He turned away from the doctor’s bag and Petrie saw the sharp instrument in his hand.
“Sorry about this, Doc,” Brent said, leaning over the doctor, “but I got too much at stake, you know?”
The doctor’s eyes widened as he realized what Brent was going to do, and he tried yelling to no avail. The gag was good and tight and muffled his voice, totally.
Brent grabbed the doctor by the hair and pulled his head back so that his neck was exposed. He took the knife and cut the doctor’s throat in one swift, clean motion, then pulled his hand right away real quick and jumped back to avoid getting blood on the nice clean shirt he’d borrowed from the doctor.
Well, actually the doctor had sort of willed him the shirt.
“How much did you leave him?”
“A hundred dollars,” Brent lied. “I figured that would keep him from talking.”
“Good idea. Come on, I’ll help you get on your horse.”
Once Brent was in the saddle, Brian mounted up.
“Okay?”
“I’m fine,” Brent assured him. “Hey, Brian.”
“What?”
“I wanna thank you for bringing me to the doctor, even though I was stubborn about it.”
“That’s okay, Brent. That’s what I’m here for. To take care of you.”
“Yeah,” Brent said. “You usually know best.”
Chapter XXVIII
As they rode into Stillwell, Decker felt his instincts acting up again. The town was calm, just coming to life for the early part of the day, but he felt as if something was very wrong.
“It happened again,” Decker said as they rode into Stillwell.
“What?” Felicia asked.
“Something’s wrong.”
Felicia and Rebecca exchanged glances and both of them shrugged. They were getting along a lot better since they’d had their talk last night, and all of a sudden they were acting like sisters. That was okay with Decker, though, because now they were talking to each other and leaving him alone.
They rode directly to the sheriff’s office and Decker dismounted. In deference to Felicia, Rebecca volunteered to stay with the horses.
“Why don’t you both stay with the horses?” Decker suggested, and to his surprise they agreed.
Decker walked into the sheriff’s office and decided to play it straight. The lawman was just coming out of the back room, where Decker assumed the cells were. He was of a type that Decker had seen many times before, a type that had been in the job so long that he had grown fat and satisfied. This one’s belly hung over his gunbelt.
“Sheriff?”
“That’s right.”
“My name’s Decker.” Decker approached the man and took out the poster he had on Brian Foxx. He handed it to the sheriff.
“I’m looking for this man.”
“Brian Foxx,” the sheriff said, proving that he could read—or at least that he had recognized the drawing. “Everybody’s looking for him, especially since they raised the price on his head.”
“To what?”
“Twenty-five hundred. You a bounty hunter?”
“That’s right.”
The sheriff shrugged. It was no skin off his nose how somebody made his living. He handed the poster back.
“I haven’t seen him.”
“At all, or recently?”
“At all.”
“If you had, would you tell me?”
“Sure, why not?” the man said, shrugging. “It’s nothing Tome either way.”
Decker was folding the poster, wondering if his instincts had been off about there being something wrong. At that moment a man came rushing into the sheriff’s office. He was out of breath and looked scared out of his wits.
“Sheriff, ya gotta come quick.”
“What’s the matter, Nick?”
“Ya gotta come quick!”
“Tell me what’s happened, man!”
“Somebody’s killed the doc.”
“Shit,” the sheriff said. “Oh shit.” He grabbed his hat and followed the man out.
Decker walked out behind them and Rebecca said, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m going to find out. I’ll meet you at the saloon,” he said.
He trailed along behind the sheriff and eventually found out where he was going. The shingle next to the door said, HOWARD PETRIE, M.D.
Decker walked up to the door, and since no one stopped him or questioned him, he went in. He heard the sound of voices from another room and followed them.
It appeared to be the doctor’s examining room. The sheriff was there with two other men, one of whom was the man who had run into his office. There was a fourth man there, too, but he was on the floor.
Dead.
The man had been tied up and gagged. Then his throat had been cut.
“Jesus Christ,” the sheriff kept saying. “Jesus Christ…”
“What are we gonna do?” one of the men asked.
“Nothing like this has ever happened before,” the sheriff said. “Jesus Christ.”
“He was okay last night,” the third man said. “I saw him in the saloon. He had a drink and then said he was turning in for the night.”
Decker looked around the room and saw a bloody shirt on the floor. He moved toward the examining table and saw a basin next to it. He saw what was in the basin, picked it up, and put it in his pocket before anybody saw him.
He was taking his hand out of his pocket when the harried-looking sheriff turned around and saw him.
“Who are you?”
“Decker.”
“Oh, right.” The sheriff looked at the body again and then looked away. “What do I do now? Jesus Christ, I ain’t never seen nothing like this.”
“Well, for starters,” Decker said, “you could have him taken over to the undertaker’s.”
“Yeah,” the sheriff said, taking his hat off and running his fingers through his hair, “yeah. Nick, go and get some help. We’ll take him to the undertaker’s.”
“Okay, Sheriff.” It was the same man who had run into the sheriff’s office with the news.
The sheriff looked at Decker as if he were seeing him for the first time, and asked, “What’s your interest in this, Decker?”
“Nothing, Sheriff,” Decker said. “I’m just passing through.”
Rebecca and Felicia were waiting in front of the saloon with the horses.
“Let’s mount up and get out of here,” he said, grabbing John Henry’s reins.
“What did you find out?” Rebecca asked.
“The town doctor is dead. His throat’s been cut.”
“So?” Rebecca asked.
“There was a bloody shirt on the floor.”
“And?”
“What did the sheriff in Bell’s Crossing say the old woman had used to shoot Foxx?”
“A derringer, a small-caliber derringer.”
“I found this in a basin next to the doctor’s examining table.”
He opened his hand to show her.
A spent bullet.
A small-caliber spent bullet.
When they were clear of the town, they reined in.
“You want to explain this to us so we can understand it, too?” Rebecca asked.
“The shirt on the floor had a bullet hole which came from a small-caliber gun.”
“You’re saying that this is the town where one brother brought the other for treatment of his wound?”
“Right. I heard somebody say that the doctor was fine last night and that he had turned in for the night. That means that the Foxx brothers got here sometime during the night, had the wound treated, and then cut the doctor’s throat so he couldn’t tell anyone they were here.”
“That’s awful!” Felicia said. “You know, everything I read about Brian Foxx made him out to be some kind of Robin Hood, never hurting or killing anyone—and then all of a sudden people started to get hurt.”