Lawman from Nogales (9781101544747) by Ralph W. Cotton

come back soon?” the boy asked.
    â€œYes, he will come back,” Ana said. “But we will not be here when he returns.”
    â€œWhere are we going, Madre ?” the boy asked.
    â€œWe are going away with your other papá ,” Ana said with determination, watching Hector ride out of sight over a low rise and disappear in a swirl of trail dust.
    â€œPapá segundo?” the boy asked, looking up at her.
    â€œYes, your second papa,” Ana said. “The one I have told you about. He will be your first father, your real father. He will be your only father from now on—as well he should be.”
    â€œI do not understand, Madre ,” the boy said.
    â€œSomeday you will, my little man,” Ana said, still clutching the coin in her fist, lest it somehow get away from her. “Now, you must help me pack our belongings. We will stop the land coach when it passes here. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
    Â 
    On the trail, Hector breathed deep and tapped his heels to his horse’s sides. As he rode, he thought about everything he and Ana had talked about in the short time he was home. He looked down at the small straw figure in his hand that his son had made and given to him.
    â€œYou will always have an amigo with you,” his son had said, handing it to him.
    Hector smiled to himself and gripped the tiny straw figure for a moment. Then he placed it in his shirt pocket.
    Now to business , he told himself.
    When he started tending bar, he must make sure to get off on the right foot with everyone, even the putas— the doves, he corrected himself. As a bartender, he knew it would be important that people take him seriously. Now that he had earned his position at the Perros Malos Cantina, it was important that people respect him the same as they had respected Freddie Loopy.
    He ran the events of the past day and night through his mind, and his thoughts went to Clyde Jilson and Sonora Charlie. Thank the holy saints he would not have to deal with those two anymore—except to serve them whiskey from behind the bar, he told himself. His hands tightened on the reins just thinking about what had happened between himself and Clyde Jilson.
    They had stopped in the night to rest their horses, and Hector had stood looking out across the flatlands. Close behind him, Clyde had swished tepid water around in a canteen and sipped from it. Then, suddenly, catching Hector off guard, he’d stepped forward with his finger bent and rounded a wet knuckle into Hector’s ear.
    By the devil in hell . . . ! Hector still raged just thinking about it. What kind of loco, twisted son-of-a-bitch gringo hombre did such a thing?
    No one that he knew of, Hector replied to himself. It was the sort of thing one prisoner did to another in a place like Casa del Andar Muerto—Home of the Walking Dead, or in Yuma Territorial Prison.
    It was an act that not only showed disrespect; it was a warning of worse acts to come should a man not react with deadly and deliberate force against such an affront.
    Hector’s ear still felt sticky as he recalled the incident, although he had dried it immediately on his shirtsleeve and had continued wiping it throughout the night as they’d ridden on.
    He should have killed the filthy pig, he told himself. He would have killed him had he not been convinced that the two men had set him up and were waiting to strike as soon as he touched the butt of his gun.
    When he’d spun toward Clyde, the buckskinned gunman had stood grinning and said, “I can see you’re going to have to get used to me.”
    Get used to him . . . ? Hector pictured himself shooting him full of holes.
    â€œDon’t get your bark on, Wet Hector,” Sonora Charlie had called out. “Clyde only stuck his finger in his canteen, not his mouth.”
    Not his mouth . . .
    The information helped Hector a little, but only a little, he reminded himself, thinking back on it.