EIGHTEEN
“So now we’re in your country,” Jamie Dolan said.
Santee nodded.
“We have been in my country for days.”
Dolan had a plate of bacon and beans in his hands, a cup of coffee on the ground between his feet.
“It doesn’t feel any different to me,” Dolan said.
“If we were sitting out in the open in your country,” Santee asked, “would it feel different?”
“Oh, yes it would,” Dolan said. “If we were on Irish soil, I would know it.”
“Dirt is dirt,” Santee said, “and sky is sky.”
“You’re wrong,” Dolan said. “Maybe some day I will take you to Ireland, and you’ll see that you’re wrong.”
“We are a long way from your country, amigo,” Santee said.
“I know it, Santee,” Dolan said, “but that will not always be the case.”
“Perhaps not,” Santee said. “Later today we will be in Los Ninos, and you will see. Mexico is different.”
Dolan grinned and said, “I look forward to it.”
James McBeth wished he knew the area well enough to travel at night. That was probably the only way he’d make up ground on Dolan and his gang. Perhaps what he should have done was enlisted the aid of a local to show him the way.
Maybe that was what he should do at the next town.
When Clint came out of the hotel the next day, he expected to find the deputy waiting for him. Thankfully, he was not.
He found a small cantina for breakfast and was hoping to saddle up and ride out of town without running into Deputy Marshal Ben Weaver.
It was not to be.
When he came out of the cantina, the deputy was walking across the street toward him, looking very intense.
“I missed you at the hotel,” Weaver said.
“I know.”
“So when do we leave?”
“We’re not leaving, Deputy,” Clint said. “I am.”
“Why?” Weaver demanded. “Why won’t you take me with you?”
“Because I don’t know you, Deputy,” Clint said. “I can’t ride with a man, trust him to watch my back, if I don’t know him. It’s as simple as that.”
“The marshal can vouch for me.”
“I’d have to be able to trust his opinion,” Clint said. “I can’t. I don’t know him either.”
“B-but I can handle myself, Mr. Adams,” Weaver insisted. “I can.”
“I’m sorry, Deputy,” Clint said. “I have to go.”
Clint started past the man, who bit his lip, then yelled, “Wait!”
Clint turned. He knew what was coming. He could see it in the deputy’s eyes.
“If I outdraw you, will you take me with you?” the man asked.
“Ben, I don’t draw my gun unless I’m going to use it,” Clint said. “This isn’t a game.”
“I gotta get out of this town, Mr. Adams,” Weaver said.
“Ben,” Clint said, using his name again, “you’re not a kid. You want to leave El Paso . . . leave.”
Weaver licked his lips.
“I-I can’t.” He looked ashamed. “I-I ain’t never been anywhere else.”
“I can’t babysit you, Deputy,” Clint said. “I won’t get myself killed because you need help leaving town.”
Clint turned and walked away. This time the deputy didn’t call out to him.
