The Dead Ringer

by J. R. Roberts

  FIFTEEN

  When Clint presented himself at City Hall, he was allowed in to see Mayor Stoffer.

  “Well,” Stoffer said when Clint entered his office, “what brings the Gunsmith to town?”

  “I heard I was already in town,” Clint said. “That is, an imposter was here.”

  “Really?” Stoffer asked. “If there was a man in town impersonating you, I certainly never heard about it. Did you talk to the sheriff?”

  “I did,” Clint said. “He also knows nothing about it.”

  “Well, what can I do for you, then?”

  “I’m here about young Andrew Escalante.”

  “The man who killed Joe Widmar?”

  “You mean the man accused of killing Joe Widmar, don’t you?”

  “I guess a jury will decide that.”

  “That’s what I came here to find out,” Clint said. “When is this trial supposed to take place?”

  “As soon as the circuit judge gets to town.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “As soon as he gets to town,” the mayor said.

  That was actually good news to Clint’s ears. The boy may have to sit in a cell for weeks, but it would give Clint plenty of time to do what he had to do.

  “And what’s the judge’s name?”

  “Poindexter,” Stoffer said. “Ever hear of him?”

  “No.”

  “He hates Mexicans.”

  “Guess that’s too bad for the kid, huh?”

  “Very bad.”

  “What about a lawyer?”

  “What about it?”

  “The kid needs one.”

  Stoffer shrugged. He was a tall, well-built man in his fifties. Probably figured he’d look good in three-piece suits in Washington.

  “Then he should get one,” Stoffer said.

  “Maybe I’ll get him one, then.”

  Stoffer laughed.

  “Just do him a favor,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Make sure the lawyer’s not Mexican.”

  “Do you know any lawyers in Mexico?” Clint asked Isobel later.

  They were in a small café, waiting for their steak dinners.

  “My father has several lawyers,” she said.

  “Well, Andrew’s going to need one,” Clint said. “Pick one.”

  “I do not need to,” she said. “None of them will represent Andrew unless my father says it is all right. Except for one.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Frederico Rodriguez.”

  “Will we have to go there and get him, or can we send a telegram?”

  “A telegram will do.”

  “And he’ll come?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Why?”

  “He is the newest lawyer working for my father,” she said. “And he’s the youngest. He has a mind of his own, unlike the others, who have worked for my father for a long time.”

  “Why would your father hire a lawyer who has a mind of his own?” Clint asked. “He sounds like the kind of man who needs a bootlicker.”

  “He has all the bootlickers that he needs,” she said. “He needed one man who could think, and who has a modern education.”

  The dinners came, steaming plates of meat and potatoes. The waiter set them down and scurried away.

  “Tell me something,” Clint said, cutting into his inchthick steak.

  “What is that?”

  “Why do I have the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?”

  “About what?”

  “About this lawyer, Fred.”

  “Frederico.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  She cut a small piece of steak, lifted it to her mouth on the end of the fork, but did not put it in.

  “Well, there is one other thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  She popped the piece of steak into her mouth.

  “Frederico is in love with me.”

  SIXTEEN

  The next morning Clint and Isobel had breakfast together, and then he accompanied her to the telegraph office. Frankly, he was surprised that a town the size of Tubac had one, but there it was.

  “Frederico has his office in Nogales,” she told Clint, “on the Mexican side.”

  “Fine,” Clint said, “we’ll send it there.”

  “What shall I say?” she asked.

  If he was truly in love with her, the telegram probably only needed one line.

  “Just tell him ‘I need you,’ ” he told her. “That should do it, right?”

  “Probably.”

  They entered the telegraph office and he let her write the message down and hand it to the clerk.

  “Will you wait for an answer?” he asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “we’re at the hotel . . . what’s the name of it?”

  “The Tubac Hotel.”

  “That’s original,” Clint said. He looked at the clerk.

  “Got it,” the man said.

  Clint and Isobel walked out.

  “What do we do now?” she asked as they walked down the street.

  “I’ve got to find Mitchell,” Clint said. “That means you go back to your room.”

  “But—”

  “Somebody’s got to wait for the answer from Freddy,” he said.

  “Frederico.”

  “Right,” Clint said. “If he leaves right away, he should be here tomorrow, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you wait,” Clint said. “If I’m not here when he gets here, you can tell him what’s going on.”

  “What is going on?” she asked. “What will you want him to do?”

  “If I can’t find Jess Mitchell,” Clint said, “then your Freddy is going to have to defend Andrew.”

  Clint actually had two things to do. He wanted to find Mitchell, and he wanted to get some information on Judge Poindexter.

  He went back to the telegraph office, wrote out a message of his own, then sent to his friend Rick Hartman, in Labyrinth, Texas. If anyone could dig up information on the judge, it was Rick. He had connections all over the country.

