The Dead Ringer

by J. R. Roberts

  “I’m thinking that’s where Mitchell would have to go until this blows over. Until the trial is over. It would also help him if Andrew was hanged.”

  Isobel grabbed Frederico’s forearm.

  “You have to keep that from happening, Frederico. Please.”

  “Have you spoken with Don Alfredo?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not.”

  “But . . . Andrew is his son.”

  “You know how Father feels about us leaving,” she said.

  “Hey, Fred,” Clint said, “do you think you could talk her father into helping?”

  The lawyer gave Clint a hard stare.

  “My name is Frederico,” he said, “and I hold no sway over Don Alfredo.”

  “What about some of his other lawyers?”

  “They would not listen to me either.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I guess it’s up to you, then. You have to defend him.”

  “When is the trial to start?”

  “As soon as the circuit judge arrives. The mayor says it could be weeks.”

  Frederico looked at Isobel.

  “I cannot stay here for weeks, Isobel.”

  “Frederico—”

  “She could send you a telegram when the trial date is set,” Clint said.

  Frederico didn’t speak.

  “Or are you too afraid of her father to defend her brother . . . Freddy?”

  “My name is Frederico,” he said, “and I am not afraid of Don Alfredo. But I am loyal to him.”

  “And he wouldn’t want you to help Andrew, right?”

  Instead of answering Clint, Frederico looked at Isobel.

  “Querida, I must talk with your father about this, about us.”

  “You will be going back to Mexico?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you will talk to Andrew first?”

  He reached out and took her hands.

  “Yes, of course. I will talk to him, and reassure him.”

  “Good,” she said. “Thank you, Frederico.”

  The lawyer looked at Clint.

  “I do not think we will need your help,” he said.

  “Oh, well, that’s not for you to say, Freddy,” Clint replied. “I promised Isobel I’d help her brother.”

  “I am here now,” the lawyer said. “She does not need you.”

  “Well, there’s still the part about Mitchell impersonating me,” Clint said. “I can’t let him go on doing that. So whether you like it or not, I’m going to stick with this.”

  “Stick?”

  Clint leaned forward and said, “I’m not going to stop until I catch Jess Mitchell.”

  “If he brings this man back,” Isobel said, “it will help Andrew.”

  “Yes,” Frederico said, “very well.”

  “And since you’re going back to Mexico,” Clint said, “we might as well travel together. Especially if you’re going to be talking to Don Alfredo. I’d like to talk to him myself.”

  “I pushed my horse hard,” the Mexican said. “It will have to rest. I cannot leave until tomorrow.”

  “Well, I’ll take another look at those tracks out at the Widmar house,” Clint said. “I might be able to wait until tomorrow myself.”

  “I cannot guarantee Don Alfredo will talk to you.”

  “That’s okay,” Clint said. “I’ll take care of that part myself. How about some more coffee?”

  TWENTY-ONE

  While Isobel took Frederico over to the sheriff’s office, Clint rode back out to the Widmar house. He dismounted, careful not to trample the tracks he was interested in. He studied them, was able to isolate the sheriff’s horse, and then the deputy’s. It looked to him like there was one set of tracks left.

  He walked around to the back of the house, found a single set of tracks. They matched the third set from the front. So if Jess Mitchell had spent a night or two here, these tracks belonged to his horse.

  Clint decided to follow them for a while, until he was sure what direction they were going.

  Within two hours he became convinced that Mitchell was riding for Mexico. Or, at least, Nogales. Now he had to decide if he wanted to follow him right away, or wait until the next day, when Freddy the lawyer headed back to Mexico.

  Clint went back to Tubac.

  He figured whether Jess Mitchell was in Nogales in the United States, or Nogales in Mexico, he’d stay there. As far as the man knew, nobody was looking for him.

  Clint entered the hotel, with the intention of going up to Isobel’s room, but instead he stopped at the desk.

  “Yes, sir?” the clerk asked.

  “Señor Frederico Rodriguez,” Clint said. “Has he checked in?”

  The clerk looked at the register and said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Rodriguez is in Room Number 8.”

  “Thanks.”

  He went upstairs and knocked on Isobel’s door. When she opened the door, she looked tired.

  “Is Freddy here?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, “Frederico has his own room, but I believe he is out.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  Inside the room he asked, “Did you and he talk to Andrew?”

  “We did.”

  “And?”

  “He has agreed to be Andrew’s lawyer,” she said. “But . . .”

  “But he’s still going to talk to your father before actually defending him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he going back to Nogales tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll go with him, then.”

  “He does not like you.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  “You keep calling him Freddy,” she said. “You want him to dislike you.”

  “No,” he said, “I just think he should loosen up a bit.”

  “I do not think that will happen,” Isobel said. “Frederico is not . . . loose.”

  “Well, maybe I can loosen him up on the ride to Nogales.”

  “Please,” she said, “do not hurt him.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Frederico has a temper,” she said. “He might do something . . . silly.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Is he jealous?”

