The Dead Ringer

by J. R. Roberts

  “Good morning,” he said, presenting himself at the table. “Mind if I join you?”

  “To be frank,” Frederico said, “I was hoping you had left for Mexico.”

  Clint sat down, poured himself some coffee.

  “Not without you, my friend,” Clint said. “I hear you sent a telegram this morning.”

  Frederico frowned.

  “How did—”

  “I stopped around the corner,” Clint said. “Who’d you send it to, Don Alfredo?”

  “No,” Frederico said, “I sent it to Manuel Ruiz. He is Don Alfredo’s oldest friend, and has been his lawyer for many years.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “That you would probably be coming to town tomorrow,” Frederico said.

  “Get an answer?”

  “Not yet,” the young lawyer said, “but I am sure he will want me to bring you to him first, before you try to see Don Alfredo.”

  “That’s okay with me,” Clint said.

  “Did you have your talk with the sheriff?” Frederico asked.

  “I did,” Clint said. “He told me Jess Mitchell was here, but he ran him out of town.”

  “And where did he go?”

  “Across the border.”

  Frederico made a face.

  “So you’re going across?”

  “Definitely,” Clint said, “and I thought we could go today instead of tomorrow.”

  “Today?” Frederico said. “When?”

  “As soon as you finish eating.” He drained his coffee cup and got up. “I’ll go to the hotel and check us out, and meet you at the livery. There’s nothing in your room, right?”

  “Saddlebags—”

  “I’ll get them,” Clint said. “Finish your breakfast and meet me at the horses.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry,” Clint said. “I’ll pay for the rooms.” He started for the door, then turned back. “You can pay me back later.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Clint was starting to wonder if Frederico was going to show up at the livery when the lawyer walked in.

  “About time, Freddy,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  He mounted up, held out the reins of the pinto to the lawyer. He was waiting for the young man to stand up to him, but instead he stepped forward, accepted the reins, and mounted up.

  They rode out of Nogales on the U.S. side, headed for Nogales on the Mexican side.

  Clint had been to towns like Nogales before. Split in two. Most notably El Paso, where both sides of the town were split by a bridge.

  With Nogales there was no bridge. You were simply in the United States one moment, and Mexico the next. Nogales, Mexico, was in Sonora, and they still had to ride a way before they entered the town.

  There was an attitude about Mexican towns. Clint knew that if he’d been brought here blindfolded and then had the blindfold removed, he’d still know he was in Mexico. It was something in the air, an almost palpable difference—warmer, thicker, lazier.

  They rode down the main street and encountered only a few men, no women.

  “The town is asleep,” Frederico said. “Siesta.”

  “I thought that was in the afternoon.”

  “It is all the time,” Frederico said with some disgust.

  “Where’s your office?” Clint asked.

  “I do not have my own office,” he said. “I will take you to Señor Ruiz.”

  “That’s fine. But we left before he could reply to your telegram.”

  “He will know we are coming,” Frederico assured him.

  They rode to an adobe building that stood two stories. There were some cracks in the walls, but it seemed solid enough.

  They dismounted and left the horses out front. Frederico tied his pinto tightly to a post, but Clint only lopped Eclipse’s reins around it. They went inside.

  “I use that room,” Frederico said, pointing. The door was closed. Clint had a feeling the room was the size of a closet.

  They were in an outer office with some file cabinets and an empty desk that had dust on the top of it. Frederico took Clint past the desk to a door and knocked.

  “Come!”

  THIRTY

  Frederico opened the door and led the way into the room. An older man stood behind a desk and regarded them. He was a small man, wizened, bent. Clint wondered if he was even as young as eighty.

  “Manuel Ruiz,” Frederico said, “this is Clint Adams, the Gunsmith.”

  “Yes,” Ruiz said, “I received your telegram, Frederico. Why don’t you leave Señor Adams here with me and let us talk? You probably have some files in your office to take care of.”

  “Yes,” Frederico said, “yes, I do.”

  He hesitated, then left the room.

  “Please, sit down, señor.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I understand you want to talk to Don Alfredo Escalante.”

  “Yes. Freddy tells me that you and he have been friends for a long time.”

  “Indeed.”

  “And you’ve been his lawyer . . .”

  “For all that time,” Ruiz said.

  “Then maybe you can talk some sense into the man,” Clint said.

  “About what?”

  “His children.”

  “What do you know of his children?”

  “I know that his son is in jail in Tubac, charged with murder,” Clint said. “And I know that his sister is so convinced that he didn’t do it, she tried to kill the man she thought did do it.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Me,” Clint said. “She shot me in the shoulder with a small-caliber derringer.”

  “And you did not have her arrested?”

  “She didn’t need to be arrested,” Clint said. “She needed help. Andrew needs help.”

  “And you are helping them?”

  “I’m trying,” Clint said, “but I think their father could help them a lot more than I could.”

  “What could Don Alfredo do about his son being in jail in the United States?” the lawyer asked. “Do you suggest he should break him out?”

