The Dead Ringer Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  Teaser chapter

  A Fine How Do You Do

  Clint carried his coffee over to the table where the girl was sitting. She was looking around, seemingly unconcerned about sitting in a saloon crowded with half-drunk men. Abruptly, she looked up at him and followed his progress until he reached her.

  Lem hadn’t asked her name, so Clint simply said, “I hear you’re looking for me.”

  “I was told you would not be finished playing poker for some time,” she said.

  “I’m not finished,” he said. “We’re on a break.”

  “So you are Mr. Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Please,” she said, “I want to be very clear. You are the Gunsmith?”

  “I am.”

  That was when she took a gun out of her purse and shot him.

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  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

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  DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer

  Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .

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  The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

  TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

  J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

  THE DEAD RINGER

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Jove edition / September 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Robert J. Randisi. Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN : 978-1-101-54367-2

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  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

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  ONE

  Clint was in Tucson to play poker.

  Not in the saloons, even though there were plenty of games there. Those games were for small change, and Clint played in such games only to kill time. No, he was in Tucson to play in a private game, which was being held in a back room of the Green Garter Saloon.

  A curtained doorway led to the room, and there were two armed guards on the inside, to make sure no one interrupted the game—to rob it, or for any other reason.

  Clint had secured the chair with his back to the wall, from which he would be able to see anyone coming through that doorway.

  There were four other men at the table, none of whom Clint had ever played with before. It was one of the reasons he had accepted the invitation. He had been in many games with the likes of Bat Masterson and Luke Short—good friends and worthy foes at the table—but he enjoyed playing with men he’d never met before. It gave him an opportunity to read new people, figure out their tells, and hone his own talents.

  The curtain parted and a saloon girl entered carrying a tray of drinks. The other players had all ordered drinks—beer and whiskey—but Clint had not. He did not drink while he played poker.

  The girl set the drinks down at the elbows of the men, only one of whom bothered to thank and tip her. His name was Grant Sutherland and, as far as Clint could see during this first three hours of the game, was probably his chief competitor.

  Sutherland appeared to be in his late thirties, was the only player who actually dressed like a gambler—boiled white shirt, string tie, and black suit. He had manners, his suit was expensive, and he was drinking brandy. And the girls liked him, because he was handsome.

  It seemed to Clint that Grant Sutherland pretty much had it all. He handled the cards well, too. He could have cheated if Clint hadn’t been sitting there. He doubted the other players would have been able to tell.

  The invitation had come
from the owner of the Green Garter, Andy McLintock, whom Clint had known for over ten years. For all that time McLintock had owned one saloon or another, in different towns. So when the telegram had come from Tucson, Clint had not been surprised. He’d accepted the invitation readily, especially when Andy told him there would not be any of the usual players.

  The saloon girl finished setting her drinks down and left the room. The guards made sure the curtains were closed so no one could peer in.

  The house dealer said, “Comin’ out, gents,” and dealt the next hand.

  As the saloon girl came out of the back room, the batwing doors opened and another woman entered the saloon. Actually, she was a girl and, although pretty, did not attract attention for that reason. It was simply the fact that a girl had entered the saloon. Not only that, but she headed straight for the bar.

  The bartender watched in disbelief as the girl approached him. The men at the bar actually parted to give her room, but they stared as she spoke to the bartender.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “Miss,” the barman said, “you shouldn’t be in here.”

  “I’m looking for someone,” she said. “I was told at his hotel that he might be here.”

  The bartender, a man in his fifties, adopted the look of an impatient father as he asked, “Who you lookin’ for?”

  “Clint Adams,” she said.

  Nobody said anything. She looked around, as if she had just become aware that she was the center of attention.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked the bartender. “Is he not here?”

  “Oh, he’s here,” the bartender said. “He’s in the back room.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” she said. “Can you just point me in the direction—”

  “You can’t go back there, miss.”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s a poker game goin’ on.”

  “Oh.” She looked around again, then back at the bartender. “Well, how long will he be playing?”

  “There’s no way of knowin’ that, miss,” the bartender said.

  “I see,” she said. “Well . . . I suppose I’ll just have to wait for him to be finished.”

  “Here?” the bartender asked.

  “Well, yes,” she said. “If I could just have a table, and a drink?”

  The bartender looked around. There were no empty tables, but the girl seemed determined to wait. He looked at one of the men standing at the bar, staring at the girl.

  “Eddie,” he said. “Get the lady a table, will ya?”

  “Sure, Lem.”

  Eddie Bricker, a hand at one of the nearby ranches, said, “Miss? This way.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “And my drink?” she said to the bartender.

  “Sure, what’ll ya have, miss?”

  “A glass of whiskey, please.”

  “Whiskey?” Lem asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure, thank you. Sir?” she said to Eddie.

  “Yes, miss,” Eddie said. He spotted a table where two of his friends were sitting. He was sure he could get them to move and make room for the young woman.

  “Just follow me, miss.”

  “I’ll have your drink brought over,” Lem said.

  “Thank you both,” she said. “You’re very kind.”

  TWO

  The game sorted itself out very quickly.

  “Quickly” is a relative term, however.

  Some of these private games had been known to go on for days. Clint was starting to understand why the usual suspects weren’t there, and why he had been invited.

