The Dublin Detective (8 page)

“I'm trying to see to it that Dolan and his gang don't kill McBeth.”

“And this is your business . . . why?” Higuera asked with a shrug.

“Four-to-one odds,” Clint said. “I just don't like them.”

“Ah, but your friend, McBeth . . . he will like them even less, yes?”

“That is definitely a yes,” Clint said.

Clint finished his business in El Paso del Norte fast enough to simply mount up and continue on. He left town and continued to ride south. He'd gone only a few miles when he realized he was being followed. The terrain was rocky, sandy, not much in the way of vegetation, but there were hills and valleys. It was easy to tail someone if you rode in the valleys while your prey rode in the hills, and vice versa.

It wasn't so easy when your prey already knew you were following him and waited in one of the valleys for you.

Clint dismounted and waited. He had an idea who was tracking him, so he didn't have his gun in his hand when the rider came over the rise and started down. The rider saw Clint, reined his horse in for a moment, then continued on with a resigned slump to his shoulders.

“Did you really think you could follow me without being spotted?” Clint asked.

“I was hopin',” Ben Weaver said.

“I notice you're not wearing your badge.”

“I turned it in.”

“If I tell you to go back, you won't, right?” Clint asked.

“Right.”

“You'll just keep following me.”

“Right.”

“I could kill you and leave your body here for the buzzards.”

“But . . . you wouldn't do that,” Weaver said a bit hopefully.

“No,” Clint said. “I wouldn't.”

“So . . . can I ride with you?”

Clint pointed a finger at Weaver.

“If we run into trouble, you'd better pull your weight, Weaver.”

“I will.”

“I'm not getting killed trying to protect you, understand?”

“I understand.”

“And if you get me killed . . .”

“What?”

Clint didn't have anything to add, so he said, “I'll come back and haunt you.”

“Okay.”

Clint mounted up.

“Okay, come on.”

 

They rode a few miles in silence before Weaver tired to start a conversation.

“So where are we goin'?”

Clint thought about remaining quiet, but what the hell. Talking would pass the time.

“I don't know.”

“But I thought we were lookin' for—”

“We are looking for someone,” Clint said, “but I don't really know where to look.”

“So . . . where are we goin'?”

“Right now,” Clint said, his eyes on the ground, “we're just riding, Ben. As soon as I spot something helpful, I'll let you know.”

“Somethin' helpful?” Weaver asked. “Like what?”

“Have you ever tracked?”

“Well, I—”

“No, wait,” Clint said, “you told me. You've never been out of El Paso.”

“Well, I been on posses.”

“So then you've tracked.”

“Well . . .”

“Okay, you were with someone who tracked.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I'm looking for a familiar sign,” Clint said, “a hoofprint that I've seen before.”

“How do you recognize a horse's print?”

“Usually, by the shoe,” Clint said. “Something about the shoe.”

“What about this one?”

“I'll show you when we find it.”

 

“There.”

It was an hour later. Clint pointed, then turned and looked up at Weaver.

“You have to dismount to see it.”

Weaver dismounted, looked around nervously.

“We're not being watched, Ben,” Clint said. “Nobody knows we're coming.”

Weaver walked over to where Clint was crouched, looked at the track Clint was pointing at.

“There.”

“What is that?”

“It's a triangle,” Clint said. “See it? On the shoe.”

“Who would put a triangle on a horseshoe?” Weaver asked, peering intently.

“We'll probably never know that,” Clint told him, “but at least now we know we're going in the right direction.”

“That why you wanted to come here?” Dolan asked Santee when they were in the cantina. “To see your daughter?”

“It is one reason.”

“You old bandit,” the Irishman said. “I didn't think you had a heart.”

“We all have hearts,
senor
,” Santee said. “It is when they stop beating that we are in trouble.”

“Santee, sometimes I think yer as smart as me own mother,” Dolan said, laughing.

“She was a wise woman?”

“She was a dirty whore,” Dolan said, “but yeah, she was a wise woman.”

At that moment Ed Grey and Billy Ludlow came busting through the door. Grey's eyes were ablaze as he set them on Dolan. He came rushing across the room, but, before he could do anything stupid, Santee stood up and stopped him.

“He will kill you, Ed,” Santee said. “Don't be foolish.”

“I'm better with a gun than he is,” Grey said.

“That is probably true,” Santee said, “but Dolan is a man who kills for the pleasure of it. He would surely kill you before you could do him any harm.”

“He's right, Ed,” Ludlow said, coming up behind him. “Come on, let's go to the bar and get a beer.”

Grey looked at Dolan, who was grinning up at him.

“Go ahead, Ed,” Dolan said, “have a beer. I'm buyin'.”

Grey hesitated, then allowed himself to be pulled away by Ludlow. Santee sat down.

“You plannin' on seein' the girl while we're here?” Dolan asked, as if Grey and Ludlow had never interrupted them.

“No.”

“So you just wanted to lay your eyes on her?”

“
Sí
.”

“So you're not wantin' to stay here?”

“No,” Santee said, “we can move on—unless you want to stay.”

“Is there a bigger town up ahead?”

“
Sí
, many bigger.”

“Then we'll move on,” Dolan said, “but first I want to leave a message for my friend, McBeth.”

“A message?”

“Yes,” Dolan said, “you know a couple of good men in this town?”

“Good . . . how?”

“Oh, I don't mean religious, or anything like that,” Dolan said, “I mean pretty good with a gun.”

“There are a few.”

“We only need two.”

