The Dead Ringer

by J. R. Roberts

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Clint didn’t know anyone in Nogales except the two lawyers, Ruiz and Frederico. He had to kill time until dark, but he didn’t want to do it with them, so he found a small cantina—smaller than the one he’d just come from—and had something to eat alone.

  However, while he was sitting there, Frederico came in, and Clint didn’t think it was a coincidence. The young lawyer stopped just inside the door, looked around, and when he spotted Clint, came walking over.

  “I have been looking for you,” he said, standing awkwardly.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No.”

  “Sit. Order something.”

  A waiter came over and Frederico simply ordered what Clint was having—burritos, rice and beans, and beer—cerveza—to go with it.

  “What can I do for you, Freddy?” Clint asked.

  “I wanted to know what happened with Don Alfredo,” the young lawyer said.

  “Didn’t Señor Ruiz tell you?”

  “He told me nothing,” Frederico said.

  “Because you’re a junior partner?”

  “I am not a partner at all,” he said. “He treats me like a clerk.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” Clint said, “but you are a lawyer, right?”

  “Sí, I am a lawyer—a lawyer who is not allowed to practice law. But that is not what I want to talk about. Did you talk with Don Alfredo?”

  “I did,” Clint said, “and to Señora Escalante.”

  “He allowed that?” Frederico’s surprise was evident.

  “He knew nothing about it,” Clint said. “She called me in when I was about to leave.”

  “Is she—what did she say?”

  “She wants me to help Andrew and Isobel,” Clint said, “and she offered to do whatever she could do to help.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He didn’t offer to help.”

  “He will do nothing?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “And what are you doing?”

  “I’ve got one more man to check out,” Clint said. “If he’s Mitchell, I’ll take him back to Tubac with me.”

  “But Andrew will still need a lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” Frederico said. “When you go back, I want to go with you.”

  “What for?”

  “I want to help. I will represent Andrew.”

  “Does Señor Ruiz know?”

  “No,” Frederico said. “I will not tell him until I come back.”

  “Are you doing this for Isobel?”

  “Yes.”

  Clint shrugged. It really didn’t matter to him why the man was doing it.

  The waiter came with Frederico’s plate and set it down before him.

  “Well, eat your food,” Clint said. “When we’re done, I’ll go over and check on my man. If it’s him, we’ll be leaving in the morning.”

  “I will be ready.”

  According to what Escalante and Ruiz had said, Frederico wouldn’t be able to practice law in the United States, but Clint decided not to point that out at the moment.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  It was dark when Clint got back to the cantina. He entered the alley next to it, saw several windows there lit up. They must have had a few rooms back there. Maybe even on the other side of the building, too. He was going to have to peer in a few windows.

  And when he did, would he know he was looking at Jess Mitchell? Hopefully, the man was the only gringo in the place.

  He got to the first window and looked in, saw a Mexican man sitting on a bed, inspecting a big hole in one of his socks while he was still wearing it. He was really involved, and there was nobody else in the room with him.

  He moved on to the next window, saw another Mexican man sitting on the bed, picking at something between the toes of his right foot. Again, alone in the room.

  He moved on.

  He looked into the third window, saw one of the black-haired girls from the cantina talking to someone who was out of sight.

  And then she took off her blouse.

  When the knock came at the door, Mitchell answered it, figuring it was Rosa coming back. He was right. He put his gun down and let her in.

  “Did that gringo come back?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Did he ever ask about me?”

  “No.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He had two drinks and then he left.”

  He walked to the far end of the room, gave it some thought, then decided it was a coincidence. Gringos came into the cantina every once in a while. After all, this was Nogales, right near the border. Plus, there was no way anyone from Tubac could know he was here.

  “Okay,” he said, turning to face her, “take off your clothes.”

  Clint watched the girl remove her blouse, revealing the sweetest little breasts, topped with very brown, hard nipples. Next, she slid her skirt down to the floor and stepped out of it. No underthings. A big black bush between her slender legs. She then turned slowly, showing Clint and whoever was in the room a smooth, round little butt.

  When she had turned completely around again, she stopped, and the man in the room came into view. Clint couldn’t see his face, though, and it didn’t help when he fell to his knees and buried her face in her black bush. All he could see was that the man did not have black hair, and was dressed better than most of the Mexicans he’d seen since he got to Nogales.

  He watched as the man buried his face and kept it there so long Clint thought he might be suffocating. It was only the woman’s reactions that told him the man was still conscious.

  Finally, the man withdrew his head, stood up, lifted the woman in his arms, then turned and walked to the bed. As he set her down, Clint saw his face. A gringo. The other Mr. Smith.

  And with any luck, Jess Mitchell.

  Mitchell dropped Rosa onto the bed, then quickly removed his own clothes. His hard cock sprang free and Rosa fell on it, taking it into her mouth hungrily.

