The Lawman

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, señor.”

“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.”

“Señor,” 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?”

“Señor?”

“You said we had to talk.”

“Si, señor. 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, señor, like me.”

“I’m sure.”

“Señor,” 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, señor?”

“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, señor, 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.”

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

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

“Did this man do that to you?”

“No, I got this from somebody else.”

“Señor, you lead a very dangerous life. Are you perhaps a man of the law?”

“I am a bounty hunter.”

“Ah, I have heard of such men. And this bounty you seek is this…” Garcia checked the poster. “Two thousand five hundred dollars?”

“That’s right.”

“And this man was in my town?”

“He was, two and a half weeks ago.”

“Santa Maria!”

“Could I have my poster back, please?”

“Oh, si, señor.”

Twenty-five hundred dollars was a lot of money to anyone, but especially to a sheriff with delusions of grandeur in a small Mexican town.

Decker got dressed with the sheriff watching. As he strapped on his gun he asked, “Is there something else I can do for you, Sheriff?”

“Uh, no, señor.”

All of the man’s swagger was gone now and he was slouching.

“I apologize for having interrupted your bath.”

“That’s all right, Sheriff,” Decker said, finding himself feeling sorry for the ridiculous-looking lawman. “You were just doing your job.”

That seemed little consolation to the man as he slunk out of the room.

Undoubtedly, the man was thinking of all the silver ornaments he could have bought with twenty-five hundred dollars.

As Decker came into the hotel lobby Emilio gave him a sheepish look.

“Señor, I hope you did not mind—”

“That’s all right, Emilio. Your cousin was right, you are very observant.”

“Gracias, señor. I was the sheriff before my cousin got the job.”

“And what did he do before he was sheriff?” Emilio smiled and said, “He ran this hotel.” “That figures. Where’s a good place to eat, Emilio?”

“The cantina down the street, señor. Excellent tortillas.”

Decker closed his eyes. He didn’t think he ever wanted to eat another tortilla. He’d keep seeing those bandidos clutching their throats and slumping to the floor.

“I hope they can make something else.”

“Oh, si, señor. They have a very wonderful cook. Roberta. She is—”

“Your cousin?”

Looking sheepish Emilio said, “Si, señor.”

“I hope she was never sheriff.”

“No, señor,” he said, “Ernesto beat her by one vote in the last election.”

“One vote, eh? Listen, Emilio, can you do me a favor?”

“Of course, señor.”

“Take a look at this.”

Decker took out the poster on Moran and passed it over to him.

“Do you recognize that man?”

Emilio studied the drawing closely and then shook his head.

“I am sorry, no, señor.”

“He stayed in the hotel about two and a half weeks ago. His name is John Moran, but he signed in as Red Moran.”

“I am sorry, señor,” Emilio said, passing the poster back. “I do not remember him.”

“Okay, thanks,” Decker said. He folded the poster back up, tucked it in his pocket and started to leave.

As Decker started to leave Emilio called out, “Excuse me, señor?”

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering, señor,” Emilio said, “this evening, would you be wanting any…female companionship?”

“If I do,” Decker said, “I’ll arrange it for myself, Emilio.”

“Of course. Please, enjoy your meal.”