“What happened after that?”
“He said he needed a partner,” Andrew said, “and we needed money.”
“We?”
“Isobel and me,” Andrew said.
“How much did he say he’d give you?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
“For what?”
“He just said he wanted me to . . . back him up.”
“Watch his back?”
“Sí, that was it. Watch his back.”
“Did you have a gun, Andrew?”
“Yes.”
“A pistol?”
“Sí.”
“You any good with it?”
“I can hit what I shoot at.”
“But you never shot at a man.”
Andrew hesitated.
“I already told him, hermano,” Isobel said.
“No, I have never shot a man.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“No.”
“But I’ll bet he knew.”
“Then why did he—”
“Obviously, he didn’t want somebody to watch his back,” Clint said. “He wanted a patsy.”
“A ‘patsy’?”
“He wanted someone to blame when he killed Joe Widmar.”
“Oh,” Andrew said, “I see.”
“Did he tell you who Widmar was?” Clint asked.
“No.”
“So you just went with him . . . where?”
“To the man’s house.”
“And what happened?”
“He went inside,” Andrew said. “I remained outside. Then I heard a shot.”
“And you ran in.”
“Sí.”
“With your gun out.”
“Sí.”
“And something hit you on the head.”
“How did you know that?”
“Not my first rodeo,” Clint said.
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve heard this before. When you woke up, the sheriff was there?”
“Yes, and he arrested me.”
“How long did you know the man?”
“Adams?” Andrew asked. “I mean, the man who said he was Adams?”
“Yes.”
“It was just that day.”
“One day?”
“Yes.”
“He spotted you right away.”
“What do you mean?” Isobel asked.
“I mean he picked your brother out as his patsy right away,” Clint said.
“H-How did he do that?”
“He’s probably good at it,” Clint said.
“You have to find him,” Andrew said. “He is the real killer.”
“Did you ever see him with anyone else?” Clint asked.
“No, why?”
“Because maybe he had a friend who knew his real name.”
“No, I did not see—but wait.”
“What?”
“When I met him, he was in the saloon, drinking.”
“And?”
“And talking to the bartender.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Do you know the bartender’s name?”
“No.”
“Can you describe him to me?”
“Sí.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Describe the bartender to me, and then describe this phony Clint Adams to me.”
“You will find him?”
“You will help us?” Isobel asked.
Clint looked at both of them and said, “I’m going to try.”
TWELVE
“The kid never told me about no bartender,” Sheriff Hendricks said.
“Well, he told me,” Clint said. “Maybe you should question him.”
“You know somethin’?” Hendricks asked.
“What?”
“I have my man, and he is set to go to trial,” the lawman said. “It’s up to you to try to prove that he’s innocent.”
“No help from you, huh?”
“Not my job,” Hendricks said.
“You don’t believe the kid at all?”
“Again,” Hendricks said, “not my job. That’s up to a lawyer.”
“Does he have a lawyer?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “okay. Thanks . . . for nothing.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Isobel was waiting for him outside.
“So?”
“He’s not going to help.”
“Cabron!”
“It’s okay, Isobel,” Clint said. “I’ll do what I can.”
“When?”
“As soon as I get a hotel room.”
“I have a room,” she said.
“Does Andrew have a room?”
“Sí.”
“Separate from you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll use his while he’s in jail.”
“All right.”
“Do you have a key to his room?”
“The keys are at the hotel.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “Let’s go. I also have to take care of my horse—and yours.”
Right at that moment Isobel’s horse keeled over and hit the ground. The buggy almost went with it. Clint could see from where he was that the animal was dead.
“We’ll have to get somebody to move that,” he said.
Clint took Eclipse to the livery, arranged with the liveryman to have Isobel’s dead horse taken off the street.
“Does she need another one?” the man asked.
“Probably, but not right now.”
“Well, come and see me when she does. I’ll give ya a good price.”
“Her,” Clint said, “you’ll give her a good price.”
“Yes.”
“And take good care of mine.”
“Definitely,” the man said. “Best-lookin’ animal I ever seen.”
“I’ll be at the hotel.”
“Which one?”
“This town have more than one?”
“Two.”
“Well,” Clint said, “I’ll be at one of them.”
“Okay.”
Clint grabbed the man’s arm as he started to turn away.
“He better be here, and all right, when I come to get him.”
“Uh, okay,” the man said. “Yeah, sure thing.”
Clint walked outside, where Isobel was waiting.
“Now?” she asked. “Now can we look for the man?”
“Now,” Clint said, “I will look for the man.”
“I want to go with you.”
“No,” Clint said, “not to a saloon, and not to where I may have to go.”
