TWENTY-FOUR
Clint and Ben Weaver rode into Los Ninos six days later. During that time Clint found that Weaver could listen and learn if he tried. The problem was getting him to try. There were times when he’d just stare off into space, and Clint swore there was nothing going on behind his eyes.
The sooner he got rid of Weaver, the better he’d like it. He preferred the company of his horse. At least Eclipse listened all the time.
“This is nothin’ but a village,” Weaver said. “What are we doin’ here?”
“This is where the tracks led us, remember?” Clint asked. “The tracks?”
“Oh, yeah.” Weaver looked around. “But look, five buildings.”
“It’s a town, Ben,” Clint said. “It’s got a name and, look, it’s got a cantina. It’s a town.”
As they dismounted in front of the cantina, Weaver said, “No hotel. How can anyone stay here?”
“They probably have rooms in back of the cantina,” Clint said.
“We ain’t stayin’ here, are we?”
“I don’t know, Ben,” Clint said. “That all depends on what we find out inside.”
“Well,” Weaver said, following him in, “at least we can get a beer.”
When they entered there were six other men there, and the bartender, so seven sets of eyes followed them to the bar.
“Dos cervezas, por favor,” Clint said.
“Sí, senor.”
The bartender drew them each beer and set them in front of Clint and Weaver.
Clint knew before he picked it up that the beer was going to be warm. Weaver, on the other hand, didn’t know until he sipped it.
“Hey,” he complained, “this is warm.”
“It is all we have, senor,” the bartender said.
“Drink it, Ben,” Clint said. “At least it’s wet.”
Clint could feel the eyes on him. Unless someone recognized him, they probably stared at all strangers who came to Los Ninos.
Still . . .
“What’s the problem?” Clint asked the bartender.
“Senor?”
“Why is everyone staring,” Clint asked, “including you?”
“Staring senor,” the bartender said with a shrug. “I do not know—”
“Come on, bartender,” Clint said. “What’s going on? Or what went on?”
“Well, we did have something happen about six days ago,” the bartender said, “but—”
“So now you’re looking at strangers funny?” Clint asked. “All strangers?”
“Well . . . sí, senor.”
Clint turned and looked around. The six men looked away—into their drinks or at the ceiling. He saw some stains on the floor that looked as if someone had done a bad job of washing them out.
Blood.
“How long ago did you say?” he asked.
“I would say six days, senor.”
“And who was shot?”
“Five men, senor,” the man said, then added, “well, uh, six.”
“Six?”
“He was alone,” the bartender said, “and the other men tried to kill him.”
“Do you know who the five men were?”
“Sí,” the bartender said, and reeled off the five Mexican names.
“And were they riding with an Irishman?”
“An Irishman, senor?”
“Never mind,” Clint said. “Were they riding with a gringo?”
“Oh, no, senor, but they were paid by a gringo.”
“And when was that gringo here?”
“Oh, many weeks ago.
“How many is many?”
“I would say . . . two?”
“Two weeks?”
The man nodded.
Clint asked, “That’s many?”
The bartender shrugged.
“Okay, what happened to the sixth man?” Clint said.
“He killed the other five.”
“And?”
“He was shot in the back.”
Clint closed his eyes, then opened them and frowned.
“They shot him in the back, and then he killed them all?”
“No,” the bartender said, “he shot them, but he was not dead. When he turned around, he was shot in the back. Then he killed the last man.”
“And then he died?’ Weaver asked.
“Oh, no, senor,” the bartender said. “He did not die. He has a room in the back.”