  “He has a lot of money,” Clint said. “Money can buy almost anything in my country.”

  “And in mine,” Ruiz said, “but Don Alfredo’s children have walked away from him of their own accord. It was their own decision.”

  “They went out on their own, yes,” Clint said. “There’s a big difference between that and what he has done in disowning them, though.”

  “I am Don Alfredo’s lawyer,” Ruiz said. “I cannot tell him how to raise his children.”

  “His children have already been raised,” Clint said. “Isobel’s a woman, Andrew’s a young man. But they still need him.”

  “And what do you think I can do?”

  “Talk some sense into him.”

  Ruiz sat back in his chair.

  “I think you might have the wrong idea of my relationship with Don Alfredo, Señor Adams,” Manuel Ruiz said.

  “I thought you were friends.”

  “Friendship,” he said, “does not mean the same thing to him as it does to others. I am as much a friend to him as anyone could be. That does not mean I can talk to him about personal matters.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “maybe I can.”

  “How do you propose to do that?”

  “Either you or Freddy will take me to see him.”

  “And why would we do that?”

  “I assume you don’t want Andrew Escalante to hang for a murder he did not commit.”

  “How do you know he did not do it?”

  “Because I think I know who did,” Clint said, “and I think he’s here in Nogales.”

  “Then if you catch him and bring him back, that will save the boy.”

  “He’s going to need a lawyer,” Clint said. “Isobel sent for Freddy and he came, but he says he can’t represent Andrew unless you—or Don Alfredo—tell him he can.”

  “Frederico is not prepared to defend
anyone against a murder charge.”

  “Well, then, I guess that means you’ll have to do it.”

  “I do not practice law in the United States, Señor Adams.”

  “You would,” Clint said, “if Don Alfredo told you to, right?”

  Ruiz didn’t answer.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “I guess I’ll just have to talk to the old man myself, eh? So who’s going to take me to see him, you or Freddy?”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Clint left Frederico and his boss, Manuel Ruiz, to come to that decision. He left the office, registered in the first hotel he came to, then rode Eclipse through Nogales until he found the sheriff’s office. He dismounted and walked up to the office door. There was no boardwalk; the buildings in town were flush with the ground. This one was adobe, like the lawyer’s office and the hotel, but there were more cracks, some of them significant.

  He opened the door and stepped in. There was a man seated at a desk. Actually, he was slumped over it. Clint waited a moment, then heard by the man’s breathing that he was asleep.

  “Sheriff Lopez?” he asked.

  The man didn’t stir.

  Clint walked to the desk, but didn’t touch the man. He’d been shot at more than once by men he had tried to awaken by touching them.

  “Sheriff Hector Lopez?” he said, louder.

  This time the man lifted his head quickly, looking at Clint with bleary eyes.

  “Ah, señor,” he said, wiping his eyes with his fingers. “I did not hear you come in.”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your siesta, Sheriff.”

  “No, no, it is fine,” the sheriff said.

  “You are Sheriff Hector Lopez?” Clint asked.

  “Sí, señor, that is me.”

  Lopez was about thirty-five, a tall, skinny man with a thin, well-tended mustache that came down along both sides of his mouth. He was wearing a long-sleeved undershirt and jeans, the shirt damp around the neck from perspiration. It wasn’t that hot outside, but Clint did notice that it was hotter in the jail for some reason.

  “What can I do for you, señor?”

  “Sheriff Stroby from Nogales told me to talk to you,” Clint said.

  “Ah, my friend Stroby,” Lopez said. “I will be happy to help you in any way I can.”

  “That’s good,” Clint said. “I’m looking for a man named Jess Mitchell.”

  “A gringo?”

  “Yes. I believe he’s hiding here from a murder charge in the United States.”

  “Are you a bounty hunter, señor?”

  “No,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams. I am also looking for Mitchell because he was using my name.”

  “Ah,” Lopez said, “El Armero.”

  “That’s right,” Clint said, “the Gunsmith.”

  “Excuse me, señor,” Lopez said, standing up. “I am not at my best.”

  He took a shirt off a hook on the wall and put it on, buttoned it quickly, then tucked it into his pants. The shirt had a badge pinned to it.

  “So, this gringo is an accused murderer?”

  “Not exactly,” Clint said, and then explained the situation to the man.

  “Aiee,” Lopez said, “Don Alfredo’s son? You are attempting to prove the boy innocent?”

  “Yes, that’s part of it,” Clint said. “The other part is Mitchell impersonating me. And finally, I’d like to talk with Don Alfredo.”

  “Oh, I can’t help you with that, señor,” the lawman said. “I do not have the authority to speak with Don Alfredo. For that you would need to speak with his lawyers.”

  “I have,” Clint said. “They’re trying to decide now who is going to take me to him. What I need to find out from you is if you have any gringos in town.”

  “Oh, sí, several,” Lopez said.

  “Did they come in together?”

