TWENTY-THREE
McBeth rode into Los Ninos and immediately felt all the eyes that were on him. It was as if the whole town had known he was coming. It was a little town, though, so maybe the danger was limited.
Sometimes McBeth wished he had some kind of badge to pin to his shirt. It would be a target to some people, but probably more of them would simply turn and walk away.
He reined in his horse in front of a cantina. From his saddle he could pretty much see every building in town. There was no sheriff’s office in sight. The only building with any identifying name was the one he was in front of. Over the door was a crude sign that read CANTINA.
He dismounted, tied his horse off, and went inside.
“Senor,” the bartender said, “welcome to Los Ninos. What will you have?”
“A beer.”
The bartender filled a mug and set it in front of him.
“Cerveza,” he said. “Anything else?”
There were several men in the cantina all watching McBeth drink his beer.
“Yes,” McBeth said, “why is everyone so interested in me?”
The bartender shrugged.
“You are a stranger.”
“Don’t you get strangers in here?”
“Sí, senor, we do.”
“And do they all get this much attention?”
The man shrugged.
McBeth turned and looked at the four other men in the place. They were way too interested in him. Almost as if they had been waiting for him.
It wasn’t Dolan’s style to set up an ambush for him. He knew when he finally caught up to the man that Dolan would face him one to one. But until then, he wouldn’t put it past Dolan to test him, or play with him.
If these fellows were waiting for him, it wasn’t to kill him, just maybe to slow him down.
He looked at the bartender.
“You know what is goin’ on, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You in on it?”
The barman licked his lips and said, “No, sir.”
“All right, then,” McBeth said. “You hit the floor behind the bar when everything starts.”
“I got a scattergun back here,” the man said. “You are welcome to it.”
“That may not be a bad idea,” McBeth said. “Keep it close.”
“Sure thing.”
McBeth turned to face the four men. . . .
One of them was named Jorge Chavez, another Eibar Rodriguez. These were the two men Dolan had hired to “slow McBeth down.” Unfortunately, slow to these two men meant dead, so they got two more helpers—Lopez and Martinez—to sit with them and wait for McBeth, who Dolan had figured would arrive . . . today.
Chavez was about to signal the others to start shooting at the Irishman’s back when McBeth turned around and leaned against the bar. . . .
“You men waitin’ for me?” he asked.
“Why would you ask that, senor?” Chavez asked.
“There’s a phrase I’ve learned since I got off the boat,” McBeth said. “Itchy trigger finger. You have all got it.”
Chavez looked at the other men, then went for his gun. The other three followed.
McBeth turned. If the bartender had been lying to him, he would have been a dead man, but the barkeep had the shotgun ready and pressed it into McBeth’s hands.
The Irishman turned and let loose with both barrels.
He didn’t wait to see what the effect was. He dropped the weapon to the floor and drew his own gun. He felt something tug at his side as he fired at Rodriguez. The Mexican went back over a table, his gun flying out of his hand.
It was quiet.
The bartender stuck his head up, looked around at the four fallen men.
“Caramba,” he said, “you got them all.”
McBeth looked around. Two men who had been standing close together had been riddled by the shotgun blast. The other two men were lying on their backs.
“Cerveza?” the bartender asked.
“I guess I need one after that,” McBeth said, turning.
But it occurred to him that two men had died from the shotgun blast, and then he had fired his pistol only once.
“Senor!” the bartender shouted.
Realizing he’d been a fool, McBeth heard the shot before he felt something punch him in the back. He drew his gun, turned, and fired . . .