Robert J Randisi Read online

  He entered the saloon and walked to the bar. The place was about half full. It wasn’t the biggest saloon in town, and Decker wondered how much business it usually did. Of course, Rigger’s livelihood didn’t depend on it, so half full was probably fine with him.

  Decker ordered a beer from the bartender, a heavyset man with hands like hams and the face of a pig.

  Beer in hand, he turned his back to the bar and checked the room. There were two girls working it, a fairly attractive blonde who had seen better days and a young brunette with the face of a schoolteacher and the body of a—well, no schoolteacher Decker had ever known had had a body like that.

  The blonde was sitting on a man’s lap, and the brunette, who had just dropped off some drinks at another table, was returning to the bar.

  He didn’t see anyone else working the saloon, so he assumed that either the bartender or one of the girls would know where Rigger was.

  Looking closely at the younger girl, he decided she was his best bet. She’d be most likely to give Rigger’s whereabouts away without meaning to.

  As she approached the bar he touched her arm lightly.

  “Two beers, Carl,” she said to the bartender, then she turned her eyes—violet eyes, he noticed—toward Decker and went to work. “Can I help you?” she asked flirtatiously.

  “Sure can,” he said and smiled. She smiled back, a slow, sexy smile that would come easier and better after some more practice.

  “You gonna tell me how?” she asked.

  “Where’s Rigger?”

  Her smile slipped and for an instant—just for a split second—she glanced up at the ceiling.

  “Who?” she asked innocently, but her eyes had said, “He’s upstairs.”

  “Joe Rigger, the fella who owns this place.”

  The bartender returned with the beers the girl had ordered. He leaned across the bar and said, “Trouble, Viola?”

  “This man is looking for someone named Rigger,” Viola said. “He says he owns this saloon.”

  “I own this place, friend,” the bartender said. “Can I help you?”

  “No,” Decker said, “you can’t.”

  “There’s no Rigger here.”

  “Fine, if you say so.”

  “I say so,” the man said.

  As the big man’s right shoulder dipped, Decker pulled out his gun and laid it across the bar so that no one in the room could see it but the bartender and Viola.

  “Put the shotgun on the bar, slowly,” Decker said, his low voice menacing. Clutching the tray of beer, Viola started to move away but Decker said, “Uh-uh, sweetheart. Stay right there.”

  She stiffened, then stood still.

  “On the bar, Carl. Easy, so we don’t start any trouble.”

  “You’re the one looking for trouble, mister.”

  “No, I’m looking for Joe Rigger. I’m a friend of his.”

  “Sure…” the bartender said, gingerly lifting his shotgun up onto the bar.

  “Break it and unload it.”

  The bartender opened the shotgun and slid the shells out, holding them in one hand.

  “Put the shells in my shirt pocket.”

  The bartender did so, jamming them in forcefully. Decker let the man have his little moment of triumph.

  “What makes you think I don’t have more shells back here?” the bartender asked.

  “Oh, I know you do. But by the time you can get them loaded, you’ll be dead. Now, look into my eyes and tell me I’m lying.”

  The bartender tried to match Decker’s stare but finally looked away.

  “Yeah, you know I’m not lying,” Decker said. “Now, both of you stay right where you are until I’m upstairs.”

  “You can’t—” the bartender started, but he stopped when Decker cocked his gun.

  “You do what I tell you, bartender, you hear?”

  “I hear.”

  Decker eased the hammer back down and slid the gun into his holster.

  “You understand, darlin’?” he asked the girl.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “I understand.”

  “You’re gonna get yourself killed, my friend,” the bartender said.

  “Well now, that’s my problem, isn’t it?”

  “You bet,” the bartender said. “You bet it is. Go on up, go ahead. You won’t ever come down again.”

  Decker smiled and said, “You wish.”

  Backing away from the bar, he moved toward the stairs. He didn’t turn until he felt them behind him. Even then he kept an eye on the bartender over his shoulder. If the man went for his gun, he’d have to do something. Maybe he should have taken the shotgun with him, he thought, but he didn’t expect the bartender had the guts to make the move.

  He was right.

  Upstairs he saw that there had once been several doors in the hallways, but all except one had been boarded up. The upstairs had probably been converted to one big apartment for Rigger.

  He went to the single door and kicked it in.

  Rigger sat straight up on his bed and lunged for the gun on the headboard. At the same time he pushed the woman who was with him off of him. She fell to the floor, naked, in a tangle of bedsheets.

  “Don’t!” Decker snapped. “Don’t do it, Joe.”

  Rigger frowned for a moment, then said, “Decker!” in disbelief.

  “Hello, Joe,” Decker said. “Jeez, you look like shit.”

  Chapter Two

  “Put the gun up, Deck,” Joe Rigger said. “What’s the big idea?”

  “Don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten your promise of three years ago.”

  “Promise?” Rigger said, frowning. He was still upright in bed, stark naked, and the woman on the floor was gathering all the bedclothes around her—but not quickly enough to keep Decker from seeing all she had to show.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Decker stated simply.

