she was younger. She still had dark hair and an impressive bosom, but everything else had thickened on her and she was fighting a losing battle against aging with corsets, girdles and makeup.
“Sheriff Moran? Sure, he came in here from time to time, but he sure didn’t need to.”
“Why’s that?”
“Women threw themselves at him.”
“He was handsome, then?”
“Not ’specially. He had an innocent, wide-eyed look that drew women to him, though. Of course, after spending a night—or even an hour—with him, they found out he wasn’t so wide-eyed or innocent.”
“Did he mistreat them?”
“He beat up a couple of my girls and I had to talk to him.”
“Did you tell the mayor, or the town council?”
“Are you kidding? We finally got a sheriff in this town, they would have figured a few bruises on my girls was a price worth paying.”
“You didn’t figure it that way, though?”
“Hell, no. I told him that if he put one more bruise on any of my girls I’d ban him from the place. Hell, my stock ain’t that great to begin with. I can’t afford having them looked knocked around. He behaved after that.”
“But he had some women outside of here?”
“I’m sure, though I couldn’t name any.”
“Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?”
“Same thing.”
“That means he wasn’t above having a married woman from time to time.”
“You said that, I didn’t.”
“All right, Miss Milly, thanks for your time.”
“Sure you don’t want to spend some time upstairs with one of the girls?”
“Nope. I’ll be leaving in the morning and I’ve got to get my rest.”
“Pity, they would have liked you—but I don’t blame you. I ain’t got a one that’s worth spit.”
“Like you were in your day?”
“Hell, I could put these girls to shame now, if I wanted to, but my days of whorin’ are over. Still, if a man took a shine to me there wouldn’t have to be any money changing hands.”
Decker decided that if that was an invitation he was going to play dumb and pretend he didn’t read it right.
“Well, thanks again, Miss Milly.”
“Sure,” she sighed. “Glad to help.”
When Decker left the whorehouse he thought about returning to the saloon, but he knew if he did that he’d end up in a poker game. If he did that, it would end up being a late night, and he wanted to get an early start in the morning.
He went back to his room and stretched out on the bed, fully clothed. He hung his gunbelt on the bedpost, within easy reach.
He had a picture of Red Moran now—a lawman gone bad. And yet, until this town, he had never killed anyone. That meant that killing the bank manager had been an accident. Moran probably didn’t even realize that he’d killed a man. Faced with that when the time came, maybe Moran would give himself up. Maybe there was enough real lawman left in him for that.
The question now was, where did Moran go after robbing the bank? Where had he gone all the other times? To the same place?
So far, his jobs had been concentrated around the midwest. He had pulled none heading south, in Texas or New Mexico or Arizona.
Decker made his decision.
Come morning he was heading for Mexico.
Where else would a man hole up with money to spend?
Chapter Two
Decker had been to Mexico on many occasions, and he took the same route each time. He knew which small towns to stop in for a meal and a bed, where the waterholes were when a town wasn’t nearby and what homesteads willingly offered meals to travellers.
What you never knew about Mexico from trip to trip was who was in power, and who was fighting to get them out of power.
Actually, Decker didn’t care who was in power, just as he didn’t particularly care who was the present President of the United States. He didn’t care for politics at all, and ignored it unless it was totally impossible.
Decker wanted to live his life his way, at his pace, and to hell with everything else.
Of course, living his life his way meant hunting down men who had broken laws—laws sent up by politicians —but he chose to ignore this tenuous political connection between politicians and his chosen profession.
He liked Mexico, and often thought that if he ever had enough money, he’d settle there.
Decker had bank accounts in banks in different parts of the country. He probably could have retired now if he wanted to, but he was too young to retire. He wasn’t thirty-five yet, and what would a man that young do if he retired?
And who was to say when you had enough money?
How much is ever enough?
It was just getting dark when Decker topped a rise and looked down at the adobe ranch house. It was fairly large, and he knew that inside there were four rooms. Though there was no stock in the corral next to it, the corral itself was in good shape, which indicated that perhaps someone still lived there.
Tomas.
He rode down towards the house, and before he reached it the front door opened and a man stepped out.
It was Tomas de la Vega, holding a rifle.
“Tomas,” Decker said, “it’s been a year, but have I changed that much?”
Vega frowned, stared and then his face relaxed and he lowered his rifle.
But he did not smile.
“Decker.”
“You remember.”
“Of course. Step down.”
Decker dismounted.
“How long do you intend to stay?” Tomas asked.
“A hot meal and a night’s sleep is what I am after, Tomas.”
“You have it, then. Tend to your horse, and I will tend to dinner.”
Decker took his horse over to the corral, wondering why Tomas and not his wife, Estralita, was cooking dinner.
He found out soon enough.
When he entered the house dinner was already on the table. Tortillas, rice and beans, bread, a pot of coffee and a bottle of tequila.
Decker looked around and saw that the house had fallen into a sad state. There were clothes everywhere, torn curtains on the window, and dust, layers of dust, which Estralita would never allow, unless…
“Estralita died eight months ago, amigo,” Tomas said, sitting opposite Decker.
Looking closely at Tomas now, Decker could see that the man was in as bad shape—or worse—than the
