Free The Dublin Detective by J. R. Roberts Page A

on?”
    â€œWell, we did have something happen about six days ago,” the bartender said, “but—”
    â€œSo now you’re looking at strangers funny?” Clint asked. “All strangers?”
    â€œWell . . . sí, senor .”
    Clint turned and looked around. The six men looked away—into their drinks or at the ceiling. He saw some stains on the floor that looked as if someone had done a bad job of washing them out.
    Blood.
    â€œHow long ago did you say?” he asked.
    â€œI would say six days, senor .”
    â€œAnd who was shot?”
    â€œFive men, senor,” the man said, then added, “well, uh, six.”
    â€œSix?”
    â€œHe was alone,” the bartender said, “and the other men tried to kill him.”
    â€œDo you know who the five men were?”
    â€œ Sí ,” the bartender said, and reeled off the five Mexican names.
    â€œAnd were they riding with an Irishman?”
    â€œAn Irishman, senor ?”
    â€œNever mind,” Clint said. “Were they riding with a gringo ?”
    â€œOh, no, senor , but they were paid by a gringo .”
    â€œAnd when was that gringo here?”
    â€œOh, many weeks ago.
    â€œHow many is many?”
    â€œI would say . . . two?”
    â€œTwo weeks?”
    The man nodded.
    Clint asked, “That’s many?”
    The bartender shrugged.
    â€œOkay, what happened to the sixth man?” Clint said.
    â€œHe killed the other five.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œHe was shot in the back.”
    Clint closed his eyes, then opened them and frowned.
    â€œThey shot him in the back, and then he killed them all?”
    â€œNo,” the bartender said, “he shot them, but he was not dead. When he turned around, he was shot in the back. Then he killed the last man.”
    â€œAnd then he died?’ Weaver asked.
    â€œOh, no, senor ,” the bartender said. “He did not die. He has a room in the back.”

TWENTY-FIVE
    When James McBeth opened his eyes, he saw Clint Adams looking down at him.
    â€œAdams?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œWh-what the bloody hell are you doin’ here?”
    â€œWell,” Clint said, “as a matter of fact, I was looking for you.”
    â€œLooks like you found me.”
    â€œNot exactly the way I expected to find you, though,” Clint said.
    â€œNot the way I expected to find myself either,” McBeth said, shifting painfully. He was lying on his right side because the wound he suffered was in his back.
    â€œSeems like you were a little careless.”
    Between gritted teeth McBeth said, “Guess you could say that.”
    â€œAnd you still are.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou’re lying on your right side,” Clint said.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œAren’t you right-handed?”
    â€œI am.”
    â€œYou got your gun hanging on the bedpost, but can you get to it left-handed?”
    â€œI-I’m not sure.”
    â€œYou should be lying on your left side, McBeth.”
    â€œTruth be told,” McBeth said, “it hurts less this way.”
    â€œIt’s going to hurt less when you’re dead, too.”
    â€œI suppose,” McBeth said. “If we’re going to talk, could you sit down? It hurts to look up.”
    â€œSure thing,” Clint said. He pulled a chair over and sat down.
    â€œWhy are you lookin’ for me?” the Irishman asked.
    â€œHeard you were in Texas,” Clint sad. “Thought I might be able to help.”
    â€œBut we are in Mexico now.”
    â€œI sort of noticed,” Clint said. “I’ve been following you for a while, so when I got to the border I just kept going. You’re on Dolan’s trail?”
    â€œThat’s right,” McBeth said. “Have been since San Francisco.”
    â€œSo I guess he left a little surprise behind for you.”
    â€œI know Dolan,” McBeth said. “Those men overstepped