The Lawman

“That much I knew from the sound of the shots,” Gilberto said, scolding her for not knowing that herself. “We will find him.”

“Gilberto, this is folly. Why follow this man just to see who he is?”

“He killed two of my men.”

“Our men,” she reminded him, “and we have better things to do than to track him.”

“He killed two of our men, sister,” Gilberto said. “That cannot go unpunished.”

“Who will know?” she said, shrugging.

“I will know, and the men will know. We will find him and kill him.”

Raquel made a disgusted sound and looked up into the sky, as if for divine guidance.

Ramon rode over to them and Gilberto asked, “Was anything taken from them?”

“Nothing, Gilberto.”

“Ride ahead to my town and tell them we are coming. We will be hungry when we arrive.”

“Si, Gilberto.”

“Ramon,” Raquel said.

“Si?” Ramon’s throat went dry, as it always did when Raquel Diaz addressed him personally—which was not very often.

“Do not stop to rob any gringos, eh? You might pick on the wrong one.”

Diaz gave his sister a hard look and waved at Ramon to go.

“Why do you say it was a gringo?”

“Mexicans do not use shotguns.”

“Perhaps. Soon we will find out who your better man is,” Gilberto said, “and see just how much better he is.”

He did not see his sister’s face when she smiled.

A day later Decker rode into a town that had no name posted anywhere. There had been no signpost, and there was no indication on any of the buildings. The hotel said simply “Hotel” and the cantina “Cantina,” and so on.

A town with no name.

Eerie.

As he rode through he was almost given to believe that the town with no name also had no people, but then he caught a glimpse of someone in the cantina, and someone doing business in the general store. The streets, however, were virtually deserted, and it was only noon.

Strange.

He rode until he found the livery and then dismounted. Walking inside he called out, “Anyone here?”

He heard some movement and then a boy of about sixteen appeared.

“Senor?”

“I want to leave my horse.”

“Si, senor,” the boy said, bobbing his head and coming forward.

Decker handed him the reins of the dun.

“Rub him down and give him some feed.”

“Will you be staying overnight, senor?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll be staying at least long enough to get something to drink and eat—if it’s to be had, that is. Where are all the people?”

With a shrug the boy said, “Inside, senor.”

“Why are they inside.”

The boy shrugged again and said, “It is hot.”

“Hot,” Decker said. “Sure. Look, take care of the horse, all right?”

“Si, senor.”

The boy walked the horse further into the livery, and Decker left and walked over to the cantina. Not knowing whether or not he was staying overnight—and hoping that he wasn’t—he had left his saddlebags and rifle on his saddle.

When he entered the cantina he saw that the boy had been at least partially right. There were about seven or eight men inside, some at the bar, some seated, all drinking. Besides them there was a sleepy-looking bartender and a bored-looking Mexican whore.

Decker approached the bar and said, “Cerveza.”

“Si, senor,” the bartender said, doing all he could to stifle a yawn.

The two men standing at the bar looked him up and down, and then looked away. The was a filthy mirror behind the bar and in it he could see the other men—two at one table, three at another, playing a lackluster game of poker—look his way, and then away.

The whore was sitting at a back table alone, her elbow on the table, her hand under her chin. She appeared to be young and, although somewhat plump, even a little pretty. When he got his beer he lifted the glass to her in a salute, which she barely acknowledged.

In most towns, she would have been all over him by now.

“Quiet town,” he said to the bartender.

“Si, senor.”

“Nobody outside.”

“It is hot.”

“You know, I’ve heard that.”

“Si, senor.”

“What’s the name of this town?”

“The name, senor?”

“Yes, name. Como se llama.”

“Me llamo Miguel.”

“No, the town. What’s the name of the town?”

For all the trips he’d made into Mexico, Decker had never been able to acquire even a working knowledge of the language. He knew how to order beer and food—as long as it was chicken—and ask somebody their name, but that was it.

“Senor, perhaps I can help?”

It was a man’s voice, and Decker turned to see that one of the men had stood up from the poker game and walked over to him.

“Can you?”

“This town is very quiet, as you have observed, and it has no name.”

“Why is that?”

The man shrugged and said, “There seems little need.”

Decker didn’t understand that.

“Well, you live here. If that’s how you feel.”

“We have little to say about it.”

“Jose, you talk too much,” the bartender said.

“Perhaps,” Jose said, and went back to his poker game.

Decker turned to the bartender and said, “Any chance of getting something to eat?”

“Si, senor.”

“Do I get a choice?”

“Tortillas.”

“Good choice.”

“Juanita!” the man shouted, and then rattled off something in Spanish. Decker assumed she was being told to get the food. Maybe he’d done her a disservice by assuming she was a whore. She was young enough to be the bartender’s daughter, and maybe she was just a waitress.

Decker turned around with his beer in hand and looked at the table where the poker game was being played. The man, Jose, was gathering the cards up, getting ready to deal. The stakes looked small.