NINE

It was two days later when Clint entered the saloon where Andy Martin said he’d heard the “funny-talkin’ Irishman.”

Kerrville looked to be a thriving community that was still growing. Clint liked Labyrinth because it had found its comfortable size and was satisfied with it. Of course, the day somebody came to town with some money and imagination, that would probably change. That’s when he’d find a new place to hang his hat when he wasn’t in the saddle.

It wouldn’t be Kerrville, though. This town was still growing, and growth brought growing pains.

He entered the saloon and walked to the bar. At this time of day the bar was half full.

“Help ya?” the bartender asked.

“Beer,” Clint said, “and some information.”

“Beer I got,” the barkeep said. “Don’t know about information.”

He went and got the beer, came back, and set the frothy mug down in front of Clint.

“What kind of information?”

“You had a fellow in here . . . oh, maybe five days, a week ago.”

“Lots of fellas in and out of here in that time,” the man said. “What makes you think I’d remember one in particular.”

“This one spoke with an Irish accent,” Clint said, “and was looking for another man who spoke with an Irish accent.”

“Oh,” the bartender said, “them.”

“You saw both of them?”

“Not at the same time,” he said. “One of ’em was in here a couple of weeks ago. Had some men with him. They was a mean bunch, is why I remember ’em. Also had a little set-to with the law here.”

“About?”

“Might wanna talk to the sheriff about that,” the bartender said. “Now, that second fella, he come in here alone, lookin’ for the first one. Seems like they was from the same country. I tol’ him what I tol’ you, but I also tol’ him that the other fella wasn’t alone.”

“And?”

The bartender shrugged. “He didn’t seem to care.”

“Did he talk to the sheriff here?”

The bartender shrugged.

“Who is the sheriff?”

“Fella name Barfield,” the barkeep said. “Been wearin’ the tin around here for about six months or so.”

“Got deputies?”

“Had one,” the man said. “That’s probably what you should be talking to him about.”

Clint drank down half the beer and said, “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

He started to leave, then turned back to the bartender, who answered his question before he could ask it.

“Go out the door, make a left, and walk three blocks,” he said. “Ya can’t miss it.”

“Thanks again.”

Clint left and headed for the sheriff’s office.

Hanging outside the sheriff’s office was the biggest placard Clint had ever seen bearing the name of the local sheriff. The sign hung from two chains so that it would swing in the wind. It almost looked like an advertisement for something, but it only read SHERIFF WILLIE BARFIELD.

When Clint entered he thought the man seated behind the desk looked as if he’d stepped out of a painting. His shirt was dark blue, and the neckerchief around his neck was red. He had a well-cared-for mustache that flipped up on the ends, and a healthy red to his cheeks. He stood as Clint approached, appeared to be a lanky six feet and about thirty years old.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

“Yes,” Clint said, “my name’s Clint Adams. I’m looking for a man who was in your town about five days ago, an Irishman who was looking for another Irishman.”

“Irishman,” the sheriff repeated, seeming to study on it.

“Yes,” Clint said. “His name was James McBeth and he may have been looking for a man named Jamie . . .” Clint tried to conjure up the last name, and then did so. “. . . Dolan.”

“The Dolan Gang,” Sheriff Barfield said, narrowing his eyes. His hand hovered over his holstered gun which, Clint noticed, had a pearl handle. “What’s your connection with them?”

“I have no connection,” Clint said. “In fact, I didn’t even know there was a Dolan Gang. I’m looking for the man who is tracking Jamie Dolan. His name is McBeth.”

“I don’t know no McBeth, but there was another Irishman here last week lookin’ for Dolan.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I tol’ him what I’m tellin’ you,” Barfield said. “You’d better not have no connection with them boys. They shot my deputy.”

So that was what the bartender meant when he said they had a “little set-to” with the law.

“I already told you my name, and that I’m not connected with any gang,” Clint said. “Do you know where McBeth—the other Irishman—went when he left here?”

“No idea,” the fancy-dressed Barfield said.

“Sheriff,” Clint said, “it’s not a good idea to have your hand hovering over your gun like that, unless you mean to use it.”

“Oh, I mean to use it, all right,” Barfield said, “if I have to.” He stuck his jaw out. “You got somethin’ else to say?”

“No,” Clint said, shaking his head, “I think you and me have talked enough.”

With such an attitude, if Barfield had come up against a gang, it was a wonder only his deputy got shot.