EIGHT
LABYRINTH, TEXAS, 3 MONTHS LATER . . .
Clint Adams sat at a back table in Rick’s Place, enjoying a quiet beer. It was early afternoon and, other than him, there was only the bartender and another man standing at the bar. Rick Hartman himself—Clint’s friend and the owner of the saloon and gambling hall—was nowhere to be seen. Clint knew that Rick was seeing a new woman he had hired, so it was very likely the two were still in bed in the saloon owner’s room upstairs. He was tempted to go up and bang on the door, but decided to just sit and quietly enjoy his beer instead.
The man at the bar was talking loudly with the bartender, who looked bored.
“So this fella who talks funny says he’s lookin’ for this other fella with a funny name . . .”
“So one guy talks funny, and the other one’s got a funny name?” the bartender asked.
“That’s what I said,” the patron said. “Ain’t ya listenin’, Paul?”
Clint didn’t know Paul. The bartender had been hired by Hartman while Clint was out of town.
“I’m listenin’, I’m listenin’, Andy,” Paul said. He looked over at Clint, saw him watching, and shrugged.
“So this guy, he talks real funny—”
“How funny?”
“Ya know, like he was . . .”
“What? A Chinaman?”
“Naw, not a Chinaman,” the other man said. “He said stuff like boyo, and ye instead of you. What’s that? Like . . . a . . . whatayacallit . . .”
“An Irishman?” Clint asked
Both the man and the bartender turned and looked at Clint.
“Yeah, that was it,” the man said. “An Irishman.”
Clint got up and carried his beer to the bar.
“And was he looking for another Irishman?”
“Well . . . yeah, he was,” the man said. “Said he was trackin’ him, but I didn’t see this Irish guy as much of a tracker.”
“And where was this?” Clint asked.
“Over around Kerrville,” the man said.
Kerrville was not far from Austin, north of Labyrinth.
“What’s your name?”
“Me? I’m Andy Martin.”
“Andy, when was this?” Clint asked. “That you saw this man there?”
“A few days ago,” the man answered. “I only noticed him because of that funny accent.”
“That’s all?”
“Well,” the man said, “he was also always playing with his gunbelt. Ya know, always kinda hitchin’ it up, like it didn’t fit?”
“I see,” Clint said. “And he said he was hunting someone?”
“He was askin’ around town about him,” the man said, “so yeah, he was huntin’. Musta been some kinda bounty hunter, though, ’cause I didn’t see no badge.”
Clint nodded, told Paul to give him another beer and one for the stranger.
“Hey, thanks, mister,” the other man said.
“Don’t mention it.”
Clint turned to carry the new beer back to his table. While he’d been talking, Rick Hartman had arrived and seated himself at Clint’s table.
“Didn’t see you,” Clint said when he reached the table. “Want a beer?”
“No,” Hartman said, “Paul will bring me some coffee. Have a seat and tell me about this fella with the funny accent, and why you’re so curious.”
Clint sat.
“How much did you hear?”
“Enough to know that you’re gonna go off traipsin’ after somebody else’s business again.”
“Remember when I was in San Francisco about three months ago?”
“Oh,” Hartman said, “that fella. The one just off the boat?”
“Sounds like him.”
“So he made it as far as Texas, huh?”
“I guess so,” Clint said. “He’s still hunting his man.”
“If it’s the same man,” Hartman said. “Maybe he’s just huntin’ for a livin’.”
“It was my impression that as soon as he caught his man he’d head back to Ireland,” Clint said, “so my guess is it’s the same man he’s after.”
“That makes him one stubborn lawman,” Hartman said, “tracking a man for three months.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “he struck me as the stubborn type.”
“So what are you gonna do?” Hartman asked. “Take a ride up to Kerrville?”
“Why not?” Clint said. “I’m getting antsy anyway.”