FORTY-FOUR
Santee didn’t know how he did it, but he talked Dolan out of going to a whorehouse that night.
“You smell like a horse,” he said.
“Believe me, boyo,” Dolan said, “the lass I pick isn’t going to mind.”
“This is Shreveport,” Santee said. “They won’t even let you in before you take a bath.”
“A bath?” Dolan looked appalled. “I don’t see you taking a bath.”
“I don’t want to go to a whorehouse,” the Mexican pointed out.
“Okay,” Dolan said reluctantly, “I’ll take a bath . . . but in the mornin’.”
Bueno,” Santee said. “Now have another drink.”
The Mexican and the big Irishman were standing at the bar while the other three had taken a table together.
“Those three are not very smart,” Santee said.
“That is exactly why I chose them,” Dolan said, waving to the bartender.
 
Clint thought they lucked out when Dolan passed on going to a whorehouse that night. He, Santee, and his men, after a few drinks, gave in to the fatigue from riding all day and went to their rooms.
Weaver followed them from the saloon to their hotel, then crossed the street to meet with Clint and McBeth at their hotel.
“If we’re gonna do this,” he asked, “why don’t we also do it to Dolan?”
“I’m going to take Dolan in the street, face to face,” McBeth said.
Weaver looked at Clint, who just shrugged.
“What about Santee?” he asked.
“Dolan may not leave the hotel without Santee,” Clint said. “Remember, he’s his guide.”
“Okay,” Weaver said, “if that’s the way you wanna do it.”
“You got the room numbers?” Clint asked him.
“Yup.”
“Then let’s go,” Clint said. “And remember, this has to be done without a shot.”
 
Clint went down the hall to room seven. Farther along Weaver stood in front of room nine, and McBeth in front of ten. While Dolan’s men had their own rooms, they did not have large rooms like he and Santee did, so those two were on a different floor.
All three men drew their guns, knocked on the door lightly with the barrel, and waited. Clint hoped that none of the men had acquired the habit of answering the door with a gun in their hand. As it happened, all three men had been awakened and stumbled to the door blearily.
The door to seven opened, a filmy eye appeared, and Clint pressed the barrel of his gun against the man’s forehead.
“Back up and don’t make a sound.”
The man’s eye widened and he did as he was told . . .
Within minutes Edwards, Hicks, and Morris were trussed up on their beds—tied securely and gagged.
“Be back sometime tomorrow,” Clint said to Morris. “Meanwhile, get a good night’s sleep.”
He stepped into the hall and, from the lack of any shooting, assumed things had gone well in rooms nine and ten. In moments both McBeth and Weaver appeared.
“Okay, we’re all set,” Clint said.
“I still think we should take Dolan this way, and the Mexican,” Weaver said.
“If you want to sit this out tomorrow, I’ll understand, Ben,” McBeth said.
“I didn’t say that!” Weaver snapped. “Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”
“Okay, then,” Clint said, “first light in the lobby.”
They went to their own rooms, although none of the three of them expected to get any sleep.