TWENTY-SIX
Surprisingly, James McBeth felt better once he was sitting up. Well enough to eat and share a meal with Clint, who told Ben Weaver to go ahead and eat in the cantina.
They both asked McBeth’s “doctor” to join them, but she said she had a baby to deliver.
“Several, in fact,” she added. “I’ll check in on you later. If you start to feel worse—” She stopped, then looked at Clint. “If he starts to feel bad again, help him to lie back down.”
“I’ll do that.”
She nodded, turned to leave.
“Jacinta,” Clint said.
“Yes?”
“You speak English very well.”
She smiled.
“I was educated in your country,” she said and left.
“She would be even more attractive,” McBeth said, “if she had an Irish accent,”
“To you, maybe.”
A middle-aged waitress—the owner and bartender’s wife—came in with a tray of food and set it down for them. Enchiladas, beans, and rice. The smell set Clint’s mouth to watering. When he tasted it, his mouth watered even more.
“This is the best meal I’ve had since gettin’ off the boat,” McBeth said.
“Might be because you’re alive,” Clint said, “but it is good.”
They were both hungry so they ate in silence for a while until they were both almost done. The waitress came in and asked if they wanted more, and both said yes. They talked while they waited for her to return.
“You plan to stay on Dolan’s trail?” Clint asked.
“I didn’t come all this way to give up.”
“The trail’s liable to be cold by now.”
“Well,” McBeth said, “you did say you wanted to help. You could pick up the trail again.”
“Maybe.”
“You found me.”
“I had help.”
“What kind of help?”
Clint told McBeth about the triangle on the horseshoe. “Who would put a triangle on a horseshoe?”
“The question has been asked more than once,” Clint said.
“Any answer?”
“Sorry, no.”
The woman returned with two more helpings.
Dos cervezas, por favor,” Clint said.
Sí, senor.”
McBeth was staring at him.
“Beer,” Clint said.
“Ah, good.”
She returned with two mugs of warm beer. McBeth took a sip and made a face.
“Best we can do.”
“The food makes up for it,” McBeth said. “Will you stay and help me?”
“Dolan could be back in the U.S. by now,” Clint pointed out.
“Then I’ll follow him there,” McBeth said. “Fact is, I will follow him to hell if I have to.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I think before I commit to anything, I’d like you to explain that.”
McBeth stared at Clint for a few moments, then said, “Yeah, all right. I guess you’ve got it comin’.”
“Is it a long story?” Clint asked.
“It’s a very short story,” McBeth said. “Dolan’s specialty is killin’ women.”
“I know,” Clint said, “you told me that when we first met.”
“Yes, well,” McBeth said, “what I didn’t tell you is that he . . . he also killed my wife.”
“Your wife?”
McBeth nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “she was the last woman he killed in Ireland.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Clint said. “I didn’t . . . I’m sorry, McBeth.”
“Thank you.”
“Has he killed any women since he’s been here?”
“One or two along the way,” McBeth said, “and he’s hurt a few others.”
“Can you prove he killed them?”
“No,” McBeth said.
“So we’ve got nothing to turn him over to the law for when . . . if . . . we catch up to him?”
“He’s got himself a few men to ride with him,” McBeth said. “They’re callin’ themselves the Dolan Gang.”
“Yeah,” Clint said, “yeah, I did hear something about that.”
“They robbed some stagecoaches and a bank or two,” McBeth said. “So I’m sure the law will be interested in the other three.”
“The other three?”
“Well,” McBeth said, “I don’t have any reason to kill them. I’m willin’ to turn them over to the law. But Dolan . . . that’s a different story.”
“You intend to kill him?”
McBeth nodded.
“I intend to kill him.”
“Well, if there’s a bounty on him, that won’t be a problem,” Clint said. “But if you kill him in cold blood, somebody’s going to come looking for you—somebody wearing a badge.”
“That won’t be a problem,” McBeth said. “Dolan will face me fairly.”
“You can say that, after he had you shot in the back?” Clint asked.
“That wasn’t his intention,” McBeth said. “The men he hired went too far. Dolan was just trying to slow me down. He knows I’m comin’ for him, and he intends to face me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know him very well,” McBeth said. “I know how he thinks and I know what he’ll do.”
“Well,” Clint said, “if that’s the case, you ought to be able to predict what he’ll do next.”
“The problem is, he knows I know him,” McBeth said. “That means whatever he does, it is guaranteed to be unpredictable.”
“Then it sounds like you knowing him isn’t going to be very helpful in catching up to him.”
“I guess that’ll be where you come in,” McBeth said. “You know what I’ve been hearin’ about ever since we last saw each other?”
“What?”
“The Gunsmith,” he said. “I’ve been hearin’ how the Gunsmith is a legend and can do anything.”
“Well,” Clint said, “don’t believe everything you hear, McBeth.”
“You know,” McBeth said, “since we’re going to be partners for a while, I think you should call me James. And I will call you Clint, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” Clint said, “but—”
“You know,” McBeth said, “now that I’ve eaten I really think I should lie back down for a while. You mind givin’ me a hand, Clint?”
“No, James,” Clint said, “I don’t mind at all.”