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  “I’m fourteen!”

  “All I’m doing is borrowing this book and meeting you at the livery in the morning. That’s it. Take it or leave it.”

  She thought a moment, a stubborn look on her face, and then said, “All right, I’ll take it.”

  “Then get your butt home and to sleep. You’ve got to get up early.

  “You bet I will. I’m not letting you sneak off without seeing me.”

  Actually, the thought of sneaking away had occurred to him.

  Decker took the book to his room and read it, and he had to admit there were similarities between himself and the Hangman—not the least of which was the hangman’s noose. According to the copyright page, it was published out of New York City. The similarities were such that it might make sense to go to New York and talk to the man who wrote it—this Ned Buntline, whoever he was—even if, as Felicia’s grandfather had said, he couldn’t sue them.

  Then again, men like Decker rarely left it to a court of law to solve their problems.

  He put the book aside, first making a note of the publisher’s address. One of these days he’d get to New York and check on it.

  Actually, the damned story in the book hadn’t been bad at all.

  Chapter IX

  He got to the livery before the sun started to come up, and Felicia was there already.

  “Good morning,” he said, handing her the book.

  “I saddled your horse for you.”

  “You did?”

  “I told old Hiram to stay asleep.”

  Decker checked the cinch on his saddle and found that she had done a good job.

  “Picked up your supplies for you, too.”

  “Did you, now?”

  She nodded.

  “Mr. Walker at the general store is friends with my grandfather.”

  Actually, Decker usually had coffee and jerky in his saddlebags and little else in the way of stores. He believed in traveling light and eating light. It made the first meal when you came off the trail taste that much better.

  Felicia handed him a canvas sack, though, and he accepted it.

  “You got bacon and coffee, some jerky, some biscuits, and a can of peaches.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  He hefted the sack and said, “Not enough here for two.”

  She looked sheepish.

  “That was silly of me, to think you’d take me with you.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  She touched the hangman’s noose while he tied the sack to the back of his saddle.

  “Did you read the book?”

  “I did.”

  “What did you think?”

  “It wasn’t bad.”

  “But was it you?”

  He turned and looked down at her. Her eyes were wide and shining, her nose pug with freckles on the bridge. She was going to be a beauty when she got older and filled out.

  “No, Felicia, it wasn’t me. I admit it was real close, but somebody’s imagination is pretty good, is all.”

  “Mr. Buntline’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “I have heard of you, though,” she said, still touching the noose.

  “Have you?”

  “Or read about you, I should say. The bounty hunter who carries a hangman’s noose on his saddle. I always wanted to ask you why.”

  “When you get a little older, I’ll come back and tell you.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Great! And maybe then, if I’m pretty enough, you’ll take me with you when you leave.”

  “You’ll be pretty enough,” he said, mounting up, “but we’ll have to talk about that when the time comes.”

  “Wait,” she said as he started to ride out. “Don’t you want to hear my ideas?”

  “I don’t have time, Felicia.”

  He was riding away when he heard her shout out, “You’re a fool if you don’t realize that you’re looking for two men!”

  In Doverville, Arizona, a rider left town at first light the same day, traveling light. The intention of this rider was to ride in a straight line from Doverville to Heartless, Wyoming.

  Decker made excellent time and crossed into Utah in three days. Ol’ John Henry may have lacked the speed of younger horses, but his stamina was as good as ever.

  Along the way he had not stopped in many towns. He was trying to put himself in Brian Foxx’s place. The man had just pulled a bank robbery and would be looking for a place to light for a while—maybe even the same place after every job.

  One thing Decker had learned about Brian Foxx was that his jobs—the “dual” jobs—were confined largely to Wyoming and Arizona, with an occasional foray into New Mexico.

  Why not Utah?

  Why not Colorado?

  The answer was simple. Foxx’s home between jobs was in one of those places, and Decker’s immediate guess was Utah.

  He also figured that Foxx wouldn’t stop in any towns for supplies or whatever until he entered Utah. His face was too well-known to risk stopping in a Wyoming town, especially when he’d pulled a robbery so recently

  Men in Decker’s profession often relied on hunches, and he had a hunch that Foxx was heading for a hole somewhere in Utah.

  PART TWO

  FOXX HUNT

  Chapter X

  The first town Decker encountered in Utah was South Bend. It was rather small, but it might have been the right size for Foxx to stock up on supplies and take a night’s rest in a real bed.

  Decker left ol’ John Henry in the hands of the liveryman and said, “I won’t be staying long. I just want him to have some feed and a blow.”

  The man nodded and took the reins. When he saw the noose, he paused, but then continued with-out a word. Decker left his shotgun and saddlebags on the saddle and walked out.

  He went to the saloon first for a beer to cut the dust, then went to the general store.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes,” Decker said. He took a licorice stick from a glass bowl and said, “How much?”

