Red Fleming told Harry to remain in his hotel room until he came back.
“Why?”
“Because Shaye knows you, dummy,” Red said. “If he sees you, he’ll know we’re here. Just lie low until I come back.”
“Don’t you kill ’im without me,” Harry warned his brother.
“I ain’t goin’ near him,” Red said. “I just wanna find out if he’s alone.”
Red left his unhappy brother sitting on his bed, and departed from the hotel.
Naturally, he didn’t know where Thomas Shaye had gone. Most likely he got a drink, or went to a hotel, or stopped at the sheriff’s office. Red decided to have a drink first, and went to the biggest cantina in town. He was lucky. As he started to approach the front door opened and Shaye stepped out. Red quickly jumped back up onto the boardwalk across the street, and into a doorway.
Shaye picked up his horse’s reins and started walking down the street, probably to the nearby livery stable.
Red Fleming gave him a little bit of a head start, then followed.
Thomas found the livery but had to wake the hostler up to make arrangements for his horse.
“Sorry, señor,” the man said, “but it is siesta time.”
“Then I’m sorry, but my horse needs tendin’ to.”
The hostler yawned and said, “Of course, señor. And how long will you be stayin’?”
“I don’t know,” Thomas said. “I guess that depends on how long it takes me to find what I’m lookin’ for.”
Most men might have asked him what he was looking for, but the fiftyish hostler was probably more concerned with getting back to his siesta, so he only nodded and took Thomas’ horse to a stall after the deputy had removed his saddlebags and rifle.
Thomas left the livery. On the way there, he had passed both a hotel and the sheriff’s office. He decided to first go to see the sheriff. He found the office, but did not knock on the door for fear of it collapsing beneath his fist. Instead he simply opened it and entered.
The interior seemed both fusty and dirty, as did the man behind the desk who, at that moment, was leaning back in his chair with his feet up, dozing. His chair was balanced only on its rear legs.
Thomas knew he was going to have to interrupt another siesta.
He cleared his throat, but the man at the desk didn’t stir. He got closer and saw the sheriff’s badge on the man’s shirt, as opposed to a deputy’s badge. He cleared his throat again, and this time the man moved, but didn’t wake. He waved a hand in front of him, as if warding off a fly.
“Sheriff!” Thomas yelled.
The sheriff’s feet immediately came down off his desk, and his chair came down with a bang onto its front legs.
He opened his eyes and blearily tried to focus on Thomas.
“Señor?”
“Sorry to disturb you, Sheriff,” Thomas said.
“No, no,” the man said, waving Thomas’ apology off, “what can I do for you, señor?”
He was a fairly young man, although probably ten years or so older than Thomas.
“My name is Thomas Shaye,” Thomas said, digging his badge out of his shirt pocket. “I’m a deputy from Vengeance Creek, Arizona.”
“Arizona,” the sheriff said. “I am afraid you have no authority here, Deputy.”
“I understand that,” Thomas said, tucking the badge away again, “but I’m pursuin’ two men who murdered a friend of mine. That’s why my badge is in my pocket.”
“Well,” the man said, “as you can see, my badge is on my chest. I am Sheriff Alfonso Perez Montoya. Who are these men you are looking for, Deputy?”
“The Fleming brothers,” Thomas said. “Red and Harry. We had Harry in our jail for murder, and Red broke him out. In doin’ so they killed a guard.”
“That is sad, señor, very sad,” Sheriff Montoya said. “You said ‘we,’ señor?”
“My father’s the sheriff back in Vengeance Creek,” Thomas said, “Daniel Shaye. My brother, James, is the other deputy.”
“Ah,” Montoya said, his eyes lighting up, “I have heard of this Sheriff Daniel Shaye. He is muy malo, is he not? A very bad man to cross?”
“Very bad,” Thomas said.
“And you, señor, you take after your padre?”
“I do,” Thomas said.
“So you are muy malo?”
“I’m malo enough to do my job, Sheriff Montoya.”
“But again, señor, you are not here doing your job, es verdad? This is a personal matter for you.”
“It’s personal,” Thomas said, “but I plan to take them back to Vengeance Creek for trial.”
“Ah, then you do not intend to kill them,” Sheriff Montoya said. “You will forgive me, but the way you wear your gun . . . you strike me as a man who settles his business with la pistola— your gun.”
“On occasion,” Thomas admitted.
“But not on this occasion, eh?”
“I hope not,” Thomas said. “That’s likely gonna be up to them.”
“Well,” Montoya said, “I must tell you I have not seen these men in my town.”
“They’d probably have been here in the past few days,” Thomas said.
“To tell you the truth,” Montoya went on, “I have not even heard of these men, so I would not know them if I saw them.” He shrugged. “Perhaps they were here, passing through.”
“And kept a low profile, you mean.”
“Si,” Montoya said, slapping his palm on his desk, “that is what I mean, a low profile. If they were even here.”
“I see,” Thomas said. “Well, I just wanted to check in with you, let you know I was here, as a courtesy.”
“I appreciate that, señor.”
“I’m gonna check into a hotel,” Thomas continued, “take a quick look around your town, and then I’ll probably leave in the mornin’.”
“That would be wise, señor,” Montoya said. “They are probably just ahead of you.”
“Probably.”
“The hotel above the Cantina Rosita is very fine, señor,” the sheriff said, with a smile. “You will like your room very much.”
“Ah, I just came from there,” Thomas said. “Didn’t realize they had rooms.”
“Oh, si, señor,” Montoya said, “very fine rooms, and good food. And, if you like, very pretty señoritas.” Montoya kissed his fingertips. “Muy bonita.”
“Well,” Thomas admitted, “I like pretty girls. And good food.”
“Si, señor,” Montoya said, with a laugh, “we all like the pretty girls.”
“Thank you for your time, Sheriff.”
“Por nada, señor, por nada,” Montoya said, expansively. “Enjoy your time in Nogales.”
“I’ll sure try,” Thomas said, and left.
He stopped just outside the door, looked up and down the street. The sheriff had obviously been lying about one thing. Any lawman in an area near Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, or Old Mexico—would have heard of the Fleming Brothers. To claim that he had never heard of them put everything else he had said in doubt.
Even the information about the Cantina Rosita—but Thomas would quickly find out about that himself.