Double The Bounty Read online

  Double The Bounty

  Robert J. Randisi

  Decker just barely manages to escape the noose for a crime he didn't commit, but his life is forever changed as he sets out on a vengeance trail to find the man who framed him.

  Robert J. Randisi

  DOUBLE

  THE

  BOUNTY

  To Steve McQueen.

  Prologue

  I

  Heartless, Wyoming

  Brian Foxx knew he was a legend.

  Oh, maybe he wasn’t as much of a legend as he wanted to be—but then no man ever is—except for Wild Bill Hickok. Hickok was the only man in history who might have been more famous than even he believed.

  And Brian Foxx was certainly no Wild Bill Hickok.

  Brian Foxx was a bank and train robber, and he was wanted in three states for robberies committed over the past two years. What made Brian Foxx a legend was the fact that he had robbed two banks on the same day on more than one occasion—hundreds of miles apart! It was physically impossible, yet witnesses in both places had identified the man as Brian Foxx, whose face had adorned enough posters and newspapers to be recognized.

  Brian Foxx sat in a straight-backed wooden chair across the street from the Bank of Heartless, Wyoming. He was observing the bank’s activities, as he always did before robbing one. Also, he knew that he still had two days before everything would be set for the robbery to take place.

  He had to wait for his twin brother, Brent Foxx, to get into position hundreds of miles away in Doverville, Arizona. This was they could rob their respective banks at the same time.

  Witness would swear that the man who robbed the bank was the infamous brain Foxx.

  This would certainly add his legend!

  II

  Denver, Colorado

  In Denver, Colorado, inside the federal marshal’s office, Marshal Charles Edward Chesbro counted out one thousand dollars into the hand of a tall, dark-haired man with dark, penetrating eyes and a heavy mustache.

  “Cole was a little worse for wear when you brought him in here yesterday,” the marshal said after he’d finished his counting.

  “He was alive, wasn’t he?” the other man asked. He counted the money himself, which seemed to annoy the marshal.

  “Uh, what are you going to do with all that money?”

  The man put the money away and looked at the marshal.

  “That’s none of your damned business. You got any new paper?”

  “Outside on the wall,” the marshal said, stung by the reproach.

  Without a word of thanks or good-bye, the man turned and walked outside.

  The marshal shook his head, watching the man’s retreating back. He couldn’t understand why the man’s presence—no matter how many times he had dragged a prisoner back here—always unnerved him.

  Outside, the man looked over the posters. He stopped at the one that said:

  WANTED: BRIAN FOXX

  $1500 REWARD

  DEAD OR ALIVE

  The man took the bottom of the poster between his thumb and forefinger and snapped it off the wall.

  Poster in hand, he walked to his horse, a small but powerfully built gelding, and mounted up. Hanging from his saddle pommel, in plain sight, was an expertly tied hangman’s noose.

  The man’s name was Decker. And he was something of a legend himself.

  He was a bounty hunter.

  PART ONE

  FOXX HOLE

  Chapter I

  Decker directed John Henry, his nine-year-old gelding, down the main street of Heartless, Wyoming. Somebody was in a piss-poor mood when they named this town, Decker thought.

  Decker commanded attention as he rode down the street. His tall, muscular frame sat straight in the saddle beneath a flat-brimmed black hat, and he rode with an air of confidence that women found arresting and men, threatening. Men found the dark eyes penetrating, as if Decker was able to look inside of them and discover their deepest secrets.

  Women, on the other hand, found his eyes expressive. He looked as if he was concerned with how he could please them the most. Most women enjoyed the feeling it gave them in the pit of their stomachs.

  Of course, the fact that Decker looked at all men with suspicion, and upon all women with respect, may have had something to do with it. Women sensed the respect he had for them, and appreciated it. Men feared he would see them for what they were, while women feared he would not see them at all.

  And then there was that hangman’s noose, which quickly identified him to one and all. And if that wasn’t enough, there was the weapon he wore on his hip. It was a shotgun that had been sawed off at both the barrels and the stock and then slipped into a specially made holster. The whole rig had been designed for him by a gunsmith friend when Decker discovered that he was almost hopeless with a handgun. With the shotgun he rarely had to aim to hit his target, and with a rifle he was…adequate.

  With a rope, however, he was deadly.

  Decker rode up to the Bank of Heartless and halted. He didn’t dismount but simply gazed at the bank, taking in every aspect of the structure. This was one of the two banks that Brian Foxx was supposed to have robbed. Foxx could not have been in both banks at one time, but Decker had to start somewhere, and he chose Wyoming over Arizona, since Denver, where he had picked up the poster, was closer to Wyoming.

  He asked ol’ John Henry to walk again, promising him that it would only be as far as the livery stable.

  “After that you get a well-deserved rest, you old scudder.”

  John Henry shook his head in reply and started walking. Decker claimed no friends, unless a man could be friends with a horse.

  When he reached the livery, he dismounted and was met by the liveryman, a grizzled old soul who looked close to seventy.

  “Old horse,” the man said, accepting the reins.

  “This horse will run anything you have in your livery into the ground.”