“But—”
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get me Andrew’s key, and get you to your room.”
“And a bath.”
“Yes,” he said, “and a bath—for both of us.”
She stared at him.
“I mean . . . we probably each need a bath.”
“Sí,” she said.
THIRTEEN
Of the two hotels in Tubac, Isobel and Andrew had rooms in the smaller one. The hotel had bathtubs, though, and they both made use of them. Clint went back to his room—Andrew’s room—when he was done. He put on a fresh shirt he had in his saddlebags, and left the room. He walked down the hall and knocked on the door of the room next to his.
Isobel answered, her hair wet from her bath. She was holding her shirt closed with both hands.
“Just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he said.
“I am fine.”
“I’m going to go and ask some questions,” he said. “It’d be better if you stayed in this room.”
“But—”
“I’ll come back and tell you what I find out,” he said, cutting her off. “I promise.”
She relented, said, “Very well.”
He nodded, started to leave, then turned back and took her derringer from his belt.
“You might need this,” he said, handing it back.
&
nbsp; Tubac had two hotels, and two saloons. Clint wondered if it had two of everything.
He went into the first saloon he came to, took a good look at the bartender. Andrew had told him that the barman who had talked to the phony Clint Adams was a big, beefy man. This one was tall and reed thin.
“What can I getcha?” the man asked.
“You got another bartender works here?” Clint asked. “Big, beefy guy?”
“Not here,” the man said. “Across the street. Sounds like you’re looking for Bowe.”
“Bow?”
“B-O-W-E,” the man said. “Bowe. Bartender across the street.”
“Thanks.”
Across the street several men were standing at the bar when Clint walked in. They all turned to look at him. This saloon was bigger than the other one, but just as empty, except for the three men at the bar.
And the beefy bartender.
“Beer,” Clint said.
“Comin’ up,” the man said.
The bartender set a cold mug in front of him. He picked it up and drained half of it.
“Been on the trail long?” one of the other men asked him.
“Long enough to need a cold beer.”
“You look pretty clean to have come off the trail,” a second man said.
“I took the time to get a bath,” Clint said. “You might try it sometime.”
The other men laughed at the joke. The butt of the joke scowled.
“Take it easy,” Clint said. “I’m just kidding. Bartender, beers for my friends.”
“Now yer talkin’,” the first man said.
The bartender set them all up.
“How about you?” Clint asked.
“Sure.”
The bartender got himself a beer, drank half of it.
“Got a minute?” Clint asked him.
“What for?”
“You Bowe?”
“That’s right.”
“Can we talk?”
Bowe looked at the other men.
“Go sit at a table,” he told them.
They obeyed without question.
“My name’s Clint Adams,” Clint said. “That ring a bell?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Do you know me?”
“Never met you before.”
“There was a man here a few days ago, claiming to be me.”
“Not that I know.”
“Okay, let me put it this way,” Clint said. “He was seen in here talking to you.”
“I talk to a lot of people,” Bowe said. “What’s he look like?”
Clint gave him the description Andrew had given to him.
“Kinda sounds like you,” Bowe said.
“Yeah, it does.”
The man rubbed his jaw, drank some more beer.
“Sounds like it could be Jess Mitchell.”
“Who’s he?”
“Sometime gunman, sometime bank robber,” Bowe said.
“Is he wanted?”
“Not around here.”
“Good with a gun.”
“Handy, I’d say.”
“That’s what I heard. Friend of yours?”
“Customer.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s it.”
“Know where I can find him?”
“Nope.”
“Know if he’s still in Tubac?”
“Nope.”
“Seen him in the last day or so?”
“No.”
“He was in here with a young Mexican man,” Clint said. “You remember that?”
“We talkin’ about the kid in jail?” Bowe asked. “Killed Joe Widmar?”
“He says Mitchell did it,” Clint said, “while he was pretending to be me.”
“Now why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Did you know Widmar?”
“Everybody knew Joe,” Bowe said. “He had a store in town.”
“What kind of store?”
“Feed and grain.”
“And he lived outside of town?”
“Right.”
“Where he was killed.”
Bowe shrugged.
“Okay, thanks,” Clint said.
“Why are you lookin’ for Mitchell?” Bowe asked.
“I don’t like people impersonating me,” Clint said. “Also, he framed an innocent kid for murder.”
“So what are you gonna do?”
“I’m going to find him,” Clint said, “and prove he killed Widmar, get that kid out of jail.”
“That’s all?”
Clint smiled, finished his beer, and set the empty mug on the bar.
“That’s a start,” he said.
FOURTEEN
Clint caught Hendricks coming out of his office.
“Oh, Adams,” the sheriff said.
