The Dublin Detective (7 page)

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Authors: J. R. Roberts

BOOK: The Dublin Detective
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“Into ol' Mexico.”
“Why?”
“That lawman from Ireland? McBeth? He's gonna need help. You're gonna help 'im, right?”
“What makes you say that?”
“What the marshal said about coincidence.”
“You always eavesdrop on your boss?”
“Every time,” Weaver said. “Only way for me to learn somethin'.”
“Then you heard me tell him I was just passin' through.”
“I heard it.”
“You don't believe it?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I know a lot about you, sir,” Weaver said.
“What do you think you know about me?”
Weaver ticked points off his fingers.
“You don't like whiskey, only beer. You don't pay for whores. You try not to draw your gun unless you're gonna use it. And you don't believe in coincidence.”
Clint stopped walking and looked at the deputy.
“Is this all written down somewhere?”
“Yes, sir,” Weaver said. “Books, newspapers, magazines. I got a lotta stuff that's been written about you.”
“And how much of it do you believe?”
“ 'Bout half.”
Clint started walking again.
“Well, believe about half of that.”
“The one about coincidence, though,” Weaver said. “That one I believe. You don't do nothin' by coincidence. Ain't that true?”
“What about your job here?”
“It'll be here when I get back.”
“Not if you wear that badge across the border.”
“I'll leave the badge behind,” Weaver said. “Take some time off.”
“You'd still be a lawman.”
“I'll quit,” he said. “I can join again when I get back.”
“What makes you think you'll come back if we go after the Dolan Gang?”
“Hell,” Weaver said, “it ain't like they's the James or Younger boys. There's only been a Dolan Gang for a coupla months.”
They reached the small hotel where Clint had taken a room.
“Whataya say, Mr. Adams?”
“Let me sleep on your request, Deputy.”
“Then you are goin' after them?”
“I didn't say that, did I?”
“No, sir.”
“We'll talk in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clint waited for the deputy to turn and walk away. When he didn't, Clint just turned himself and went into his hotel.
EIGHTEEN
“So now we're in your country,” Jamie Dolan said.
Santee nodded.
“We have been in my country for days.”
Dolan had a plate of bacon and beans in his hands, a cup of coffee on the ground between his feet.
“It doesn't feel any different to me,” Dolan said.
“If we were sitting out in the open in your country,” Santee asked, “would it feel different?”
“Oh, yes it would,” Dolan said. “If we were on Irish soil, I would know it.”
“Dirt is dirt,” Santee said, “and sky is sky.”
“You're wrong,” Dolan said. “Maybe some day I will take you to Ireland, and you'll see that you're wrong.”
“We are a long way from your country,
amigo
,” Santee said.
“I know it, Santee,” Dolan said, “but that will not always be the case.”
“Perhaps not,” Santee said. “Later today we will be in Los Ninos, and you will see. Mexico is different.”
Dolan grinned and said, “I look forward to it.”
James McBeth wished he knew the area well enough to travel at night. That was probably the only way he'd make up ground on Dolan and his gang. Perhaps what he should have done was enlisted the aid of a local to show him the way.
Maybe that was what he should do at the next town.
 
When Clint came out of the hotel the next day, he expected to find the deputy waiting for him. Thankfully, he was not.
He found a small cantina for breakfast and was hoping to saddle up and ride out of town without running into Deputy Marshal Ben Weaver.
It was not to be.
When he came out of the cantina, the deputy was walking across the street toward him, looking very intense.
“I missed you at the hotel,” Weaver said.
“I know.”
“So when do we leave?”
“
We're
not leaving, Deputy,” Clint said. “
I
am.”
“Why?” Weaver demanded. “Why won't you take me with you?”
“Because I don't know you, Deputy,” Clint said. “I can't ride with a man, trust him to watch my back, if I don't know him. It's as simple as that.”
“The marshal can vouch for me.”
“I'd have to be able to trust his opinion,” Clint said. “I can't. I don't know him either.”
“B-but I can handle myself, Mr. Adams,” Weaver insisted. “I can.”
“I'm sorry, Deputy,” Clint said. “I have to go.”
Clint started past the man, who bit his lip, then yelled, “Wait!”
Clint turned. He knew what was coming. He could see it in the deputy's eyes.
“If I outdraw you, will you take me with you?” the man asked.
“Ben, I don't draw my gun unless I'm going to use it,” Clint said. “This isn't a game.”
“I gotta get out of this town, Mr. Adams,” Weaver said.
“Ben,” Clint said, using his name again, “you're not a kid. You want to leave El Paso . . . leave.”
Weaver licked his lips.
“I-I can't.” He looked ashamed. “I-I ain't never been anywhere else.”
“I can't babysit you, Deputy,” Clint said. “I won't get myself killed because you need help leaving town.”
Clint turned and walked away. This time the deputy didn't call out to him.
NINETEEN
In Los Ninos, Jamie Dolan had to admit that Mexico was different from the U.S. It was also very different from Ireland.
“All these dark-skinned, black-haired women,” he said to Santee.
“Mexican women are the most beautiful in the world,” Santee said.
“I like me some Indian women,” Ed Grey said. “Nothin' like a squaw with a big butt.”
Billy Ludlow said, “I like me some redheads. They got a lot of fire.”
“Blondes,” Dolan said, “big-titted blondes—but little ones, ya know?” He looked at Santee. “But I'm willin' to try a Mexican woman.”
At that moment two young Mexican girls crossed in front of their horses, exchanged looks with the four men, then went off, giggling.
“Not those,” Santee said.
“Why not?” Grey asked.
Santee looked at Grey.
“They are children.”
“To you, maybe,” Ludlow said. He and Grey were in their twenties, while Dolan was a good ten years older, Santee more than that.
“You want a woman,” Santee said, “not a girl. I will show you.”
“This is Santee's country, boys,” Dolan said. “He'll show us where to find some real Mexican women.”
“Them two look fine to me,” Grey said. “Come on, Billy, let's follow—”
He didn't finish his sentence. Dolan's huge right arm swept him from his horse's back. Grey fell to the ground, all the air going out of his lungs as he hit hard with his back.
“Wait for him to get his breath back,” Dolan said to Ludlow, “and then meet us up the street.”
“Where?” Ludlow asked.
“The cantina,” Santee said.
Ludlow nodded, dismounted, and went to help Grey, who was gagging, his face turning blue as he tried to catch his breath.
“What was wrong with those two gals, Santee?” Dolan asked as they rode on.
“One of them was my daughter,” Santee said.
 
