The Dublin Detective (9 page)

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Authors: J. R. Roberts

BOOK: The Dublin Detective
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“This is where the tracks led us, remember?” Clint asked. “The tracks?”
“Oh, yeah.” Weaver looked around. “But look, five buildings.”
“It's a town, Ben,” Clint said. “It's got a name and, look, it's got a cantina. It's a town.”
As they dismounted in front of the cantina, Weaver said, “No hotel. How can anyone stay here?”
“They probably have rooms in back of the cantina,” Clint said.
“We ain't stayin' here, are we?”
“I don't know, Ben,” Clint said. “That all depends on what we find out inside.”
“Well,” Weaver said, following him in, “at least we can get a beer.”
 
When they entered there were six other men there, and the bartender, so seven sets of eyes followed them to the bar.
“Dos cervezas, por favor,”
Clint said.
“Sí, senor.”
The bartender drew them each beer and set them in front of Clint and Weaver.
Clint knew before he picked it up that the beer was going to be warm. Weaver, on the other hand, didn't know until he sipped it.
“Hey,” he complained, “this is warm.”
“It is all we have,
senor
,” the bartender said.
“Drink it, Ben,” Clint said. “At least it's wet.”
Clint could feel the eyes on him. Unless someone recognized him, they probably stared at all strangers who came to Los Ninos.
Still . . .
“What's the problem?” Clint asked the bartender.
“
Senor
?”
“Why is everyone staring,” Clint asked, “including you?”
“Staring
senor
,” the bartender said with a shrug. “I do not know—”
“Come on, bartender,” Clint said. “What's going on? Or what went on?”
“Well, we did have something happen about six days ago,” the bartender said, “but—”
“So now you're looking at strangers funny?” Clint asked. “All strangers?”
“Well . . .
sí, senor
.”
Clint turned and looked around. The six men looked away—into their drinks or at the ceiling. He saw some stains on the floor that looked as if someone had done a bad job of washing them out.
Blood.
“How long ago did you say?” he asked.
“I would say six days,
senor
.”
“And who was shot?”
“Five men, senor,” the man said, then added, “well, uh, six.”
“Six?”
“He was alone,” the bartender said, “and the other men tried to kill him.”
“Do you know who the five men were?”
“
Sí
,” the bartender said, and reeled off the five Mexican names.
“And were they riding with an Irishman?”
“An Irishman,
senor
?”
“Never mind,” Clint said. “Were they riding with a
gringo
?”
“Oh, no,
senor
, but they were paid by a
gringo
.”
“And when was that
gringo
here?”
“Oh, many weeks ago.
“How many is many?”
“I would say . . . two?”
“Two weeks?”
The man nodded.
Clint asked, “That's many?”
The bartender shrugged.
“Okay, what happened to the sixth man?” Clint said.
“He killed the other five.”
“And?”
“He was shot in the back.”
Clint closed his eyes, then opened them and frowned.
“They shot him in the back, and then he killed them all?”
“No,” the bartender said, “he shot them, but he was not dead. When he turned around, he was shot in the back. Then he killed the last man.”
“And then he died?' Weaver asked.
“Oh, no,
senor
,” the bartender said. “He did not die. He has a room in the back.”
TWENTY-FIVE
When James McBeth opened his eyes, he saw Clint Adams looking down at him.
“Adams?”
“That's right.”
“Wh-what the bloody hell are you doin' here?”
“Well,” Clint said, “as a matter of fact, I was looking for you.”
“Looks like you found me.”
“Not exactly the way I expected to find you, though,” Clint said.
“Not the way I expected to find myself either,” McBeth said, shifting painfully. He was lying on his right side because the wound he suffered was in his back.
“Seems like you were a little careless.”
Between gritted teeth McBeth said, “Guess you could say that.”
“And you still are.”
“What?”
“You're lying on your right side,” Clint said.
“So?”
“Aren't you right-handed?”
“I am.”
“You got your gun hanging on the bedpost, but can you get to it left-handed?”
“I-I'm not sure.”
“You should be lying on your left side, McBeth.”
“Truth be told,” McBeth said, “it hurts less this way.”
“It's going to hurt less when you're dead, too.”
“I suppose,” McBeth said. “If we're going to talk, could you sit down? It hurts to look up.”
“Sure thing,” Clint said. He pulled a chair over and sat down.
“Why are you lookin' for me?” the Irishman asked.
“Heard you were in Texas,” Clint sad. “Thought I might be able to help.”
“But we are in Mexico now.”
“I sort of noticed,” Clint said. “I've been following you for a while, so when I got to the border I just kept going. You're on Dolan's trail?”
“That's right,” McBeth said. “Have been since San Francisco.”
“So I guess he left a little surprise behind for you.”
“I know Dolan,” McBeth said. “Those men overstepped their bounds. At best they were only supposed to slow me down.”
“Well, I guess they did that. You still got that bullet in you?”
“I'm afraid so,” a woman's voice said.
Clint turned and looked at the lady who had just entered the room. She was obviously Mexican, with dark skin and wild black hair. She had a wrap-around peasant blouse and was wearing a long skirt that covered her knees.
“And how would you know?” Clint asked.
“Because I left it in there,” she said, approaching the bed.
“You're the doctor?”
“I am not a doctor,” she said, “which is why I left the bullet in there. But I am the closest thing to a doctor this town has, which is why your friend is still alive.”
She looked down at McBeth.
“How are you feeling today, Mr. McBeth?”
“All my parts are moving, Miss Hernandez.”
“I told you to call me Jacinta,” she said.
“Jacinta, this is Clint Adams.”
