THIRTY-THREE

McBeth got himself dressed—was even able to pull on his boots—and then he went for a walk with Clint on one side and Weaver on the other.

“You’re pretty steady,” Clint said. “I think Jacinta was right. You are a quick healer. But if you’re going to ride we’re going to have to wrap you up tight to keep the wound from bleeding.”

“You can do that,” McBeth said. “I think Jacinta has done enough.”

“Actually,” Clint said, “if you’re a quick healer she hasn’t done much, has she? Couldn’t remove the bullet.”

“She did stitch the wound closed,” he pointed out.

“Okay,” Clint said, “there is that.”

“Can you remove the bullet?” McBeth asked.

“I’ve done it once or twice,” Clint admitted, “but that would hold you up for days.”

“Good point.”

“Might save your life, though,” Weaver said.

McBeth looked at the ex-deputy, then said, “Another good point, but no. I’ve got to ride. If I let Dolan get too far ahead of me, he’ll be bloody hard to catch.”

They walked to the small barn that housed all three of their horses. Clint checked briefly on Eclipse just for something to do, and then they started walking back.

“How you doing?” Clint asked.

“I’m actually feelin’ pretty strong,” McBeth said, as if he himself was surprised.

“You’d better rest the remainder of the day,” Clint said.

“I want to ride out tomorrow, Clint.”

“Isn’t that a little soon?”

“I feel really good,” McBeth said. “Let’s make it tomorrow.”

Weaver looked over at Clint, who shrugged.

“Why don’t you and Mr. Weaver decide which way we’re gonna go?” the Irishman asked. “I’ll trust ye to make a good decision.”

“We’ll make an educated guess,” Clint replied.

“I’ll rest for the remainder of the afternoon, but I’ll take my supper in the cantina, sitting at a table,” McBeth said.

“If that’s what you want,” Clint said.

“That’s what I want.”

“Okay, then,” Clint said. “We’ll spend one more night here.”

“Mr. Weaver,” McBeth said, “the way you got them two women lookin’ at you, you’d better mind how you decide how to spend the night.”

“Ain’t never had two women wantin’ me before,” Weaver said.

“I suspect Angel wants pay for another night,” Clint said.

“And Jacinta?” McBeth asked.

“No telling what she wants,” Clint said. “She doesn’t have a very high opinion of men.”

“She said I was handsome,” Weaver said.

Clint looked at McBeth and said, “See what I mean?”

McBeth laughed.

 

McBeth rested until supper time, then came out into the cantina and joined Clint and Weaver at a table.

“First time I been in a chair since I got shot,” he said.

“How’s it feel?” Clint asked.

“Kind of stiff.”

“Probably going to be even stiffer in the saddle,” Clint observed.

“No,” McBeth said, “it’ll stretch out and feel better the more I ride.”

“Sounds like you been shot before,” Weaver said.

“Once or twice.”

“I ain’t never been shot.”

“It isn’t something to look forward to, Weaver,” Clint said.

Angel came out of the kitchen with a tray.

“I took the liberty of ordering steaks,” Clint said to McBeth.

“Sounds good,” the Irishman said. “I think I’ve had enough tacos and enchiladas to last me a lifetime.”

Angel laid out the plates, and three mugs of lukewarm beer to wash the food down with. She bumped Weaver’s shoulder with an ample hip before heading back to the kitchen. There was a man and a woman at another table eating, and the bartender behind the bar. Other than that, nobody else was around.

“Eat up,” McBeth said to Weaver. “I’ve got a feelin’ you’re gonna need your strength tonight.”

Weaver picked up his knife and fork, looking uncomfortable.