  “Sí.”

  “But we haven’t done anything to make him jealous,” Clint said.

  “He does not think so.”

  “Well, I’ll have to straighten him out,” Clint said. “Looks like we’ll have an interesting ride to Nogales.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “you should resolve your issues even before that.”

  “You might be right,” Clint said. “Maybe I should buy the young man a drink.”

  “Except,” she said, “he gets angrier when he is drunk.”

  “I’ll try my best not to get him drunk, then,” Clint said. “Just loose.”

  She looked unhappy.

  “I am not confident.”

  “Let me ask you this,” he said. “Is he a good lawyer?”

  “He is very good,” she said. “He’s smart and clever.”

  “Okay, then,” Clint said. “I’ll do my best to keep him happy.”

  “Gracias, Clint.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Clint found the young Mexican lawyer in the saloon, having a drink at the bar. He was wearing the same suit, but it had been brushed until it was almost spotless.

  He stood next to Frederico and said, “I’ll have a beer,” to the bartender.

  “Comin’ up.”

  Frederico turned his head and looked at Clint.

  “Hey, Freddy.”

  “Why do you insist on calling me that?” Frederico asked.

  “Because you’ve got to relax,” Clint said. “Freddy is a relaxing name. Frederico . . . that’s too stiff.”

  “What do you want?” the Mexican lawyer asked.

  “I’m going to ride to No
gales with you tomorrow,” Clint said. “I’m convinced that’s where I’ll find Jess Mitchell.”

  “Fine,” Frederico said, “as long as we do not talk along the way.”

  “Well, see,” Clint said, “I thought we should talk now.”

  The bartender brought Clint a beer and Clint said, “Bring my friend another one, on me.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  The place was about half full, but there were plenty of tables available. As the bartender brought Frederico’s second beer, Clint grabbed both his and the lawyer’s and said, “Come on, let’s sit.”

  Clint walked to a table and set both beers down. Frederico resisted, but in the end he followed and sat in front of his fresh beer.

  “What do you want, señor?”

  “I’ll tell you what I want,” Clint said. “I want to find the man who was impersonating me. I want to help Isobel and Andrew prove that he’s innocent of murder.”

  “That is all?”

  “That is everything,” Clint replied. “I understand you and Isobel have a relationship. She told me.”

  “She did?” Frederico asked. “What did she tell you?”

  “She told me that you are in love with her.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “What more do you want?”

  Frederico sat back, shoulders slumped.

  “She did not tell you that she is in love with me?” he asked.

  “No, she didn’t say that,” Clint said. “But she didn’t say she wasn’t.”

  “And you are not in love with her?”

  “Freddy,” Clint said, “I’m a lot older than she is. No, I’m not in love with her.”

  “And you do not . . . desire her?”

  “I only desire to help these two kids,” Clint said, “because it looks like their father won’t.”

  “He is a hard man, Don Alfredo,” Frederico said.

  “That’s what Isobel told me.”

  “He wants Andrew to take over the ranch after he is gone,” Frederico said, “but it does not look like that will happen.”

  “Because Andrew wants to be his own man?”

  “No,” the lawyer said, “it is because Andrew is not a strong man.”

  “Well, he’s not a man, really,” Clint said. “He’s still young.”

  “Don Alfredo is not a very patient man,” Frederico said. “He wants Andrew to be ready now.”

  “Well, that’s too bad,” Clint said. “Sometimes it takes a boy time to grow up.”

  “Don Alfredo is elderly,” Frederico said. “He had his children late in life for him. He does not have that much time to wait.”

  “All the more reason he should stay on good terms with his children. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

  “I would not try,” Frederico said.

  “What about the other lawyers?”

  “They are both lifelong friends with Don Alfredo,” Frederico said. “They both fear him.”

  “His friends fear him?”

  “Sí, señor.”

  “And do you fear him?”

  “No, I do not. But I do not discuss personal matters with him.”

  “Then there isn’t anyone who can try to talk sense into him?”

  “No, señor.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I guess I’ll have to try.”

  “I wish you luck, señor,” Frederico said. “I have never known Don Alfredo to listen to anyone.”

  “All I need from you is an introduction,” Clint said. “Surely you’d be able to do that, wouldn’t you? Frederico?”

  The man hesitated, then said, “Sí, señor. I am able to do that.”

  “Good.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  In Nogales, on the Mexican side, Jess Mitchell was enjoying himself.

  It was all about whiskey, food, and women for him. He was staying in a room behind a small cantina, having food and whores brought into him.

  At the moment he had a half-finished plate of tacos and beans on the table next to the bed while he plowed one of the whores from behind.

  He had been rotating three women in and out of his bed. They were all Mexican, with dark skin, black eyes, and black hair, but in order to keep it interesting, one of them was nineteen, one was twenty-eight, and the other one was over forty.

  The nineteen-year-old was, of course, the least experienced. He kept having her brought in mostly for what he could teach her. The twenty-eight-year-old was experienced and eager, but it was the older one—forty-five if she was a day—who had become his favorite. She had all the experience in the world, and would do anything.

