The Dead Ringer

by J. R. Roberts

  He had become very familiar with the female orgasm over the years, but he had never met a woman whose pleasure went on as long as Teresa’s. And as a result of that, the sheets beneath her usually ended up soaked with her juices, and to sleep they’d have to huddle together on the other side of the bed. Then during the night, for more sex, they’d just move back to the wet side, and wet it some more. By morning the room was filled with the smells of their couplings.

  On this morning he woke early enough to wash himself with the pitcher and basin on the dresser.

  “So early?” she moaned from the bed.

  “I have to leave town,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Just for a few days.”

  That woke her up. She propped herself up on her elbows.

  “Why did you not tell me?” she asked. “We could have made the night memorable.”

  “Teresa,” he said to her, “every night with you has been memorable.”

  “Then you will be coming back?” she asked hopefully.

  “Oh yes,” he said, strapping on his gun, “I’ll be back this way soon.”

  “When?”

  “Soon,” he said again. He went to the bed and kissed her. “I’ll only be spending a few days in Tubac.”

  EIGHT

  Clint entered the sheriff’s office, and Deputy Bradford turned to face him, holding a mug of coffee.

  “Mornin’,” he said. “Come for the girl?”

  “Yep.”

  “Still not gonna press charges?”

  “Nope.”

  Bradford shrugged, put his mug down.

  “I’ll get ’er.”

  He went into the cell block, came out with a rumpledlooking Isobel Escalante.

  “You pendejo!” she spat at Clint. “You made me spend all night in jail.”

  “You did that to yerself, miss,” the deputy said, “by shootin’ this man.”

  “Do you want to yell at me,” Clint asked her, “or do you want to get some breakfast before we head for Tubac?”

  “Breakfast,” she said. “And perhaps someplace where I can clean up?”

  Clint looked at Bradford.

  “I got a pitcher and basin in the back,” the deputy said. “I’ll get you some water.”

  Isobel looked only slightly better when she and Clint entered the café. They sat down and Clint ordered a pot of coffee.

  “Huevos rancheros,” Isobel said to the waitress.

  “Steak and eggs,” Clint said.

  “Comin’ up,” the middle-aged woman said. She started walking away, then stopped and looked at Clint. “You know if Teresa’s comin’ to work today?”

  “I think she’ll be here.”

  “If she ain’t, she’s fired,” the woman said, and went off to the kitchen.

  “Your girlfriend?” Isobel asked.

  “No, just a friend.”

  The woman came back with a pot of coffee and two mugs, filled them both, and left. Isobel attacked the coffee and then poured some more.

  “That was very mean, what you did to me,” she said.

  “Isobel,” he said, “you shot me.”

  “You deserved it for what you did to my brother.”

  “I told you,” he said, “I never met your brother. I’ve never been to Tubac.”

  “Why are you lying?”

  “Somebody’s lying,” he said. “Maybe it’s your brother.”

  “No,” she said, “he would not lie to me.”

  “Then somebody lied to him,” Clint said. “Did you ever think of that?”

  She stared at him.

  “You mean someone pretended to be you?” she asked.

  “Could be.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said, “but we’ll find out something when we get to Tubac. We’ll go and see your brother and find out if he’s ever met me.”

  “And if he has?”

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said, “he hasn’t. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless he met me while he was using another name,” Clint said. “What’s Andrew look like?”

  “He is very handsome,” she said.

  “That doesn’t help.”

  The waitress came with their plates and set them down. Isobel immediately attacked her food, and Clint decided to suspend the conversation while they ate.

  “Do you have a horse?” Clint asked after breakfast.

  “No.”

  “How did you get here, then?”

  “Well, yes, I do have a horse,” she said, “but I came in a buggy.”

  “And where is it now?”

  “At the livery stable.”

  “Good,” he said. “That’s where my horse is, too. Let’s go.”

  He saddled Eclipse first, then hitched Isobel’s horse to her buggy and walked it outside.

  “You know the way to Tubac,” he said, helping her into the seat. “I’ll follow you.”

  “And if I try to get away?”

  “Why would you?” he asked. “We’re going there to help your brother.”

  “Or to kill him?”

  “Why would I kill him?”

  “So he can’t tell what really happened.”

  “Why would I leave him alive, come here,” Clint asked, “and then go back to kill him? If he and I were together in Tubac, why wouldn’t I have just killed him then?”

  She stared at him, then said, “I don’t know.”

  “Then let’s go to Tubac and find out.”

  NINE

  Tubac was about thirty miles south of Tucson. Clint could have made it easily if he had been alone, but Isobel’s buggy was slowing them down.

  When they had to stop the third time for her, Clint started to doubt they’d make it to Tubac before dark. It hadn’t occurred to him when they left, so they didn’t have any supplies.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m tired. The night in jail—I didn’t sleep very well.”

