Free Bounty on a Baron by Robert J. Randisi

rose and ran for the brush. Three or four more shots rang out, narrowly missing him, and then he wasn’t out in the open anymore.
    He stopped when he had cover and crouched down, staying perfectly still. He listened intently, trying desperately to hear something that would give away the position of his assailants.
    “Jesus, we missed—” he heard, and then someone said, “Shhh!” forcefully.
    That was enough for him to pinpoint their position. He started to move through the brush, hoping to come up behind them before it occurred to them to go after his horse.
    As he moved along, Decker started to wonder if he wasn’t getting a little old for this business. The two men had managed to get close enough to take a shot at him without his hearing them. This was just another in a series of lapses he had noticed since he had started out after the Baron. Even the usually reliable John Henry had not detected the presence of the men before they could fire. Decker wondered if the cold had affected the horse’s sense of smell and hearing. Maybe it had even affected his.
    Why couldn’t the Baron have hid out in Mexico, like a lot of other outlaws? he wondered.
    After he moved about a hundred yards in a semicircle Decker stopped and listened again. This time when he heard them they were much closer.
    “Where did he go?” one man asked.
    “I told you to keep your mouth shut!” a second voice said.
    They were about ten yards to his left and in front of him.
    He moved cautiously, not wanting to alert them, and when he thought he was directly behind them he decided on his course of action. If he called out to them they could split up and would immediately gain the advantage. He was better off taking a more direct course.
    He raised his sawed-off and fired both barrels ahead of him. While the men screamed in anguish he quickly ejected the two empty shells and replaced them.
    He moved forward then, gun held out ahead of him, and approached what had become a stream of steady moans.
    “God, Jesus!” one man yelled. “I been cut in half!”
    The other was simply groaning, holding himself with both arms.
    Decker moved to the shouting man, but as he leaned over him the man stopped yelling. An instant later he emitted a sound that could only be a death rattle. This man would never give him any trouble again, Decker knew.
    He turned to approach the other man, whose wounds appeared less serious. Still, he was surprised when the man rolled over with a gun in his hand. Without even thinking, Decker squeezed off one barrel, striking the man in the face, obliterating it totally.
    There was an eerie silence after the shots, and Decker checked both men again. From his vantage point he had a clear look at his campfire. If they had been better marksmen—or if he had not been so cold—he would be dead now instead of them.
    Decker was about to step out into the open when there was a shot from the opposite side of the campfire.
    “Shit!” Decker said, hitting the ground. Apparently these men had not been alone but were simply the first wave.
    Decker rolled over, removed the spent shells from his gun, and loaded two more. It was at times like this—and a lot of others—that he wished he was a competent shot with a six-shooter, simply because they had six shots.
    “Dave!” a voice called out. “Steve!”
    Well, now Decker knew the names of the two dead men. Of course, that still didn’t tell him who they were.
    Keeping low, Decker crept over one of the bodies, intending to move back into the brush, but hestopped short. He holstered his gun, picked up one of the dead men’s rifles, and then began to circle to his right, facing the campfire. Maybe whoever was on the other side—one man? two?—would think that Decker was as dead as his two friends, and step out into the open.
    Moving slowly but steadily, Decker heard someone say, “Shit!” under his breath, and he followed the sound of the voice.
    He was opposite the place where he’d left