The Dead Ringer

by J. R. Roberts

  He got Clint’s shirt off and probed the wound.

  “It’s a small bullet,” he said, “not much damage. I guess you ought to be grateful she was a bad shot, even from up close.”

  “A bad shot? She very calmly pulled the trigger and hit me, Doc.”

  “She could’ve hit you in the heart,” the sawbones said. “Or the eye. This won’t even keep you off your feet for an hour.”

  “It’s not my feet I’m worried about, Doc,” Clint said. “I’ve got to be able to play poker.”

  “I don’t see a problem with that,” Doc Foster said. “I’ll get the bullet out and patch you up.” He laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “I’ll probably do more damage probing for the bullet than the bullet itself did.”

  “Maybe we should just leave it in there,” Clint suggested.

  The doctor laughed again and said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Adams. I’m sure you’ve been through this many times before.”

  FOUR

  When Clint got to the sheriff’s office, the deputy, Bradford, was sitting behind the desk. There was no one else in sight.

  “Is the sheriff out?” he asked.

  “He’s out, all right,” Bradford said. “Out of town. I’ve got the girl in a cell. What’d Doc say?”

  “It’s not bad,” Clint said. “Won’t keep me from doing anything I want to do.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Right now, I want to talk to the girl and find out why she shot me.”

  “You’re Adams, right? Involved in that private poker game?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Guess you coulda shot her before she shot you.”

  “Guess I could have, if I’d seen it coming,” Clint said. “She caught me flat-footed.”

  “Coulda killed you.”

  “With that little gun, she would’ve had to hit me in the heart,” he said, “or the eye.”

  “She say anything before she shot you?”

  “Just asked me my name.”

  “Sure you wanna go in?”

  “Did you search her?”

  “Yep,” Bradford said. “She don’t have another gun on her.”

  “Then I’ll go in.”

  “Suit yerself,” Bradford said. “Want the keys?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I’ll talk to her through the bars. Want me to leave my gun here?”

  “You gonna shoot her?”

  “No.”

  Bradford waved at him to go ahead.

  Clint went into the cell block, which was empty but for the girl. The other cell doors were wide open.

  She was sitting on her cot, so Clint entered the cell next to hers and sat on the cot there. That put him right next to her, with only the bars between them.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Isobel.”

  “Why’d you shoot me, Isobel?” he asked.

  “Because of what you did to my brother.”

  “Your brother?” he asked. “Who’s your brother?”

  “Andrew Escalante.”

  “Escalante?” he asked. “Mexican?”

  “Our father is Mexican,” she said. “Our mother was American. She died several years ago.”

  “And what did I do to your brother, Andrew—who I’ve never met, by the way.”

  She turned her head to look at him, her black eyes flashing.

  “So you say!” she snapped. “He says different.”

  “So he’s still alive?”

  “No thanks to you!”

  “But where is he?”

  “He is in prison,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For a murder you committed.”

  “And where was I supposed to have committed this murder?”

  “South of here,” she said. “Just outside a town called Tubac.”

  “Tubac,” he said. “I’ve never been to Tubac.”

  “I said outside of Tubac.”

  “Well, then, I’ve never even been outside of Tubac,” he said. “Is that where your brother is in jail?”

  “Yes.”

  “And who said I committed a murder?”

  “He told me himself.”

  “That he was innocent and I was guilty?”

  “Yes.”

  “When is this murder supposed to have happened, Isobel?”

  “Four days ago.”

  “I got here, to Tucson, only three days ago.”

  “So? You could have come here directly from Tubac.”

  “I’ve never been in—or near—Tubac.”

  “That’s what you say!”

  He figured he had to try something else.

  “Okay, who am I supposed to have murdered?”

  “A man named Joe Widmar.”

  He frowned. He didn’t know a man named Widmar. Had never heard of him. But he knew what Isobel would say to that.

  “Has your brother stood trial yet?”

  “No,” she said. “Not yet.”

  “So instead of waiting to see if he would be found guilty, you decided to come here and kill me?”

  “He will be found guilty.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He is Mexican.”

  Clint stood up.

  “Okay,” he said.

  She stared at him.

  “I’ll talk to you later.”

  “About what?” she asked. “Now I am in jail, too, and I will be tried for attempted murder. I am only sorry I did not kill you.”

  “You didn’t try very hard, Isobel,” he said. “I just don’t think it’s in you.”

  “It is not in my brother either.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He walked out of the cell. Before he could leave the cell block, she got up and ran to the bars, gripping them tightly.

  “What do you mean, ‘We’ll see’?” she asked.

  He turned and looked at her.

  “I mean you and me will head for Tubac tomorrow to straighten this out.”

  “You and me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then . . . I will not be kept in jail?”

  “You will tonight,” he said. “But tomorrow you’ll be out.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Because somehow your brother—a man I’ve never met—is convinced that I killed another man I’ve never met,” he said. “That’s something I want to get to the bottom of.”

  “But, but . . .” she stammered as he turned to leave.

  “But what?”

