Ticket to Yuma

by J. R. Roberts

  Clint entered the sheriff’s office, found the man seated behind his desk.

  “Hey, Adams,” Coyle said. “Pot of coffee on top of that stove. How about fillin’ two cups?”

  “Sure.”

  Clint found two tin cups next to the stove, filled them with coffee, carried them to the desk. He handed the lawman one, then sat down with the other one.

  “In case you’re wonderin’,” Coyle said, “I was just waitin’ for somebody to come in so they could get me a cup of coffee. You’re the lucky one.”

  “No problem.”

  “What’s on yer mind?”

  Clint decided to be frank.

  “I talked with the mayor and the chief.”

  “And?”

  “They each lied to me.”

  “So? That’s what politicians do. Was that a surprise to you?”

  ”No,” Clint said, “I figure everybody in this town has lied to me about Harlan Banks.”

  “Why do you think they done that?”

  “They’re hiding something.”

  “The whole town?”

  “The people I’ve talked to.”

  “Then,” Sheriff Coyle said, “why don’t you talk to some more? Maybe you’ll find somebody who won’t lie to ya.”

  “What about you?”

  “Whataya mean?”

  “Well, you’ve been lying to me.”

  “What makes you say that?” He seemed totally unconcerned about having been called a liar.

  “Come on, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I know Harlan Banks was here in town. He sent me a telegram from here. Obviously he got himself into trouble and something happened to him. That couldn’t have all happened without you knowing it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re the law.”

  “I used to be the law,” Coyle said. “Now the police department is the law. If you think somebody knows something they’re not telling you, go to the chief.”

  “As I said, I already talked to the chief. He told me to leave town tomorrow.”

  “And the mayor?”

  “Him, too.”

  “So you’ll be leavin’ tomorrow?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I thought you said—”

  “Never mind,” Clint said. He leaned forward, set the coffee cup on the desk, and stood up. “I’ve got things to do the rest of the day.”

  “Adams,” Coyle said, “why don’t you just do what you’re told and leave?”

  “I can’t do that,” Clint said.

  “I can’t help you, you know,” Coyle said. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t.”

  “Actually,” Clint said, “I believe that if it comes right down to it, you’ll do your job.”

  Coyle put his own cup on the desk and said, “Don’t bet your life on that, Adams.”

  SIXTEEN

  Clint left the sheriff’s office, still not convinced that Coyle would stand by and do nothing if Clint was in trouble. But as the man had suggested, he certainly wasn’t going to bet his life on it.

  He had two options while waiting for his meeting at the Tin Pot. He could go to his room and wait there, accomplishing nothing. Or he could go to Hannah’s Café and . . . do what? Have more pie? A steak? Or maybe he had more options. Like a saloon and a few beers.

  Then a thought occurred to him. He could go to the livery stable, check on Eclipse, and talk to Handy. Even if he was related to the sheriff, maybe he’d have something to tell him about Harlan Banks.

  * * *

  He found Handy mucking out some stalls at the livery.

  “Not takin’ him out of here already, are you?” Handy asked, leaning on his pitchfork.

  “No, not yet,” Clint said. “Just wanted to check in with him.”

  “That animal eats more than any other two horses,” Handy said.

  “Yes, he has a good appetite.”

  Clint walked to Eclipse’s stall, stroked the big horse’s neck, spoke to him briefly while Handy continued his work.

  “Hey, Handy,” he said, coming out of Eclipse’s stall.

  “Yep?”

  “I found out something interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You and the sheriff are apparently cousins?”

  Handy stopped mucking, sniffed, and said, “Yeah, our mothers was sisters.”

  “You’re not happy about that?”

  “We might be related,” Handy said, “but we ain’t exactly friends.”

  “Well, that’s too bad.”

  Handy leaned on his pitchfork and stared at Clint.

  “You got somethin’ on your mind, my friend,” he said. “I ain’t the smartest guy in the world—like my cousin keeps tellin’ me—but I know that. Is there somethin’ you wanna know about the sheriff?”