  At the moment she was letting him fuck her ass, which he hadn’t even approached the other two girls about. The nineteen-year-old—Xena—would have been shocked at the suggestion. The middle girl, Rosa, might have gone for it, but he hadn’t yet tried.

  But the older woman, Helena, was ready for anything. Also, she had a lush body with big breasts and hips, while the other women were sleek and small breasted. Part of the reason for Helena’s lushness was her age, of course. In a few years she might even be fat, but at the moment she was what Jess Mitchell liked to call “juicy.”

  He fucked her hard now, driving his hard cock into her, as she groaned and cried out, but her cries had nothing to do with pain. In fact, as he drove himself into her, she rammed her ass back against him so that they were actually both working very hard at this.

  Or playing.

  The bed frame was creaking, the room was filling with the scent of their sweat and her juices.

  “Come on, cabron,” she exhorted him.

  He was already fucking her as hard as he could so he decided to slap her ass at the same time. Maybe that would satisfy her. This woman—of all the women he’d ever been with—was the hardest to satisfy, but it was a challenge he was happy to rise to.

  He grabbed hold of her hips as he felt himself building toward his climax and then bellowed like a bull as he emptied into her.

  He withdrew from her and she turned over onto her back, her big breasts flopping over to either side, the big, brown nipples still as hard as diamonds.

  He leaned over and placed his face between her breasts, licking the sweat from her body. She pressed her breasts together, trapping his face there, then set him free so he could lick her nipples clean of perspiration.

  After that he sat on the side of the bed, reached for a taco and the bottle of tequila on the table next to the bed.

  “You have many appetites, Jess,” she said. He liked the way the three whores pronounced his name. It sounded like they were saying “Yes.”

  “I’ve got an appetite for you, that’s for sure,” he said, slapping her on one meaty thigh.

  “More than Xena and Rosa?” she asked. “They are so much younger than I am.”

  “They got nothin’ on you, Helena,” he said, grabbing one of her breasts and squeezing it. He got some sauce from the taco on her breast, so he leaned over and licked it off. Then he gave her the bottle of tequila so she could have a drink.

  He got up and walked to the window. The room was on the main floor, and all he could see was an alley that ran alongside. He didn’t mind having that room, since no one was looking for him. Still, he preferred to remain in the room as much as possible, coming out only occasionally to take a walk, stretch his legs, and maybe have a drink in the cantina. He was getting kind of tired of Xena and her lack of experience. Maybe, while in the cantina, he’d see another girl who would strike his fancy. He’d check it out later today, in fact.

  “I must go to work,” Rosa said, swinging her bare feet to the floor. “When will you want me again?”

  “I’ll let you know later,” he said. “We don’t want poor Helena getting jealous, do we?”

  “She does not make you as happy as I do,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, you’re the one who brings the food with you.”

  She laughed, donning her skirt and peasant blouse. The first time he saw her in t
hat blouse, with her big, loose breasts spilling out, he knew he had to have her, no matter what her age was.

  She put on her shoes and said, “Then I will see you in the cantina?”

  “You bet.”

  He went over to her, kissed her soundly, and sent her from the room with a resounding slap on her ample butt.

  When she was gone, he went back to the bottle of tequila and used it to wash down the rest of the tacos and beans that were on the plate.

  He’d been in Nogales for several days. First, he had stopped in the U.S. side, but then he decided he’d be better off in Mexico. He was sure the kid he’d framed for Widmar’s murder was going to swing for it, but he was playing it safe and staying in Mexico until it was all over.

  The kid had been easy, and the stroke of genius had been to pretend to be Clint Adams, the Gunsmith. That had really impressed the boy.

  He drained the tequila bottle, then decided to get dressed and go on out to the cantina now for a beer, and another bottle.

  And maybe he’d bring one of the girls back with him. His dick was already getting hard again.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Clint felt that he and Frederico had cleared the air. They left the saloon together, and the lawyer said he was going back to the hotel. Clint decided to go and have a talk with Andrew. If he was going to talk to the boy’s father, maybe he’d be able to give him some advice.

  “Back again?” Hendricks asked. “The other two were here a while ago.”

  “I’m leaving town tomorrow,” Clint said. “I just want to talk to the kid before I go.”

  “Fine,” Hendricks said. “Gun on the desk.”

  Clint placed his weapon on the desk and walked over to the cell. He noticed that Andrew remained on his cot, rather than rushing forward anxiously.

  “Hey, kid.”

  “Señor Adams.”

  “Listen, Freddy and me are going to Nogales tomorrow.”

  “Freddy?” Andrew frowned.

  “Your lawyer?”

  “Oh, Frederico.”

  “Yes,” Clint said.

  “Why are you going there?”

  “I think Mitchell is hiding out there,” Clint said. “Also, I’m going to talk to your father.”

  “About what?”

  “About you,” Clint said. “Why else would I talk to him?”