  “Can’t you let me out now?”

  He grinned at her.

  “No, you’re going to spend the rest of the night in jail,” he said. “Maybe you’ll think twice the next time you want to shoot somebody.”

  FIVE

  When Clint came out of the cell blocks, the deputy looked up from the desk.

  “So?”

  “I’m going to want her released tomorrow morning,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’m not pressing charges,” Clint added, “but I want you to hold her overnight.”

  “What’s goin’ on?” Bradford asked. “She tried to kill you.”

  “Not really,” Clint said. “From that range, if she wanted to kill me, I think she would have.”

  “But why release her?”

  “I’m going to take her to her brother.”

  “Where’s her brother?”

  “A town called Tubac.”

  “That’s south of here some,” Bradford said. “Almost to Nogales.”

  Clint knew there were two cities called Nogales, one in the United States and one in Mexico.

  “What’s goin’ on?” Bradford asked.

  Clint explained the girl’s reason for shooting him.

  “So you’re gonna go to Tubac to find out who really did kill this fella, what’s ’is name?”

  “Widmar,” Clint said. “That name mean anything to you?”

  “Not a thing.”

 
; “What do you know about Tubac?”

  “Small town, close to Mexico but they don’t like Mexicans there.”

  “Why not?”

  Bradford shrugged. “Why does anybody dislike Mexicans?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I guess I’m going to be spending a few days in Tubac.”

  “What about your poker game?” Bradford asked.

  “I’ll have to try to finish it tonight,” Clint said. “There are only two of us left.”

  “What if you don’t finish?”

  “Guess I’ll have to decide what’s more important,” Clint said, “a boy’s life, or a poker game.”

  Clint returned to the saloon, asked the bartender for a beer. He carried it to the back room, where he found three men—Sutherland, the dealer, and Andy McLintock—sitting at the table.

  “Hey!” McLintock said, getting to his feet. “I heard about the shooting. How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” Clint said, sitting down. All he had was a bit of an ache in his shoulder. “Luckily, it was a small-caliber bullet, and her heart really wasn’t in killing me.”

  “So, you’re okay to play?” Andy asked.

  “For a while.”

  “What’s that mean?” Sutherland asked.

  “I’ve got to go to Tubac tomorrow,” Clint explained, “so we’re going to have to finish this off tonight.”

  “And if we don’t?” Andy asked.

  “I’ll have to withdraw tomorrow,” Clint said. “Sutherland will win.”

  “I don’t wanna win that way,” Sutherland said. “Let’s sit down and play and see what happens. If we’re not finished by mornin’ so you can leave, we’ll just play a one-hand showdown for all of it.”

  “You’d be willin’ to do that?” McLintock asked.

  “Why not?” Sutherland asked. “I’d rather win it or lose it that way than by a forfeit.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “let’s get started then, and we’ll see what happens.”

  SIX

  Andrew Escalante looked out the barred window of his cell to the people walking by on the Tubac streets.

  “Get away from the window, Mex,” the deputy shouted from behind him.

  Andrew turned and looked across the room. There was only one cell in the Tubac sheriff’s office, and it was in plain sight of the sheriff’s desk. At the moment, the sheriff wasn’t sitting at his desk; Deputy Hank Deeds was. Deeds didn’t like Mexicans, and relished having one in the cell.

  “Ain’t nobody comin’ ta help you, Mex,” Deeds said, laughing, “so you might as well stop lookin’ out the window.”

  Andrew stepped away from the window and sat down on his hard cot. His sister, Isobel, had promised to help him, but he hadn’t seen her in a couple of days. He didn’t know what she could do for him anyway. Maybe plead with their father to help him, but Don Alfredo had not wanted his two children to cross the border from Mexico into the United States. When they were determined to do so despite his objection, he told them they would be on their own.

  Andrew put his head in his hands. He didn’t know why he had listened to what Clint Adams had told him. He had been impressed to meet the famous Gunsmith, but Adams had turned out to be something other than the man Andrew thought he was.

  And now he was in jail for murder.

  Jack Hendricks had been the sheriff of Tubac for three years. For the most part, the town fathers let him do his job his way, but every so often they called him in and gave him some sort of instruction. As long as he followed those instructions, he kept his job.

  Today was such a day.

  He entered the City Hall and presented himself to the Town Council.

  “Thanks for comin’ so quickly, Sheriff,” Mayor Victor Stoffer said.

  The summons had come only fifteen minutes ago, and he knew better than to keep them waiting.

  Also in the room with the mayor were the four other members of the Council, all merchants in town, and one lawyer. But the mayor was the spokesman, and they all deferred to him.

  “Sure, Mayor.”

  “How’s young Escalante doin’ in his cell?” the mayor asked.

  “He ain’t happy, Mayor,” Hendricks said.

  “Well, that’s too bad,” the mayor said. “You feedin’ him?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Good, good,” Stoffer said. “He talk to you about the murder?”

  “No,” Hendricks said, “he’s keeping quiet about it.”

