The Dublin Detective Read Online Free PDF Page A

behind the desk looked as if he’d stepped out of a painting. His shirt was dark blue, and the neckerchief around his neck was red. He had a well-cared-for mustache that flipped up on the ends, and a healthy red to his cheeks. He stood as Clint approached, appeared to be a lanky six feet and about thirty years old.
    â€œCan I help you, sir?” he asked.
    â€œYes,” Clint said, “my name’s Clint Adams. I’m looking for a man who was in your town about five days ago, an Irishman who was looking for another Irishman.”
    â€œIrishman,” the sheriff repeated, seeming to study on it.
    â€œYes,” Clint said. “His name was James McBeth and he may have been looking for a man named Jamie . . .” Clint tried to conjure up the last name, and then did so. “. . . Dolan.”
    â€œThe Dolan Gang,” Sheriff Barfield said, narrowing his eyes. His hand hovered over his holstered gun which, Clint noticed, had a pearl handle. “What’s your connection with them?”
    â€œI have no connection,” Clint said. “In fact, I didn’t even know there was a Dolan Gang. I’m looking for the man who is tracking Jamie Dolan. His name is McBeth.”
    â€œI don’t know no McBeth, but there was another Irishman here last week lookin’ for Dolan.”
    â€œWhat’d you tell him?”
    â€œI tol’ him what I’m tellin’ you,” Barfield said. “You’d better not have no connection with them boys. They shot my deputy.”
    So that was what the bartender meant when he said they had a “little set-to” with the law.
    â€œI already told you my name, and that I’m not connected with any gang,” Clint said. “Do you know where McBeth—the other Irishman—went when he left here?”
    â€œNo idea,” the fancy-dressed Barfield said.
    â€œSheriff,” Clint said, “it’s not a good idea to have your hand hovering over your gun like that, unless you mean to use it.”
    â€œOh, I mean to use it, all right,” Barfield said, “if I have to.” He stuck his jaw out. “You got somethin’ else to say?”
    â€œNo,” Clint said, shaking his head, “I think you and me have talked enough.”
    With such an attitude, if Barfield had come up against a gang, it was a wonder only his deputy got shot.

TEN
    Clint turned to leave, then froze when the lawman said, “I think you’d better hold it.”
    Clint turned and looked at the man. The sheriff had drawn that pearl-handled revolver and was pointing it at Clint.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI let that Irishman walk out of here too easy,” Barfield said. “I ain’t gonna make the same mistake twice.”
    â€œBelieve me, Sheriff,” Clint said, “you’re making an even worse mistake now.”
    â€œThat’s what you say,” Barfield replied. “Take off that gunbelt.”
    Clint turned to face the lawman full on.
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    The lawman frowned.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œYou’ve got no cause to detain me or take my gun,” Clint said.
    â€œI got all the cause I need, right here,” the lawman said, tapping his badge with his left hand.
    â€œSheriff,” Clint said, “I don’t know how you got this job, but you’re not going to keep it long with plays like that. In fact, you try this on the wrong guy, you won’t last long, period.”
    â€œYou threatenin’ me?”
    â€œYou got that backward,” Clint said. “You’ve got your gun out, which means you’re threatening me.”
    â€œLook, Mr. Whatever-your-name-is—”
    â€œYou weren’t listening,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams.”
    He studied the lawman’s face as Barfield thought . . . and then it dawned on him. Suddenly, he licked his lips and looked at his gun nervously.
    â€œI-I didn’t