TWENTY-EIGHT
Clint was prepared to knock on Jacinta’s door, but when he got there he saw there wasn’t one. The building was adobe, like all the others, but from its condition he had a feeling he was looking at the oldest building in town.
He was still standing in the doorless doorway when Jacinta appeared, leading a little girl behind her.
“Mr. Adams,” she said. “Is Mr. McBeth all right?”
“He’s fine,” Clint said. “He sat up for quite a while, then ate well. He’s asleep now.”
“Nina,” she said to the little girl, “run along home and tell Mama you are fine.”
“Sí, doctor.”
The little girl ran past Clint and out the door.
“She calls you doctor?”
“Most of the people around here do,” she said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Adams?”
“Please,” he said, “start by calling me Clint.”
“Very well, Clint,” she said. “What can I do to help you?”
“A few weeks before McBeth got to town, four other men came to town,” he said. “One of them was an Irishman, like McBeth. Another was Mexican. I suspect the other two were gringos.”
“I remember them.”
“You do?”
“In a village this small?” she said. “How could anyone not notice new arrivals.”
“Did you happen to have to treat any of them for injuries?”
“No,” she said. “I never met them.”
“How long were they here?”
“Just overnight.”
“Long enough to hire someone to shoot McBeth,” Clint remarked. “Did they stay in back of the cantina?”
“They did,” she said. “I’m afraid those rooms are usually empty. Those four men, then Mr. McBeth, now you and your friend, these are the most visitors we’ve had here in months.”
“I see. So you never spoke to any of them?”
“I never had a reason to.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
He turned to leave, then stopped.
“One more questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“The bartender at the cantina, he also owns it?”
“Yes.”
“And does he mind his wife . . . servicing the guests?”
“No,” she said, “in fact, he insists on it. Why, are you interested?”
“She offered,” he said, “but I turned her down. I hope I didn’t hurt her feelings.”
“I’m sure you didn’t—but why did you turn her down? She’s a beautiful woman.”
“Yes, she is,” he said, “but I’ve just never acquired the habit of paying for a woman.”
“Well . . . that’s admirable.”
“Why do you sound surprised?”
“Well . . . for one thing . . . you’re a man,” she said. “And for another, it’s . . . well, you’re . . . you do have a . . .”
“What? Reputation?” he asked.
“Even down here in Mexico we’ve heard of the Gunsmith,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he said, “but did you ever hear that I was some kind of . . . whoremonger?”
“I didn’t mean to offend—”
“No offense taken,” Clint said. “Just don’t believe everything you hear.”
“Does that include what I hear from you?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I never lie.”
“That so?” she asked. “Like I said, you are a man.”
“You don’t have a very good opinion of men, do you?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “I don’t.”
Recalling that she had been educated in the United States, he asked, “Is that American men, or does that mean all men?”
She thought a moment, then said, “No, my opinion pretty much runs to all men.”
“Where were you educated, Jacinta?”
“In the East.”
“As what?”
“A nurse.”
“Why did you decide to come here?”
“I came back here because this is where I was born. Los Ninos was always this small,” she said.
“Couldn’t you have made more money working in the U.S.?” he asked. “Working for a doctor?”
“A male doctor,” she said. “Probably. But these people need me.”
“Maybe,” he said, turning to leave.
“What do you mean, maybe?” she demanded.
He looked at her over his shoulder.
“Maybe you need them to need you,” he said. “Maybe this is just a place for you to hide out.”
“What do you know?”
“Probably nothing,” he said, on his way out the doorway. “Probably nothing at all.”