TWENTY

Clint went as far as El Paso del Norte, stopped there to speak to El Jefe, a man named Innocencio Higuera. He started by introducing himself.

“Please, senor, sit,” Higuera said. “It is a great pleasure to meet one such as yourself. Who sent you to see me?”

Clint noticed that the sheriff’s badge that the man wore was very tarnished. He didn’t seem to mind, though. For one thing, he had enough shiny metal in his teeth to make up for it.

“Marshal Turner, from across the border, told me to speak with you.”

“Ah, mi amigo Turner,” Higuera said. “You know, he was once a Texas Ranger.” He said this as if he was very impressed.

“I do know that,” Clint said. “In fact, I knew him back then.”

“Ah, then you are friends, no?”

“We are friends, no,” Clint said. “We are more like acquaintances.”

“I do not understand the difference, but it is of no consequence,” the man said, waving away his ignorance impatiently. “Tell me, what can I do for the Gunsmith, senor?”

“I’m looking for a man named James McBeth,” Clint said. “He is an Irishman.”

“An Irishman?” Higuera frowned.

“He is from a country called Ireland.”

“I know where an Irishman is from, senor,” Higuera said with a smile. “I am simply trying to remember the name.”

“He is chasing another Irishman named Jamie Dolan, if that helps.”

“McBeth, Dolan,” Sheriff Higuera said. “I do not know these names. James and Jamie? Those are not the same names?”

“They are not.”

“It is odd, no?”

“Yes,” Clint said, “it is.”

“Lo siento,” the man said. “Please, forgive me. I keep interrupting you.”

“I’m just trying to find out what you know—if anything—about the two men I mentioned.”

“Well, Dolan . . .” Higuera pursed his lips. “He has a gang, no?”

“Yes, he does.”

“Then yes,” he said, slapping the arm of his chair, “he was here, with his gang . . . oh, perhaps ten days ago.”

“And the other man? McBeth.”

“Searching for Dolan, yes,” Higuera said, “I believe—yes, he was here perhaps four days ago.”

“Did he tell you he was a lawman?”

“Sí, he did,” Higuera said. He spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Sadly, he is a lawman only in his own country. Not in yours, and not in mine. I warned him about this.”

“The Dolan Gang caused some trouble in El Paso,” Clint said. “Did they cause any trouble here?”

“None,” Higuera said happily. “I was very pleased with their behavior, as were the people of El Paso del Norte.”

“Why do you think that was?” Clint asked.

Higuera puffed out his chest and said, “I would not allow it, and I am El Jefe here. I believe they understood that.” Higuera frowned at Clint and spoke to him as if he were speaking to a child. “You must be very firm with such people, senor.” He even waggled an index finger at Clint. “It is all they understand.”

“I suppose so,” Clint said. “Well, thank you for your help.”

He stood and the two men shook hands. Higuera was as tall as Clint, heavier through the chest and shoulders. His handshake was firm.

“I only hope that I have, indeed, helped you, senor,” Higuera said. “If I have not I would be . . . desolate.” He clutched his chest. Clint had still not decided if all the man’s dramatic gestures were an act or not.

“You have.”

“May I ask why the Gunsmith is also searching for this man Dolan?” Higerua asked. “Or is it the other man, McBeth, whom you seek?”

“I’m trying to see to it that Dolan and his gang don’t kill McBeth.”

“And this is your business . . . why?” Higuera asked with a shrug.

“Four-to-one odds,” Clint said. “I just don’t like them.”

“Ah, but your friend, McBeth . . . he will like them even less, yes?”

“That is definitely a yes,” Clint said.