TEN
Clint turned to leave, then froze when the lawman said, “I think you’d better hold it.”
Clint turned and looked at the man. The sheriff had drawn that pearl-handled revolver and was pointing it at Clint.
“What?”
“I let that Irishman walk out of here too easy,” Barfield said. “I ain’t gonna make the same mistake twice.”
“Believe me, Sheriff,” Clint said, “you’re making an even worse mistake now.”
“That’s what you say,” Barfield replied. “Take off that gunbelt.”
Clint turned to face the lawman full on.
“I don’t think so.”
The lawman frowned.
“Why not?”
“You’ve got no cause to detain me or take my gun,” Clint said.
“I got all the cause I need, right here,” the lawman said, tapping his badge with his left hand.
“Sheriff,” Clint said, “I don’t know how you got this job, but you’re not going to keep it long with plays like that. In fact, you try this on the wrong guy, you won’t last long, period.”
“You threatenin’ me?”
“You got that backward,” Clint said. “You’ve got your gun out, which means you’re threatening me.”
“Look, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is—”
“You weren’t listening,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams.”
He studied the lawman’s face as Barfield thought . . . and then it dawned on him. Suddenly, he licked his lips and looked at his gun nervously.
“I-I didn’t realize . . . I didn’t hear you when you first—”
“I know you didn’t,” Clint said. He reached out, put his hand on the man’s gun, and pushed it down so that it wasn’t pointing at him anymore. “You’ve got to learn to listen more closely.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“What happened when the Dolan Gang came to town?” Clint asked.
“They were mean,” Barfield said. He sounded like a schoolboy. “Pushin’ people around on the street, threatenin’ men in the saloon. My deputy braced them and they shot him.”
“Dead?”
“No,” Sheriff Barfield said, “he’s laid up. But when he gets back on his feet, he sure won’t want to wear a badge again.”
“Probably smart,” Clint said. “Might be something for you to think about.”
The man’s shoulders drooped and he holstered his gun. “I-I always wanted to be a lawman,” he said, “but . . .”
“You’re not cut out for the job.”
“W-why do you say that?”
“Well,” Clint said, “first the clothes, then the gun . . . and I’m sure there’s a lot more. Think it over.”
“Yeah, well . . .”
“You sure you don’t know where McBeth was headed?” Clint asked.
“Who?”
Clint shook his head, patted Barfield on the shoulder, and said, “Think long and hard about changing jobs.”