Bounty Hunter Hound, they said, never wasted a bullet. Bounty Hunter Hound, they further said, was an embodiment of perfection. Clockwork. All this they said and still more.

No wonder his legs were shaking. To meet a legend like The Hound in person, and that too on his very first job. Danny could imagine himself proudly telling his grandchildren about how, when he was a sixteen year old, he delivered information to Bounty Hunter Hound. Though he was just the messenger, a little bragging won't hurt.

The Hound was asleep when he reached his place. His hat on his face. Danny was taken by surprise when a little creak in the floorboard made the Hound spring up from his sleep with a knife pointed at him. He had the reflexes of an animal. No wonder he was called the Hound. Danny was both afraid and awed by this man.

The Hound put the knife away when Danny started mumbling something. The Bounty Hunter asked him to pardon.

Danny was shivering as it was, recalling words, became a bit of a problem. But he had to do his part, now that he had come this far. "Crimson Juggler is in the next town. He got the back of his hand tattooed yesterday. His parents told him to. He will drink the wine, first thing tonight and kill whoever else does not."

Bounty Hunter Hound knew it was a coded message. Danny produced a rough sketch of the tattoo he was talking about. Hound had figured out most part of the message except the last. It may mean that they themselves didn't know the last part. "And who will not drink the wine? " he enquired. Danny seemed like he was expecting the question, " That we know not. You won't let it come to that we are assured!!"

The Hound didn't expect the timid boy to be assured of anything but he knew that the group who sent him was.

"Twenty percent will be yours. Be here at the same time tomorrow." The Bounty Hunter said. He would also have added, "If the information is accurate." but not when this group delivered it. They had never once been wrong. They checked and double checked each piece of information before they passed it on. Their business thrived on that. Passing information to sheriff's and Bounty Hunter's like himself.

Danny understood he had completed his job, when the Hound placed the hat on his face and dozed off.

****

Bounty Hunter Hound had planned everything before he ever reached the bar.

Crimson Juggler was a code name for a notorious assassin, who was out, recently. Not even the group who gave him the information, had come to know what he looked like. He had evaded many skilled bounty hunters before, or at least so the rumour went. His actions went unchecked. The rumours were most probably true as proven by the bounty on his head.

He knew which town the assassin would show up tonight, from the message. And the fact that the assassin was to 'drink the wine first thing tonight' gave him The Juggler's location. He would be at a bar and there was only one bar in that town. No confusion there.

The interesting part was the tattoo. The assassin had a tattoo on his hand. 'His parents told him to' meaning it was a cult symbol. Everyone in the cult would have the same symbol. The sketch showed what the tattoo was. A rose without thorns. Hound had heard of this cult before.

Why would the cult have such a symbol tattooed to every member? Wouldn't it make spotting them relatively easier?

Once they knew the tattoo, Anyone could identify their members. It must have been something related to the cult pride or so.

The Hound reasoned that one of the big flaws in the system was that, once a non member knew what the tattoo looked like, he could easily replicate the tattoo and with means enough, he could infiltrate the cult.

One of the ways to hide the tattoo, would be to wear gloves.

The last part of the message stated that Crimson Juggler was supposed to kill someone at that bar. But the identity of the other man was unknown. Hound was expected to catch him before the crime was committed.

The Hound was confident that he would win when he entered the bar. He had already made certain preparations. He had deduced beforehand that the assassin would not be outside the bar with a sniper rifle or any similar long range weapon. The bar had foggy glass windows. And all windows closed at that time. It would create a lot of commotion. As far as he knew, this was opposed to the style of the assassin. The Juggler preferred to take his targets down without attracting attention to himself or his target. He would not deviate from that. He would probably be inside as a usual customer and blend with the surroundings. And to pull off such an elaborate scheme he would have to be present at the bar for sometime. He could not just come and leave in an instant. That would attract too much attention.

He had come across such silent killers before. When an assassin chooses a style, he rarely deviates from it.

Hound predicted that the assassin would have everything chalked out before he actually entered this town. Unlike many other assassins who depended more on brute force or confusion tactics. So he would just have to be a step ahead of the assassin.

Hound took a stool at the bar and sat there facing the room with his back to the bartender. This would give him a complete view of the room. He turned his head and ordered his usual.

