“You are not going to change my father’s mind about me,” Andrew said. “I am simply not the man he wants me to be.”
“You’re not a man at all,” Clint said. “You’re still a boy.”
“That is not how he feels.”
“Well, maybe I can change his mind.”
“You won’t change his mind about Isobel and I leaving home.”
“We’ll see,” Clint said. “I just wanted you to know I might be gone for a day or two.”
“What if the trial starts?”
“It won’t,” Clint said. “It will take a while for the judge to get here. I should be back in plenty of time.”
“What about Isobel?”
“She’ll be here in town.”
“And Frederico?”
“He’s going back, too,” Clint said. “He needs to talk to your father.”
“To get permission to defend me.”
“Yes.”
“And if my father says no, he won’t come back.”
“Unless Isobel can get him to come back.”
“His love for my sister will not overcome his loyalty to my father.”
“Maybe not.”
Andrew’s head dropped and he stared at the floor.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For what you are trying to do.”
“You just hang on, kid,” Clint said. “I’m going to drag Mitchell back here and make him confess. And then you’ll be out of here.”
“I await that day,” Andrew said.
Clint nodded, walked to the sheriff’s desk to pick up his gun.
“You know there’s talk,” Hendricks said.
“What kind of talk?”
Hendricks looked over at Andrew, then lowered his voice and said, “Lynch talk.”
“You won’t allow that.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I’d stop any lynch mob in my town . . . if I can.”
“Are you telling me you don’t think you’ll be able to?”
“I’m just sayin’,” Hendricks replied, “don’t be away too long.”
Clint left the sheriff’s office with sudden second thoughts. If there was lynch talk in town, maybe it was better for him to stay. But that would not accomplish anything as far as clearing the kid. It would only keep him alive. For now.
And why a lynch mob? Was the dead man that well liked in town? Clint hadn’t heard anything to that effect since his arrival.
No, if there was lynch talk, it probably didn’t have much strength behind it. Lynch talk usually came from one man trying to rile up a crowd. Clint hadn’t heard anything like that in town.
In the morning he and the lawyer would head to Nogales. If they left early enough, pressed on, and didn’t stop, they’d make it by tomorrow night—at least to the U.S. side. Once there, he could talk to the sheriff, and see what the law knew. Then the next day they’d cross over to the Mexican side and—if nothing else—talk to Don Alfredo Escalante about his children.
TWENTY-FIVE
In the morning Clint pounded on Frederico’s door. The man answered, stripped to the waist and looking bleary-eyed.
“Wha—”
“Time to go, Freddy.”
Frederico rubbed his face with both hands and asked, “Breakfast?”
“Beef jerky and water,” Clint said, “on the move. Come on, let’s go. We want to get to Nogales by tonight.”
“We do?”
“Yes, we do. Get dressed! I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
From the lobby Clint took a sleepy-eyed Frederico to the livery stable, where they saddled Eclipse and the lawyer’s horse, a healthy-looking pinto.
Frederico looked at Clint’s horse and said, “I cannot keep up to you on that.”
“Your pinto will do fine. It’s a good horse.”
As they saddled the animals, Riker, the livery man, said, “He’s right. You go into any kind of run and that little pinto will never keep up.”
“Not looking for speed,” Clint said. “Just stamina. We’re gonna walk all day. The pinto can keep up.”
“Maybe,” Riker said.
“I know horses,” Clint said.
“So do I,” Riker said. “Just walkin’ next to your horse will ruin any other horse.”
“We’ll take it easy.”
They walked the two horses outside and mounted up.
“You going to be able to stay in that saddle?” Clint asked him.
“I am fine,” Frederico said. “Can we say good-bye to Isobel?”
“You’ll see her in a few days,” Clint said, “but yeah, we’ll ride by the hotel.”
As they rode by the hotel, Isobel appeared in the window of her room and looked down at them. Frederico waved to her and Clint nodded and said to the lawyer, “So let’s ride.”
Outside of Tubac they came upon the tracks Clint had been following.
“They head south,” he said, pointing.
“What if it is not him?”
“Like I told you before,” Clint said, “I believe Jess Mitchell is in Nogales, so whether these tracks are his or not, that’s where I’m going.”
“I do not understand your reasoning, Señor Adams.”
“My reasoning is very simple,” Clint said. “It’s what I would do if I was him.”
“I do not see how you can put yourself in the place of such a man,” Frederico said. “I would not be able to do it.”
“Well, you and me, we’ve lived very different lives, Freddy,” Clint said. “I have dealt with men like this all my life. It’s not hard at all for me to try and think like them.”
“Well, I cannot understand it, but I am going to Nogales for my own purpose.”
“Then let’s get a move on. We might as well follow these tracks as far as they take us.”
“I do not care,” Frederico said. “I am going that way in any case.”
