Free The Dublin Detective by J. R. Roberts

Irishman’s back when McBeth turned around and leaned against the bar. . . .
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    â€œYou men waitin’ for me?” he asked.
    â€œWhy would you ask that, senor ?” Chavez asked.
    â€œThere’s a phrase I’ve learned since I got off the boat,” McBeth said. “ Itchy trigger finger. You have all got it.”
    Chavez looked at the other men, then went for his gun. The other three followed.
    McBeth turned. If the bartender had been lying to him, he would have been a dead man, but the barkeep had the shotgun ready and pressed it into McBeth’s hands.
    The Irishman turned and let loose with both barrels.
    He didn’t wait to see what the effect was. He dropped the weapon to the floor and drew his own gun. He felt something tug at his side as he fired at Rodriguez. The Mexican went back over a table, his gun flying out of his hand.
    It was quiet.
    The bartender stuck his head up, looked around at the four fallen men.
    â€œ Caramba ,” he said, “you got them all.”
    McBeth looked around. Two men who had been standing close together had been riddled by the shotgun blast. The other two men were lying on their backs.
    â€œ Cerveza ?” the bartender asked.
    â€œI guess I need one after that,” McBeth said, turning.
    But it occurred to him that two men had died from the shotgun blast, and then he had fired his pistol only once.
    â€œ Senor !” the bartender shouted.
    Realizing he’d been a fool, McBeth heard the shot before he felt something punch him in the back. He drew his gun, turned, and fired . . .

TWENTY-FOUR
    Clint and Ben Weaver rode into Los Ninos six days later. During that time Clint found that Weaver could listen and learn if he tried. The problem was getting him to try. There were times when he’d just stare off into space, and Clint swore there was nothing going on behind his eyes.
    The sooner he got rid of Weaver, the better he’d like it. He preferred the company of his horse. At least Eclipse listened all the time.
    â€œThis is nothin’ but a village,” Weaver said. “What are we doin’ here?”
    â€œThis is where the tracks led us, remember?” Clint asked. “The tracks?”
    â€œOh, yeah.” Weaver looked around. “But look, five buildings.”
    â€œIt’s a town, Ben,” Clint said. “It’s got a name and, look, it’s got a cantina. It’s a town.”
    As they dismounted in front of the cantina, Weaver said, “No hotel. How can anyone stay here?”
    â€œThey probably have rooms in back of the cantina,” Clint said.
    â€œWe ain’t stayin’ here, are we?”
    â€œI don’t know, Ben,” Clint said. “That all depends on what we find out inside.”
    â€œWell,” Weaver said, following him in, “at least we can get a beer.”
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    When they entered there were six other men there, and the bartender, so seven sets of eyes followed them to the bar.
    â€œDos cervezas, por favor,” Clint said.
    â€œSí, senor.”
    The bartender drew them each beer and set them in front of Clint and Weaver.
    Clint knew before he picked it up that the beer was going to be warm. Weaver, on the other hand, didn’t know until he sipped it.
    â€œHey,” he complained, “this is warm.”
    â€œIt is all we have, senor ,” the bartender said.
    â€œDrink it, Ben,” Clint said. “At least it’s wet.”
    Clint could feel the eyes on him. Unless someone recognized him, they probably stared at all strangers who came to Los Ninos.
    Still . . .
    â€œWhat’s the problem?” Clint asked the bartender.
    â€œ Senor ?”
    â€œWhy is everyone staring,” Clint asked, “including you?”
    â€œStaring senor ,” the bartender said with a shrug. “I do not know—”
    â€œCome on, bartender,” Clint said. “What’s going on? Or what went