The Lawman

“I will have the bath ready within the halfhour?” the man asked.

“Fifteen minutes would be better.”

“Muy bien. Fifteen minutes, then.”

“Tell me, Emilio.”

“Si?”

“Do you have a sheriff in this town?”

“Oh, si, senor. Doesn’t every town have a sheriff?”

“Not every town.”

“We have a very good sheriff, senor. He is Ernesto, my cousin.”

“I see.”

“But even though he is of my blood, I can still say with conviction, senor, that he is a very good sheriff.”

“I’m sure he is, Emilio. I’ll be down for that bath.”

“Si, senor. It will be ready.”

Decker picked up his saddlebags and rifle and walked upstairs. He dropped his gear on the bed and walked to the window which overlooked the main street and afforded a perfect view of the lake.

He wondered what the Spanish word was for lake, and why they hadn’t used that in the name of the town. Did rio mean lake as well as river?

He rubbed his hand over his face and thought about Red Moran. If the man had been covering his trail it probably wouldn’t have taken Decker this long to track him. The man was travelling openly without fear, and was staying well ahead of him.

His shoulder wound throbbed, and he realized that if it hadn’t been for the incident during which he’d received it, he might be further along than he was. He didn’t like to admit it, but the wound had slowed him down for a couple of days, until he had consciously picked up the pace.

He took a clean shirt from his saddlebags and went downstairs to get that bath.

Decker cried out when the clerk poured the water over his head.

When the clerk told Decker they took the water right from the lake, Decker had assumed that the water would be heated up.

“That’s cold!”

“Si, senor,” the clerk said, grinning. “It feels good, does it not?”

Decker was about to reply sharply when he realized that it did feel good. His pores were opening up and he felt refreshed. Why was he paying thirty-five cents for this when he could have jumped in the lake himself—and washed his clothes in the progress?

“You got any soap?”

“Si, senor.”

The clerk handed him the soap and Decker said, “I think I can handle it now.”

“Oh, yes, of course, senor. Please, enjoy your bath.”

“Thank you.”

Decker lit a cigar and did that for nearly fifteen minutes, getting up once to dump a second bucket of water that the clerk had left behind over his own head. It was not as cold as the first had been, but it did the job.

Decker was just about to rise and get out of the tub when the door to the room opened and a man walked in.

The man was tall and slender, and he wore a fancy sombrero with little cloth balls hanging from the brim. Around his lean hips he wore two pearl-handled Colts that looked ludicrous—as did the man himself. His gunbelt was festooned with fancy silverwork, and he stood with his thumbs hooked into the belt, staring at Decker.

He had one other piece of silver on his person.

A badge, which betrayed the fact that he was the sheriff.

“Senor,” the man said, “we must talk.”

Chapter Twenty-two

“Talk about what, Sheriff?”

The man walked towards the tub, and Decker saw that he moved with an exaggerated swagger.

“I am the sheriff of this town, senor.”

“Yes, I know,” Decker said, staring at the man over his cigar, still not sure he was seeing what he was seeing. “You’re Emilio’s cousin, Ernesto.”

“Sheriff Ernesto,” the man said, “that is, Sheriff Ernesto Garcia.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sheriff.”

“Senor,” the man said, trying his best to look important, “we must talk.”

“So you said,” Decker replied. He took the cigar out of his mouth and asked, “Do you mind if I get out of this tub? The water is getting tepid.”

“No, of course not,” the sheriff said.

“Could you hand me that towel?”

The sheriff glared at the towel, because to hand it to Decker he would have to unhook one of his thumbs from his belt, and he practiced that pose every day.

“Of course,” he muttered. He used his right hand, gave Decker the towel, and then jammed his thumb back into his gunbelt.

Decker got out of the tub and began to dry himself off.

“Well, Sheriff?”

“Senor?”

“You said we had to talk.”

“Si, senor. My cousin, Emilio, tells me that you were very interested in the hotel register when you checked in.”

“Your cousin, Emilio, is very observant.”

“Si, senor, like me.”

“I’m sure.”

“Senor,” Garcia said, scowling, “I must ask you what you business in Rio del Gato is.”

“That’s a fair question, Sheriff, and it deserves a fair answer.”

“I am glad you see it that way.”

“I’m just passing through.”

“Just…passing through?” the sheriff said, obviously expecting more. “On your way to where, senor?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You are not sure where you are going?”

“That’s right.”

Garcia had a well groomed, full mustache, and he unhooked one of his thumbs so that he could stroke it, then replaced the thumb.

“Excuse me, senor, but that sounds rather odd to me.”

“I’m sure it does, Sheriff.”

Decker pulled his pants on, then took Moran’s poster out of his pocket and handed it to the man.

“I’m looking for this man.”

Garcia had to unhook both thumbs to accept the poster and unfold it.

“Red Moran,” he read, and then his eyes widened as he continued, “bank robbery and…murder!”

“That’s right.”

“This man,” Garcia said, “he was in my town?”

“He was.”

“Senor,” he said, holding his heart, “I am mortified, I am embarrassed, I am wounded…senor, you are wounded.”

Now that Decker was out of the tub Garcia had noticed his shoulder wound.