SEVEN
“It feels odd,” McBeth said.
He was talking about the Western rig sitting around his waist.
“Wear it a little lower,” Clint said.
“Like this?”
“You’ll be able to get it out more quickly,” Clint said.
McBeth touched the Peacemaker in his holster and said, “I can see that.”
“And you can stop wearing the empty rig around your shoulders.”
“Yes. That would be good.”
“It’s getting late,” Clint said. “You probably want to get some rest.”
“Yes,” McBeth said, “I’ve been on the move for a very long time.”
“Tomorrow you can get some new clothes,” Clint said.
“I won’t need to take up any more of your time for that,” McBeth said. “You must have . . . a life?”
“Well, yes, actually, I do,” Clint said. “I was planning on leaving tomorrow, since the person I was supposed to meet has apparently changed his mind.”
“Then you should go,” McBeth said. “I’ll start my huntin’ tomorrow.”
“Well,” Clint said, “if your hunting leads you out West, we may meet again.”
“And if it leads me out East?”
“Much less likely,” Clint said.
“Well, then,” James McBeth said, “I hope it’ll lead me out West.”
Jamie Dolan slammed the door to his room. The two men who had come from the whorehouse to retrieve the girl had barely gotten through the doorway in time.
He turned, looked at the bedsheet with some of the girl’s blood on it. That didn’t bother him. Back in Ireland he had bathed in the blood of his victims. It wouldn’t bother him to sleep in it. In point of fact, he enjoyed the smell. It was sweet to him—especially the scent of a young girl’s blood.
Dolan was naked. He hadn’t bothered to cover himself when the men from the whorehouse arrived. Hell, they worked in a cathouse. They’d seen naked men before.
Of course, probably not like him. He looked in the mirror at himself. His chest was covered with a mat of black hair. He looked down. His penis jutted from a mass of black hair, and hair covered his legs as well. A woman had once—affectionately—called him a bear. That was before he’d fucked her and killed her.
He turned and went to the bed, lay down on his back. His penis stood straight up. Maybe he should have sent for another woman. But no, he needed to get some sleep because tomorrow he’d start his journey. The Barbary Coast had been nice, but he knew James McBeth would be on his trail, and he wasn’t quite ready to face him. Not yet. There was still a lot to be done.
He reached down, stroked his thickening manhood. He didn’t have time to send for a woman, so he’d have to take care of the thing himself. That was okay. He wouldn’t have to get rid of the woman after.
He took care of his need, then rolled over. He hoped he’d fall asleep before the damn thing started demanding attention again.
He really had no control over it.
No control, at all.
Clint looked out the window of his own room, thinking about what Lucky Hansen had said to him about getting involved in other people’s troubles.
When he saw what was happening on the dock—four against one—there was no way he could have just sat by and watched. So he dealt himself in. Then, when he found out that McBeth was a lawman—the man had shown him credentials over their meal, even though they meant nothing in this country—he felt the need to get the man properly outfitted to deal with America, and to get him a room so he could get some rest.
So that was it. He was all done. Heading out tomorrow, back to Texas. McBeth seemed to be very confident in his abilities as a manhunter. And he was old enough and experienced enough to know his own abilities. There was no need to try to help the man any further, especially since he didn’t seem to want it.
Clint didn’t know for sure, but he thought there was more behind McBeth’s hunt than a lawman’s desire to do his job. But McBeth had not confided anything to him, and why should he? They’d only known each other for one day.
So tomorrow he’d saddle Eclipse, and he and his Darley Arabian would get on with their lives.