They rode south for a few hours, and Clint was satisfied with the performance of Frederico’s little pinto. Even Eclipse seemed happy with the smaller horse and seemed to be regulating his stride to accommodate the pinto.
Frederico, however, seemed to be suffering the effect of having already ridden hard from Nogales to Tubac once.
“I need to stop,” he said at one point.
“I want to get to Nogales tonight, Freddy.”
The man seemed to have given up on getting Clint to call him by his proper name.
“Then you may go on ahead,” he said, reining in his horse and dismounting.
“You spend too much time in a court room and not enough time on a horse, Freddy,” Clint said.
“Well, the courtroom is where I get paid to do my job.”
“You don’t want Isobel to be disappointed in you, do you? She’s depending on you to save her brother.”
Frederico bent over and put his hands on his knees, seemed to be having trouble getting his breath. He stared up at Clint.
“Isobel knows that I work for her father,” he said. “I cannot defend Andrew without Don Alfredo’s approval.”
“Did you tell Andrew that? So he’s not depending on you?”
Frederico didn’t answer.
“So he’s sitting in a cell, expecting you to come back and defend him, and if Don Alfredo says no, you won’t show up?”
“I have told you,” Frederico said, “I work for Don Alfredo. My loyalty must be to him.”
“And how do you think Isobel will feel about you when you’ve abandoned her brother?”
“She will understand,” Frederico said. “She is going to be my wife. She will have to understand.”
“Freddy,” Clint said, “I’m afraid you don’t know women very well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Clint said, “women don’t have to do anything they don’t want to do.”
“She will be obedient.”
“Like I said,” Clint replied, “you don’t know much about women.”
He continued s
outh with Eclipse at a brisk walk. Frederico stared after Clint for a few moments, then mounted up and started off after him.
TWENTY-SIX
They rode into Nogales soon after dark. It was a much larger town than Tubac. Frederico and his pinto had managed to keep up, but while the horse was in fine shape, the man was exhausted.
“Just lead me to a hotel, and you can go home and get some rest,” Clint said.
“I do not live here, señor. I lived across the border. So we will both need a hotel.”
“Fine,” Clint said. “Where’s the nearest one?”
“This way, señor.”
They left their horses in the livery and then registered at the hotel, which was larger than Clint had expected.
“In the morning I’m going to talk to the sheriff,” Clint said. “If he can’t help me locate Jess Mitchell, I’ll have to go across the border.”
“I need to rest,” Frederico said. “So you will be on your own tomorrow morning.”
“Suits me,” Clint said, and left Frederico standing in the lobby.
In the morning Clint didn’t bother checking on Frederico. He was sure the young man was still asleep, trying to recover from his two days in the saddle.
He asked the desk clerk for a decent place for breakfast and had to walk down only two streets to get to it. It was a small cantina where he was able to get some good huevos rancheros, to which he got them to add some steak and tortillas. The food was good, the coffee was strong and black, the way he liked it.
After breakfast he walked around Nogales, found it busy in the morning. The people seemed friendly, as he exchanged some greetings with total strangers, both men and women. Eventually, he found himself in front of the sheriff’s office, wondering if the lawman would be as friendly as the other folks in town. There was a shingle on the wall that said the sheriff’s name was W. Stroby.
He opened the door and stepped in.
A man wearing a badge and a serious look glanced up from his desk.
“Help ya?” he asked.
“Sheriff Stroby?”
“It’s Stroby,” the man said, correcting Clint’s pronunciation from a short “o” to a long one.
“Sorry, Sheriff Stroby,” Clint said. “I just arrived in town last night and wanted to talk to you about something.”
“What?”
“I’m looking for a man named Jess Mitchell,” Clint said. “Might be guilty of a murder that took place in Tubac.”
The sheriff sat back. His serious countenance made him appear older, but Clint guessed his age as mid-thirties.
“You a bounty hunter?”
“No, sir.”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Clint Adams.”
Stroby gave his jaw a hard run with his left hand.
“Don’t know as if that’s much better,” he said. “What’s the Gunsmith want with this Mitchell? You lookin’ to kill’im?”
“I’m looking to take him back to Tubac to stand trial,” Clint said.
“You ain’t wearin’ a badge.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Why isn’t the sheriff here?” Stroby asked. “Hendricks, ain’t it?”
“That’s right,” Clint said. “Sheriff Hendricks has a man in custody for the murder, but it’s the wrong man.”
“And whose opinion is that?”
“Mine.”
“So you got no authority here.”
“No, sir, I don’t,” Clint said.
“So what’s your interest?”
“Seems like Jess Mitchell was going by a different name in Tubac.”
“What name was that?”
“Clint Adams.”
“Ah,” Stroby said, “I think I’m startin’ to see your interest.”
“I don’t like anybody impersonating me,” Clint said, “especially when they might be guilty of murder.”
“Who says he did it?”
“The man the sheriff has in a cell.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“When is Mitchell supposed to have left Tubac?”