“Leaving the kid alone in there, Sheriff?” Clint asked.
“Deeds is with him.”
“That deputy of yours strikes me as being pretty mean.”
“He does his job,” Hendricks said. “Were you comin’ here lookin’ for me?”
“I’ve got one question,” Clint said. “You know a man named Mitchell, Jess Mitchell?”
“Yeah, I know Mitchell,” Hendricks said. “Came to town a couple of weeks ago. Why?”
“Well, all I did was ask a few questions, but I think Mitchell’s the man who was impersonating me.”
“That may be, but it don’t mean he killed Widmar instead of this kid.”
“Well, whether he killed Widmar or not, I’m not about to let him keep on being me.”
“That mean you’re gonna kill ’im?”
“I’m going to stop him,” Clint said. “How I do it will be up to him.”
“Well, I don’t want any more trouble in Tubac, Adams,” Hendricks said. “I’ve had one murder too many already.”
“There’s not going to be another murder, Sheriff,” Clint said.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Hendricks said.
Clint watched as the lawman walked away. If he did have to kill Jess Mitchell, he’d have to make sure it couldn’t be called murder.
He waited for the sheriff to be out of sight, then went into the jailhouse.
“What are you doin’ here?” Deputy Deeds asked.
“Just want to talk to the prisoner.”
“The sheriff ain’t here.”
“I know, I saw him outside.”
“He said it was okay?”
“We talked,” Clint said, hoping that would be good enough for the deputy.
“Mister,” Deeds asked, “you really Clint Adams?”
“That’s right.”
Deeds licked his lips.
“Well, okay, you can talk to ’im . . . five minutes!” he finally said.
“Sure, Deputy,” Clint said, “five minutes.”
Clint walked to his desk and set his gun down on it. He kind of wished he still had Isobel’s derringer in his belt.
He walked to the cell, and Andrew came to the front to meet him.
“Señor, you have news?” he asked.
“Some, maybe,” Clint said. “I figure the man you’ve been talking about is called Jess Mitchell. That sound familiar to you?”
“No,” Andrew said. “I have never heard that name.”
“Okay,” Clint said, “I guess I’ll just have to find him and bring him in here for you to have a look at.”
“I will identify him, señor,” Andrew said. “You can depend on it.”
“All right, Andrew,” Clint said. “Just sit tight, try not to worry.”
“That is easy for you to say, señor.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Clint said. “It is. But try to do it anyway.”
He retrieved his gun from the desk and left the jail.
From the sheriff’s office, Clint went back to the hotel, knocked on Isobel’s door. When she answered, she was fully dressed, and her hair was dry.
“Clint—”
“Can I come i
n?”
“Of course.”
She backed away to allow him to enter. He closed the door, then looked at her.
“Would you like me to keep the door open?”
“Do not be silly,” she said. “I trust you.”
“That sounds odd, since it was only yesterday that you shot me.”
“I am sorry about that,” she said, ducking her head. “I was foolish.” She looked at him. “Did you find the man?”
“I got a name,” Clint said. “Jess Mitchell. I think he’s the one.”
“Where is he?”
“That’s the problem,” he said. “I’m still going to have to find him.”
“Alone?”
“That’s how it looks, unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Well, do you think your father will help? If you asked him?”
“I do not think my brother would want to ask him,” she said. “And he would not want me to. To tell you the truth, I do not think my father would agree.”
“What about the vaqueros at your father’s ranch?” Clint asked. “Doesn’t Andrew have any friends there?”
“They are all loyal to my father,” she said. “They would not do anything without him.”
“That’s too bad. I get the feeling this sheriff would bend to any show of force.”
“Could you force him to let my brother go?”
“I wouldn’t want to go up against the law like that, Isobel,” he said. “If your father rode in with some men, though, I think the sheriff would think twice.”
“I would have to ride a long way to ask him,” she said. “And then it would take time to come back, even if he agreed. Perhaps if you went and asked him. He would respect you.”
“I better find out when this trial is likely to take place,” Clint said. “Then we can make up our minds.”
“I will come with you.”
“No,” he said, “I’m just going over to City Hall to find out when the judge is going to hold the trial. I’ll come back and let you know.”
“It is just that waiting here is . . . difficult.”
“I can imagine,” he said. “Look, I’ll come back later and we’ll go and get something to eat.”
“Then can we bring something to my brother? I don’t know how well they’re feeding him.”
“I’m sure the sheriff would agree to that, Isobel,” Clint said. “We’ll do it.”
“Thank you, Clint.”
“I’ll be back soon.”
Impulsively, she got up on her toes and kissed his cheek.
The Dead Ringer Page 4