SIXTEEN
Clint Adams stopped in El Paso, got a hotel room, and, over a supper of tortillas, enchiladas, and refried beans, tried to decide if he wanted to pursue the two Irishmen into Mexico. He didn’t know if he wanted to take part in their little dance quite that badly. Still, McBeth was one man trailing four. The odds were stacked against him coming out of this alive.
While he was eating, a man with a badge walked in, looked around, spotted him, and came walking over. He stopped in front of Clint’s table, his thumbs hooked into his gunbelt.
Last time he’d been in El Paso was before Dallas Stoudenmire had been killed. Since then, quite a few lawmen had been killed in El Paso, including some who were killed by other lawmen.
“Clint Adams?” the man asked.
“Yes?”
“I’m Deputy Marshal Ben Weaver, part of the El Paso Police Department.”
“Part of it?” Clint asked. “How big is the police department?”
“Six deputies in addition to Marshal Turner.”
“Isn’t that a little extreme for a place the size of El Paso?”
“Not the way things have been going lately,” the man said. “Mind if I sit?”
“I don’t mind at all. Tequila?”
“I’ll have some coffee,” the deputy said.
“That’s what I’m having.”
Clint waved the waitress over, got another pot of coffee and another cup.
“What can I do for you, Deputy?” Clint asked.
The man sipped his coffee before answering. He looked to be about thirty-five, medium height with a well-kept mustache. He wore his holster way too high, which made Clint wonder if he knew what to do with his gun. His shirt was spotless, and his badge shiny.
“You can tell me what brings you to El Paso.”
“Just passing through.”
“On your way to where?”
“El Paso del Norte.” Which was across the border in Mexico.
“You wouldn’t be on the trail of somebody in particular, would you?”
“Like who?”
“The Dolan Gang?”
“Why would you ask that?” Clint said. “And how did you know I was here anyway?”
“You were recognized when you arrived, and I was told you were eating here.”
“And what makes you think I’m after the Dolan Gang?” Clint asked.
“They rode through here about ten days ago,” the deputy said. “Shot the place up, killed two of our deputies.”
“So you’re two deputies short right now?”
“No, we replaced them.”
“And did you go after them?”
“We did, but they crossed into Mexico.”
“I still don’t understand why you think I’m after them.”
“Why else would you be here?”
“Like I said, Deputy Weaver, I’m passing through.”
“What about the other Irishman?”
“Which one?”
“His name is McBeth. He was here about four days ago, looking for the Dolan Gang.”
“And what did you do to him?”
“Well, at first we arrested him.”
“Why?”
“With that accent—same as Dolan’s—we thought he was part of the gang.”
“And he was able to convince you otherwise?”
“After a while he convinced the marshal he was after Dolan, and not part of his gang.”
“And where did he go?”
“Into Mexico, after the gang.”
“Alone?”
“Yes,” the deputy said. “He said he preferred to work alone.”
“But none of you offered to go with him anyway, did you?”
“We don’t have jurisdiction across the border,” Weaver said. “Maybe in del Norte he got someone to go with him.”
“And do they have a police department of six deputies and one marshal over there, too?”
“No,” Weaver said, “as far as I know they’ve got El Jefe, and that’s it.”
Clint had the feeling he was going to like El Jefe better than Deputy Ben Weaver.