“A few days ago. Don’t know if he came directly here or not, but we followed some tracks that may have been his.”
“ We?”
“I rode in with a lawyer named Frederico Rodriguez,” Clint explained.
Stroby raised his eyebrows in recognition.
“Now that name I do know,” he said. “Works for Don Alfredo Escalante.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s his interest?”
“The man in jail in Tubac is Don Alfredo’s son, Andrew.”
Now Sheriff Stroby dry washed his face with both hands.
“This sounds like it’s complicated.”
“Extremely,” Clint said. “Would it help you to know the whole story?”
“No,” Stroby said, “but why don’t you tell me anyway.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Clint told the sheriff the whole story. The man listened quietly, chin propped up on his hands.
“You’re taking the word of both Isobel and Andrew that he didn’t do it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Clint shrugged. “I believe them.”
“Have anything to do with the fact that she’s pretty?” Stroby asked.
“Has more to do with the fact that she was mad enough to shoot me.”
“Maybe Andrew’s even lying to her,” the lawman suggested.
“Could be,” Clint said. “I’m reserving my final opinion until I can talk to Jess Mitchell.”
“So you’re leavin’ room for the possibility that he wasn’t impersonating you, and had nothin’ to do with the killin’.”
“If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that anything’s possible.”
“I can believe that,” Stroby said.
“So,” Clint said, “you haven’t said yet whether or not Mitchell is or was here.”
Stroby tapped his fingers on the top of his desk and then said, “He was.”
“When?”
“He rode in a few days ago,” Stroby said.
“And stayed how long?”
“Until I kicked him out of town.”
“What for?”
“He started a fight, almost killed a man.”
“A fight over what?”
“A woman.”
“Did he resist?”
“Nope,” Stroby said, “and now I know why.”
“He didn’t want to have any trouble with the law if he could help it.”
“Not if he was tryin’ to hide out.”
“So where did he go?” Clint asked. “Do you know?”
“I know he went across the border,” Stroby said. “I don’t know if he stopped in Nogales, or kept goin’.”
“Well, that’s a bit helpful anyway,” Clint said, standing.
“You goin’ across?” Stroby asked.
“Yep.”
“Takin’ young Rodriguez with you?”
“Yes.”
“He gonna take you to see Don Alfredo?”
“I hope so.”
“That’s one stubborn old buzzard,” Stroby said. “You think you can convince him to help a son he doesn’t approve of?”
“I hope so,” Clint said. “Or maybe I can convince the boy’s stepmother.”
“I’ll be very interested to see if you even get to talk to her.”
“Any advice about handling Don Alfredo?”
“No,” Stroby said, “except maybe talk to Sheriff Lopez when you get there.”
“Is he a good man?”
“He’s the sheriff,” Stroby said. “That’s about all I can say, but he’s had more dealings with the old man than I have. Maybe he can give you some advice. His name’s Hector Lopez.”
“Good,” Clint said. “I’ll check in with him as soon as I get there.”
“Mention my name, if you think it will do you any good,” Stroby said. “I can’t
tell you if it really will or not.”
“Thanks,” Clint said. “I’ll use it if I think I need to.”
The sheriff stood and the two men shook hands.
“Stop by here on your way back,” Stroby said. “I’d like to know how things went with the old man.”
“I’ll do it.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
When Clint left the sheriff’s office, he went to the hotel to see if the lawyer had awakened yet. He knocked on the man’s door a couple of times, then went down to the desk clerk.
“Have you seen the man who checked in with me last night? Mr. Rodriguez?”
“Yes,” the clerk said. “He went out about half an hour ago.”
“Do you know where he was going?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Frederico would not have had to ask the clerk about a place for breakfast, since he had been to Nogales before. Maybe he went to have breakfast, or maybe he was doing something else. Could be he went to send a telegram, either to Tubac or to Nogales across the border.
Clint left the hotel and went looking for the telegraph office, just to check.
Frederico wasn’t at the telegraph office, and the clerk would not give him any information.
“I don’t talk about customers,” the man said.
“That’s admirable,” Clint said, “but I don’t want to know what his telegram said, I just want to know if he was here.”
“What’d you say his name was?”
“Frederico Rodriguez,” Clint said.
The clerk looked down, moved some papers around, then said, “Yeah, he was here a little while ago.”
“Thanks,” Clint said. “Then I’m on the right track. Don’t suppose he said where he was going?”
“No,” the clerk said, “but he did comment on how hungry he was.”
“Is there a good place to eat near here?”
“Sure is,” the man said. “Right around the corner. Get my lunch there every day myself.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Naw, everybody knows where it is.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Clint left the telegraph office, walked around the corner, and found the little restaurant. He could see there was no name, but the word STEAKS was painted on the big front window. He peered in the window and saw the lawyer eating breakfast.
The Dead Ringer Page 7