James McBeth was a hunter, not a tracker.
He did not read sign. He put himself in place of the hunted, tried to figure out what his prey would do.
He knew Dolan would cross into Mexico from El Paso. That much made sense, otherwise why go to El Paso at all?
He searched for Dolan in El Paso del Norte for a day, and then left and headed deeper into Mexico.
Now he had two options. Keep going, or double-back along the Rio Grande and look for a place where Dolan and his men might have crossed into Mexico.
From information he had gleaned along the way, he knew that the Dolan Gang consisted of two men in their twenties and an older Mexican. It was the presence of the Mexican that convinced McBeth that Dolan was not going to cross back into the United States—not yet.
The Mexican would take them into Mexico, show Jamie Dolan his country. McBeth knew Dolan would want to see some of Mexico before he left it.
Dolan never did anything without a reason. If he was in Mexico, he'd stay awhile.
TWENTY
Clint went as far as El Paso del Norte, stopped there to speak to
El Jefe
, a man named Innocencio Higuera. He started by introducing himself.
“Please,
senor
, sit,” Higuera said. “It is a great pleasure to meet one such as yourself. Who sent you to see me?”
Clint noticed that the sheriff's badge that the man wore was very tarnished. He didn't seem to mind, though. For one thing, he had enough shiny metal in his teeth to make up for it.
“Marshal Turner, from across the border, told me to speak with you.”
“Ah,
mi amigo
Turner,” Higuera said. “You know, he was once a Texas Ranger.” He said this as if he was very impressed.
“I do know that,” Clint said. “In fact, I knew him back then.”
“Ah, then you are friends, no?”
“We are friends, no,” Clint said. “We are more like acquaintances.”
“I do not understand the difference, but it is of no consequence,” the man said, waving away his ignorance impatiently. “Tell me, what can I do for the Gunsmith,
senor
?”
“I'm looking for a man named James McBeth,” Clint said. “He is an Irishman.”
“An Irishman?” Higuera frowned.
“He is from a country called Ireland.”
“I know where an Irishman is from,
senor
,” Higuera said with a smile. “I am simply trying to remember the name.”
“He is chasing another Irishman named Jamie Dolan, if that helps.”
“McBeth, Dolan,” Sheriff Higuera said. “I do not know these names. James and Jamie? Those are not the same names?”
“They are not.”
“It is odd, no?”
“Yes,” Clint said, “it is.”
“
Lo siento
,” the man said. “Please, forgive me. I keep interrupting you.”
“I'm just trying to find out what you know—if anything—about the two men I mentioned.”
“Well, Dolan . . .” Higuera pursed his lips. “He has a gang, no?”
“Yes, he does.”
“Then yes,” he said, slapping the arm of his chair, “he was here, with his gang . . . oh, perhaps ten days ago.”
“And the other man? McBeth.”
“Searching for Dolan, yes,” Higuera said, “I believe—yes, he was here perhaps four days ago.”
“Did he tell you he was a lawman?”
“
Sí
, he did,” Higuera said. He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Sadly, he is a lawman only in his own country. Not in yours, and not in mine. I warned him about this.”
“The Dolan Gang caused some trouble in El Paso,” Clint said. “Did they cause any trouble here?”
“None,” Higuera said happily. “I was very pleased with their behavior, as were the people of El Paso del Norte.”
“Why do you think that was?” Clint asked.
Higuera puffed out his chest and said, “I would not allow it, and I am
El Jefe
here. I believe they understood that.” Higuera frowned at Clint and spoke to him as if he were speaking to a child. “You must be very firm with such people,
senor
.” He even waggled an index finger at Clint. “It is all they understand.”
“I suppose so,” Clint said. “Well, thank you for your help.”
He stood and the two men shook hands. Higuera was as tall as Clint, heavier through the chest and shoulders. His handshake was firm.
“I only hope that I have, indeed, helped you,
senor
,” Higuera said. “If I have not I would be . . . desolate.” He clutched his chest. Clint had still not decided if all the man's dramatic gestures were an act or not.
“You have.”
“May I ask why the Gunsmith is also searching for this man Dolan?” Higerua asked. “Or is it the other man, McBeth, whom you seek?”

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