FORTY-THREE
It took Jamie Dolan and Santee two days to collect three extra men while they were in Natchitoches, which is the reason they arrived in Shreveport two full days after Clint, McBeth, and Weaver.
“Let’s get some hotel rooms, and then something to eat,” Dolan said, “and then Santee, I want to see one of these whorehouses you were tellin’ me about.”
“As you wish.”
They stopped at the first hotel they came to, which was not the hotel that Clint was in. And because they had killed Grey and Ludlow and stolen their share of the bank job, Dolan generously got his three new men—Edwards, Hicks, and Morris—their own rooms. They thought he was the best boss they’d ever had.
“Where do we get the best steak in town?” Dolan asked the clerk.
“Down the street, sir,” the clerk said. “A place called Constantine’s.”
“Okay,” Dolan said. He turned to his men and said, “Get settled in your rooms and meet me and Santee at that restaurant. Got it?”
“We got it, boss,” Morris said.
They went upstairs to their rooms thinking, best boss they ever had.
Weaver, McBeth, and Clint had been having their meals at different times, so that they weren’t off the street all at the same time. Once Weaver had found Constantine’s, he decided to have all his meals there—breakfast, lunch, and dinner. So he was sitting at a table, devouring a steak, when the three men walked in and asked for a table for five. They looked like they had just come in off the trail. He kept a wary eye on them until two more men arrived to join them. A Mexican, and a big man who matched McBeth’s description of Dolan to a T.
And to add to it, the Mexican was favoring one leg.
The left.
“It’s a helluva coincidence, huh?” Weaver asked Clint two hours later.
Clint hated coincidences, so he said, “No, it’s just . . . a lucky break. Instead of having to wait for him to go to a whorehouse, he ends up in the same restaurant with you.”
“But . . . that’s a coincidence.”
“Let’s go.” Clint stood up from the table he’d taken in the café across from the whorehouse. “Let’s go and collect Mr. McBeth and tell him the news.”
McBeth had chosen a storefront across from the second whorehouse on their list and was sitting on a wooden chair, watching.
He started to get up when he saw Clint and Weaver approaching, but Clint waved him back into his seat.
“What are you doing here?” the Irishman asked.
“Weaver found them.”
“Them? Dolan?”
“Dolan, Santee, and three others.”
“Three more?”
“They must have enlisted them along the way.”
“Where were they?” McBeth asked.
“They walked into the restaurant where I was eatin’,” Weaver said. “And I followed them to their hotel.”
“Where is it?” McBeth asked excitedly.
“Right across the street from ours. But they’re not there now. They went to a saloon down the street.”
“What are we waitin’ for?” McBeth said, standing.
“Wait, wait,” Clint said. “There are five of them, McBeth. We can’t just walk up to them.”
“Why not?” McBeth asked. “Maybe there are five of them, but I have the Gunsmith on my side. You and Weaver take care of the others. I’ll take care of Dolan.”
“And what do you want me to do?” Clint asked. “Kill them all? He’s just collected these three men since he killed the other two. We don’t even know if they’ve done anything.”
“Yet,” McBeth said. “You know it’s only a matter of time.”
“I’m not going to kill them because they might do something,” Clint said.
“Fine,” McBeth said, “Stay here, or go to the hotel. Weaver and I will handle it.”
“What?”
“He killed my wife!” McBeth said to Weaver.
Weaver, shocked because he had not heard that before, said, “I’m really sorry about that, McBeth, but I’m not about to face five guns with only you to back me up.”
McBeth glared at the two men.
“Fine,” he said finally, “what do you suggest?”
“We get him away from the others,” Clint said. “Either him alone, or with Santee.”
“How do we do that?”
“I have an idea.”