TWELVE

Clint was reading when the knock came at the door to his room. As always, he answered it with his gun in his hand. When he opened it, Eve slipped in very quickly and pushed the door shut behind her.

“Worried somebody will see you?”

“We’re only supposed to . . . entertain in the saloon upstairs,” she said. “I just don’t want to get in trouble.”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble, Eve,” he said, putting the gun in the holster on the bedpost. “I’ll pay you for your time, if that makes a difference.”

“Well . . . you just wanna talk, right?”

“That’s right.”

She shrugged, and her big breasts jiggled. She was still wearing her work clothes, a low-cut red gown.

“It wouldn’t be right for me to take money just for talkin’,” she said.

“I don’t have a problem paying,” he said, “you shouldn’t have a problem taking it.”

“Are you . . . on the run?” she asked. “Is that why you answer the door with your gun?”

“No,” he said, “I’m not on the run, I just have to be careful. But the big Irishman you were talking about, he was on the run, right?”

“He didn’t say so,” she said, “but I heard him talkin’ to some of his men, and that’s the impression I got.”

“And you didn’t talk to an Irishman last week?”

“I didn’t say that,” she said. “I said he wasn’t the one who hurt me. He wasn’t even with me.”

“But he talked to you?”

“Yeah,” she said, “he talked to everybody.”

“Okay,” he said, “let’s talk about the first Irishman first . . . the big one.”

 

The Dolan Gang consisted of Jamie Dolan, Ed Grey, Billy Ludlow, and a Mexican named Santee. They were camped for the night somewhere near El Paso, with intentions of crossing into Mexico the next day.

Santee was a cold-blooded killer who liked to use a knife. He was the first one Dolan hooked up with when he left San Francisco. He was also the cook.

“Chow’s on,” Santee called.

The other three came over, picked up plates and held them out. They also filled their tin coffee cups. Then they went and sat down with their food. Santee, as always, served himself last, then went and sat by Jamie Dolan.

“Good chow, like always, Santee,” Dolan said.

“Bacon an’ beans,” Santee said. “Nobody can ruin bacon and beans.”

“When are ya goin’ to make some potatoes, though?” Dolan asked.

“You Irish an’ your potatoes.”

“Yeah, you Mexicans and your—what are they called? Frijoles?”

“Yes, frijoles.”

“Why don’t you make us some frijoles some time?” Dolan asked.

“I would make some tortillas,” Santee said, “but those two will not appreciate them.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dolan said. “All they know is bacon and beans. Well, when we get to Mexico they’re going ta have to eat Mexican food, aren’t they?”

“Sí,” Santee said, “they are.”

“Well then, better get ’em used to it,” Dolan said. “Tomorrow make us some Mexican food.”

“We will need supplies.”

“We’ll stop and get them, boyo.”

“What about your . . . countryman?” Santee asked. “He is still on our trail, no?”

“He is still on our trail, yes,” Dolan said. “How do they say it in this country? There is no quit in James McBeth.”

“That is not the kind of man you want hunting you down, senor.”

“Well, my friend,” Dolan said, slapping the Mexican on the back, “I don’t think we want any man hunting us, but such is the nature of our business.”

Santee turned and looked over his shoulder at Grey and Ludlow.

“How long will we keep them with us?”

“Not long,” Dolan said. “We’ll find better.”

Dolan and Santee had met in a bar fight in a Nevada town, and during that short fight they’d saved each other’s lives and formed a bond—and, at the same time, the Dolan Gang. They’d been hitting banks and stagecoaches ever since, usually with two other men, but they still hadn’t found two men they’d keep with them steady.

“We’ll get rid of them in Mexico somewhere,” Dolan said. “Maybe you have some compadres who might ride with us?”

“I might, senor,” Santee said, “I might. More coffee?”

“Hell, yeah,” Dolan said. “Drinkin’ your coffee is better than bein’ with a two-dollar whore.”

Also camped for the night, several days behind the Dolan Gang, was James McBeth.

During the three months he’d been in the United States McBeth had become more comfortable with his American clothes, saddle, and gun—although he could never get the holster to sit comfortably on his hips.

There were two things that were plentiful in the United States that he had not availed himself of: whiskey and whores. He felt that either would dull his senses and he knew he needed to be sharp to find Jamie Dolan and then kill him. Especially now that Dolan had aligned himself with others and rechristened himself as the leader of the Dolan Gang.

If Dolan now thought of himself as Jesse James or Billy the Kid, McBeth was bound and determined to see that he suffered the same fate.