The Lawman Read online

  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.

  Chapter Five

  The bandits led by Gilberto Diaz and his sister, Raquel, rode towards the sound of the shots and slowed only when they saw the bodies of the fallen men.

  “Spread out,” Diaz ordered.

  He, Raquel and five other men rode towards the bodies while the other twenty men fanned out to see what they could find.

  “Ramon,” Diaz said.

  While he scratched his unshaven face, Ramon Muniz dismounted and went to examine the men.

  “They are both dead, Gilberto.”

  “I know that, fool! Check their guns!”

  Ramon bent to check them, then straightened and asked, “Check them for what, Jefe?”

  “Stupido! Check to see if they have been fired!”

  Ramon nodded, bent and checked both men’s guns and then stood up.

  “They have not been fired, Gilberto. They are both still in their holsters.”

  “Miguel and Santos,” Diaz said, staring down at the two brothers who, until very recently—maybe fifteen minutes ago—had been members of his band. “They were good men.”

  “They were fools,” Raquel said. “I told you not to send them together. They picked on the wrong person, Gilberto, and this is what they got for their trouble.”

  “They knew how to handle a gun,” Gilberto said, looking at his sister, “and yet they were both killed before they could touch them.”

  “A better man,” Raquel said, laughing. “One would not be hard to find.”

  “Silencio.”

 
; Raquel fell silent, but a mocking smile remained on her lips. Ramon looked up at her, felt a rush of desire that knotted his stomach and heated his loins, then looked away before Gilberto could see.

  “Shall we bury them, Gilberto?”

  “No. Strip them of their guns and anything else they have of value.”

  While Ramon was doing that three of Diaz’s men came riding up to them.

  “Gilberto?”

  “Si.”

  “A trail, leading that way,” one man said.

  “How many men?”

  “One.”

  “One man killed them,” Diaz said, shaking his head in disgust.

  “A better man,” Raquel reminded them.

  Gilberto threw her a murderous look, but did not say anything.

  “Get the rest of the men,” he told the three who had just ridden up. “We will follow the trail and find out who this man is.”

  Gilberto and Raquel rode a bit further on, away from Ramon.

  “From the wounds I would say a shotgun was used, and then a rifle,” Raquel said.

  “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.

  “Señor?”

  “I want to leave my horse.”

  “Si, señor,” 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, señor?”

  “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, señor.”

  “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, señor.”

  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, señor,” 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, señor.”

  “Nobody outside.”

  “It is hot.”

  “You know, I’ve heard that.”

  “Si, señor.”

  “What’s the name of this town?”

  “The name, señor?”

  “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.

  “Señor, 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, señor.”

  “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.

  Decker walked over.

  “Mind if I sit in for a few hands?”

  The other men did not look up, but Jose did and said, “As you wish, señor.”

  Decker sat down and Jose dealt the cards, calling and dealing five-card stud.

  Decker was dealt a king down and a queen up. Both were of the same suit, hearts.

  One of the other men showed an ace, and started the betting with a dollar. Since the stakes were small and he was only playing to pass the time, Decker raised a dollar.

  Jose dealt out the third card.

  Decker got a ten of hearts, the man with the ace got another ac
e. For the first time Decker saw some emotion on someone’s face as the man smiled.

  The other man in the game had two small cards and Jose had a jack and a five.

  The man with aces bet five dollars, and from the reaction Decker guessed that this was a substantial jump in the stakes—in his honor?

  Jose called the bet, and Decker raised. The man with the two low cards folded, and the man with the aces raised again. Decker called after Jose, but decided that if he was going to stay in this hand he had trapped himself into bluffing.

  Jose dealt out the fourth card and Decker drew a king. He now had a busted straight, but two kings. Aces were still high on the table. Jose was showing a pair of fives.

  The aces bet five dollars, Jose called and Decker raised ten.

  The man with aces swallowed.

  “Did I raise too much?” Decker asked innocently.

  “The raise is ten dollars, señor,” Jose said. He looked at the other man as if to say, “You started it,” and said, “What do you do, Silvio?”

  Silvio examined his cards, swallowed again and then timidly raised five dollars.

  Decker anticipated raising again when suddenly Jose said, “I raise twenty dollars.”

  Silvio made a sound and Jose gave him the same look he had given him moments before.

  “I call,” Decker said.

  Silvio had no recourse but to call with his aces.

  Jose dealt out the last card.

  Decker got another king, giving him two on the table and one in the hole.

  The aces didn’t improve.

  Jose got a third five.

  Some hand, Decker marvelled. He had chosen the right moment to sit down.

  Now the other men in the cantina moved towards the table to watch, including the bartender.

  “It is my bet,” Jose said.

  He counted out his money and dropped it in the center of the table.

  “Twenty-five dollars.”

  Decker counted out his money and tossed it in.

  “I raise twenty-five.”

  “The bet is fifty,” Jose said, looking at Silvio.

  Silvio, who had obviously been winning while the game had been low stakes, counted his money.

  “I-I do not have that much.” He looked as if he were about to cry.