FORTY-FIVE
Clint was in the lobby when McBeth came down the steps, looking wide awake. On the other hand, Weaver stumbled down the stairs.
“Ben, take up a position across the street,” Clint said, “in front of the hardware store. I’ll be in front of the empty storefront. James . . .”
“I’m going to wait right out front,” McBeth said. “I want to be right there when Dolan walks out.”
“Are you any good with that hogleg, McBeth?” Weaver asked nervously.
“I could ask you the same question, Ben,” McBeth said.
“I guess we’re going to find out the answer to both questions,” Clint said, “aren’t we?”
They had to wait two hours, and then things did not go quite as planned, mostly because Santee was not a fool.
When Dolan appeared, coming out the front door, he had Santee next to him, and then coming out behind him, wearing their guns, were Edwards, Hicks, and Morris, all smirking.
“Crap,” Clint said.
Dolan stopped as McBeth stepped into the center of the street.
“It was a good plan, James,” Dolan said. “Lucky for me, Santee doesn’t sleep real well. He saw you and your friends skulking around the lobby and the halls and then checked on Morris, Hicks, and Edwards.”
“This has been a long time coming, Jamie,” McBeth said.
“Aye, it sure has,” Dolan said. “Dublin to Shreveport. I’ve really liked the American West. Have you?”
“Very much,” McBeth said, “and I’d like it more if you weren’t in it.”
“So,” Dolan said, “how do we do this? I assume you want to go man to man, since you didn’t try to tie me up in my room last night.”
“We’ve always known it would be you or me, Jamie.”
“Aye, but we didn’t think it would come to this,” Dolan said. “A Western shoot-out. Exciting, eh?”
“If you want to see it that way.”
When the pedestrians realized something was going on, they got off the street, looking for cover.
Once Clint realized what was happening he stepped into the street, signaling Weaver to do the same.
“Ah, crap,” Weaver said, stepping down from the boardwalk.
As Clint moved up to McBeth’s right, Dolan said, “Do ye want to introduce me to yer friends, James?”
“This is Ben Weaver on my left,” McBeth said. “Used to be a lawman in El Paso. And on my right is someone you may have heard of since you came to the West. This is Clint Adams.”
“Clint Adams?” Dolan asked, frowning.
Santee leaned in and said something to him.
“Ah, the famous gunfighter, the Gunsmith,” Dolan said. “You’ve done yerself proud, Jamie. Five against three doesn’t seem like such a disparity in the odds now, does it?”
“Four against two, Jamie,” McBeth said. “You and me, that is something separate.”
“Santee?” Dolan asked. “You got any problem facing the Gunsmith?”
“I would consider it an honor,” Santee said, “to be the man who kills the Gunsmith.”
Clint decided to keep silent and let McBeth do all the talking.
“I’m sure Clint is not all that worried about Mr. Santee, who he had never heard of before this. But enough talk, Jamie. The talk and the huntin’ is done. I’m just glad I caught up to you before you could kill any more women.”
“You know,” Dolan said, “I’ve come to like the American West so much that even after I kill you and I’m no longer on the run, I think I’ll stay awhile. There are many, many women whose acquaintance I still need to make.”
“No more women, Jamie,” McBeth said. “Not for you.”
Dolan waved to his men and said, “Step aside, gents, and take care of your own business.”
But Clint could see on the faces of Morris, Hicks and Edwards that they didn’t exactly think of this as “their business.” Especially after they found out who he was.
“Your men don’t look so sure, Dolan,” Clint said.
Dolan frowned, looked at the three men he and Santee had hired in Natchitoches.
“We ain’t been ridin’ with you long enough to take a hand in this, Dolan,” Morris said, and his partners nodded.
“You ain’t payin’ me enough to face the Gunsmith,” Edwards said, and Hicks nodded.
“Step aside then!” Dolan growled. “I’ll deal with you three later. Santee?”
“I am here, senor.”
“Adams is yours.”
“Sí,” Santee said, “I would not have it any other way.”
“Ben,” Clint said, “step aside, and keep your eye on those three.”
Weaver wondered how he had ended up watching three men by himself.
“Crap,” he said to himself.
Santee crossed behind Dolan, like any experienced pistoleer would do, so that he was standing on the big Irishman’s left, facing Clint.
“So,” Dolan asked, “how does this work. Do we count?”
“Just draw!” Santee said, and his hand streaked for his gun.
The Mexican was fast. It surprised Clint how fast he was. But he dispatched him quickly, nevertheless, because he wanted to watch the two Irishmen—neither a gunman—go at it.
The bullet struck Santee in the chest, pierced his heart, and dropped him, and Clint still had time to turn and watch.
Dolan’s big hand grabbed for his gun, and it seemed to get stuck in the holster. At the same time McBeth grabbed for his gun. He got it out of his holster, but it almost went flying from his hand. He double-clutched, caught it before he could lose it, and righted it just as Dolan got his loose from his leather.
They both fired twice and missed, although McBeth did take out one hotel window.
On the third shot McBeth’s bullet finally struck Dolan in his huge chest. The man looked startled, fired at McBeth again and missed, and then McBeth’s fourth shot took Dolan in the forehead. When he hit the boardwalk with his back, it felt like an earthquake.
It got very quiet and Ben Weaver said to the other three men, “Scat!”
McBeth walked up onto the boardwalk, bent over Dolan to make sure he was dead, then holstered his gun.
It was over.
As Clint moved up next to him, the Dublin detective said, “I don’t know how you do this all the time.”
“I don’t do it all the time,” Clint said. He had reloaded and holstered his weapon. “But I get your point. You two were awful.”
“That’s why I’m going back to Dublin,” McBeth said. “I would never survive here.”
“Well,” Clint said, “why don’t we find that doctor we were talking about, get that bullet out of your back, and send you back home in one piece?”
“That sounds good to me.”
As Ben Weaver joined them, Clint saw some uniformed policemen rushing their way.
“But first,” he said, “we’ll have to deal with this.”
“If you don’t mind,” McBeth said, “you can do the talking. I’m suddenly very, very weary.”