The Dublin Detective Read Online Free PDF

realize . . . I didn’t hear you when you first—”
    â€œI know you didn’t,” Clint said. He reached out, put his hand on the man’s gun, and pushed it down so that it wasn’t pointing at him anymore. “You’ve got to learn to listen more closely.”
    â€œYeah, I guess.”
    â€œWhat happened when the Dolan Gang came to town?” Clint asked.
    â€œThey were mean,” Barfield said. He sounded like a schoolboy. “Pushin’ people around on the street, threatenin’ men in the saloon. My deputy braced them and they shot him.”
    â€œDead?”
    â€œNo,” Sheriff Barfield said, “he’s laid up. But when he gets back on his feet, he sure won’t want to wear a badge again.”
    â€œProbably smart,” Clint said. “Might be something for you to think about.”
    The man’s shoulders drooped and he holstered his gun. “I-I always wanted to be a lawman,” he said, “but . . .”
    â€œYou’re not cut out for the job.”
    â€œW-why do you say that?”
    â€œWell,” Clint said, “first the clothes, then the gun . . . and I’m sure there’s a lot more. Think it over.”
    â€œYeah, well . . .”
    â€œYou sure you don’t know where McBeth was headed?” Clint asked.
    â€œWho?”
    Clint shook his head, patted Barfield on the shoulder, and said, “Think long and hard about changing jobs.”

ELEVEN
    Clint decided to stay at a hotel for one night, see what he could find out in town. He started by putting Eclipse in a livery, then asking the liveryman about anyone with an Irish accent.
    â€œIrish,” the old man said. “I got no use for Irish. Yeah, there was one here last week.”
    â€œAnd you haven’t seen any others?”
    â€œNo,” the man said, “if there was another one, he musta put his horse someplace else.”
    â€œDid the man say where he was going, or which way he was heading, when he left?”
    â€œHe didn’t talk to me,” the old man said. “He just came, got his horse, and left.”
    â€œYou didn’t see which way he went?”
    â€œI just went back to work, mister,” the liveryman said. “I don’t go and check to see which way my customers go when they leave here. Far as I’m concerned, that’s their business, ain’t it?”
    â€œYep,” Clint said, “it sure is.”
    Clint turned to leave and the man called, “Wait a minute.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    The old man came closer.
    â€œThe Irishman, he had me re-shoe his horse while he was here.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThe shoes I used were ones I had taken from another horse that died,” the man said. “They were new, so when the animal . . . well, anyway, I sold them to the Irishman and reused them.”
    â€œAnd?” Clint said again.
    The old man walked away, came back with a plain shoe.
    â€œThe ones I gave him have a small triangle—here.” He showed Clint the spot, at the very bottom of the U-shape. “Anybody wanting to track this man would have no problem, I think.”
    If McBeth had been the one being tracked instead of the man doing the tracking himself, Clint might have thought the old liveryman had marked him deliberately.
    â€œWhy would someone make shoes that were marked like that?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” the man said. “It might have been the duplicate of a brand.”
    Clint looked down at the ground. If there were any of McBeth’s tracks there, they had long since been trampled, but outside of town it would be a different story.
    â€œOkay, Pop,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
    â€œYeah, sure.”
    Clint left the livery.
    Â 
    He found a poker game that night, played quietly, and listened to the men at the table talk to one another. Clint also eavesdropped on conversations going on around him. Nobody