  These players had money, but they just weren’t very good. While it was true that Bat Masterson, Luke Short, Brady Hawkes, Bret and Bart Maverick, Henry Deringer, and others played poker to make money, they also played for the competition. If they knew there was none at a game, they didn’t show up.

  Clint now knew he had been invited because those professionals had turned the invite down.

  The only two players with extensive knowledge of the game were Clint and Sutherland. The others, while they had money, quickly fell by the wayside, and after six hours the game came down to him and Grant Sutherland.

  As the last of the other players put on his jacket and left the room, the dealer said, “Time for a break, gents.”

  The dealer, a man with good hands who had been doing it for twenty years, stood and cracked his knuckles.

  “Half an hour,” he said, and left the room. The guards remained, and would stay as long as there were chips on the table.

  Sutherland stood up and looked at Clint.

  “Drink?” he asked.

  “Coffee,” Clint said.

  “Your choice.”

  They walked past the guards and through the curtains, secure that their money would be safe. They walked through the crowded saloon to the bar, where they knew they could have anything they wanted for free.

  “Beer,” Sutherland told the bartender, Lem.

  “Coffee,” Clint said.

  The bartender brought Sutherland’s beer, set Clint’s coffee before him, and said, “Mr. Adams, there’s somebody here lookin’ for you.”

  “Oh?” Clint sipped his coffee. “Who’s that?”

  “A young lady,” Lem said. “She came in and asked if you was here. I told her you was, but that you were playing poker. I said she could see you until you was done.”

  “That’s fine,” Clint said. “Where’d she go?”

  “Nowhere,” Lem said. “She’s here.”

  “Here?” Clint asked, surprised. He looked around. “Where?”

  “She’s sittin’ at a table over against that wall,” Lem said. “Drinkin’ whiskey.”

  Clint craned his neck to have a look.

  “Her? She looks like a kid.”

  “Yeah, she does,” Lem said, “but that kid is workin’ on her second glass of whiskey.”

  “Whiskey?”

  Lem nodded and said, “The good stuff.”

  Sutherland took a look at the girl.

  “Is she willin’ to wait until the card game is over?” he asked.

  “She says she’s gonna sit there and wait, yeah,” Lem said.

  “Anybody bothering her?” Clint asked.

  “Not since she said she was here to see you,” Lem said. “Said she went to your hotel and they sent her over here.”

  “Did she say what she wanted?”

  “No,” Lem said, “just that she wanted to talk to you.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “since we’re on a break, maybe I better find out what she wants, before she does get herself in trouble.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Mr. Adams,” Lem said. “The last thing Mr. McLintock wants in his place is trouble with some girl.”

  “Warm that up for me, will you?” Clint asked, putting his mug on the bar so the bartender could refill it. “Then I’ll go over and see what she wants.”

  Clint carried his coffee over to the table where the girl was sitting. She was looking around, seemingly unconcerned about sitting in a saloon crowded with half-drunk men. Abruptly, she looked up at him and followed his progress until he reached her.

  Lem hadn’t asked her name, so Clint simply said, “I hear you’re looking for me.”

  “I was told you would not be finished playing poker for some time,” she said.

  “I’m not finished,” he said. “We’re on a break.”

  “So you are Mr. Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Please,” she said, “I want to be very clear. You are the Gunsmith?”

  “I am.”

  That was when she took a gun out of her purse and shot him.

  THREE

  It was a two-shot derringer, and she fired only one. The bullet hit him in the left shoulder, felt like a bee sting. The saloon was so noisy that no one but the men at a nearby table heard the shot. One of them leaped to his feet and grabbed the gun from her before she could trigger the second barrel.

  “He
y, mister,” he asked, “you all right?”

  Clint looked down, saw some blood on his left shoulder, but the pain still wasn’t very bad.

  “I think I’m okay,” he said. He still had his coffee cup in his right hand, so he set it down and then used his fingers to probe the wound. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “You oughta see the doc,” the man said, still holding the derringer.

  Clint looked at the girl. She was staring straight ahead, not paying any attention to what was going on around her.

  “I guess we oughta take her over to the sheriff’s office,” the other man said. “You know where the doc’s office is?”

  “No,” Clint said.

  “Neil, take this fella to the doc’s,” the man said to one of his friends. “I’ll take the girl to the sheriff’s office.” He looked at Clint again. “You can come over there when you get patched up.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Clint said. “Wait. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Doug Bradford,” the man said. He moved aside his vest to show a badge on his chest. “Deputy.”

  The deputy took the girl by the arm and pulled her to her feet.

  “Miss, you’re under arrest.”

  Clint told Grant Sutherland what had happened, and where he was going.

  “Sure, I understand,” Sutherland said, frowning at the spread of blood on Clint’s shirt. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Clint said, “as soon as the doctor patches me up.”

  “You sure you’re gonna be able to play?”

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said. “I’ll play. You let Andy know, okay?”

  “Sure, sure,” Sutherland said. “I’ll see you later.”

  Clint nodded and went with the man called Neil to the doctor’s office.

  The doctor’s name was Foster. He was a healthy-looking sixty, had been the doctor in Tucson for twelve years, since coming out West.