  “No, señor, separately,” Lopez said. “And I do not think they have spent any time together.”

  “Where can I find the three of them?”

  “Two of them are in the Nogales Hotel,” Lopez said. “The third has a room behind the cantina across from the undertaker.”

  “Do you know their names?”

  “Of course,” Lopez said. “I am alguacil. It is my job.”

  “Well, as the sheriff, can you tell me their names?” Clint asked.

  “Sí,” Lopez said, “two of them are Smith, and one of them is . . . Jones.”

  Clint looked disappointed.

  “This is not helpful?”

  “Not really.”

  “Ah,” Lopez said, “perhaps those are common names for gringos?”

  “Yes,” Clint said, “very common. I guess I’ll just have to go and see each man myself.”

  “You would require my presence, señor?”

  “I don’t think so, Sheriff,” Clint answered. “I just wanted you to know I was in town.”

  “We are honored to have you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Clint started for the door.

  “Señor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you intend to kill this gringo, Mitchell, when you find him?”

  “I think the choice will be his,” Clint said. “I intend to bring him back to Tubac alive.”

  “But if he resists . . .”

  “I’ll do what I have to do,” Clint said.

  “I understand, señor.”

  “But I’ll keep you informed.”

  “I will appreciate that, Señor Adams.”

  “I’m going to take a room in the Nogales,” Clint said. “I’ll talk to those men first.”

  “Smith and Jones.”

  “Yes,” Clint said. “I’ll find out their real names for you. There might be a reward for them.”

  “Reward?”

  “Who knows?” Clint said.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Clint went to the Nogales Hotel and registered, got a room on the second floor. At the same time he checked the register to see where the other two gringos were. One was in Room 5, and the other in Room 13. He was in Room 8.

  He went to his room first, left his rifle and saddlebags there, then came out and walked to Room 5. He knocked, waited.

  The man who answered the door had a gun in his hand. Clint understood. He’d done the same thing countless times. He showed the man his hands.

  “No need for that gun,” he said.

  “Who’re you?”

  “My name’s Clint Adams,” he said. “You Smith?”

  The man’s eyes registered recognition. Other than that, he didn’t react.

  “I’m Smith.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Why you wanna know?”

  “It wouldn’t be Mitchell, would it?” Clint asked. “Jess Mitchell?”

  The man didn’t answer right away. Clint didn’t think it was him anyway. He was too short to match the description Andrew had given him.

  “No, my name’s not Mitchell,” Smith said.

  “Okay,” Clint said, “thanks.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Clint started up the hall.

  “You don’t wanna know who I really am?” the man called.

  “No,” Clint said. “If you’re not Mitchell, I’m not interested in you.”

  “But—”

  Clint turned and walked back to the door. He didn’t want them to be yelling back and forth in the hall, potentially warning the man “Jones” in Room 13.

  “You’re wanted in our country, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Murder?”

  “No,” the man said. “Just—”

  Clint held up a hand.

  “Not interested,” he said, “but if I was you, I’d get out of here. The sheriff might be taking an interest.”

  “Okay,” the man said. “Thanks.”

  As the door closed, Clint walked up the hall to Room 13. He knocked, and then “Jones” answered the door with his gun in his hand.

&nb
sp; “Yeah?”

  The man had hair as red as a carrot.

  “Sorry,” Clint said. “Wrong room.”

  He walked down the hall.

  In the lobby of the hotel he ran into Frederico Rodriguez.

  “Looking for me, Freddy?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Frederico said, “we have decided that Señor Ruiz will take you to see Don Alfredo.”

  “When?”

  “Now,” Frederico said. “Right now.”

  Clint frowned. He still had the third man to see, the other “Smith.”

  “Ready?” Frederico asked.

  “Yes, okay,” Clint said. He could check the third man out when he got back. If he went after him now, he didn’t know when he’d get another chance to talk to Don Alfredo.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Don Alfredo Escalante’s ranchero was about ten miles out of town. Manual Ruiz, much too old to sit a horse, rode out in a buggy. Frederico was left behind in the office to do some work.

  “I must warn you . . .” Ruiz said as they rode out together.

  “About what?” Clint was riding alongside the buggy.

  “Don Alfredo does not like surprises.”

  “Meaning you didn’t send word ahead to let him know we were coming, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you’re thinking he won’t agree to talk to me.”

  Ruiz didn’t reply.

  “Well,” Clint said. “I think he will.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “People seem to like to talk to me,” Clint said.

  “Because of who you are?”

  “That could be it,” Clint said. “Normally, I don’t like to take advantage of that, but in this instance I think I’ll make an exception.”

  When they arrived, several ranch hands—vaqueros—stepped forward to grab Ruiz’s horse and assist him down from his buggy seat. They obviously knew who he was, and knew how they were supposed to treat him when he appeared.

  Once Ruiz was on the ground, the hands all turned and looked at Clint. Ruiz said something to them in Spanish, and one of them stepped forward and held out his hand.