The Dublin Detective (4 page)

“And where was this?” Clint asked.

“Over around Kerrville,” the man said.

Kerrville was not far from Austin, north of Labyrinth.

“What's your name?”

“Me? I'm Andy Martin.”

“Andy, when was this?” Clint asked. “That you saw this man there?”

“A few days ago,” the man answered. “I only noticed him because of that funny accent.”

“That's all?”

“Well,” the man said, “he was also always playing with his gunbelt. Ya know, always kinda hitchin' it up, like it didn't fit?”

“I see,” Clint said. “And he said he was hunting someone?”

“He was askin' around town about him,” the man said, “so yeah, he was huntin'. Musta been some kinda bounty hunter, though, 'cause I didn't see no badge.”

Clint nodded, told Paul to give him another beer and one for the stranger.

“Hey, thanks, mister,” the other man said.

“Don't mention it.”

Clint turned to carry the new beer back to his table. While he'd been talking, Rick Hartman had arrived and seated himself at Clint's table.

“Didn't see you,” Clint said when he reached the table. “Want a beer?”

“No,” Hartman said, “Paul will bring me some coffee. Have a seat and tell me about this fella with the funny accent, and why you're so curious.”

Clint sat.

“How much did you hear?”

“Enough to know that you're gonna go off traipsin' after somebody else's business again.”

“Remember when I was in San Francisco about three months ago?”

“Oh,” Hartman said, “that fella. The one just off the boat?”

“Sounds like him.”

“So he made it as far as Texas, huh?”

“I guess so,” Clint said. “He's still hunting his man.”

“If it's the same man,” Hartman said. “Maybe he's just huntin' for a livin'.”

“It was my impression that as soon as he caught his man he'd head back to Ireland,” Clint said, “so my guess is it's the same man he's after.”

“That makes him one stubborn lawman,” Hartman said, “tracking a man for three months.”

“Yeah,” Clint said, “he struck me as the stubborn type.”

“So what are you gonna do?” Hartman asked. “Take a ride up to Kerrville?”

“Why not?” Clint said. “I'm getting antsy anyway.”

It was two days later when Clint entered the saloon where Andy Martin said he'd heard the “funny-talkin' Irishman.”

Kerrville looked to be a thriving community that was still growing. Clint liked Labyrinth because it had found its comfortable size and was satisfied with it. Of course, the day somebody came to town with some money and imagination, that would probably change. That's when he'd find a new place to hang his hat when he wasn't in the saddle.

It wouldn't be Kerrville, though. This town was still growing, and growth brought growing pains.

He entered the saloon and walked to the bar. At this time of day the bar was half full.

“Help ya?” the bartender asked.

“Beer,” Clint said, “and some information.”

“Beer I got,” the barkeep said. “Don't know about information.”

He went and got the beer, came back, and set the frothy mug down in front of Clint.

“What kind of information?”

“You had a fellow in here . . . oh, maybe five days, a week ago.”

“Lots of fellas in and out of here in that time,” the man said. “What makes you think I'd remember one in particular.”

“This one spoke with an Irish accent,” Clint said, “and was looking for another man who spoke with an Irish accent.”

“Oh,” the bartender said, “them.”

“You saw both of them?”

“Not at the same time,” he said. “One of 'em was in here a couple of weeks ago. Had some men with him. They was a mean bunch, is why I remember 'em. Also had a little set-to with the law here.”

“About?”

“Might wanna talk to the sheriff about that,” the bartender said. “Now, that second fella, he come in here alone, lookin' for the first one. Seems like they was from the same country. I tol' him what I tol' you, but I also tol' him that the other fella wasn't alone.”

“And?”

The bartender shrugged. “He didn't seem to care.”

“Did he talk to the sheriff here?”

The bartender shrugged.

“Who is the sheriff?”

“Fella name Barfield,” the barkeep said. “Been wearin' the tin around here for about six months or so.”

“Got deputies?”

“Had one,” the man said. “That's probably what you should be talking to him about.”

Clint drank down half the beer and said, “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

He started to leave, then turned back to the bartender, who answered his question before he could ask it.

“Go out the door, make a left, and walk three blocks,” he said. “Ya can't miss it.”

“Thanks again.”

Clint left and headed for the sheriff's office.

Hanging outside the sheriff's office was the biggest placard Clint had ever seen bearing the name of the local sheriff. The sign hung from two chains so that it would swing in the wind. It almost looked like an advertisement for something, but it only read SHERIFF WILLIE BARFIELD.

When Clint entered he thought the man seated behind the desk looked as if he'd stepped out of a painting. His shirt was dark blue, and the neckerchief around his neck was red. He had a well-cared-for mustache that flipped up on the ends, and a healthy red to his cheeks. He stood as Clint approached, appeared to be a lanky six feet and about thirty years old.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

“Yes,” Clint said, “my name's Clint Adams. I'm looking for a man who was in your town about five days ago, an Irishman who was looking for another Irishman.”

“Irishman,” the sheriff repeated, seeming to study on it.

“Yes,” Clint said. “His name was James McBeth and he may have been looking for a man named Jamie . . .” Clint tried to conjure up the last name, and then did so. “. . . Dolan.”