Three people wore gloves in the bar, noted Hound. A man sitting alone, a lady and a man among his friends. He eliminated the lady. It wasn't that women couldn't be assassins or anything of the sort. It was her jewellery. It was too heavy. She had probably returned from attending a wedding. It would be impractical to make quick moves or tricks with such heavy jewellery. And she would definitely not change her attire inside the bar. Moreover her husband was a farmer. His shoes had flakes of mud and dirt. Though an attempt had been at washing them, they still looked worn. He went to a wedding wearing afterall. No wonder he washed them. But what assured Hound, was the hands of the farmer. They looked like they had taken, a lot of heavy farm work.

The other man was probably a street magician. He wore a Prussian blue robe and was performing card tricks which called cheering from his mates after regular intervals. He wasn't the assassin. He was drunk. He wasn't faking it. He was gulping down drink after drink without much of a pause between his tricks. A calculated assassin such as Crimson Juggler certainly wouldn't commit a crime when drunk.

This left the third man. He must be the assassin. The Hound wasn't going to take a chance even if he had eliminated the other two. He deduced after a quick glance that this man was certainly, an assassin. His attire was such that he could have hidden a dozen weapons without people around him knowing that. His eyes were alert. His jaw was clenched. He was sitting isolated in the bar but his position was as strategic as the Hound's. He could see the whole bar from there. His sitting posture was perfect. It would be easy to pull out fast moves or anything from such a posture. He also noticed Hound watching him even though it had only been the third second. Fast reflexes.

A formidable opponent.

Hound smiled to himself.

****

As he saw his plan working, Hound felt a rush of adrenalin surge through his veins. The assassin had not taken his eyes off him since he had exposed his hand.

Bounty Hunter Hound had tattooed the exact same symbol of the Crimson Juggler's cult on his hand as well. He had exploited the weakness in their system. The assassin walked towards him and took the chair adjacent to him. He ordered a refill at the bar while he casually asked Hound, " Which is the best bar in the city of Boulevard?"

A code? The cult had kept a code to overcome the weakness? Hound was taken aback for a second, but then he regained his composure.

He accessed his situation. He had about four seconds before the assassin would make a move. As expected the assassin's posture was perfect. He would be able to switch it to offensive fairly fast, considering the Hound made any sudden moves.

Then why not use that as an advantage??

Hound picked up a wine bottle from the counter and flung it at the Crimson Juggler. The assassin gave in to his reflexes and ducked. Perfect!

The bottle hit the man behind the Juggler, on the chest. When the man turned to locate the offender, he saw the assassin, whose back was turned to him. The man threw the glass in hand, almost instinctively, at the assassin's head, shooting abuses. The assassin was taken aback when the noticed that the man was coming forward to punch him. The man was subdued by the assassin in a few seconds. Crimson Juggler deflected the blow by hitting his wrist with the back of his hand. He hit the man on the back of his neck with his left hand. The man became unconscious. The assassin observed that he had angered his pals who were initially laughing. They were coming towards him. But the assassin had The Hound to take care of first. When he turned to face the stool The Hound sat in, it was empty.

The pals weren't too much trouble for the assassin as well but in time glasses and the stools thrown, had taken the form of a bar fight. People were randomly throwing objects at the ones that thought were the offenders.

The Hound had set himself below a table, partly enjoying the spectacle he had triggered. In a bar fight, a table was a moderately good shield unless it was too light in weight. Then even the table would be thrown. Here that wasn't the case. He had a knife ready looking for a perfect chance. Crimson Juggler looked more confused than angry. He was ducking things left and right. He wasn't suited to this commotion. The Crimson Juggler was known to kill without a noise, forget a bar fight. The Hound explored this well.
Just when a glass shattered on his face, the Hound pounced on him from behind and slit his throat in a smooth arc.

Crimson Juggler fell.

****

"The autopsy results say, a throat slit, eh dog? Nice touch with the poisoned drink!" said the sheriff, as he patted the Bounty Hunter.

There were a few people brave enough to call him a dog, at his face. Sheriff Hall was a close friend afterall.

But such trivial thoughts didn't enter the Hound's head. A more pressing concern troubled him.

He had never poisoned the drink. That meant the assassin was the target, the prey. Not the predator. He had missed one other person wearing gloves that night, he realised.

The bartender.

A perfect camouflage. Blended with the surroundings like the cocktail he served. The person who could easily poison a drink was the bartender. That bartender was the Crimson Juggler. So the assassin had already done his work before the Hound could stop him. On the contrary the Hound had helped him achieve his goal.