It was Wexler who arrived first, aloof as ever. If the sight of Art wearing nothing but a bath towel bothered him, he didn’t show it. Nothing ever seemed to bother him. Which was good for a bounty hunter. But even the best things in life, the joyful and exciting things, didn’t seem to affect him. Sometimes it seemed as if he had no emotion at all. It was unnerving to say the least, but again, this was good for a bounty hunter.
Art didn’t need someone who was emotional or unstable. He needed a calm, clear- headed professional. And that’s exactly what John Wexler was. He was widely considered the best around. And Art had to agree. Some would argue that Timothy Callais was the better hunter, but it didn’t really matter to him. Seeing as how he also had Callais at his service, it was all the better.
Callais was nothing like Wexler. Though they shared the same profession, they couldn’t be any more different if they tried. Callais had a certain sense of showmanship and while he was prone to excess, Wexler was very lowkey and practical. He always approached the job professionally and without the pitfalls of passion. Or at least that appeared to be the case outwardly. Callais on the other hand, seemed to enjoy his work. In fact, he seemed to relish it. A trait that Art could certainly appreciate. Even so, Art had to admit, he was a bit of a wildcard.
So, while Callais was technically more a man after his own heart, Art couldn’t help but lean toward John as the more dependable gunman. Though Callais’ passion could definitely be a boon in tracking someone down. It wasn’t an easy choice. In the end, Art decided he was happy to have both. Maybe they would balance each other out. Either way, his chances of success with them on the job were as good as gold. A done deal. Each man had an impeccable reputation. They were undefeated. Every time they took a contract, they delivered.
Every man on the other end of Wexler or Callais’ gun had met their maker. And this would be no different. With one exception. He didn’t want to give Eric the mercy of a swift death. And he didn’t want his revenge to be taken by the hand of another. He wanted to savor it himself.
“Good evening, John,” Art said. Wexler tipped his hat in response. Art looked around, searching the vicinity. “Where’s Calais?” He asked through his cigar. “Don’t know, Wexler said flatly.” Art exhaled, releasing a plume of smoke. “You don’t know, or you don’t care?” He asked pointedly.
He studied Wexler carefully, anticipating the effect of his verbal jab. But to his chagrin, it seemed to have no effect at all. “Both. I ain’t his nurse maid.” Wexler said evenly. Art suppressed the urge to clench his fist. “Fair enough.” He Responded. Then poured himself another glass. “Care for a spot of whiskey?” He asked, raising the bottle. Wexler shook his head. “Are we gonna stand around waiting for Callais to quit a whoring, or gambling, or drinking? If so, we’ll be waitin’ till our hair turns gray.”
Art didn’t respond, but he couldn’t deny the claim. “What’s the job?” Wexler asked. Art hesitated. He preferred to send them both, but time was of the essence. Wexler was right. He didn’t have the luxury of waiting around. “Some cursed thieving low-life stole my horse not ten minutes ago. I need you to go after him.” Wexler glanced out the window. Spurring Art to provide further details. “I know it’s the middle of the night. But as you might imagine, if I let him get a half days head start, he’s liable to get away with his crime. Something he was counting on, no doubt.”
Wexler nodded. “I assume he was one of ours,” he said. “I can’t imagine anyone would come all the way out here just to steal a horse.” “Yes, he’s with the company.” Art confirmed. “Or at least he was. Not anymore.” Wexler nodded again. “Well, Mr. Barnaby with such short notice and the risk that comes with tracking at night, my fee will need to be much higher. “I’m aware of that,” Art said begrudgingly. Wexler glanced out the window again. “You sure it’s worth the risk and expense to go after him? There’s still a good chance he’ll slip away with night as his ally.”
Art’s bald head flushed red with fury. “This isn’t just some common horse he stole. It was my prized Arabian, Duke. Not only that, he had the audacity to steal my best hunting hound too.” Art waited for the man to acknowledge the severity of the perpetrator’s crimes, but Wexler didn’t respond. “That’s reason enough,” Art said defensively. “But letting a horse thief get away sets a dangerous precedent. This is about more than just my personal grief. This is about justice and order.” Again, Wexler said nothing. The silence stretched on as Art struggled to gain control of his temper. Just then, Brooks entered the room. “Any word from Callais?” Art asked. “No,” Brooks said warily. “I couldn’t find him anywhere.”