  “A penny.”

  He took two more and handed the man a nickel.

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine who might have passed through here.”

  “Is that so?” the man said, handing him the change.

  “You couldn’t miss him. Red hair and freckles like a kid, only he’s no kid.”

  The man didn’t reply. He was in his early forties and looked more like a ranch hand than a store clerk. Big shoulders, big hands with black hair on the backs of them.

  “He might have come in here to stock up on some supplies. You might have waited on him.”

  “Can’t say that I did,” the man said.

  “Maybe if you thought about it—”

  “Can I get you something else, mister? If not, you’re taking me away from my other customers.”

  Decker looked around and saw that the place was empty.

  “What other customers?”

  “They’ll be along shortly.”

  “Uh-huh,” Decker said. He decided not to push the man. “Thanks for the licorice.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  As he left the store, he saw a man walking toward him holding a child by each hand, one a boy and the other a girl. They appeared to be about six or eight, and the woman looked to be in her early thirties, pleasant looking but no beauty.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, stepping in front of her. She caught her breath but relaxed when Decker handed each of the children a licorice stick.

  “Do you like licorice, ma’am?”

  “Very much,” she said.

  He handed her the last one, tipped his hat, and stepped into the street.

  “What do you say?” he heard her ask the children.

  “Thank you,” they both called after him.

  Decker waved a hand behind him and promptly forgot all three of them.

  His next stop was the sheriff’s office, where he hope
d he wouldn’t run into any more old, familiar faces.

  He didn’t.

  “Excuse me, Sheriff.”

  The man behind the desk looked up, and Decker could see that he was being sized up. The lawman was about his age, but beefier, with big hands that had black hair on the backs of them.

  “Can I help you?”

  “You are the sheriff, aren’t you?”

  The man nodded.

  “Sheriff Blocker.”

  “Well, Sheriff, my name is Decker. I’m looking for Brian Foxx, and I have reason to believe he may have passed through this town in the past two weeks or so.”

  “Bounty hunter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “There’s no paper on Foxx in Utah.”

  “I know that.”

  “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Would you tell me if you had?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want to see a wanted man brought to justice?”

  “Not to your justice.”

  “I thought there was only one kind of justice.”

  “Bullshit. You’re a bounty hunter, and your justice is not the same as mine.”

  Decker noticed that when he mentioned Foxx to people in this town they became belligerent.

  “I’ll be in town for a short time,” he told the lawman. “I’ll be leaving before evening.”

  “You should leave sooner than that.”

  “I’m giving my horse some rest, if you don’t mind.”

  “I do, but I don’t suppose there’s anything I can do about it.”

  “I guess not.”

  Decker started for the door, but the sheriff called out, “Decker.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I wouldn’t ask any questions about Brian Foxx in this town.”

  “Why not? Was he born here?”

  “No, I just don’t think people would take kindly to it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Sheriff.”

  “You do that.”

  Decker left and headed for the saloon. If there was one place Foxx would have definitely stopped, it was the saloon.

  After Decker left the sheriff’s office, the lawman stood up and walked to the window. He watched as Decker walked toward the saloon, then he left his office and crossed the street to the general store and went inside.

  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 shak
e 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 out.”

  The man tried and finally managed to squeeze out his first name.

  “Jerry!”

  “All right, Jerry, you paid me a visit in the alley by the saloon, didn’t you?”

  Yes. Blocker went back to nodding and shaking his head.

  “And the sheriff was with you?”

  No.

  “But he sent you, didn’t he?”

  Yes.

  “And you brought help?”

  Yes.

  “One man?”

  Yes.

  Decker decided to let that go. The second man was very likely just a hireling, and it would be counterproductive for Decker to waste time finding him.

  “You were supposed to warn me off and get me to leave town.”

  Yes.

  “Now I’d like you to tell me why.”

  The man made strangling noises.

  “I’m going to loosen the rope so you can talk, Blocker, but if I don’t like your answer I’m going to string you up. You got that?’

  The man nodded vigorously.

  Decker eased up on the rope and pulled. The beam moaned in protest, but held, and Blocker was suddenly yanked off his feet. It was testimony to how Decker’s slender appearance belied the strength he actually possessed.

  Decker waited until the man’s face was beet-red and then released the rope so that Blocker could slump to his knees.

  “That wasn’t smart, was it, Jerry?”

  The man didn’t answer.

  “For one thing, you almost pulled down a beam. That would have brought your own roof down around your head. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”

  No answer.

  “Would you?” Decker asked, pulling up on the rope again until the man’s neck was stretched.

  “No!” the man yelped.

  “Okay, good. Let’s get back to the question now, Blocker. Why is everyone so eager for me to stop asking questions about Brian Foxx?”