  “No,” Clint said, “there’s something I want to know about Harlan Banks.”

  Handy lifted the pitchfork up and drove it down into the ground two or three times.

  “What’d my cousin say?”

  “He never heard of him.”

  The pitchfork went up and back down.

  “You talk to anybody else in town?”

  “Lots of people,” Clint said. “They’re all lying to me. I know Banks was here, he sent a telegram from here, and then he disappeared.”

  “You talk to the chief of police?”

  “The chief, and the mayor,” Clint said. “They lied to me, too.”

  “Lots of people lyin’ to ya.”

  “That’s the way it looks.”

  “So why ya askin’ me?”

  “I was thinking maybe you were different,” Clint said. “I thought maybe I’d get the truth out of you.”

  The pitchfork went up then down again.

  “I tell you what,” Handy said. “This here’s the truth. If I was you, I’d just forget all about this Banks fella and get out of town.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Clint didn’t push Handy. After his meeting at the Tin Pot, if it yielded nothing, maybe he’d go back and try applying some pressure. Handy didn’t like his cousin, the sheriff, but he was also careful. Another man who was from a bygone time.

  He decided to go to Hannah’s to kill the time until the meeting. When he entered, only one table was taken, and Hannah was waiting on the man herself. Ben was nowhere to be seen.

  “Mr. Adams,” she said, facing him with a coffeepot in her hand. “Just the man I want to see.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Coffee while we talk?”

  “If it comes with a piece of pie.”

  “Peach?”

  “Of course.”

  “Have a seat.”

  She went into the kitchen, came out with a slice of peach pie and a fresh pot of coffee. There was already a cup on Clint’s table. She filled it, put the pie in front of him, then sat across from him. It was his first good look at her face. She was a pretty woman, but did nothing to enhance it. She was a hard worker, probably concerned only with paying her bills and raising her son. Beneath her apron was a womanly, almost matronly figure. Nothing unattractive about that, at all.

  She stared at him with frank and very brown eyes.

  “What have you got my son into?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean,” she said. “He’s so excited to be helpin’ the famous Gunsmith. So what have you got him into?”

  “Nothing much,” Clint said. “He’s asking some questions for me.”

  “The kind of questions that will get him hurt?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “The kind of questions that will keep him from his job here?”

  “He said no.”r />
  “I see.”

  Clint looked around.

  “Doesn’t look busy. Maybe he’ll be back for the rush.”

  “The rush is over, and he was here,” she said.

  “Then there’s no problem, is there?”

  “Maybe not,” she said. “Maybe that remains to be seen.”

  She looked over at her other customer, who seemed to be finishing up.

  “Let me take care of this customer,” she said. “Enjoy your pie.”

  “I will.”

  She stood up, walked to the other table, and settled up with the gentleman, who seemed very satisfied with his meal.

  “Everybody seems to leave here happy,” Clint said when she came back.

  “Is that so?”

  “Seems to be the case.”

  “What about you?”

  “I leave happy every time.”

  She stared at him, a new look in her eyes. She was appraising him, measuring him.

  “You know,” she said, rubbing her palms along her hips, “I work very hard.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “I have a lot of stress.”

  “You’re running a business,” he said. “Comes with the territory.”

  “I don’t get very many opportunities to . . . relax.”

  “Does Ben live with you?”

  “He does, and it’s a small house.”

  “What about here?”

  “He’s usually here all the time,” she said, “but tonight he’s not.”

  She reached behind her to untie the apron and let it fall to the ground. The dress she wore beneath it was cheap, the material thin, and it clung to her, showing off her hips and breasts. She wasn’t making any secret what she had on her mind.

  “What do you say, Mr. Adams?” she asked. “Want to help me relax? No obligations afterward?”

  “I think we better lock the door.”

  “I think so, too.”

  She walked to the door, closed it, locked it, and pulled the shade. Then she pulled the shades down over the other windows. She turned to face him and shrugged off her dress. He stood up, staring at her. Her breasts were pendulous, with large brown nipples and aureoles. Her hips were wide, thighs almost chunky. She was not built to be a saloon girl in a gown, but her body was perfect to be naked in a man’s bed.