“Mr. Adams,” she said, looking at Clint. “Am I right that you are a friend? Or are you seeking to put another bullet into Mr. McBeth?”
“Given those two choices,” Clint said, “let's say I'm his friend.”
“Well, I am going to take a look at your wound, Mr. McBeth. Do you object to your friend staying?”
“Not at all.”
She went around to the other side of the bed, removed the sheet from a mostly naked McBeth, and examined his wound.
“It is not infected,” she said after taking off the bandage. “Let me put a clean dressing on.”
“Ma'am, is he going to be all right with that bullet in there?”
“He will have to have it removed as soon as he can,” she said.
“But will he be able to ride?”
“I would advise he not ride,” she said, “but he has already told me he will not take my advice.”
“How else will I get around?” McBeth asked. “I can't find Dolan on foot.”
“And he insists he is still going to hunt for this man Dolan.”
“I guess what we got here, ma'am, is a stubborn Irishman.”
She finished with the dressing and stood up straight.
“He is lucky he is not a dead Irishman.”
“That's not down to luck,” McBeth said. “It's down to you, Jacinta.”
“Do you want to try sitting up today?” she asked.
“I would love to sit up.”
“Would you help me, Mr. Adams?”
“Of course.”
“Let's just bring him up slowly. James, you tell me when it hurts too much.”
“Don't worry,” McBeth said. “You will be the first to know.”
TWENTY-SIX
Surprisingly, James McBeth felt better once he was sitting up. Well enough to eat and share a meal with Clint, who told Ben Weaver to go ahead and eat in the cantina.
They both asked McBeth's “doctor” to join them, but she said she had a baby to deliver.
“Several, in fact,” she added. “I'll check in on you later. If you start to feel worse—” She stopped, then looked at Clint. “If he starts to feel bad again, help him to lie back down.”
“I'll do that.”
She nodded, turned to leave.
“Jacinta,” Clint said.
“Yes?”
“You speak English very well.”
She smiled.
“I was educated in your country,” she said and left.
“She would be even more attractive,” McBeth said, “if she had an Irish accent,”
“To you, maybe.”
A middle-aged waitress—the owner and bartender's wife—came in with a tray of food and set it down for them. Enchiladas, beans, and rice. The smell set Clint's mouth to watering. When he tasted it, his mouth watered even more.
“This is the best meal I've had since gettin' off the boat,” McBeth said.
“Might be because you're alive,” Clint said, “but it
is
good.”
They were both hungry so they ate in silence for a while until they were both almost done. The waitress came in and asked if they wanted more, and both said yes. They talked while they waited for her to return.
“You plan to stay on Dolan's trail?” Clint asked.
“I didn't come all this way to give up.”
“The trail's liable to be cold by now.”
“Well,” McBeth said, “you did say you wanted to help. You could pick up the trail again.”
“Maybe.”
“You found me.”
“I had help.”
“What kind of help?”
Clint told McBeth about the triangle on the horseshoe. “Who would put a triangle on a horseshoe?”
“The question has been asked more than once,” Clint said.
“Any answer?”
“Sorry, no.”
The woman returned with two more helpings.
“
Dos cervezas, por favor
,” Clint said.
“
Sí, senor
.”
McBeth was staring at him.
“Beer,” Clint said.
“Ah, good.”
She returned with two mugs of warm beer. McBeth took a sip and made a face.
“Best we can do.”
“The food makes up for it,” McBeth said. “Will you stay and help me?”
“Dolan could be back in the U.S. by now,” Clint pointed out.
“Then I'll follow him there,” McBeth said. “Fact is, I will follow him to hell if I have to.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I think before I commit to anything, I'd like you to explain that.”
McBeth stared at Clint for a few moments, then said, “Yeah, all right. I guess you've got it comin'.”
“Is it a long story?” Clint asked.
“It's a very short story,” McBeth said. “Dolan's specialty is killin' women.”
“I know,” Clint said, “you told me that when we first met.”
“Yes, well,” McBeth said, “what I didn't tell you is that he . . . he also killed my wife.”
“Your wife?”
McBeth nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “she was the last woman he killed in Ireland.”
“I-I'm sorry,” Clint said. “I didn't . . . I'm sorry, McBeth.”
“Thank you.”
“Has he killed any women since he's been here?”
“One or two along the way,” McBeth said, “and he's hurt a few others.”
“Can you prove he killed them?”
“No,” McBeth said.
“So we've got nothing to turn him over to the law for when . . . if . . . we catch up to him?”
“He's got himself a few men to ride with him,” McBeth said. “They're callin' themselves the Dolan Gang.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “yeah, I did hear something about that.”
“They robbed some stagecoaches and a bank or two,” McBeth said. “So I'm sure the law will be interested in the other three.”
“The other three?”
“Well,” McBeth said, “I don't have any reason to kill them. I'm willin' to turn them over to the law. But Dolan . . . that's a different story.”
“You intend to kill him?”
McBeth nodded.
“I intend to kill him.”
“Well, if there's a bounty on him, that won't be a problem,” Clint said. “But if you kill him in cold blood, somebody's going to come looking for you—somebody wearing a badge.”
“That won't be a problem,” McBeth said. “Dolan will face me fairly.”
“You can say that, after he had you shot in the back?” Clint asked.
“That wasn't his intention,” McBeth said. “The men he hired went too far. Dolan was just trying to slow me down. He knows I'm comin' for him, and he intends to face me.”

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