Jorge del Rios
el Bandito Guapo
Forty dollars.
Forty dollars. The remnants of a stash to make
el Gobernador de California blush. Arms crossed, with a scowl to sour fresh milk screwing up his face, Jorge stood staring down at the bed on which he'd spent the night. Laid on its surface in carefully arranged piles lay an assortment of paper bills and various currencies of metal coinage. It wasn't much, nothing like what he was used to living on in the span of a month, let alone the unknown miles he was still going to have to traverse to leave the marshal's behind. Hell, he'd have to part with some amount just to leave the damned hotel. Unless...
The night previous had seen fit to leave him enough of his wits to both leave his horse secured some small distance from the hotel and to request a ground floor room. Clothes on his back, money secured in various regular locations about his person, and saddlebag slung across his shoulder, the Mexican slipped through the window, careful to close it again before he left. It wasn't locked, certainly, but the town would shortly be long behind him as he moved east. The newspaper, and the announcement that lay upon it for him, remained in front of his door, ignored. Eyes squinted against the early morning sun, Jorge strolled down the dirt path, affecting a casual air.
He rounded the corner to where he'd left his horse, and the affect vanished. His horse was gone, with any sign of its even having been there removed. Even the damned horse droppings had been cleaned! Whomever it was that had done this knew what they were doing.
Jorge cursed loudly, earning him a gasp or two from the school marm passing by and a stern look from what appeared to be the local
padre. He paid them no mind. Without his horse, he was stranded; no way in hell was he about to attempt eastward travel without one. Snarling and kicking at the wooden post that had so recently restrained his horse, Jorge weighed his options. Buying a new horse outright was out of the question; they were expensive at the best of times, and out here in the wilderness, their scarcity would drive the price even higher. Nor was he about to steal one. His freehand went to his throat, remembering Esteban and his punishment for horse thieving. Traveling by coach was likely to be nearly as expensive as buying a horse, and it ran the additional risk of recognition from law enforcement. No, there had to be another option. One that, preferably, kept him far from the damned sheriff.
Which meant the mayor. Jorge took a moment to roll a cigarette and lit it. The process was calming, providing structure for his frustrated and panicking mind to latch on to. Thus better prepared for finding a solution, Jorge turned and strode off, seeking the mayor's office.