“You want them to kill McBeth?”

“Oh, no,” Dolan said, “I am going to do that myself, for sure.”

“Then what—”

“Like I said,” Dolan replied, cutting him off, “I just want to leave him a little message.”

 

Santee brought two men to the cantina to see Dolan, then joined Grey and Ludlow at the bar.

“What's goin' on?” Ludlow asked.

“I do not know,” Santee said. “He wanted two men, I brought him two men.”

“He gonna have them kill that lawman that's been followin' him?” Grey asked.

“He says no,” Santee replied. “He says he wants to leave McBeth a message.” When Santee said the name, it sounded like two names—Mack-Beth.

“He just wants to play with him a little,” Ludlow said.

“If this man McBeth is the man Dolan says he is,” Santee replied, “then he is sending these two
hombres
to their graves.”

“These Irishmen can't handle a gun worth a damn,” Ed Grey said. “They got no draw.”

“It is not the man who draws his gun the fastest who lives,” Santee said. “It is the man who shoots the straightest.”

“Well, I do both,” Grey said. “He wants that Irish lawman handled, he should leave it to me.”

“Oh, he wants that one for himself.”

As they watched, Dolan passed some money over to the two men Santee had brought in. They put their sombreros back on and left the cantina.

“Drink up,” Santee said. “I believe we are leaving.”

“Hey,” Grey said, “I wanted to see about the local cathouse—”

“We ain't stayin'?” Ludlow asked.

“We are not staying,” Santee said. He looked at Grey. “There will be plenty of women in the next town, Ed. Plenty of them.”

McBeth rode into Los Ninos and immediately felt all the eyes that were on him. It was as if the whole town had known he was coming. It was a little town, though, so maybe the danger was limited.

Sometimes McBeth wished he had some kind of badge to pin to his shirt. It would be a target to some people, but probably more of them would simply turn and walk away.

He reined in his horse in front of a cantina. From his saddle he could pretty much see every building in town. There was no sheriff's office in sight. The only building with any identifying name was the one he was in front of. Over the door was a crude sign that read CANTINA.

He dismounted, tied his horse off, and went inside.

“
Senor
,” the bartender said, “welcome to Los Ninos. What will you have?”

“A beer.”

The bartender filled a mug and set it in front of him.

“
Cerveza
,” he said. “Anything else?”

There were several men in the cantina all watching McBeth drink his beer.

“Yes,” McBeth said, “why is everyone so interested in me?”

The bartender shrugged.

“You are a stranger.”

“Don't you get strangers in here?”

“
Sí, senor
, we do.”

“And do they all get this much attention?”

The man shrugged.

McBeth turned and looked at the four other men in the place. They were way too interested in him. Almost as if they had been waiting for him.

It wasn't Dolan's style to set up an ambush for him. He knew when he finally caught up to the man that Dolan would face him one to one. But until then, he wouldn't put it past Dolan to test him, or play with him.

If these fellows were waiting for him, it wasn't to kill him, just maybe to slow him down.

He looked at the bartender.

“You know what is goin' on, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You in on it?”

The barman licked his lips and said, “No, sir.”

“All right, then,” McBeth said. “You hit the floor behind the bar when everything starts.”

“I got a scattergun back here,” the man said. “You are welcome to it.”

“That may not be a bad idea,” McBeth said. “Keep it close.”

“Sure thing.”

McBeth turned to face the four men. . . .

 

One of them was named Jorge Chavez, another Eibar Rodriguez. These were the two men Dolan had hired to “slow McBeth down.” Unfortunately,
slow
to these two men meant
dead
, so they got two more helpers—Lopez and Martinez—to sit with them and wait for McBeth, who Dolan had figured would arrive . . . today.

Chavez was about to signal the others to start shooting at the Irishman's back when McBeth turned around and leaned against the bar. . . .

 

“You men waitin' for me?” he asked.

“Why would you ask that,
senor
?” Chavez asked.

“There's a phrase I've learned since I got off the boat,” McBeth said. “
Itchy trigger finger.
You have all got it.”

Chavez looked at the other men, then went for his gun. The other three followed.

McBeth turned. If the bartender had been lying to him, he would have been a dead man, but the barkeep had the shotgun ready and pressed it into McBeth's hands.

The Irishman turned and let loose with both barrels.

He didn't wait to see what the effect was. He dropped the weapon to the floor and drew his own gun. He felt something tug at his side as he fired at Rodriguez. The Mexican went back over a table, his gun flying out of his hand.

It was quiet.

The bartender stuck his head up, looked around at the four fallen men.

“
Caramba
,” he said, “you got them all.”

McBeth looked around. Two men who had been standing close together had been riddled by the shotgun blast. The other two men were lying on their backs.

“
Cerveza
?” the bartender asked.

“I guess I need one after that,” McBeth said, turning.

But it occurred to him that two men had died from the shotgun blast, and then he had fired his pistol only once.

“
Senor
!” the bartender shouted.

Realizing he'd been a fool, McBeth heard the shot before he felt something punch him in the back. He drew his gun, turned, and fired . . .

Clint and Ben Weaver rode into Los Ninos six days later. During that time Clint found that Weaver could listen and learn if he tried. The problem was getting him to try. There were times when he'd just stare off into space, and Clint swore there was nothing going on behind his eyes.

The sooner he got rid of Weaver, the better he'd like it. He preferred the company of his horse. At least Eclipse listened all the time.

“This is nothin' but a village,” Weaver said. “What are we doin' here?”