  “I understand,” he said. “We’ll go slower.”

  “We won’t get there tonight, then,” she said.

  “Maybe not,” he said. “We can camp on the trail.”

  “We have no supplies.”

  “We have water,” he said. “I have a coffeepot and coffee, and some beef jerky.”

  “You could get there if you left me behind.”

  “That’s not an option.”

  “I will get there as fast as I can.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not going to leave you alone out here.”

  “That is . . . very gallant,” she said, giving him a puzzled look. “Considering I shot you.”

  “Look,” he said, “it’s not imperative that we get there tonight. We can find out what we need to tomorrow, just as well.”

  “I can go further,” she said. “We can travel until dark.”

  “Okay,” he said, “but then we’ll stop and camp.”

  “As you say, Señor Adams.”

  “Clint,” he said. “Just call me Clint.”

  “Are you always this . . . nice to people who shoot you?” she asked.

  “No,” he said, “just pretty women who shoot me.”

  “How many of those have there been?”

  “Too many,” he said.

  They traveled until dark, and then Clint unhitched her horse, unsaddled Eclipse, and built a fire. He had the coffeepot going in no time. He handed Isobel a cup of coffee and a piece of dry beef jerky.

  “You are . . . a strange man,” she said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, to me you are. Any other man would have shot me yesterday.”

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  “What?”

  “You shot me because you wanted me to kill you?”

  “N-No, not at all.”

  “Then why didn’t you shoot me in the heart?”

  “I . . . rushed the shot,” she said.
/>
  “Are you normally a good shot with that belly gun?”

  “Belly gun?”

  “The derringer.”

  “I can usually shoot what I aim at.”

  “Well, you hit me,” he said. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  “Is that important?”

  “You haven’t, have you.”

  “No.” She sounded like she was apologizing.

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “Not everybody kills in their lifetime.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “What about your brother?” he asked. “Has he ever killed anyone?”

  “No,” she said. “He has not even killed an animal. My father . . .”

  “What about your father?”

  “He . . . is ashamed of Andrew,” she said. “My father has always been . . . a man of violence. Andrew is . . . gentle.”

  “Not the son your father wanted, eh?”

  “No.”

  “And what about your mother?”

  “As I told you, she died several years ago,” Isobel said. “It affected my father . . . terribly. He has remarried, but I do not think he has recovered from my mother’s death.”

  “So he’s been harder on your brother since then?”

  “My brother, and me. It’s why we left.”

  “What did he do when you did that?”

  “He disowned us,” she said. “Told us we were on our own.”

  “So he won’t help your brother with this?”

  “No.”

  “Isobel, I don’t think you came to me to kill me.”

  “Then why—”

  “I think you wanted my help.”

  “But you are the cause . . . I mean, I thought you were the cause of it all.”

  “Maybe you’re not sure about Andrew,” Clint said, “about his version of what happened.”

  “So . . . I came to you?”

  He shrugged.

  “Could be. Look at the result. I’m going to Tubac with you.”

  “To kill Andrew,” she said, “or to help him.”

  “I know which one is true,” he said.

  “And I will find out when we get there.”

  “You better finish eating, and then get some rest,” he said. “Do you have any idea how far we are from Tubac right now?”

  “Several miles, I think,” she said. “Maybe more.”

  “We’ll make it early tomorrow, then,” he said. “We won’t have to push your horse.”

  “She’s old.”

  “I know,” he said. “This is probably her last hurrah.”

  “Hurrah?”

  He smiled.

  “She’ll have to be put to pasture when we get to Tubac.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll be up for a while, but don’t worry. I’ll get some sleep.”

  “Very well,” she said, standing. “Good night . . . Clint.”

  TEN

  Clint awoke first the next morning and made a fresh pot of coffee. When Isobel woke up, he handed her a cup.

  “I need a bath,” she complained.

  “You can have one when we get to Tubac,” he said. “It’ll make you feel a lot better.”

  “I want to see Andrew first,” she said, “to make sure he is all right.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “we can do that. We’ll get the easy part over with.”

  “The easy part?”

  “Having your brother tell you he’s never seen me before.”

  “I hope that is true,” she said.

  “Oh, you’re starting to like me, huh?”

  “No,” she said, “if he doesn’t know you, it means you can help us.”

  “I’ll help,” he said. “You want some jerky for breakfast?”

  She made a face.

  “Okay,” he said, “after we see your brother, we’ll get something to eat, and then you can have your bath.”

  He saddled Eclipse and then hitched up her old mare. The poor horse probably only had a few miles left in her. He only hoped she wouldn’t collapse before they got there.

  Tubac was small, but busy. There were people on both sides of the main street, all the businesses were open, and there were horses and buckboards on the street.

  “The sheriff’s office is right there,” Isobel said as they rode down the street. Clint looked where she was pointing.

