robbed think they’re the only ones he hit.”

  “Well, maybe his own arrogance will trip him up.”

  “Well, as much as I don’t like bounty hunters, Decker, this is one bounty I’d like to see you collect. This yahoo is wanted dead or alive, and it don’t make no never mind to me or any decent lawman how you bring him back.”

  Rändle was dead serious.

  “That’s nice to know, Kevin. Thanks for the information.”

  Yep, this one should be real interesting.

  Chapter One

  Pemberton wasn’t a big town, but as small towns go it appeared to have pretty much everything a town should have.

  Decker noticed this as he rode down Pemberton’s main street.

  They had a livery a hardware store, a hotel, a saloon, a haberdasher’s shop, a gunsmith’s shop, one of everything a town needed to survive and prosper.

  The only thingh they didn’t have anymore was a sheriff—unless, of course, they had elected one during the two weeks since “The Lawman” had robbed their bank.

  Decker put his horse up in the livery and went over to the saloon for a drink.

  “Help ya?” the bartender asked.

  It was after noon, and the saloon was doing a brisk business. It was the only saloon in town, so anyone who wanted a drink would have to go there.

  “Beer, cold.”

  “As cold as we can get it.”

  Which turned out not to be cold enough, but Decker didn’t complain. At least it was wet, and it cut through the dust.

  “Got a sheriff in this town?” Decker asked.

  “That’s sort of a sore point right now, Mister.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

  “We had a sheriff, but two weeks ago he upped and robbed the bank and left town.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Ain’t been able to get anybody to take the job regular since then. Fact is, we had the same problem just afore our last sheriff came into town.”

  “You made a stranger the sheriff?”

  The man shrugged his beefy shoulders.

  “He said he wanted the job, and nobody else did, so the mayor and the town council hired him.”

  “No election?”

  “Wasn’t nobody wanted to run against him.”

  “You mean you can’t find anybody in this whole town who wants to be sheriff?”

  “Town’s mostly made up of merchants, Mister. Ain’t a lawman among ’em.” The man leaned forward then and said, “Say, you wouldn’t be looking for a job, would you?”

  “After what happened you’d still be willing to hire a stranger?”

  “A town needs a sheriff, don’t it?”

  “Sometimes I wonder,” Decker said. He paid for the beer and asked where he could find the mayor.

  “His office is down the street, above the general store.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Gonna apply for the job?”

  Decker ignored the question and left the saloon.

  He stopped at the bank first and found the teller who’d been on duty when the bank was robbed.

  “It was terrible,” the boy said. “It was like Mr. Hampton—that was the manager’s name—like he didn’t believe the sheriff was serious.”

  “You did, though?”

  “Mister, if a man
is pointin’ a gun at me, I’m gonna figure he’s serious.”

  “Smart lad.”

  Decker started to leave, then remembered a question he wanted to ask and turned back.

  “How much did he get?”

  “About twenty thousand.”

  Decker whistled softly. A man could lay low a long time with that kind of money.

  Next, Decker went over to talk to the mayor. An officious, blustering fool, the mayor had little to tell him about the sheriff.

  “He was a total stranger when we hired him, and a total stranger when he left.”

  “He didn’t make any friends while he was here?”

  “None. He kept to himself.”

  “No women?”

  “A lot of women, but no one in particular.”

  “Did he do his job?”

  “Well enough—until he robbed us. I tell you, it’s a disgrace what that man did, betraying the trust the people of this town put in him.”

  “Next time you’ll know better than to hire a stranger without some sort of references.”

  Decker left the office, disgusted with the man and the town, thinking that people who won’t help themselves deserve whatever they get.

  Decker had dinner in a small café and then went to the saloon for a beer. He took a back table and watched the townsmen at play

  It was his routine to spend a day in the last town that his prey had been seen in, collecting any background information that was available. Before taking out after a man, he tried to form a picture of him beyond a physical description or drawing.

  Moran was an ex-lawman, and apparently had been a competent one. He was able to get people to trust him and hire him, which meant that he could relate to people when he wanted to. He was arrogant, but he could control his arrogance when he needed to. He didn’t bother trying to get on with people once he had the job, and he stayed to himself.

  Since the mayor indicated that there had been many women, it seemed he was attractive to them, unless he dealt solely with whores.

  So far, Decker had seen one of everything in Pemberton. That meant it had to have a whorehouse.