  The man cast a critical eye over John Henry’s lines, spat a gob of tobacco juice, and said, “Don’t doubt it.”

  “Treat him good and maybe he won’t bite your hand off.” Decker tossed the man fifty cents.

  “I always treat them right,” he said, waggling both hands at Decker and adding, “that’s why I still got all my fingers after thirty years of handling horses.”

  “Then I’ve got nothing to worry about, do I?”

  The old-timer spat another gob of tobacco juice at some unseen target and said, “Nope.”

  Decker took his saddlebags and rifle from his saddle and was about to leave when the old man said, “What about this thing?”

  Decker turned and saw the old man pointing to the hangman’s noose.

  “Just leave it where it is,” Decker replied. “It’s not hurting anybody.”

  Decker set off in the direction of the hotel. First stop was the saloon for a drink, and then the sheriff’s office for a talk.

  The saloon was called the Oak Tree Saloon. Over a cold beer he questioned the bartender about the name.

  “Well,” the man said, rubbing the lower portion of his florid face with a thick-fingered hand, “when they started to build this here town, there was this big oak tree standing right on this spot. Well, they cleared all the land around here, but that dang oak just didn’t want to budge. They finally decided to use dynamite, but some dang fool used too much.” He pointed over to the wall over the bar where a long oak branch was hanging and said, “That’s all that was left of that stubborn old oak.”

  Decker doubted the validity of the story, but had to admit that it sounded good.

  “Who’s the sheriff of this town?” he asked.

  “That’d be Hack Wilson.”

  Decker put his beer down.

/>   “Thomas’Hack’ Wilson?”

  “That’s right. You know him?”

  “I know him. How long has he been sheriff here?”

  “’Bout eight months or so.”

  Eight months. Well, maybe the people of this town had already caught on to old Hack’s ways and were ready to vote him out come next election. It wasn’t any of Decker’s business. He was only concerned with the Brian Foxx bank robbery. All he wanted was to talk to Hack Wilson.

  “Thanks for the beer.”

  “Stayin’ in town?”

  “Might be.”

  “If you are, come on back for another. I got another story for you if you didn’t like that one.”

  “I liked it fine,” Decker said. “If I’m staying, I’ll be back.”

  He walked from the saloon directly to the sheriff’s office. A wooden sign saying, THOMAS WILSON, TOWN SHERIFF, hung outside. He rapped his knuckles on the door a few times and entered.

  “Sheriff,” he said.

  Sheriff Wilson’s head was bowed over his desk as he perused some paperwork, and when he looked up Decker saw that it was indeed Hack Wilson.

  And Wilson recognized Decker.

  “Decker!”

  “Hello, Sheriff.”

  “What can I do for you, Decker,” Wilson asked nervously. “Hunting somebody?”

  “That’s what I’m doing, all right.” When Decker dropped his saddlebags onto the back of a straight-backed wooden chair, Wilson jumped at the sound, looking nervous again.

  “Relax, Wilson,” Decker said, “I ain’t gonna bite you.”

  It had been three years ago when Wilson had decided to try his hand at bounty hunting. They had a disagreement over a prisoner and Wilson—a large man even then—decided he wanted to fight about it. Well, after a few minutes he realized he’d made a mistake. His bulk worked against him while Decker, whipcord thin and fast, had given Wilson a lesson in hand to hand. That was before Wilson decided to use his teeth. He sank his teeth into Decker’s arm, making Decker angry—he’d been only mildly annoyed until that point. Decker knocked Wilson cold. After that, he’d had to go to a doctor to have the human bite disinfected. Upon returning to the scene of the battle, he found Wilson and the prisoner gone!

  “Now, that was three years ago, Decker—” Wilson began nervously.

  “You remember, eh?”

  “I been sorry as hell about that ever since, but I needed the money.”

  “Nobody needs money that bad, Wilson. Do the people of this town know what kind of a thieving buzzard they’ve got for a sheriff?”

  “I been a good sheriff here, Decker. I—I’m trying to do right for a change.”

  “Is that so?”

  “And I’ll prove it to you. Just tell me what you want and it’s yours.”

  “All right,” Decker said, deciding to take the man up on his offer. “Brian Foxx.”

  Wilson was taken aback, then realized that it made perfect sense.

  “I should have known you’d get on his trail sooner or later. There ain’t much I can tell you. I got to the bank after it was all over. I never saw the man.”

  “You can tell me who did.”

  “Sure, I can do that. In fact, I’d be glad to take you around to the witnesses myself.” Wilson rose from behind his desk to do just that. In his midthirties, he had let his gut grow to alarming proportions.

  “We can go in a little while,” Decker said. “I’d like to get a hotel room first, freshen up, and get something to eat. Two hours all right with you?”

  “Sure, Decker, fine,” Wilson said.

  “All right.” Decker picked up his saddlebags and said, “Two hours, then.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Decker pinned the man with a hard stare.

  “I know you will.”

  Chapter II

  Decker, refreshed and fed, stopped off at the telegraph office before going to the saloon for a beer. He composed a short telegram to the sheriff of Doverville, Arizona, asking for a complete and de-tailed description of the man who had held up their bank the month before. He also asked for a quick reply. He paid for the telegram and told the clerk he’d check in for an answer later.