  Rigger thought a moment, then said, “Oh, that!” and smiled for the first time. “You don’t mean to say that you think I’m still angry over that. Come on, Deck. Put up the gun and we’ll have a drink and talk about old times.”

  “Not until I have your gun, Joe.”

  Rigger frowned. “You’re serious?” he asked.

  “Dead serious.”

  Rigger, whose face always held a deceptively placid look, even just before he killed, shrugged and said, “Well, all right, then.”

  He started to reach for the gun and Decker said, “Not you, Joe! The woman.”

  Rigger looked at Decker and said, “What is it, Deck? I know you’re not afraid of me.”

  “I have a healthy respect for you, Joe. I always have. I know what you can do with a gun.”

  Rigger withdrew his hand and said, “All right. Felicia, give the man my gun.”

  The woman on the floor—a busty brunette in her late twenties—said, “Joe, I ain’t got any clothes on.”

  “Come on now, Felicia, don’t be shy,” Joe Rigger said. “Decker’s an old friend of mine.”

  “A friend?” she said in disbelief.

  “Sure, from way back. Besides, it’s not like he didn’t already see all there is to see. Come on, sweet. Give the man my gun.”

  The girl stared at Rigger, then at Decker, then shrugged and stood up, dropping the bedclothes. Her breasts were full and her nipples dark. Her slim waist contrasted with her rounded hips. She moved slowly, almost seductively, around the bed, as if enjoying the fact that both men’s eyes were on her.

  Or was that what Rigger had in mind?

  As she started to slide the gun from the holster Decker said, “Bring the whole thing.”

  Obeying, she slid the holster from the bedpost and turned to him with it. Had he allowed her to approach him, with his eyes firmly fixed on her body, Rigger could easily have leaped from the bed onto him.

  “Put it on that table over there,” Decker ordered, pointing away from himself.

  She paused, then nodded and obeyed, walking away from him, but not so far that he could
n’t keep his eyes on both her and Rigger.

  “Now you can leave,” Decker told her.

  She looked at Rigger, who nodded and said, “Go ahead, Felicia.”

  “Like this?” she demanded, horrified at the prospect.

  Decker allowed her to dress, and then she moved quickly to the door.

  “Do you want her to bring reinforcements, Joe?” Decker asked as she paused with her hand on the knob.

  “Yes,” Rigger said, then smiled and added, “a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.” He looked directly at the woman and said, “And that’s all, Felicia.”

  She nodded and left.

  “Can I get dressed now?” Rigger asked.

  “Sure, Joe,” Decker said, holstering his gun.

  Rigger stood up and dressed, except for his boots.

  “We can go into the next room. It’s my…office.”

  “Lead the way.”

  “I’ve got some guns in there, but I don’t intend to go for any of ’em. As far as I’m concerned,” he said, leading the way, “this is a visit between two friends.”

  “You’ve got a funny way of remembering things, Joe.”

  In Rigger’s office there was a desk with two chairs—one behind, one in front—and a divan against one wall. Rigger sat behind his desk, and Decker took the chair in front.

  “If this is not a friendly visit, Decker, then why are you here? It’s not really that old threat, is it?”

  “Threats to kill a man don’t die of old age, Joe.”

  “Well, this one did. Only it died a young death, Decker. I decided not long after our last meeting that it was stupid of me to have threatened you.”

  “I never got word of that.”

  Rigger laughed.

  “I never thought you took me seriously.”

  “I always take you seriously, Joe.”

  There was a knock on the office door. Viola stood there uncertainly, carrying a tray with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

  “Viola, come on in,” Rigger said. “Meet my friend, Decker.”

  “We met downstairs,” Decker said.

  “You did? Did you also meet Carl?”

  “The bartender? Yes,” Decker said. He took the shotgun shells out of his shirt pocket and dropped them on the tray Viola was holding. “These are his.”

  Viola put the tray down, removed the bottle and glasses, and then picked it up again. She stared pointedly at the shotgun shells.

  “Take them down to Carl, Viola,” Rigger said. “Tell him if it had been any man other than Decker, he’d be fired right now.”

  The young woman nodded.

  “And don’t leave after closing,” Rigger called after her as she left. “I may want you.”

  “All right.”

  As she left, Decker smiled and looked at Rigger.

  “What about Felicia?”

  “Felicia? Oh, you mean wanting Viola? I don’t

  want her for me, Deck, I want her for you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Unless you’d prefer Felicia?”

  “If it comes to a choice, I’ll make it.”

  “Meanwhile,” Rigger said, grabbing the bottle and pouring two drinks, “have a drink and tell me what brings you here.”

  Decker accepted the glass and said, “The Baron.”

  Rigger barely let his feelings show on his face as he heard the name.

  “What about him?” he asked, all bantering tone gone from his voice.

  “I’m hunting him.”

  “The Baron?” Rigger asked in surprise. “What’s he done to deserve you on his trail?”

  “What he’s always done,” Decker said. “Same thing you do.”

  “Then why aren’t you after me?”

  “There’s no price on your head.”

  “And there is on his?”

  “Yep.”

