SEVENTEEN
After he finished eating, Deputy Marshal Weaver escorted Clint to the police department, where Marshal Sam Turner was waiting for him.
Turner was a big man—wide shoulders, big belly, mid-fifties—who stood and shook hands with Clint when Weaver brought him in.
“I know you, don’t I?” Clint asked.
“You have a good memory,” the man said. “Fifteen years ago, when I was with the Texas Rangers.”
“That’s right,” Clint said. “That little scuffle in Matagorda.”
“Little scuffle, he calls it,” Turner said. “We killed ten desperadoes and arrested twice that many.”
“That was a lot of years ago.”
“And a lot of pounds,” Turner said. “Have a seat. That’s all, Ben.”
“Yes, sir,” Weaver said, and withdrew.
The brick police department building was impressive. There were two levels, the office downstairs and the cell block upstairs.
“Looks like you’re doing okay for yourself,” Clint said.
“After Stoudenmire’s reign of terror, they decided they wanted a police department.”
Clint didn’t comment on Dallas Stoudenmire’s “reign of terror.” He’d been fairly friendly with the man.
“Still don’t understand what I’m doing here, Sam,” Clint said.
“Well, Deputy Weaver might have got a little overzealous, Clint, but it’s still a coincidence you showin’ up here on the heels of McBeth, who’s trailin’ the Dolan Gang.”
“Far as I know McBeth is after Dolan, has been since they both were in Ireland.”
“Then you do know him?”
“Met him when he got off the boat three months ago in San Francisco,” Clint said, “but I haven’t seen the man since.”
“So you ain’t runnin’ with him?”
“Not with him . . . what? Four days ahead of me?”
“So this is a coincidence?”
“Pure and simple.”
“What’s in Mexico for you then?”
“Spicy food, spicier women.”
Turner sat back in his chair, which protested beneath his bulk.
“So you’re leavin’ El Paso tomorrow?”
“Goin’ right across the bridge to El Paso del Norte,” Clint replied.
“And then?”
“On deeper into Mexico.”
“It ain’t exactly safe, ya know?”
“I’ll look out for myself, Sam.”
Turner regarded him quizzically for a few more moments, then stood up and said, “Well, it was good to see you again after so long.”
Clint shook hands with the man.
“Tell me, Sam,” he said, “did you bring McBeth in here for a little talk?”
“I did.”
“Did he mention me at all?”
“Not once.”
“But you still felt you had to bring me in.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Turner said. “Fact is, I sorta remember the same thing about you.”
“As you get older,” Clint lied, “you learn to tolerate them a little more.”
“Maybe,” Turner said. “Stop in again on your way back, Clint. We’ll catch up over a cold cerveza.”
“You got a deal, Sam.”
 
Outside the building Clint found Deputy Weaver waiting for him.
“Mind if I talk to you, Mr. Adams?” the deputy asked.
“Thought you did that.”
“Naw, this ain’t official.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “I’m walking back to my hotel.”
“I’ll walk with ya.”
Clint shrugged and they started walking.
“What’s on your mind?”
“I wanna go with you.”
“Where?”
“Into ol’ Mexico.”
“Why?”
“That lawman from Ireland? McBeth? He’s gonna need help. You’re gonna help ’im, right?”
“What makes you say that?”
“What the marshal said about coincidence.”
“You always eavesdrop on your boss?”
“Every time,” Weaver said. “Only way for me to learn somethin’.”
“Then you heard me tell him I was just passin’ through.”
“I heard it.”
“You don’t believe it?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I know a lot about you, sir,” Weaver said.
“What do you think you know about me?”
Weaver ticked points off his fingers.
“You don’t like whiskey, only beer. You don’t pay for whores. You try not to draw your gun unless you’re gonna use it. And you don’t believe in coincidence.”
Clint stopped walking and looked at the deputy.
“Is this all written down somewhere?”
“Yes, sir,” Weaver said. “Books, newspapers, magazines. I got a lotta stuff that’s been written about you.”
“And how much of it do you believe?”
“ ’Bout half.”
Clint started walking again.
“Well, believe about half of that.”
“The one about coincidence, though,” Weaver said. “That one I believe. You don’t do nothin’ by coincidence. Ain’t that true?”
“What about your job here?”
“It’ll be here when I get back.”
“Not if you wear that badge across the border.”
“I’ll leave the badge behind,” Weaver said. “Take some time off.”
“You’d still be a lawman.”
“I’ll quit,” he said. “I can join again when I get back.”
“What makes you think you’ll come back if we go after the Dolan Gang?”
“Hell,” Weaver said, “it ain’t like they’s the James or Younger boys. There’s only been a Dolan Gang for a coupla months.”
They reached the small hotel where Clint had taken a room.
“Whataya say, Mr. Adams?”
“Let me sleep on your request, Deputy.”
“Then you are goin’ after them?”
“I didn’t say that, did I?”
“No, sir.”
“We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
Clint waited for the deputy to turn and walk away. When he didn’t, Clint just turned himself and went into his hotel.