  “Well, if he keeps quiet, he’s gonna hang,” Mayor Stoffer said. “Does he know that?”

  “He knows.”

  “Then why’s he keepin’ quiet?”

  Hendricks shrugged and said, “Maybe he’s hopin’ his sister or his father will come and save him.”

  “Well, we know the old man ain’t gonna come to help him,” Stoffer said. “Where’s the sister?”

  “Don’t know,” Hendricks said. “She left town a couple of days ago and ain’t come back yet.”

  “You think she went for help?” Stoffer asked. “Maybe gonna come back with some guns?”

  “She’s just a girl, Mayor,” Hendricks said. “I don’t think she’s out recruiting gunmen to come and break her brother out of jail.”

  “Good, good,” Stoffer said. “Well, keep workin’ on the lad. Get him to talk. Remind him he’s gonna hang.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get us the information we need, Sheriff,” Stoffer said, “and we won’t forget it.”

  “Yessir.”

  “That’s all.”

  Sheriff Hendricks nodded and backed out of the room.

  Stoffer looked up and down the Council table at the other members and asked, “What do you think?”

  They all started talking at once.

  In Mexico, about twenty miles south of Nogales, Don Alfredo Escalante was staring out a window of his own; only what he saw was not a Tubac street. He was staring out the window of his hacienda, and all he saw were the walls that surrounded it, and some of his vaqueros working with horses in the corral.

  He wanted his son to be out there working with them, but he had chosen to go across the border to seek his own fortune. And as if that was not bad enough, he had taken his little sister with him.

  A proud man, Don Alfredo did not appreciate his children leaving him, so he had told them they would be on their own if anything happened.

  And it had.

  He had received word from Tubac that his son was in jail, charged with murdering a gringo. His first instinct was to take some of his vaqueros to Tubac to retrieve his son, but he stopped himself. He had told them they would be on their own, and he’d meant it.

  He heard his wife come into the room behind him. If he was disappointed in his children, she was disappointed in her husband. She wanted her stepson back, whom she loved as her own child, but Don Alfredo refused to go and get him.

  “My husband—”

  “Do not plead with me again, Doña Estrella,” he said. “My mind is made up.”

  “I simply wished to tell you that lunch is ready, my husband,” she said quietly.

  “Very well,” he said. “I will be there.”

  She left the room without further word. He watched his vaqueros for several more seconds, then turned and followed her.

  SEVEN

  Clint didn’t think he’d have time to spend with Teresa Solano before he left for Tubac, but the poker gods had smiled on him only a couple of hours into the continuation of the game. Grant Sutherland’s luck had abandoned him, and rather than having to play a one-hand showdown, Clint had managed to clean Sutherland out in three hours—the last hour being the key.

  Theresa was waiting for him in his room when he got there, naked in bed.

  “This is where I left you this morning,” he said, smiling.

  “Well,” she said, rubbing her hands over the brown nipples that topped her small but firm breasts, “I got up after you left, got dressed, went down for breakfast, then worked at the café and came back
up here to wait for you.”

  “You sure you just didn’t stay here all day?” he asked.

  “I’m sure,” she said, sliding her hands down between her legs.

  She was a tall, dark-haired Mexican waitress he’d met at a café down the street. She’d gone back to his hotel room with him the first night and demonstrated an amazing appetite for sex. After that she’d spent the night with him, and then the next two.

  It was only 4 a.m. when he got to his room, so there was still time for part of another night together before he left town.

  But he didn’t tell her he’d be leaving in the morning. He didn’t want to upset her. So he simply undressed and got into bed with her. Her nipples were already hard, and her pussy very wet, and she was on him eagerly, pushing him down on his back and mounting him, taking his already hard cock into her wet, steamy depths.

  “Ayyy,” she said as she settled down on him and took the length of him inside. She started to ride him up and down, wetting him thoroughly with her juices, and then she let him slide free, shimmied down between his legs, and took him into her mouth. She sucked him avidly, kneading his balls with one hand while she stroked him with the other, all the while sliding him in and out of her mouth.

  She worked him to the point of bursting before he pushed her off him, flipped her onto her back, and returned the favor. Her pussy juices wet his cheeks and forehead as he licked and nibbled her into a frenzy, and then as she trembled and writhed beneath him, he mounted her and slammed his cock into her. He fucked her hard, the way she liked it, and was able to hold back so that they went on that way for some time. He bit his lip and fought for control, but just as she arched her back beneath him and screamed into the pillow, he also exploded, bellowing like a bull with no pillow to mask the sound . . .

  That first morning when he had come down to the lobby, he’d received a knowing look from the desk clerk. That was how he knew that they could be heard all the way down there while they had sex. After he told Teresa, she began to bury her face in the pillow to muffle her screams. He, however, was not as shy, so usually two or three times a night he would end up shouting or grunting loud enough to be heard. This night was no different, and he ended up lying next to her, his throat sore while he continued to stroke her pussy with his left hand. She closed her thighs on his hand and writhed as he inserted two fingers into her, and her spasms went on for some time that way . . .