  “How much?”

  Decker paused, wondering if the size of the price might drive Rigger back into the bounty-hunting trade.

  “Fifteen thousand.”

  Rigger whistled.

  “Who’d he kill to earn that amount?”

  “A boy,” Decker said. “A child.”

  “A child?” Rigger said. “He hired out to kill a child?”

  “He killed the kid after he’d killed his quarry.”

  “By accident?”

  Decker shrugged.

  “No, that’s right. You wouldn’t care, would you? Not as long as that fifteen thousand dollars is on his head.”

  “High talk from a former bounty hunter turned killer.”

  “Touché,” Rigger said, raising his glass. “So, if you’re on his trail, why look me up?”

  “Because he’s a professional. Normal methods will not work with him.”

  “So you want me to help you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? I don’t know where he is.”

  “You’re a killer.”

  “I don’t deny that.”

  “And so is he. You can give me some idea of how he thinks, of where he’d be.”

  “If he’s smart, he’s holed up somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know where.”

  “Find out.”

  “How can I find out?”

  “I knew where you were. Somebody must know where he is. How do people get in touch with you when they want you?”

  Rigger rubbed his jaw. Decker knew that there was a man you got in touch with when you wanted to hire Joe Rigger, and that man was in San Francisco. There had to be a man you contacted when you wanted the Baron.

  Rigger could find out who that man was.

  “You must think a lot of me,” Rigger stated.

  “Not a whole lot,” Decker said, and Rigger laughed.

  “You’re gonna have to give me time to think this over. After all, I’ve got to have some loyalty to my profession.”

  Decker thought about Wellman and how much loyalty he had to his profession, and he knew that Rigger was talking through his hat. Still, Rigger would need time to figure out his angle, how he could benefit from helping Decker.

  “All right,” Decker said. “Sleep on it, then.” He drained his glass and put it on the desk. “I’ll be at the hotel.”

  “You can stay here—”

  Decker interrupted Rigger by rising.

  “I’ll stay at the hotel, Joe.”

  Rigger shrugged and said, “Suit yourself. I’ll let

  you know what I decide in the morning.”

  Decker turned and headed for the door.

  “Hey, Deck.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you were to choose between Felicia and Viola, which would it be?”

  Decker thought for only a second and said, “Viola.”

  Rigger nodded and said, “Good choice.”

  Chapter Three

  Decker had to awaken the liveryman to get his horse taken care of, and then he had to rouse the desk clerk at the hotel in order to get a room. He had just removed his boots and shirt when there was a knock at his door. He answered it, his gun in hand.

  It was Viola. Her dark hair fell loosely about her pale shoulders, and she had changed into a dress with a very revealing neckline. He had a tantalizing view of the creamy cleft between her breasts.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, what kind of way is that to greet a lady?” she asked.

  “I wasn’t expecting you. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Oh, I’m not disappointed.”

  “Then can I come in?”

  “I, uh—what for?” Decker asked.

  “Rigger told me…that you chose me,” she said, looking puzzled. “Isn’t that true?”

  “Well, it…it’s true and it’s not,” Decker said, annoyed that he was stammering. He was not exactly a ladies’ man, although he knew what to do with a lady when he wanted her.

  “I’m confused.”


  “Don’t be,” Decker said, “and don’t be offended, but I’m really not looking for any company tonight.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “You tell a lady to get lost but you don’t want her to be offended.”

  “There’s no reason for you to be offended,” Decker said. “You’re very lovely, but—”

  “Don’t you like girls?”

  “I like girls just fine,” Decker snapped. “I just don’t want to take anything from Joe Rigger right now.”

  She frowned. “I thought you were friends.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Now I am confused,” she said, “but not offended.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How long will you be in town?”

  “Probably not very long.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s a pity. Well, good night, then.”

  “Good night.”

  After she had gone he sat on the bed and wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake sending her away, then decided that he hadn’t, and went to sleep.

  He had a dream, and in the dream he was twenty-one and was accused of killing a woman.

  He had been hired by the woman’s husband to do odd jobs around their ranch. The woman was older than he by about ten years, but she was a very handsome female. Although it wasn’t easy, Decker had managed to decline her advances.

  Unfortunately, she did not take his rejection kindly and told her husband he tried to rape her. Decker and the man had a huge fight, during which Decker knocked the man down in front of his wife. Doubly embarrassed, the man fired Decker and never paid him the money he owed him for the work he’d already done. That was fine with Decker, though. He just wanted to get away from both of them.

  He dreamt he was leaving town on foot when the posse rode up and arrested him for raping and killing her.

  The husband had told them that Decker did it. Then in his dream Decker saw himself in court, where a judge eagerly convicted him.

  The sheriff of the town believed Decker to be innocent, but Decker was convicted and sentenced to hang.

  In the dream Decker could feel the noose around his neck, and he could smell his own fear…

  Suddenly he awoke, still smelling that old fear. He rose and went to the pitcher and basin on the dresser and washed away the stench of his fear.

  He remembered what had happened while he was waiting for the trapdoor to be sprung from beneath him.