  “Send the reply to the hotel, like the other one?” the clerk asked.

  “Yes, but this one goes to me,” Clint said. “If I’m not there, leave it at the desk.”

  “Yessir.”

  He left the telegraph office and stood just outside, hands on hips. The question was where to look for Jess Mitchell? In a town as small as Tubac, that really shouldn’t have been a problem.

  He could have—and probably should have—left Tubac, and Arizona. The only way he could have done that quickly was to leave the country.

  Nogales.

  Mexico.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Are you sure?” Isobel asked. “Are you sure he’s in Mexico?”

  “No,” Clint said, “but where else would he go? Just in case Andrew convinced the law that he was the actual killer, nobody could go into Mexico after him.”

  “Except for you.”

  “Right.”

  They were back at the café, this time for coffee and some talk.

  “Did you get an answer from Freddy?” he asked.

  “Frederico,” she said. “He’s on his way. He’ll be here by morning. He promised.”

  “That’s good. He can work on the case here, while I go look for Mitchell.”

  “But how will you find him?”

  Clint shrugged.

  “I’ll just go to Nogales, see if anyone has seen him,” Clint said. “If not, I’ll come back here.”

  “Will you go see my father?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Clint said. “Why?”

  “He would respect you,” she said. “Respect who you are.”

  “Does that mean he’d come here and help?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He was very hurt when we left.”

  “He might leave his son to die,” Clint said, “but what if you were in danger? H
is daughter?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head, “he would not come to save me. His son would be more important than his daughter.”

  “Then he wouldn’t come to save either of you.”

  “Not on his own.”

  “What about your stepmother? Could she convince him?”

  “I do not know,” she said. “He is a proud man. But she does have some influence with him.”

  “All right,” he said, “but first I’ll be going to Nogales on this side of the border. If I go to the Mexican side, maybe I’ll stop and see your father.”

  “And what about Andrew?” she asked. “What if Frederico can’t help him? What if they decide to hang him?”

  “It looks to me like they want to do this legally,” Clint said. “If the judge should arrive and they start the trial, send me a telegram in Nogales. I can be back here quickly.”

  “I wish you did not have to go,” she said.

  “I’ll stay tomorrow to meet Freddy,” Clint said. “And I’ll look around some more today. Tubac is not very big. If Mitchell is hiding in town, somebody should have seen him.”

  “What about outside of town?”

  “There are some houses nearby,” Clint said, “but who would be hiding him? He only arrived here a short while ago. Not enough time to make those kinds of friends.”

  Suddenly, something occurred to him. She noticed the look on his face.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Joe Widmar.”

  “The man Andrew is in jail for killing?”

  He nodded.

  “His house is empty.”

  “You think this man Mitchell might be hiding there?” she asked.

  “It’s worth a look,” he said. “Come on, I’ll take you back to the hotel and then go check it out.”

  “Alone?” she asked as they stood up.

  “Who would you suggest I take along?” he asked.

  “Me.”

  “This could be dangerous, Isobel.”

  “I shot you, didn’t I?”

  “Good point,” he said. “Okay. Let’s get you a horse.”

  EIGHTEEN

  They rode out to the Widmar house together. When they got there, they dismounted and Clint handed Isobel his .25 caliber Colt New Line.

  “It’s small, but bigger than your derringer,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They approached the house on foot.

  “Stay behind me,” he said as they got closer.

  When they reached the door, he directed her to one side, and he stood to the other. The house was small, probably two rooms and no other door.

  “I’ll go in first.”

  She nodded, held her gun ready.

  He reached for the door handle and pushed the door open. He stepped inside, heard Isobel enter behind him.

  “Watch yourself,” he said.

  This room was a combination kitchen and sitting room. The other room would be a bedroom.

  “Watch the door,” Clint said.

  He went into the other room, found that it was, indeed, a bedroom. And it had recently been slept in.

  He went back into the main room.

  “I think he was here,” he said. “Looks like somebody slept here since Widmar’s death.”

  “So he’s gone?”

  “Looks like it, but let’s go outside. I want to look around.”

  “For what?”

  “Tracks.”

  They went outside.

  “Keep a sharp eye out while I examine the ground.”

  “All right.”

  She looked around nervously while Clint walked about, staring down at the ground.

  “There were horses here before us,” he said. “Probably the sheriff and his deputy.”

  “And Mitchell?”

  “If his horse was here, I can’t tell it from the others.”

  “Then this was useless?”

  “Not necessarily,” Clint said. “Let’s go back to town. I want to take a look at the sheriff’s and the deputy’s horses.”

  They mounted up and rode back to town.

  “You want to what?” Sheriff Hendricks asked.

  “I want to see your horse, and your deputy’s.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to see what tracks they leave.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can eliminate them.”

