THIRTY-ONE
Clint was sitting at a table in the cantina when Weaver came stumbling out.
“Have some coffee,” he said, pouring it. “You look like you need it.”
Weaver sat down and said, “I can’t hardly walk. That woman is . . . you can’t hardly satisfy her.” He sipped some coffee and shook his head. “I ain’t never been with a woman like that, Clint.” He leaned in. “And her husband ain’t forcin’ her to do nothin’, believe me.”
“Well, seems I misjudged one or both of them,” Clint said. “What was that you said yesterday about her being kind of old?”
“That don’t matter,” he said. “That woman . . . she knew things.”
“Experience,” Clint said. “Did you happen to find out anything else while you were . . . together?”
“Oh, yeah,” Weaver said, “I did. Seems the Mexican who’s ridin’ with Dolan is named Santee.”
“What about him?”
“Apparently, they came here because Santee has a daughter living here.”
“His daughter lives here?”
“That’s what she said.”
“And how does she know that?”
“Well, that’s interesting, too,” Weaver said. “See, she’s the girl’s mother.”
“She was married to this Santee?”
“No, she’s married to Carlos, the owner of this place, but years ago she got pregnant by Santee.”
“Does her husband know?”
“No, he thinks the girl is his daughter.”
“Her own husband doesn’t know, but she told you?” Clint asked. “Why would she do that?”
Weaver shrugged.
“She likes me.”
“And she doesn’t like her husband?”
“Not very much.”
Clint looked around to see if the husband was in earshot. At the moment he wasn’t even in the room.
“So, does she know where he was going when he left here?”
“No,” Weaver said. “She didn’t speak to him. They never speak when he comes to town.”
“What? But . . . what about the daughter?”
“He doesn’t talk to her either,” Weaver said. “In fact, she doesn’t know anything about him.”
“So, did you find out anything useful at all?” Clint asked impatiently.
“I think they’re heading back to the U.S.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The guy who spent the night with Angel wasn’t Santee. It was another guy, but she doesn’t know his name. He said they were going to look at a couple of larger towns in Mexico because the big Irish guy wanted to see them, and then go back to the U.S. That was weeks ago. They must’ve headed back by now.”
Clint rubbed his jaw.
“I think you’re right.”
“So we head back to El Paso?”
“No,” Clint said. “They won’t go back there. I think they’ll cross the border somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“That’s what we’re going to have to figure out,” Clint said.
“So when do we leave?”
“As soon as McBeth is ready to ride.”
“And when do you think that’ll be?”
“A lot sooner than is good for him, I’m sure.”
Clint was sitting by McBeth’s bed with a cup of coffee in his hand when the man woke up.
“Good morning,” McBeth said, blinking rapidly.
“Thought you might need this.”
“Thank you.”
“Want to sit up and drink it?”
“Yes.” Clint made a move to help him, but the Irishman waved him away, sat up, and accepted the coffee.
“Don’t tell Jacinta, but I’ve been sitting up by myself for a while.”
“Good for you. Want some breakfast? I think Angel is whipping up some burritos.”
“In the morning?” McBeth asked, appalled.
“They’ve got eggs in them.”
“Well,” McBeth said, “on second thought, that doesn’t sound too bad.”
“I’ll have her bring them in.”
He stood up.
“Have you eaten yet?” McBeth asked.
“No, I’ve just had coffee.”
“Join me then.”
“Mind if I bring somebody else in?”
“Who?”
“The kid who’s riding with me,” Clint said. “Well, he’s not really a kid, but he kind of is, experience-wise.”
“Bring him in,” McBeth said.
Clint nodded, went to get the food and Ben Weaver.