  Mitchell moved his hips while she sucked it, fucking her mouth. She did this part really well; it was the squealing she did when he was inside her that he didn’t like.

  So he put his hands on her head and figured he’d just let her do this for a while . . .

  Clint moved away from the door, so he never saw the man take off his clothes. He moved down the rest of the alley, ignoring the two remaining windows, which were dark. When he got to the back, he was satisfied to discover the place had a back door. In addition, it wasn’t a very sturdy one. He pressed his shoulder to it and the door popped open.

  He found himself in a dimly lit hallway. There were no gas lamps, just a couple of oil lamps on the wall. Clint figured this was the hallway that led to the rooms. At the far end was a curtained doorway that probably led to the cantina.

  There were five doors on each side of the hall. The room he’d been looking into was the middle one on the left side.

  He drew his gun and started down the hall.

  THIRTY-NINE

  He stopped at the door to listen. He could hear noise coming from the cantina. He pressed his ear to the door, heard some grunting and groaning that sounded familiar.

  He tried the doorknob, found it locked. If he had to kick in the door, it might make too much noise. Even if it wasn’t heard in the cantina, it might be heard by someone in the other rooms.

  He decided to try something straightforward.

  He knocked.

  When Mitchell heard the knock, he turned and looked at the door.

  “Well,” he said, “somebody finally decided to take us up on our offer.”

  He had asked two of the girls to be with him at one time. So far, they had refused. Maybe one of them had finally decided to try it. It was probably Helena. Up to now, she’d tried everything but that.

  “Let her in, honey,” he said, pulling his dick out of Rosa’s mouth.

  She got off the bed and reached for her blouse.
>
  “No, no,” he said, “just go to the door naked. She won’t mind.”

  Rosa turned and trotted to the door.

  When the naked girl opened the door, Clint pointed his gun at her and held his finger to his lips. She stood still, recognizing him from when he’d come into the cantina. Instead of showing fear, she reached up and caressed one of her small breasts. He smiled at her, briefly caressed the other one—small, but firm—then motioned her to step back.

  “Well?” Mitchell asked. “Who is it? Helena? Or—”

  “On your feet, Mitchell!” Clint said.

  The naked man on the bed leaped to his feet, made a move toward his gun.

  “You won’t make it,” Clint said.

  The man looked at him.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Clint Adams.”

  The man considered this, then pulled his hand away from his gun.

  “Against anyone else, I’d try it,” he said.

  “Smart man,” Clint said. “You are Jess Mitchell, aren’t you?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  Clint looked at the girl.

  “You can get dressed,” he said. “He won’t be needing you tonight.”

  “And you?” she asked. “Will you need me?” She reached up with both hands, rubbed her nipples.

  “Unfortunately,” Clint said, “no.”

  She pouted, and picked up her clothes.

  “Close the door on your way out,” Clint said.

  She nodded, got dressed, and then went out into the hall.

  “You shouldn’t have let her go,” the man said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a paying customer,” he said. “They’re not gonna let me go that easy.”

  Clint realized he was right. The girl would undoubtedly run to the bartender and tell him what was happening.

  “Get dressed, Mitchell.”

  “I don’t think so,” the naked man said.

  “Either get dressed or I’ll drag you out and put you on a horse naked—all the way back to Tubac.”

  “I’ll get dressed.”

  FORTY

  They went out the back door, Clint holding his own gun and carrying Mitchell’s tucked into his belt. Despite the fact that the man had not yet admitted to being Jess Mitchell, Clint felt he had the right man.

  “Where to now?” Mitchell asked.

  “The livery stable,” Clint said. “I assume you have a horse there.”

  When the man didn’t reply, Clint jabbed him in the kidney with his gun barrel.

  “Yes!” Mitchell blurted out.

  “Then let’s go.”

  They made their way in the darkness to the livery. The streets were pretty much deserted, noise coming from the various saloons along the way.

  When they reached the livery, they found the front doors open.

  “Inside,” Clint said.

  “I left my saddlebags behind,” Mitchell complained.

  “So did I,” Clint said. “It’s not important. We’re getting out of town now.”

  Clint didn’t feel he had the time to go back to his hotel room. He also didn’t have the time to let Frederico know he was leaving town.

  “They’re gonna come after us, you know.”

  “I doubt it,” Clint said. “I doubt they’ve become that fond of you.”

  Mitchell laughed. “You don’t understand,” he said. “When I said I was a paying customer, what I meant was, I owe them money. A lot of money. They’ll come after us, all right.”

  “Then we better get moving,” Clint said, holstering his gun. “Saddle your horse. And don’t try anything while I’m saddling mine.”

  Rosa went directly to the bartender, José, and told him what happened.

  “Who was the gringo?” José asked.

  “The same man who came in earlier today,” she told him. “He . . . touched me.”

  “That’s not a crime,” José said, looking a her. “But running out on the bill is.”

