The Dublin Detective (16 page)

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Authors: J. R. Roberts

BOOK: The Dublin Detective
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“No more women, Jamie,” McBeth said. “Not for you.”
Dolan waved to his men and said, “Step aside, gents, and take care of your own business.”
But Clint could see on the faces of Morris, Hicks and Edwards that they didn't exactly think of this as “their business.” Especially after they found out who he was.
“Your men don't look so sure, Dolan,” Clint said.
Dolan frowned, looked at the three men he and Santee had hired in Natchitoches.
“We ain't been ridin' with you long enough to take a hand in this, Dolan,” Morris said, and his partners nodded.
“You ain't payin' me enough to face the Gunsmith,” Edwards said, and Hicks nodded.
“Step aside then!” Dolan growled. “I'll deal with you three later. Santee?”
“I am here,
senor
.”
“Adams is yours.”
“
Sí
,” Santee said, “I would not have it any other way.”
“Ben,” Clint said, “step aside, and keep your eye on those three.”
Weaver wondered how he had ended up watching three men by himself.
“Crap,” he said to himself.
 
Santee crossed behind Dolan, like any experienced pistoleer would do, so that he was standing on the big Irishman's left, facing Clint.
“So,” Dolan asked, “how does this work. Do we count?”
“Just draw!” Santee said, and his hand streaked for his gun.
The Mexican was fast. It surprised Clint how fast he was. But he dispatched him quickly, nevertheless, because he wanted to watch the two Irishmen—neither a gunman—go at it.
The bullet struck Santee in the chest, pierced his heart, and dropped him, and Clint still had time to turn and watch.
Dolan's big hand grabbed for his gun, and it seemed to get stuck in the holster. At the same time McBeth grabbed for his gun. He got it out of his holster, but it almost went flying from his hand. He double-clutched, caught it before he could lose it, and righted it just as Dolan got his loose from his leather.
They both fired twice and missed, although McBeth did take out one hotel window.
On the third shot McBeth's bullet finally struck Dolan in his huge chest. The man looked startled, fired at McBeth again and missed, and then McBeth's fourth shot took Dolan in the forehead. When he hit the boardwalk with his back, it felt like an earthquake.
It got very quiet and Ben Weaver said to the other three men, “Scat!”
McBeth walked up onto the boardwalk, bent over Dolan to make sure he was dead, then holstered his gun.
It was over.
As Clint moved up next to him, the Dublin detective said, “I don't know how you do this all the time.”
“I don't do it all the time,” Clint said. He had reloaded and holstered his weapon. “But I get your point. You two were awful.”
“That's why I'm going back to Dublin,” McBeth said. “I would never survive here.”
“Well,” Clint said, “why don't we find that doctor we were talking about, get that bullet out of your back, and send you back home in one piece?”
“That sounds good to me.”
As Ben Weaver joined them, Clint saw some uniformed policemen rushing their way.
“But first,” he said, “we'll have to deal with this.”
“If you don't mind,” McBeth said, “you can do the talking. I'm suddenly very, very weary.”
Watch for
THE DEAD TOWN
330
th
novel in the exciting GUNSMITH series from Jove
 
Coming in June!

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