  When he entered the saloon, the bartender recognized him.

  “Another beer?”

  “Yep.”

  “And another story?”

  “Just the beer. I’ll make do with the first story.”

  “Coming up.”

  When the bartender came back with the beer, Decker said, “Tell me about the sheriff.”

  “What about him?”

  “What kind of a lawman is he?”

  The man shrugged.

  “Fair Tomiddlin’, I guess. He keeps the peace, stops in for a free drink every once in a while.”

  “He looks like he’s getting a lot of free meals.”

  “Might be, but he was shaped like that when he ran for the office.”

  Decker noticed something odd in the bartender’s voice and mentioned it.

  “Well, to tell you the God’s honest truth, Mr.…”

  “Decker.”

  “Name’s Ted Daniels,” the bartender said, and they shook hands. “To tell you the truth, Decker, Hack Wilson ran unopposed for the office because nobody else wanted the job.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Would you like to be the sheriff of a town called Heartless?”

  “That’s another thing. Why is the town called Heartless?”

  The bartender leaned on his elbows and said, “Somebody was in a piss-poor mood when they named it.”

  Wilson was waiting at his office when Decker arrived.

  “Ready?” Decker asked.

  “I’m ready.”

  They left the office and Wilson dictated the direction they would take.

  “How many people were in the bank that day?”

  “Four. The manager, the teller, and two customers.”

  “Let’s do the customers first. We can find the other two at the bank.”

  “It closes at five.”

  “We’ve got an hour. I just have a few questions.”

  The first witness was Thaddeus Bidwell, who ran and owned the hardware store. He replied willingly enough to Decker’s questions. He said that he wasn’t particularly familiar with Brian Foxx’s face, but that the man in the bank had red hair and freckles and had made absolutely no attempt to cover his face.

  “Crazy huh?” the hardware man said.

  “Not so crazy when you consider his motive,” Decker replied.

  “Which was?”

  “He wanted Tomake sure he got the credit.”

  The second witness was a young woman who was a waitress in the hotel dining room. In fact, it was the waitress who had waited on Decker earlier.

  She had been in the bank Tomake a deposit.

  “A small deposit, mind you,” she said, smiling crookedly. “On my salary, that’s the only kind I can make.”

  She was a pretty little thing with brown hair and eyes. Probably had suitors up the ass, Decker thought—a pretty ass it was, too.

  She described the man exactly as Bidwell had, and added that she knew it was Brian Foxx as soon as she saw him.

  “How did you know that?”

  “I read the papers, Mr. Decker. I’m not just another pretty face, you know.”

  “Pretty enough, though, miss,” Decker said, tipping his hat. “Darned pretty enough.”

  “Why thank you, Mr. Decker.”

  “And you’re a good waitress, too.”

  “Tell my boss.”

  “I will. Thank you, miss…”

  “Benbow, Julia Benbow.”

  “Miss Benbow.”

  As Decker and the sheriff left, Julia Benbow experienced a breathless feeling and a tingling in the pit of her stomach.

  In the bank Decker asked the same questions of Wilbur Posten, the young teller, and Andrew Billingsworth, the bank manager. Both men described Brian Foxx. Posten added that he h
ad recognized him right away.

  “I read the papers,” the young man said.

  “Do you know Miss Benbow at the hotel?” Decker asked.

  The man blushed and said, “I, ah, may have met her.” He had obviously met her, since she had an account in this bank, and he had just as obviously noticed her.

  “You should go and talk to her. You and she have a lot in common.”

  “Really?” the man asked, brightening.

  “Yeah. She reads the papers, too. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”

  “Anything else I can do for you?” Wilson asked, outside the bank.

  There was, but Decker didn’t want to tell him. He shook his head no and walked away.

  He stopped at the telegraph office and found that a reply had come in. He read the message, and it told him just what the four witnesses here had told him.

  The bank had been held up by a man in his twenties, with red hair and freckles, who made no attempt to hide his face from three witnesses.

  By all accounts, Brian Foxx.

  Impossible.

  There was only one difference between the two jobs. Here in Heartless, no one had been hurt. In Doverville, a man had been shot and killed.

  Brian Foxx was now wanted for murder, as well as bank robbery and train robbery.

  That meant an increase in the reward.

  Chapter III

  The town of Fenner’s Fork, in the Utah region, was small and sparsely populated. It did, however, have a saloon and two whores, which made it a perfect place for the Foxx boys, Brian and Brent, to hole up between jobs.

  Brian, however, had no intention of allowing either one of them to be caught.

  Brian was not only the smartest, he also kept a level head. No one had ever been injured during one of his jobs.

  Brent, on the other hand, rarely pulled a job with-out hurting someone, and Brian usually resigned himself to that fact—but this time Brent had gone too far.

  Brian was the first to arrive at Fenner’s Fork, and while he waited for Brent, he wondered if—with this recent turn of events—they shouldn’t change their area of operation. So far their jobs had been pulled in Wyoming, Arizona, and New Mexico. Never in Utah, since this was where they rested in between and made their plans.