  “Okay,” he said.

  They pulled up in front of the office. Her mare was laboring. Clint was afraid she wasn’t going to have to be put out to pasture; she was going to have to be put down.

  He helped Isobel down, and they approached the front door.

  “What’s the sheriff’s name?” he asked before they went in.

  “Hendricks.”

  “How long has he had the job?”

  “I do not know,” she said. “We only met him when we got to town.”

  “And when was that?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Let me do the talking.”

  “Of course.”

  They went inside.

  Andrew Escalante saw his sister enter the sheriff’s office with another man and immediately got to his feet.

  “Isobel—”

  “Quiet!” Deputy Deeds shouted.

  “Shut up, Deeds,” Sheriff Hendricks said. “Miss Escalante. I was wondering what happened to you.”

  Andrew fell silent, wondering who his sister had brought with her, and if the man was going to help him.

  Clint saw the single cell with the man in it, assumed this was Andrew. When he called out his sister’s name, then he knew.

  The deputy was standing by the desk and the sheriff was seated at it.

  “Sheriff Hendricks,” Isobel said. “I have brought with me a man who may be able to help my brother.”

  “Only way he’s gonna help your brother is if he breaks him out of jail,” Deeds said, laughing. He was a mean-looking man about ten years younger than the sheriff, who looked bored. Clint figured the sheriff had been a lawman for a lot of years.

  “Goddamnit, Deeds,” Hendricks said. “Go and do your rounds.”

  “I just did’em—”

  “Do them again!”

  Deeds looked like he was going to argue, but then he stormed past Clint and Isobel out of the office.

  “Who are you?” Hendricks asked Clint.

  Clint leaned over the desk and said, “Sheriff, my name’s Clint Adams.” He was sure the young man in the cell hadn’t heard him say his name.

  Hendricks looked surprised, then looked over at Andrew in his cell.

  “Are you aware that he’s been sayin’—”

  “I think I know what he’s been saying,” Clint said. “I came to Tubac to clear things up.”

  “How do you plan to do that?” the sheriff asked.

  “Well, for one thing,” Clint said, “I never saw him before, and I’d like for him to say the same thing about me.”

  “But he’s been sayin’ you and him were partners, and that you killed the man he’s supposed to have killed.”

  “I know, I know,” Clint said. “Can I talk to him?”

  “With me listenin’, yeah.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Clint walked over to the cell. Andrew was standing right in front, holding tightly to the bars. Isobel and the sheriff would be able to hear what they said.

  “Andrew,” he said, “do you know me?”

  “No, señor,” the young man said. “Are you here to help me?” He looked scared out of his wits.

  “Maybe I am,” Clint said. “But it’s important that you tell the sheriff and your sister that you don’t know me.”

  Andrew looked past him and said, “I do not know this man!”

  Hendricks exchanged a glance with Isobel.

  “Do you believe him?” he asked.

  “Sí,” she said.
“Andrew does not lie to me.”

  “Señor,” Andrew said to Clint, “who are you?”

  “My name is Clint Adams.”

  Andrew took a few steps back.

  “B-But . . . you are not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “But . . . I have met Clint Adams,” Andrew said. “I—I know him. H-He shot Joe Widmar.”

  “That’s what he’s been sayin’,” Hendricks said. “That he didn’t kill Widmar, you did.”

  “Not him,” Andrew said. “Clint Adams.”

  Hendricks looked at Clint.

  “Can you prove you’re who you say you are?” the lawman asked.

  “I’ve got some correspondence in my saddlebags,” Clint said.

  “Go get it.”

  Clint went out to Eclipse, got some letters from his saddlebags, and brought them back in. The sheriff looked them over, and handed them back.

  “As far as I can tell,” he said to Andrew,” this man is Clint Adams, the Gunsmith.”

  “B-But . . .” Andrew said, “then who was the man who told me he was Clint Adams?”

  “That’s what I’d like to find out,” Clint said. “Sheriff, you can let him out now.”

  “What makes you say that?” Hendricks asked.

  “Well, it’s obvious somebody had this kid convinced he was me.”

  “So? That don’t mean this kid didn’t kill Joe Widmar.”

  “Well, if the other man lied—”

  “It don’t make him a killer,” Hendricks said. “I’m keepin’ this kid until somebody can prove to me he didn’t do it. Or until he goes to trial.”

  “But . . . this is the real Gunsmith,” Isobel said.

  “That’s real nice,” Hendricks said. “Maybe he can help you prove your brother’s innocent. Until somebody does, he stays in my cell.”

  ELEVEN

  The sheriff allowed Clint and Isobel to talk to her brother, but first he took Clint’s gun.

  “He told me his name was Clint Adams,” Andrew said. “Did some target shooting to prove it.”

  “Was he good?”

  “He didn’t miss,” Andrew said. “I believed him.”