The Dublin Detective (6 page)

“I did,” she said. “I told him about the first Irish man—the big mean one. But I couldn't tell him anything about where he and his friends were going.”

“Were they his friends,” Clint asked, “or his men?”

“One—a Mexican—he acted like they were friends,” she said. “They sat together, but the others sat at another table. I guess they were just working for the Irishman.”

“And did anyone else talk to the nice Irishman last week?” he asked.

“Jean did.”

“Jean?”

“The dark-haired girl you saw me with.”

“Ah.”

“He didn't go upstairs with her, though,” she said. “Kind of got her mad.” She giggled. “Actually, I didn't mind seein' that. She thinks she can get any man she wants.”

“So he proved her wrong.”

“Yes.”

“But they did talk?”

“Oh, yes, for a little while,” she said. “Made her madder that she actually spent time workin' on him.”

“She doesn't strike me as the pleasant type.”

“She's only nice until she gets what she wants,” Eve said, “and then she's back to bein' a bitch.”

“Well, I guess I'll have to talk to her tomorrow before I leave.”

“You're leavin' town tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“That soon?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Why are you tryin' to catch up to this man?” she asked. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then why?”

“He's a visitor to our country,” Clint said. “I'm just trying to keep him from getting killed.”

“Well,” she said, sliding her hand down over his belly, “before you go and help him, could you show me a little more hospitality?”

He smiled as she closed her hand over him.

“It would be my pleasure, ma'am.”

The next morning Eve—with malicious delight in her eyes—volunteered to wake Jean up. Clint had to speak to her while she held her wrap closed, shading her eyes from the morning light and stifling yawns the whole time.

“No,” she said, “the guy would not come upstairs with me. He only wanted to know about the other man, the big one who hurt Eve.”

“And what did you know about him?”

“Nothing,” she said, yawning. “Only what Eve told me. That he was mean.”

“What about the other men with him?” Clint asked. “Did any of them go with you?”

“Yeah,” she said, leaning on her hand, “the Mexican.”

“And what did he have to say?”

“
Sí
and no, mostly,” she said.

“Nothing about where'd they'd been,” Clint asked, “where they were going?”

“Naw,” she said, “he was too smart, that one. Wouldn't say a word except what he wanted me to do.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks. You can go back to bed.”

Jean didn't have to be told twice. She got up and dragged her rather skinny ass back up to her room.

Eve walked Clint outside.

“If you're ever back this way,” she said, “make sure you stop in.”

“I will,” he said. “You'd better go get some rest, too, like your friend.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked.

“What's that?”

“She's no friend of mine,” Eve said. “I hate that bitch. It was a pleasure to drag her out of bed.”

She kissed his cheek and he said good-bye and walked to the livery.

 

“Look,” the liveryman said, pointing to the ground in one of the stalls. “I found this yesterday.”

Clint looked and saw a track in the dirt—a track with a triangle on the shoe.

“I just found one,” the man said, “but that's what it looks like.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “now I know.”

“You ain't gonna find any in town.”

“That's okay,” Clint said, mounting Eclipse. “I should be able to find something outside of town.”

 

“Chow!” Santee called.

Once breakfast and coffee were done, Ed Grey and Billy Ludlow went off by themselves, leaving Dolan and Santee by the fire.

“Why do we not just lie in wait for him?” Santee asked.

“For McBeth? Naw.” Dolan shook his head.

“Why not?”

“I don't want to make it easy on the lad. If he wants me, he's going to have to work for it.”

“So we allow him to follow us into Mexico?”

“Yes.”

“This man, he is very determined.”

“He is, indeed.”

“Is there a reason for that?” Santee asked.

“Yes,” Dolan said.

He said no more.

 

McBeth made himself some coffee and had a breakfast of beef jerky. He wasn't keeping a cold camp exactly. It was just easier for him.

Afterward he kicked the fire to death and saddled his horse. The animal was a steeldust he had picked up after his last horse died. This was the fifth animal he had been through since getting off the boat in San Francisco. He generally rode them into the ground.

He hitched up his uncomfortable holster, mounted the horse, and headed south.

 

As soon as he cleared town, Clint started checking the ground for tracks. There was a trail in and out of town, but it was well-traveled and any tracks that might have been left there five days ago were gone.

But a gang trying to avoid being seen would not follow a well-traveled trail, so he left the trail and started studying the ground. It took a couple of hours but he finally found a track with a triangle on it. Then he found another. Then he found enough to give him a direction.

South.

“Damn it!”

The direction he had come from.

Clint Adams stopped in El Paso, got a hotel room, and, over a supper of tortillas, enchiladas, and refried beans, tried to decide if he wanted to pursue the two Irishmen into Mexico. He didn't know if he wanted to take part in their little dance quite that badly. Still, McBeth was one man trailing four. The odds were stacked against him coming out of this alive.

While he was eating, a man with a badge walked in, looked around, spotted him, and came walking over. He stopped in front of Clint's table, his thumbs hooked into his gunbelt.

Last time he'd been in El Paso was before Dallas Stoudenmire had been killed. Since then, quite a few lawmen had been killed in El Paso, including some who were killed by other lawmen.

“Clint Adams?” the man asked.

“Yes?”

“I'm Deputy Marshal Ben Weaver, part of the El Paso Police Department.”

“Part of it?” Clint asked. “How big is the police department?”

“Six deputies in addition to Marshal Turner.”

