TWENTY-SEVEN
As soon as McBeth’s head hit the pillow, he fell asleep. Clint collected their plates and mugs and carried them out. The waitress met him halfway, said “Gracias,” and took everything from him.
Ben Weaver was sitting at a table, finishing his own meal.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “Is your friend okay?”
“He will be,” Clint said. “He has a bullet in his back, down low on the left side. There’s no doctor in town, so it can’t be removed.”
“Can he ride?”
“He shouldn’t,” Clint said, “but he will.”
“When?”
“I don’t know,” Clint said. “Maybe days.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I know,” Clint said, “but he’s got good cause to be crazy.”
“So what do we do? Just hang around?”
“Why don’t you walk around town, talk to some people,” Clint suggested.
“What am I lookin’ for?”
“Anyone who might have talked to Dolan or somebody in his gang,” Clint said. “There’s supposed to be one Mexican in the gang. Maybe somebody in town knows who he is.”
“We don’t have any official standing in Mexico, Clint,” Weaver said, “Why would they talk to us?”
“We don’t have any official standing anywhere, Ben,” Clint said. “And they’ll talk to you if you make them talk to you.”
“Make them . . . oh.”
“Just don’t kill anybody.”
Clint stood up.
“Where will you be?”
“Around,” Clint said. “The town’s not so big that you won’t be able to find me.”
“What about rooms for the night?”
“I’ll ask,” Clint said, “but we may have to sleep in a barn or something.”
“Great.”
“Just go.”
Weaver got up.
“I’m on my way.”
Clint waited for the waitress to come to the table to clean it off.
“Café, por favor?” he asked.
“Sí, senor.”
“Fuerte y negro,” he told her. He’d learned years ago how to say “strong and black.”
“Sí, senor.”
When she returned with a pot of coffee, he asked, “Habla inglés?”
“Sí.”
“What’s your name?”
“Angelina,” she said. “Angel.”
“Jacinta Hernandez, Angel,” Clint said. “Where can I find her?”
“End of the street.”
“End of the street?” he asked. “That’s also the end of town, right?”
She smiled.
“Sí, senor.”
“Out the door, left or right?”
“Right.”
“Gracias.”
“Por nada.”
“One more thing.”
She turned and looked at him, frowning.
“Senor?”
“Any rooms available here?”
“Sí, senor,” she said. “Many empty rooms. Take your pick.”
“Thank you.”
Now it was her turn to ask a question.
“Senor?”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps you will be wanting . . . some company tonight?”
She was middle-aged, but her low-cut peasant blouse and colorful skirt showed off a solid, appealing body. She also had a heavy-featured but pretty face.
“Isn’t the bartender your husband?”
“Sí, senor.”
“I don’t think so, Angel,” he said. “Perhaps another time?”
“Como quiera,” she said. “As you wish. And your amigo?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
She nodded, went back to the kitchen. Clint had two cups of coffee from the pot she’d brought, then stood up, walked out the door, and turned right.