A half-dozen possibilities flashed through Longarm's mind in as many seconds while he studied the closed door.
It could be Spud, he thought — bushwhacking's about his speed. Or somebody Spud put on me, to do what he don't want to face up to. Tucker, maybe, he'd send a gunslick instead of coming himself.
No, Tucker was doing his damnedest to butter up to me today, as soon as he saw I wasn't going to crawfish.
Might be Tucker's looking for somebody to handle Spud for him — he hinted at that — but Tucker wouldn't wait in my room, he'd wait till we got by ourselves in private, on his grounds.
Spud's still the one it's most likely to be.
One of the corners, I'd say. Or setting on the bed, it's right even with the door. No. That'd put the window in back of him. If he's smart, not the bed.
Me, I'd be along the wall just inside the door, the side it opens along.
Whoever's there, it ain't that big of a shucks, now I know.
Longarm inserted the key delicately, careful not to scrape metal against metal. He recalled that the lock worked easily, and took a full minute, turning the key with infinite patience to engage the wards and pull the lock's square bar out of the strike plate without it scratching. If he made a noise, it was inaudible to his own ears, and he was satisfied that whoever was inside couldn't have been warned.
Leaving the key in the lock, Longarm drew. He turned the knob with his left hand, quickly, and flung the door wide open. As soon as it had swung wide enough to admit him, he dove into his room, rolling when he hit the floor, winding up against the wall away from the bed. His eyes had been sensitized to darkness by his walk down the unlighted hall and his moments of deliberation outside the door. He had no need for the Colt that was ready in his hand. Except for himself, the room was empty.
Well, now, he told himself, leaning against the wall in the darkness, guess I better be glad there wasn't nobody here. Now I'm the only one who knows what a damn fool I looked like, diving in ass over appetite. But it's a hell of a lot better to look foolish than to be dead.
He got to his feet and closed the door, locking it automatically. He started for the dresser in the dark, groping for the bottle of rye. His fingers encountered cloth. In the darkness, he stood laughing silently, thinking, I plumb forgot that I sent out my clothes to be washed; it was that porter come in to deliver 'em while I was gone. He crossed to the window and pulled down the shade before lighting the lamp, then pushed the lamp as far back on the bureau as it would go, resting against the mirror, so it would cast no shadow on the windowshade. Only then did he pick up the bottle and have a nightcap.
Hanging his gunbelt on the bedpost at the left of his pillow, Longarm emptied his pockets quickly, undressed even faster, and was in bed within five minutes from the time he'd entered the room. He went to sleep instantly, and slept like a baby.
* * *
Though he was by nature an early riser, Longarm didn't wake up until the sun was shining yellow against the drawn window shade. He snapped awake instantly and sat up in bed. Though he'd checked the sheets and mattress on moving into the room the day before, he'd learned through unhappy experience that bugs that bite by night have an uncanny way of making themselves invisible during daylight hours; before leaving the room he had spread his own ground cloth and blanket over the bed without turning the linen down. If there'd been any miniature bloodsuckers that his inspection had missed, they hadn't found him to disturb his rest.
Throwing back the blanket, he rolled to his feet and snapped up the shade. He stretched hugely in the sunlight, the solid muscles of his body flexing the last vestiges of drowsiness from his system. Fishing the chamberpot from under the bed, he arced a golden stream until the morning pressure on his bladder was relieved, then padded on bare feet to the dresser for a wake-up shot of rye.
Ten minutes later, his routine of dressing finished, his Colt and derringer checked thoroughly, he strode down the stairway to the bar.
"What does a man do for breakfast here in Los Perros?" he asked the barkeeper. It wasn't the same man who'd been tending bar the night before.
"Help yourself to hard-boiled eggs and whatever else strikes your fancy." The barkeep jerked a thumb at the free lunch table.
Longarm went over and looked at it. The same food he'd seen there the evening before was spread on the same chipped platters.
"Thanks," he told the barkeep. "Maybe later on."
When he stepped through the batwings and looked at the plaza, Longarm was surprised to see an even bigger crowd milling around than had gathered for the whipping yesterday. Then he remembered the sheriff telling him about the fiesta, Mexican Independence Day. He noticed, too, that it wasn't the same quiet, almost sullen crowd he'd seen the day before. Today, the people of Los Perros wore their best and brightest clothes, and were laughing and happy.
A few streamers of colored paper dancing in the light breeze on the far side of the plaza caught Longarm's eye; he wondered if the food stalls might not be setting up early. He started toward them, pushing through the throng. Somewhere close by he heard a mariachi band tuning up. Before he reached the streamers, Longarm thought he saw a remembered figure. He changed direction, and when the crowd in his way no longer blocked his vision, he saw that it was indeed Lita's family, setting up their trestles and counter.
Lita saw him when he was still a yard or so distant. She was wrestling with a plank twice as long as she was tall, and let it rest across one shoulder to greet him. "Coos-tees!" she exclaimed. "You come to eat again, no?"
"If you got something ready, Lita. But I'll give you a hand with that board, first."
"I can do it. I am strong."
"But I'm stronger." He took the plank and settled it into place across the trestles, completing the serving counter. "Now then. I hope you got something besides chili and fiijoles. They're a mite too spicy for breakfast."
"Is not cook yet, the chili. We got bizcochos that Mamacita bake just a little while ago. And we bring hot coffee from our kitchen at la casa, so we don't lose customers who don't wait for it."
"If that's what you got, that's what I'll have."
"You wait, I fix."
In a moment, she'd produced three of the same kind of round, sugar-crusted buns that Longarm had eaten the day before, together with a cup of steaming coffee. Longarm bit into one of the buns. He hadn't paid much attention to those he'd had the previous day, there'd been too much else on his mind. This bun was still hot and moist, and tasted of spices and seasonings strange to him. Accustomed to flat-tasting baked foods — bread, biscuits, and soda crackers — he thought it was odd, but excellent.
"You like Mamacita's bizcochos?" Lita asked.
"They're right tasty. I guess I could stand 'em for breakfast now and again." He sipped the coffee. It was laced heavily with chicory, and reminded him of the French-type brew he had been served when he was in New Orleans.
Mamacita came up to the counter and expressed her disapproval of Lita's attention to Longarm's breakfast needs in rapid-fire Spanish that was beyond his ability to follow. He didn't need a translation, though; the expressions on the faces of both Lita and her mother were easy for him to read. The exchange lasted only a few moments before Mamacita turned away with a disgusted shrug.