  “Smith is not running out,” she said. “I think the other man is taking him away.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” José said, glowering. “Find Eusabio and the others.”

  When they were both saddled, they rode out. Normally, Clint would have ridden through town to ride north to the border.

  “We’ll ride out this way and circle around town,” Clint said. “Just to be on the safe side.”

  “Whatever you say, Adams,” Mitchell said. “You’re in charge—for now.”

  José, Eusabio, and three other men went down the hall to Mitchell’s room, and found it empty.

  “His saddlebags are still here,” Eusabio said. “And his rifle.”

  “He was taken against his will,” one of the other men said.

  “Perhaps,” Jose said. “Is there money in the saddlebags?”

  Eusabio checked.

  “No, he must have his money with him.”

  “If the other gringo took him at gunpoint, they’re probably heading for the border.”

  “Are we goin’ after them?” Eusabio asked.

  “Oh yes,” Jose said. “That gringo owe me money—a lot of money. Everyone saddle up.”

  FORTY-ONE

  “We ain’t gonna camp for the night?” Mitchell asked after they had left Nogales behind.

  “No,” Clint said. “We’ll keep going until we reach Nogales on the American side.”

  “You’re crazy,” the man said. “We’ll break our necks out here.”

  “It’s not that far,” Clint said. “You just want me to camp so your friends can catch up to us.”

  “Oh, they ain’t my friends,” the man said. “They think I ran out on my bill. They’ll kill you and me, and take our money.”

  “All the more reason to keep going, right?” Clint asked.

  “I suppose so.”

  “So,” Clint said, “you ready to admit you’re Jess Mitchell?”

  “You ready to prove I am?” the other man asked.

  “Guess I can’t,” Clint said. “We left your saddlebags behind.”

  “Yeah, too bad.”

  “Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “I can get the sheriff of Mexican Nogales to send the saddlebags to the sheriff on the American side,” Clint said. “There must be something in there with your name on it.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  But the man didn’t sound very confident.

  They rode into Nogales on the American side in a couple of hours. The streets were as empty as they had been on the other side of the border, and similarly, they could hear some noise from the saloons.

  “Can we get a drink?” the prisoner asked.

  “No,” Clint said. “We’re going to the sheriff’s office.”

  “He probably won’t be there,” the man sad. “We got a better chance of getting a drink.”

  “I’m going to stick you in a cell, and then go get myself a cold beer.”

  “You’re a hard man.”

  “Tell me your name and we’ll go get a beer,” Clint said.

  “That’s even harder,” the man said. “I guess you better just toss my ass into a cell. But you better get ready for José and his amigos ’cause they’ll be here soon.”

  “You think they’d follow us over the border?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “But . . . why?”

  “Well,” he said, “I told you I owed them a lot of money, right?”

  “Right.”

  “What I didn’t tell you is that I don’t have any money,” he said. “They’ll kill me when they find out. And you, if you get between me and them.”

  “How did you think you were going to get out of there without paying?”

  “I had some money owed to me that was going to be sent to the bank in Nogales.”

  “When?”

  “It was supposed to have arrived days ago.”

  “So somebody didn’t pay you for a job
.”

  The man shrugged.

  “And that job was killing Joe Widmar?”

  Still didn’t answer.

  “So somebody in Tubac paid you to kill Joe Widmar,” Clint said. “Why?”

  “Let’s get me to a cell,” the prisoner said. “I’ll be safer there when José and his men come in.”

  “For once I agree with you,” Clint said.

  FORTY-TWO

  Sheriff Stroby was in his office late, going through wanted posters, when the door opened. Clint walked in, pushing the man he believed to be Jess Mitchell ahead of him.

  “This Mitchell?” he asked.

  “I hope so,” Clint said. “If he’s not, I wasted a lot of time. Got a cell for him?”

  “Nice and clean.”

  “And some food?” the prisoner asked.

  “We’ll see,” Stroby said. He grabbed the key off the wall peg. “Come on.”

  Clint waited where he was, listening to the sound of the cell closing, until the sheriff reappeared.

  “Coffee?” Stroby asked.

  “Sure.”

  Stroby poured two mugs, handed one to Clint, then sat behind his desk. He dropped the key on the desk.

  “Nothin’ on him to identify him?” Stroby asked.

  “No,” Clint said. “I had to grab him and get out after dark, then come straight here.”

  “Now what?” the lawman asked. “Back to Tubac?”

  “That’s the plan, but there may be a problem.”

  “Like what?”

  Clint explained about the bill the prisoner had run up at the cantina across the border.

  “That doesn’t sound so hard,” Stroby said.

  “They’ll be here soon,” Clint said, “probably right behind us, so if you’ve got a solution, I’d like to hear it.”

  “Simple. Pay them what he owes them,” Stroby said. “How much is it?”

  “I didn’t ask him.”

  “Maybe it’s enough to kill him for,” Stroby said, “but enough for you to handle.”