The Dublin Detective (14 page)

“If they don't turn north.”

Clint looked at the big lawman. If Clint had been wearing the badge, he would have followed the gang as far as he had to, but the fact of the matter was Bez had no jurisdiction beyond this line.

“What's your first name?” Clint asked.

“Brad.”

Clint put out his hand.

“Thanks for your help.”

Brad Bez shook hands and said, “Wish I coulda done more.”

Clint watched the man head back to Fort Hampton, then called out.

“When my friends get to town, would you tell them which way I went?”

Bez turned in his saddle.

“I'll do better than that,” he promised. “I'll show 'em.”

“They might even be there when you get back,” Clint said. “Ben Weaver and James McBeth are their names.”

“I'll remember,” Bez said. “Good luck to you.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

The man turned and gigged his horse into a trot. Clint watched until he was out of sight, then turned Eclipse's head east.

“We'll camp soon, big boy,” he promised. “Let's just see if we can't find something else out while we've still got some light to work with.”

Eclipse bounced his big head up and down as if in assent, and off they went at a brisk walk.

Dolan pointed east.

“Where do we end up if we keep going that way?” he asked over breakfast.

“Louisiana.”

“What is there?”

“Gumbo, women, New Orleans—”

He looked across the fire at Santee.

“Any banks?”

“A lot.”

“Can we get some more men?”

“A lot.”

“And that way?”

He was pointing north.

“More of Texas,” Santee said. “A lot more of Texas.”

“And banks?”

“Yes.”

“More men?”

Oh, yes.”

“One more question before I decide.”

“What is it?” Santee asked.

“What is gumbo?”

Clint had camped for the night, hoping that Weaver and McBeth would not try to keep riding after dark. Neither of them was particularly adept at this kind of traveling, and he was sure one of them would end up falling if they tried it. If they were smart, they'd camp and catch up to him the next day—today.

Clint had a cold breakfast of jerky and water before continuing on. He had ridden only a few miles when he spotted something a few hundred yards ahead.

“Horses,” he said to Eclipse. “With saddles. Come on, big boy.”

There were also buzzards circling, so he had an idea of what he would find.

There were two horses wandering about. As he approached they shied away from him, but he managed to ride one down. He grabbed the reins, dismounted, and checked the saddle and saddlebags. There was a rifle in the scabbard, but the saddlebags were empty. He turned to look for the other horse, saw it standing a few yards away, worrying something on the ground. He kept hold of the first animal and walked to the second. The animal was pushing at a dead man with its snout. There was a second man, also dead. Both bodies were lying by an extinguished campfire.

He grabbed the second horse's reins, then examined the bodies. They had both been shot in the back. The second horse's saddlebags were also empty.

“Well,” Clint said, “they were shot and robbed, or they were part of the gang.” He looked at the two horses. “Thieves would have taken everything, horses and saddles. So you fellows didn't get your share. Dolan and Santee got it all.”

He checked the heels of both men, hoping it wasn't one of them who had the worn down left one. It wasn't.

It was getting dark and he wanted to camp, but not by the dead men, who had already been visited by various forms of wild life. The buzzards overhead were just waiting for Clint to leave.

He didn't have the time or the inclination to bury the two men. He shooed the horses away after unsaddling them, just dropped the saddles down next to the dead men.

He mounted up, stood in his stirrups, and looked behind him. Unless McBeth's wound had reopened, he figured his two colleagues would be catching up to him anytime now. He hoped to have some sort of trail for them to follow when they did.

He turned Eclipse's head east.

 

Riders had a habit of using the same likely spots to stop and either rest or camp. That was why Clint was able to find such a place, littered with the run-down left heel mark, which was obviously being left by either the Mexican, Santee, or the Irishman, Dolan. It showed Clint that he was on the right track, that the men had obviously decided to keep going east, to Louisiana.

Weaver and McBeth were still nowhere in sight, and they were not going to be able to catch up to Eclipse if Clint kept going. Since he'd determined that Louisiana was the outlaws' goal, he decided to turn back the way he came, hoping to join up with Weaver and McBeth before long.

 

McBeth remained in his saddle while Weaver stepped down to check the bodies.

“Dead,” he said, mounting up again. “Shot in the back.”

“Not Dolan's style,” McBeth said.

“Maybe it was Santee's style,” Weaver suggested.

McBeth looked at the buzzards overhead. From the looks of the bodies, they had interrupted the birds' quest for carrion.

“Clint's got to be just up ahead,” Weaver said. “But we'll never catch up to him and that monster he rides unless he comes back to us.”

“I suppose we should take this as a sign that we are goin' in the right direction,” McBeth said, indicating the bodies.

“Well, let's leave them to the buzzards and keep goin',” Weaver said.

McBeth stretched a bit in his saddle.

“You okay?” Weaver asked.

“I'm fine.”

“Stiches holdin'?”

McBeth felt behind him, didn't find any wetness. “They seem to be.”

“Good.”

“They just have to hold long enough,” McBeth added. “Just long enough.”

The terrain was flat enough that Clint spotted Weaver and McBeth just as they saw him coming toward them in the distance. The two riders stopped and waited for the lone rider to reach them.

“About time you came back lookin' for us,” McBeth said.

“Not my fault you're both riding donkeys,” Clint said.

“Did you find them?”

“I guess you saw the bodies?” Clint asked.

“Yep,” Weaver said. “Back-shot. You figure Dolan and Santee didn't want to split?”

“That's what I figure.”

“Where do you think they're headed?” Weaver asked.