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Art bit down on his cigar in frustration. Wexler rested his hand on his gun belt. “Well, if you’re set on me going after him, I need to know who my target is. I need a description, name, background, intent, and any other important information you can think of.” Art downed the rest of his whiskey in response. Attempting to calm his nerves. It didn’t help much. “Why do you need all that?” He sputtered. It’s not like there’s a horde of men running around after dark on a stolen horse. Just find him and bring him back!” Wexler gave him a suffering look. Or at least that’s how Art read it. It was always hard to tell with him. “Maybe by your thinking I’ll just ride out into the night and be back with him in a few hours, but the reality of hunting someone down is almost never that simple. I’ve been doing this a long, long time. You can’t expect me to properly track down and capture a person without basic information. And even if I did, I still need to make sure they’re the right man.”
He looked at Brooks. “Have you ever heard of an outlaw being captured without at least a description or sketch?” “No, sir.” Brooks said. Art flushed. “Well, it’s different when you’ve worked with the perpetrator yourself.” Art protested. “There’s a lot of people in this camp. I can’t be expected to remember everyone.” Wexler returned. Art drew on his cigar again. “You should know this one.” He said with confidence. Wexler turned his eyes to Brooks, attempting to share a look, but Brooks avoided eye contact, carefully watching Art. Wexler turned his gaze back to Art as well.
“Maybe I know him, maybe I don’t. What’s his name?” Art thought for a moment. Waffling between names. Then it came to him suddenly “it’s Eric.” He said matter-of-factly. Wexler squinted. “I don’t know an Eric.” Art looked confused. “Do you know an Ulrich?” Wexler shook his head. Brooks looked from Wexler to Art and back; wondering if he should speak up. He could see Art becoming visibly frustrated again and didn’t want to incur his wrath.
“How do you not know him!?” Art growled. Wexler only paused for a moment, and then he was on the move. He was not the kind of man to put up with undue hostility. He turned his back and headed calmly for the door. Placing his hand on the knob. Then he turned towards Art and said, “if you can’t provide me with the information I need, then I can’t do my job.”
He moved to open the door, but Brooks stopped him. “Wait,” he said. Wexler paused. Brooks spoke, but barely a peep escaped his lips. Wexler scoffed softly and moved to leave. “Speak up man, so he can hear you!” Art said. Brooks cleared his throat and repeated himself. Raising his volume considerably. “He means Ezra. That’s who stole the horse.” Brooks said, his voice still below a normal volume. “Ezra Holloway.” He added. Art looked confused. “No, that doesn’t sound right.” He said, shaking his head. This time, it was Brooks who lost his temper. “That’s his name. That’s always been his name. You just never listen to me!”
Art was surprised enough by Brooks reaction that he couldn’t find anything to say. Wexler wore a strange expression that neither of them could read. “Ezra did this?” He asked softly. Brooks nodded. “Yes, I was witness to the whole thing. it was him. I’d bet my life on it.” Wexler looked to Art, his gaze strangely piercing. “Any idea why he would do something like this? It doesn’t seem like Ezra at all.” Art and Brooks quickly exchanged glances. “Since when does a thief need a reason to steal?” Art asked. “Criminals will be criminals. When it comes to motive, your guess is as good as mine.”
Wexler stood there, studying them for a moment. They offered no further explanation. “I’ll need my payment up front this time.” He said. Art hesitated. “Times wastin’. I’d be just as happy to turn in for the night.” He moved again for the door. Art opened his desk drawer and tossed a bag of gold coins. “Half now, half when you complete the job.” Wexler pocketed the money and gave a curt nod.
“Oh, and before you go, let Callais know the details of the contract too.” Art said. Wexler looked over his shoulder. “I ain’t got time for that.”
He spat. Art was taken aback. “But I just hired you. I expect you to do your job.” Wexler paused at the door, looking at Art. His expression gave nothing away, and his voice was calm and even, but there was something in his eyes that put them on alert. “You hired me to track down a suspect. I’m a bounty hunter, not a messenger boy.” He gestured to Brooks. “Send him.”
With that, he opened the door and stepped out into the night. Knowing full well, that it wouldn't be long before he killed his target.