“Isn't that a little extreme for a place the size of El Paso?”

“Not the way things have been going lately,” the man said. “Mind if I sit?”

“I don't mind at all. Tequila?”

“I'll have some coffee,” the deputy said.

“That's what I'm having.”

Clint waved the waitress over, got another pot of coffee and another cup.

“What can I do for you, Deputy?” Clint asked.

The man sipped his coffee before answering. He looked to be about thirty-five, medium height with a well-kept mustache. He wore his holster way too high, which made Clint wonder if he knew what to do with his gun. His shirt was spotless, and his badge shiny.

“You can tell me what brings you to El Paso.”

“Just passing through.”

“On your way to where?”

“El Paso del Norte.” Which was across the border in Mexico.

“You wouldn't be on the trail of somebody in particular, would you?”

“Like who?”

“The Dolan Gang?”

“Why would you ask that?” Clint said. “And how did you know I was here anyway?”

“You were recognized when you arrived, and I was told you were eating here.”

“And what makes you think I'm after the Dolan Gang?” Clint asked.

“They rode through here about ten days ago,” the deputy said. “Shot the place up, killed two of our deputies.”

“So you're two deputies short right now?”

“No, we replaced them.”

“And did you go after them?”

“We did, but they crossed into Mexico.”

“I still don't understand why you think I'm after them.”

“Why else would you be here?”

“Like I said, Deputy Weaver, I'm passing through.”

“What about the other Irishman?”

“Which one?”

“His name is McBeth. He was here about four days ago, looking for the Dolan Gang.”

“And what did you do to him?”

“Well, at first we arrested him.”

“Why?”

“With that accent—same as Dolan's—we thought he was part of the gang.”

“And he was able to convince you otherwise?”

“After a while he convinced the marshal he was after Dolan, and not part of his gang.”

“And where did he go?”

“Into Mexico, after the gang.”

“Alone?”

“Yes,” the deputy said. “He said he preferred to work alone.”

“But none of you offered to go with him anyway, did you?”

“We don't have jurisdiction across the border,” Weaver said. “Maybe in del Norte he got someone to go with him.”

“And do they have a police department of six deputies and one marshal over there, too?”

“No,” Weaver said, “as far as I know they've got
El Jefe
, and that's it.”

Clint had the feeling he was going to like
El Jefe
better than Deputy Ben Weaver.

After he finished eating, Deputy Marshal Weaver escorted Clint to the police department, where Marshal Sam Turner was waiting for him.

Turner was a big man—wide shoulders, big belly, mid-fifties—who stood and shook hands with Clint when Weaver brought him in.

“I know you, don't I?” Clint asked.

“You have a good memory,” the man said. “Fifteen years ago, when I was with the Texas Rangers.”

“That's right,” Clint said. “That little scuffle in Matagorda.”

“Little scuffle, he calls it,” Turner said. “We killed ten desperadoes and arrested twice that many.”

“That was a lot of years ago.”

“And a lot of pounds,” Turner said. “Have a seat. That's all, Ben.”

“Yes, sir,” Weaver said, and withdrew.

The brick police department building was impressive. There were two levels, the office downstairs and the cell block upstairs.

“Looks like you're doing okay for yourself,” Clint said.

“After Stoudenmire's reign of terror, they decided they wanted a police department.”

Clint didn't comment on Dallas Stoudenmire's “reign of terror.” He'd been fairly friendly with the man.

“Still don't understand what I'm doing here, Sam,” Clint said.

“Well, Deputy Weaver might have got a little overzealous, Clint, but it's still a coincidence you showin' up here on the heels of McBeth, who's trailin' the Dolan Gang.”

“Far as I know McBeth is after Dolan, has been since they both were in Ireland.”

“Then you do know him?”

“Met him when he got off the boat three months ago in San Francisco,” Clint said, “but I haven't seen the man since.”

“So you ain't runnin' with him?”

“Not with him . . . what? Four days ahead of me?”

“So this is a coincidence?”

“Pure and simple.”

“What's in Mexico for you then?”

“Spicy food, spicier women.”

Turner sat back in his chair, which protested beneath his bulk.

“So you're leavin' El Paso tomorrow?”

“Goin' right across the bridge to El Paso del Norte,” Clint replied.

“And then?”

“On deeper into Mexico.”

“It ain't exactly safe, ya know?”

“I'll look out for myself, Sam.”

Turner regarded him quizzically for a few more moments, then stood up and said, “Well, it was good to see you again after so long.”

Clint shook hands with the man.

“Tell me, Sam,” he said, “did you bring McBeth in here for a little talk?”

“I did.”

“Did he mention me at all?”

“Not once.”

“But you still felt you had to bring me in.”

“I don't believe in coincidence,” Turner said. “Fact is, I sorta remember the same thing about you.”

“As you get older,” Clint lied, “you learn to tolerate them a little more.”

“Maybe,” Turner said. “Stop in again on your way back, Clint. We'll catch up over a cold
cerveza
.”

“You got a deal, Sam.”

 

Outside the building Clint found Deputy Weaver waiting for him.

“Mind if I talk to you, Mr. Adams?” the deputy asked.

“Thought you did that.”

“Naw, this ain't official.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “I'm walking back to my hotel.”

“I'll walk with ya.”

Clint shrugged and they started walking.

“What's on your mind?”

“I wanna go with you.”

“Where?”