The Lawman

Chapter Four

Decker felt them before he either saw or heard them.

He knew he was being watched.

He rode with his head facing forward, for he knew that when it suited them they would approach him.

He was checking the most widely travelled routes from the Rio Grande further into Mexico. Of course, the river could have been crossed in many places, but there were certain areas that were the easiest and best, and he was trying these first. If Red Moran had chosen some other point of entry, it would make picking up his trail that much more difficult.

Still, the hunt was the best part for Decker. It used to be the money, but Decker saved his money, unlike a lot of other bounty hunters he knew who spent it as fast as they earned it, and then had to hit the trail again.

Decker hunted maybe four or five times a year, because he thought nothing of spending two months on a man’s trail.

He knew that Eddie Gorman, for instance, tracked at least twenty men a year, bringing in more than half of them. If he didn’t have a definite trail after a week or two, Eddie just gave it up and went after other prey.

Joel Lansdale, on the other hand, spent eight months tracking Jeffrey Banks before he finally cornered him in Nacogdoches, Texas.

Decker was neither as impatient as Gorman nor as dedicated—or stubborn—as Lansdale.

They were both good men, though, there was no doubting that.

Now Decker could feel somebody’s presence off to his right, and he allowed his eyes to flick off that way. Two men were riding towards him at a leisurely pace, as if they just happened to be crossing trails with him.

“Hey amigo!” one of them called.

Decker reined in and waited, angling his horse so that he wouldn’t have to fire across his body if it came to gunplay. Eventually, the two men reached him and stopped. It was unfortunate that, at the moment, they were staying close together.

A few miles further west, Gilberto and Raquel Diaz were leading a band of bandits at a slow crawl in an easterly direction.

“I think you sent the wrong two men ahead as scouts, brother,” Raquel said for what seemed like the fourth time in the last five minutes.

Gilberto Diaz was thirty-six, a hawk-faced man who considered himself, at five nine, too short. He had huge shoulders and arms, and felt that he had to make up in strength and ferocity what he lacked in height.

Raquel Diaz was also five nine, but of course this was tall for a woman. She was full-breasted, with wild, untamed, dark hair that fell past her shoulders. Every man in the band lusted after her, and every man was too frightened of Gilberto to ever do anything about it. Raquel constantly teased them about it, showing off her body whenever possible.

“Raquel, I have told you that all of the men must do the the same jobs at one time or another. They take turns. It was simply Miguel and Santo’s turn.”

Raquel looked at her brother and said, “I still don’t think you should have sent them together. Between them, they haven’t the brain of a rattlesnake. If they see a likely victim, they’ll strike without looking.”

“So?” Gilberto said. “They are Diaz men, are they not? They should be worth any four normal men.”

“Gilberto,” she said, shaking her head, “you not only flatter them, you flatter yourself.”

“Well, you can never be accused of that, can you, sister? Sometimes I think you wish you were leading these men yourself. You could do a better job that I, eh?”

Raquel knew she could, but she also knew better than to answer that question.

“Well,” she said instead, with a sign, “what kind of trouble can they get into out here?”

They both wore wide sombreros and sported carefully trimmed mustaches and sideburns. They were both smiling, and one of them had one gold tooth on top, almost right in the center of his mouth. Both had worn gunbelts on their hips with equally worn-looking Colts. Decker was sure, however, that the Colts were in fine working order.

“Can I help you?” Decker asked.

“Perhaps it is we who can help you, señor,” one of them said. “Is it possible that you are lost?”

“No,” Decker said. “It’s not possible at all. Now maybe I can help you boys?”

“Si, señor, if you would,” Gold Tooth said. “Do you have any tobacco or whiskey?”

“I don’t smoke,” Decker lied, “and I don’t carry whiskey.” He did have cigars but he wasn’t about to part with any of them.

Besides, tobacco and whiskey weren’t what these two were after.

Decker’s instincts told him that these would-be bandidos were alone at the moment but were probably part of a larger group.

“Well then,” Gold Tooth said, “do you have any American money?”

“Oh, sure, I’ve got some of that.”

“Bueno,” said Gold Tooth, who was obviously the spokesman. “We would like some of that, then.”

“How much?”

“Well,” the man said with a wide smile, “all that you have, señor…por favor.”

“No.”

“Oh, señor…” the man said, shaking his head sadly as if that had not been what he wanted to hear at all.

“No,” Decker said, again.

Gold Tooth clucked his tongue, as if Decker had now said something he should be ashamed of. The other man backed his horse up a few paces, as if he suddenly realized he shouldn’t be so close to his compadre.

That’s better, Decker thought.

“Señor, please, you are being insulting.”

“Not yet,” Decker said, “but I’ll be getting there soon if you and your friend don’t ride…now!”

“Ayyay-yayyay” Gold Tooth said, shaking his head at the gringo’s folly.

His compadre was obviously watching Gold Tooth closely, for when the leader made his move for his gun, so did the other man.

Decker never even pulled his sawed-off, cut-down shotgun from its holster. He simply swiveled the holster up and fired that way. The cloud of double-o came out and spread just enough to catch both men. Had they remained side by side he might have missed one, but in moving back the second man had positioned himself not perfectly, but certainly more helpfully, giving the shot pattern time to spread. At the proper distance, a shotgun is simply a devastating weapon that not only kills, but disfigures and dismembers as well.

Gold Tooth caught most of the blast in his left arm and shoulder, and was torn from his horse while his arm was torn from his body. The second man was hit in the right shoulder, but the wound was not fatal.

Rather than fire the second barrel, Decker pulled his rifle from his scabbard, levered a round and fired, striking the second man square in the chest. He fell from his horse and landed hard on his back, but he never felt it.

Decker levered another round, dismounted and walked over to Gold Tooth. The man’s arm was gone, and blood was pulsing from his shattered shoulder.

“Aye, señor, mercy,” the man cried, blood foaming on his lips. “For favor, señor.”

The man would die soon enough, but Decker knew what the man was asking. He placed the barrel of the rifle against the man’s forehead and fired.

Both of the Mexicans’ horses had run off, but Decker decided there was probably nothing on them that he would have wanted. He ejected the spent shell from his shotgun, and replaced it with a live one. He then turned away from both men, remounted and rode off at a gallop.

If they were from a larger group, then no doubt someone would be along to check out the shots.

He didn’t want to be around when they got there.