  The sheriff didn’t know what he was talking about, but didn’t care.

  “Our horses are at the livery. Go ahead and look at them, if you want. Tell Riker I said it was okay.”

  The liveryman, Riker, showed Clint where the sheriff’s and the deputy’s horses were. He stood by and watched while Clint examined their hooves.

  “What’re you lookin’ for?” Riker asked.

  “I just want to be able to know these tracks when I see them.”

  “You gonna be trackin’ somebody?”

  “I hope so,” Clint said. “Thanks for your help.”

  He went outside, where Isobel was waiting.

  “Did that help?”

  “Yeah, it did,” he said.

  “Are we going back to the house?”

  “I’ll go back tomorrow. It’ll be dark soon.”

  He walked their horses into the livery and left them in Riker’s care. So far the man had done right by Eclipse.

  “Ready to buy a new horse for the lady?” Riker asked.

  “Not yet,” Clint said. “I’ll let you know when.”

  “Okay.”

  He went back outside, walked with Isobel back to the hotel.

  Later that night, while he was sitting on the bed reading, she knocked at his door. He answered, gun in hand just in case.

  “Isobel.”

  “I’m frightened,” she said.

  “Of what?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Come in.”

  She hesitated.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “You can have the bed. I’ll sit in the chair.”

  She came in.

  “I won’t stay all night,” she said, sitting on the bed.

  “Okay.”

  “Just until I stop being frightened.”

  “Okay,” he said again.

  She reclined on the bed and fell asleep. He’d had women come to his room many times, but Isobel wasn’t like any of those women. He knew she had only come because she was afraid. So he spent the night in a chair.

  NINETEEN

  Clint woke the next morning, lying in the bed beside Isobel. They were both fully dressed. He remembered her coming to him in the middle of the night, rousing him, and leading him to the bed.

  “Go to sleep,” she’d told him.

  They’d both gone to sleep.

  Now he sat up, rubbed his face vigorously. Isobel had to go back to her own room before Freddy the lawyer arrived. After all, he was in love with her, and they wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea.

  “Isobel,” he said.

  “Hmm?”

  “Time to get up,” he said. “Freddy’s going to be here soon.”

  She sat up quickly, looked around, and said, “Madre de Dios!”

  “Nothing happened, Isobel,” he said. “You just wanted to sleep here. Why don’t you go back to your room and freshen up? We’ll go have some breakfast. Maybe he’ll be here by then.”

  “Sí,” she said. “Thank you, Clint. I felt safe here last night.”

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  Isobel looked very fresh and clean when she came down to the lobby. As a woman traveling, Clint assumed she had a trunk of clothes in her room. She was wearing a dress he had not seen yet.

  He was wearing a fresh shirt, his last. He’d have to buy more.

  “Ready for breakfast?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m—” She stopped and looked past him. He turned, saw a young Mexican man enter. He was wearing a dark suit that was covered with trail dust. He looked
like a man who had ridden all night.

  “Isobel?”

  “Frederico!”

  She rushed into his arms, and he embraced her but stared at Clint over her head. Clint thought Isobel might have been trying to deflect the man away from the fact that he’d found her with another man—even if they were only standing in the hotel lobby.

  “Who is this man?” he demanded.

  “This is Clint Adams,” she said, putting just a little distance between them so she could turn and indicate Clint. “He’s trying to help us.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t you mean ‘why’?” Clint asked.

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  “No,” Clint said, “you’re the lawyer. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Isobel,” Frederico said, “I came because you said you needed me.”

  “I do, Frederico,” she said. “Andrew needs you.”

  “What is going on?”

  “You look like you could use a hot meal and some coffee,” Clint said. “Why don’t we go someplace, sit down, and talk.”

  He could see the young lawyer wanted to get into it immediately, but in the end he gave in to his hunger, and the need for coffee.

  “Very well,” he said.

  “Come,” Isobel said, taking his hand. They walked that way together, ahead of Clint, to the café.

  TWENTY

  Over breakfast, Isobel told Frederico what had happened to Andrew. When she got to the part where she shot Clint, he took over the story.

  “Wait,” the lawyer said. “She actually shot you?”

  “In the shoulder,” Clint said, “with a small-caliber derringer.”

  Frederico looked at her.

  “The one I gave you?”

  “Yes,” she said, casting her eyes downward.

  “And you didn’t have her arrested?”

  “No,” Clint said. “I didn’t see the need.”

  He continued his story, all the way up to finding tracks at the home of the dead man.

  “Now that I’ve seen the tracks left by the sheriff and deputy, I’m going to try to track Mitchell.”

  “What if the tracks aren’t his?”

  “That’s a chance I’ll have to take,” Clint said. “It would help if the tracks lead south.”

  “Mexico?”