The Lawman

Chapter Twenty-one

The uncomfortable feeling of being followed was gone, for the first time in four days.

Decker’s hunter’s instinct had been telling him that while hunting he might have also somehow become the hunted. It could have been another band of bandits, or it could have been Gilberto and his sister, somehow escaped from jail. Now, however, after four days, the feeling was gone, and he didn’t miss it at all.

There was a signpost up ahead announcing a town called Rio del Gato, or River of the Cat. There was also the scent of water strong in the air, and when Decker finally came within sight of the town he stared in surprise.

Rio del Gato was a fairly large town as adobe towns went, and it seemed to have been built right along the shores of a large lake. Decker frowned, for it seemed an odd location for a lake, but then he had never really been this way before.

He rode down to the town and along the main street, and the smell of the lake was strong, fresh and clean. He sure couldn’t argue with that. He’d been in enough foul-smelling towns to appreciate the scent of this one.

He’d passed through three small towns in the past four days where Red Moran had been recognized, so he knew he was on the right track. This town was the most appealing by far, as far as he was concerned. He wondered how appealing it would be to a man whose saddlebags were bulging with money.

The entire town seemed to be made up of adobe buildings, including the livery stable, which looked as if it might have once been a church.

A woman with a face so weathered and leathery that her age couldn’t be guessed came out of the livery to meet him.

Decker dismounted and handed her the reins.

“How long will you be staying, señor?”

Decker looked at the sky and saw that it was late afternoon.

“Perhaps the night. Rub him down good and feed him.”

“Si, señor, but if I may say so…”

“Yeah?”

“This caballo, he looks like he could use several days’ rest.”

Decker cast a critical eye over the animal and saw that he did indeed look worn.

“Do you have any horses for sale?”

“Si, señor, in the corral on the back.”

“Then perhaps I’ll be back to talk to you about one.”

“At your leisure, señor.”

Decker took his saddlebags and rifle from his saddle. The lateness of the day and the probability of having to haggle over a horse made him decide that he would indeed be spending the night.

He asked for and received directions to the hotel, which was a two-story adobe structure to which a wooded porch had been added. As he approached it a man stood up from a straight-backed wooden chair and greeted him.

“Buenos tardes, señor.”

“Afternoon. Are you in charge here?”

“Si, señor. I am Emilio. You are looking for a room?”

“I am.”

“We have several.”

“Do you have one from where I’d be able to see the lake?” Decker asked.

“But of course, señor. This way, please.”

Decker followed the man inside, where the clerk presented him with the hotel register. Decker put his saddlebags and rifle down and signed in, then checked the names for the past two weeks. He had to go back half a week further than that before he found Red Moran’s name. He’d lost several days on Moran, then, and would surely need a fresh horse in order to pick up the pace.

Moran was apparently so confident that no one would follow him into Mexico that he had no qualms about signing his real name in the book.

Idly, Decker wondered if Moran even knew that the bank manager had died?

“Gracias, señor,” the clerk said, accepting the book back. He was a tall, elegant-looking man in sweaty, faded clothes that had probably once been elegant, as well. A fallen aristocrat, perhaps.

“Here is your key, señor.”

“Gracias.”

“You would perhaps like a bath?”

“I would love a bath.”

“We take the water directly from the lake. It has amazing soothing properties.”

Although the man spoke English slowly and precisely, he did not speak with a very heavy accent. He had probably spent a lot of time in the United States at one point in his life.

“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, señor. Doesn’t every town have a sheriff?”

“Not every town.”

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

“I see.”

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

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

“Si, señor. 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, señor,” 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, señor.”

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

“Oh, yes, of course, señor. 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.

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