TWENTY-FIVE
When James McBeth opened his eyes, he saw Clint Adams looking down at him.
“Adams?”
“That’s right.”
“Wh-what the bloody hell are you doin’ here?”
“Well,” Clint said, “as a matter of fact, I was looking for you.”
“Looks like you found me.”
“Not exactly the way I expected to find you, though,” Clint said.
“Not the way I expected to find myself either,” McBeth said, shifting painfully. He was lying on his right side because the wound he suffered was in his back.
“Seems like you were a little careless.”
Between gritted teeth McBeth said, “Guess you could say that.”
“And you still are.”
“What?”
“You’re lying on your right side,” Clint said.
“So?”
“Aren’t you right-handed?”
“I am.”
“You got your gun hanging on the bedpost, but can you get to it left-handed?”
“I-I’m not sure.”
“You should be lying on your left side, McBeth.”
“Truth be told,” McBeth said, “it hurts less this way.”
“It’s going to hurt less when you’re dead, too.”
“I suppose,” McBeth said. “If we’re going to talk, could you sit down? It hurts to look up.”
“Sure thing,” Clint said. He pulled a chair over and sat down.
“Why are you lookin’ for me?” the Irishman asked.
“Heard you were in Texas,” Clint sad. “Thought I might be able to help.”
“But we are in Mexico now.”
“I sort of noticed,” Clint said. “I’ve been following you for a while, so when I got to the border I just kept going. You’re on Dolan’s trail?”
“That’s right,” McBeth said. “Have been since San Francisco.”
“So I guess he left a little surprise behind for you.”
“I know Dolan,” McBeth said. “Those men overstepped their bounds. At best they were only supposed to slow me down.”
“Well, I guess they did that. You still got that bullet in you?”
“I’m afraid so,” a woman’s voice said.
Clint turned and looked at the lady who had just entered the room. She was obviously Mexican, with dark skin and wild black hair. She had a wrap-around peasant blouse and was wearing a long skirt that covered her knees.
“And how would you know?” Clint asked.
“Because I left it in there,” she said, approaching the bed.
“You’re the doctor?”
“I am not a doctor,” she said, “which is why I left the bullet in there. But I am the closest thing to a doctor this town has, which is why your friend is still alive.”
She looked down at McBeth.
“How are you feeling today, Mr. McBeth?”
“All my parts are moving, Miss Hernandez.”
“I told you to call me Jacinta,” she said.
“Jacinta, this is Clint Adams.”
“Mr. Adams,” she said, looking at Clint. “Am I right that you are a friend? Or are you seeking to put another bullet into Mr. McBeth?”
“Given those two choices,” Clint said, “let’s say I’m his friend.”
“Well, I am going to take a look at your wound, Mr. McBeth. Do you object to your friend staying?”
“Not at all.”
She went around to the other side of the bed, removed the sheet from a mostly naked McBeth, and examined his wound.
“It is not infected,” she said after taking off the bandage. “Let me put a clean dressing on.”
“Ma’am, is he going to be all right with that bullet in there?”
“He will have to have it removed as soon as he can,” she said.
“But will he be able to ride?”
“I would advise he not ride,” she said, “but he has already told me he will not take my advice.”
“How else will I get around?” McBeth asked. “I can’t find Dolan on foot.”
“And he insists he is still going to hunt for this man Dolan.”
“I guess what we got here, ma’am, is a stubborn Irishman.”
She finished with the dressing and stood up straight.
“He is lucky he is not a dead Irishman.”
“That’s not down to luck,” McBeth said. “It’s down to you, Jacinta.”
“Do you want to try sitting up today?” she asked.
“I would love to sit up.”
“Would you help me, Mr. Adams?”
“Of course.”
“Let’s just bring him up slowly. James, you tell me when it hurts too much.”
“Don’t worry,” McBeth said. “You will be the first to know.”