“The Dolan Gang,” Sheriff Barfield said, narrowing his eyes. His hand hovered over his holstered gun which, Clint noticed, had a pearl handle. “What's your connection with them?”

“I have no connection,” Clint said. “In fact, I didn't even know there was a Dolan Gang. I'm looking for the man who is tracking Jamie Dolan. His name is McBeth.”

“I don't know no McBeth, but there was another Irishman here last week lookin' for Dolan.”

“What'd you tell him?”

“I tol' him what I'm tellin' you,” Barfield said. “You'd better not have no connection with them boys. They shot my deputy.”

So that was what the bartender meant when he said they had a “little set-to” with the law.

“I already told you my name, and that I'm not connected with any gang,” Clint said. “Do you know where McBeth—the other Irishman—went when he left here?”

“No idea,” the fancy-dressed Barfield said.

“Sheriff,” Clint said, “it's not a good idea to have your hand hovering over your gun like that, unless you mean to use it.”

“Oh, I mean to use it, all right,” Barfield said, “if I have to.” He stuck his jaw out. “You got somethin' else to say?”

“No,” Clint said, shaking his head, “I think you and me have talked enough.”

With such an attitude, if Barfield had come up against a gang, it was a wonder only his deputy got shot.

Clint turned to leave, then froze when the lawman said, “I think you'd better hold it.”

Clint turned and looked at the man. The sheriff had drawn that pearl-handled revolver and was pointing it at Clint.

“What?”

“I let that Irishman walk out of here too easy,” Barfield said. “I ain't gonna make the same mistake twice.”

“Believe me, Sheriff,” Clint said, “you're making an even worse mistake now.”

“That's what you say,” Barfield replied. “Take off that gunbelt.”

Clint turned to face the lawman full on.

“I don't think so.”

The lawman frowned.

“Why not?”

“You've got no cause to detain me or take my gun,” Clint said.

“I got all the cause I need, right here,” the lawman said, tapping his badge with his left hand.

“Sheriff,” Clint said, “I don't know how you got this job, but you're not going to keep it long with plays like that. In fact, you try this on the wrong guy, you won't last long, period.”

“You threatenin' me?”

“You got that backward,” Clint said. “You've got your gun out, which means you're threatening me.”

“Look, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is—”

“You weren't listening,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams.”

He studied the lawman's face as Barfield thought . . . and then it dawned on him. Suddenly, he licked his lips and looked at his gun nervously.

“I-I didn't realize . . . I didn't hear you when you first—”

“I know you didn't,” Clint said. He reached out, put his hand on the man's gun, and pushed it down so that it wasn't pointing at him anymore. “You've got to learn to listen more closely.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“What happened when the Dolan Gang came to town?” Clint asked.

“They were mean,” Barfield said. He sounded like a schoolboy. “Pushin' people around on the street, threatenin' men in the saloon. My deputy braced them and they shot him.”

“Dead?”

“No,” Sheriff Barfield said, “he's laid up. But when he gets back on his feet, he sure won't want to wear a badge again.”

“Probably smart,” Clint said. “Might be something for you to think about.”

The man's shoulders drooped and he holstered his gun. “I-I always wanted to be a lawman,” he said, “but . . .”

“You're not cut out for the job.”

“W-why do you say that?”

“Well,” Clint said, “first the clothes, then the gun . . . and I'm sure there's a lot more. Think it over.”

“Yeah, well . . .”

“You sure you don't know where McBeth was headed?” Clint asked.

“Who?”

Clint shook his head, patted Barfield on the shoulder, and said, “Think long and hard about changing jobs.”

Clint decided to stay at a hotel for one night, see what he could find out in town. He started by putting Eclipse in a livery, then asking the liveryman about anyone with an Irish accent.

“Irish,” the old man said. “I got no use for Irish. Yeah, there was one here last week.”

“And you haven't seen any others?”

“No,” the man said, “if there was another one, he musta put his horse someplace else.”

“Did the man say where he was going, or which way he was heading, when he left?”

“He didn't talk to me,” the old man said. “He just came, got his horse, and left.”

“You didn't see which way he went?”

“I just went back to work, mister,” the liveryman said. “I don't go and check to see which way my customers go when they leave here. Far as I'm concerned, that's their business, ain't it?”

“Yep,” Clint said, “it sure is.”

Clint turned to leave and the man called, “Wait a minute.”

“What is it?”

The old man came closer.

“The Irishman, he had me re-shoe his horse while he was here.”

“And?”

“The shoes I used were ones I had taken from another horse that died,” the man said. “They were new, so when the animal . . . well, anyway, I sold them to the Irishman and reused them.”

“And?” Clint said again.

The old man walked away, came back with a plain shoe.

“The ones I gave him have a small triangle—here.” He showed Clint the spot, at the very bottom of the U-shape. “Anybody wanting to track this man would have no problem, I think.”

If McBeth had been the one being tracked instead of the man doing the tracking himself, Clint might have thought the old liveryman had marked him deliberately.

“Why would someone make shoes that were marked like that?” he asked.

“I don't know,” the man said. “It might have been the duplicate of a brand.”