“East to Louisiana,” Clint said.

“What's north?” McBeth asked.

“Just a whole lotta Texas,” Weaver said.

“What's in Louisiana?”

“Gumbo,” Clint said, “and women . . .”

“No women in Texas?” McBeth asked.

“Oh, a lot of them,” Clint said, “but no gumbo.”

“Dolan will want to go someplace he's never been,” McBeth said, “so I'd say Louisiana.”

“One of them has a run-down heel on his left boot,” Clint said. “Dolan favor his left leg?”

“No,” McBeth said, “at least not when he left Ireland.”

“Okay, so maybe it's Santee,” Clint said, “but it gives us some sign we can read.”

“So there's only two of 'em now,” Weaver said.

“Looks like,” Clint said, “but my guess is Dolan's being advised by Santee.”

“Which means?” McBeth asked.

“They're probably going to pick up some more men along the way.”

“And work with them until there's another big score they don't want to split?” Weaver asked.

“Right. That Dolan's style, McBeth?”

“Not normally,” McBeth said. “He kills women, not men.”

“So back-shooting the other two was probably Santee's idea.”

“Dolan must be acquiring new habits,” McBeth said.

“Robbin' banks and killin' tellers instead of women?” Weaver asked.

“He'll revert back, though,” Clint said. “A man can only change habits for so long, and then he gets the urge.” He looked at McBeth. “That what you figure?”

“That's what I'm thinkin',” McBeth said. “What are the women in Louisiana like?”

“Well-mannered,” Clint said, “delicate, beautiful . . .”

“Then he won't be able to resist,” McBeth said.

“So we have to get to him before he can get to another woman,” Weaver said.

“That's not likely,” Clint said. “They're far enough ahead of us that they'll hit Louisiana before us, if they haven't already.”

“Where will they end up if they keep going east?” McBeth asked.

“Probably a town called Natchitoches.”

“Is that a big place?”

“There's bigger.”

“Like what?”

“Well, if they head northeast and bypass Dallas they could end up in Shreveport.”

“What's there?”

“Everything I already said,” Clint said, “plus every vice you could imagine.”

“Let's go there,” McBeth said.

“Instead of followin' them?” Weaver asked.

“If Dolan is guided by Santee,” McBeth said, “and he is asking the same questions I am, I believe they will go to the larger town.”

“Shreveport,” Clint said.

“Shreveport.”

“They're three, maybe four days ahead of us,” Clint said.

“They might get to Natchitoches,” McBeth said, “and then go to Shreveport. We could close the gap.”

“We'd be taking a chance on losing them,” Clint said. “I mean, if they hit Natchitoches, they might go south to Alexandria, and then east to New Orleans.”

“And what is there?”

“More than they got in Shreveport,” Clint said.

“But it is farther.”

“Yes. In fact, if you're right—if they go to Natchitoches and then decide to go to Shreveport, they actually have to head north and back west a bit.”

“Which means?” Weaver asked.

“Which means we could beat them to Shreveport,” Clint said, “if that's where they decide to go.”

“All right, then,” McBeth said, “Shreveport it is.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “It's your call.”

“Just one thing,” McBeth said.

“What's that?” Clint asked.

The Irishman looked at him and said, “What is gumbo?”

As soon as they arrived in Shreveport, McBeth said, “Oh yes, this is the kind of town Dolan will like.”

They rode past a cathouse where the girls were out on a balcony with their tops down. They were calling out to the passing men in charming Southern accents.

“Dolan won't be able to resist,” McBeth said.

Clint reined his horse in. Weaver and McBeth went a few more yards before they realized Clint had stopped, so they turned and came back.

“What is it?” McBeth asked.

Weaver looked up at the balcony, where the women were throwing kisses.

“You wanna go in?” he asked Clint.

“No,” Clint said, “but if Dolan won't be able to resist, why should we go any farther?”

“You mean just watch this place?” Weaver asked. “What if Dolan and Santee don't ride down this street?”

“Good point,” Clint said, “so let's talk to the local law, find out how many places there are in Shreveport like this.”

“And if there's more than three?” Weaver asked.

“We'll find out which are the top three and watch those,” McBeth said. “Dolan will want the best.”

“What if he's changed since he came to this country?” Weaver asked. “What if he's totally changed?”

“He may have changed,” McBeth said, “but it won't be totally. He's going to get the urge while he's here. I know it.”

Clint figured that more than knowing it McBeth was hoping it, but either way it seemed the play to make.

“Let's find the nearest hotel, and then the law,” Clint said.

 

They checked into a hotel, saw to the horses, and then Clint suggested he go and talk to the law.

“Why don't you two take a walk around, see what you can see. We can meet back at the hotel in an hour.”

“Shreveport is a pretty big town,” McBeth said. “We're not going to just run into him.”

“You never know,” Clint said. “Just keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Sure,” Weaver said.

“And while you're at it, find a doctor,” Clint said. “If we end this thing here, that'll be your next step.”

 

After asking for directions, Clint found the local law in a fairly modern building. He knew there had to be a sheriff somewhere, so he decided to go in and talk to somebody since he was already there.

He ended up talking to a young lieutenant named Burkett, who didn't seem to recognize his name.

“You want to know what?”

“How many whorehouses are in town.”

“You need more than one?” the man asked.

“I need three,” Clint said, “and if there are more than three, then I need to know the three best.”

“Can I ask . . . why?”

“Sure,” Clint said. “I'm looking for someone and he likes whores. I figure he'll go looking for one as soon as he gets to town.”