  EIGHTEEN

  He approached her as she stood, almost shyly, with her hands behind her. He touched her, immediately raising gooseflesh on her.

  “This is bold of me,” she said. “Don’t think badly of me.”

  “I won’t,” he said. “I promise. But what if Ben comes back?”

  “The door’s locked, and he doesn’t have his key,” she said. “He’ll go home.”

  “Well, then . . .” he said.

  He pulled her to him and kissed her. Her body was hot; the smell of her was a heady combination of sweat, food, and her own natural scent. She opened her mouth to him and they kissed avidly. He slid his hands down her bare back to her buttocks, then gripped her tightly and pulled her to him even more. She moaned into his mouth and her hands grabbed for his belt.

  “Wait,” he said. “Here?”

  “Right here,” she gasped. “I can’t wait.”

  He removed his gun belt, set it down nearby, where he could get to it. He let her undo the belt of his trousers, then the buttons, and yank them down to his ankles. He lifted his feet so she could pull off his boots, and then remove his pants and underwear completely.

  His hard cock stood up and poked at her. Her eyes widened as she took it in her hands and stroked it lovingly.

  “Oh, my,” she said.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. He pushed her back until her butt struck a table, which she then sat on. He spread her legs, stood between them, and kissed her mouth, her neck, her shoulders, and her breasts. When he took a nipple into his mouth and sucked it, she gasped and grabbed his head, holding him there.

  He switched to the other breast, sucked it hungrily. Her breasts were solid, the skin smooth. And her nipples were a delightful mouthful.

  He continued to kiss her, down over her abdomen and her belly, until he had his nose and mouth buried in her pubic hair.

  “My God,” she said, “what—” She stopped short when his tongue darted out and touched her. “Oh!”

  He began to lick her avidly, and she grew wetter and wetter, both from him and from her own emissions. She groaned and began to rock as he sucked and licked her. The table jumped noisily, and threatened to break beneath her weight.

  “Oh, God,” she gasped, “don’t stop . . .”

  * * *

  Ben entered the Hotel Kellogg and approached the front desk. His friend, Larry Kellogg, whose father owned the hotel, was working the desk.

  “Hey, Ben,” Larry said. “How are ya?”

  “Good, Larry, good,” Ben said. “Listen, I been askin’ around to see if this feller was a guest in any of the hotels a few weeks ago.”

  “What fella?”

  “His name’s Harlan Banks.”

  Larry’s face immediately reflected his recognition of the name.

  “Geez, Ben, what are ya askin’ about that for?”

  “I’m askin’ for a friend of mine,” Ben said, “whose name happens to be Clint Adams.”

  Larry’s eyes went wide and he said, “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And he’s your friend?”

  “Sure he is.”

  “And he’s lookin’ for this fella, Banks?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t care why,” Ben said. “I’m just tryin’ to help him out. So?”

  “So . . .”

  “Come on, Larry,” Ben said. “The way you’re actin’, I know the man had a room here.”

  Ben reached for the register. Larry made a halfhearted attempt to stop him, but Ben opened the book and saw that a page had been torn out.

  “Larry . . .”

  He turned the book around so Larry could see.

  “Ben, look,” Larry said, “my dad said not to say nothin’ . . .”

  “And who told your dad not to say anythin’?”

  “Well, he’s on the town council,” Larry said. “So it musta been the mayor.”

  “But why?”

  “I dunno,” Larry said. “Pa just does what the mayor tells ’im to do.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Ben said. “A lot of people do.”

  “Not your ma,” Larry pointed out. “She pretty much does what she wants ta do.”

  “I know,” Ben said. “Ma’s a strong woman.”

  “Yeah,” Larry said sadly, “my pa ain’t like that.”

  “Okay, so,” Ben said, to get back on the subject, “you remember this Banks fella?”

  “Yeah, I do. He was—”

  “You don’t gotta tell me,” Ben said, cutting him off. “Will you talk to Clint?”

  “The Gunsmith?” Larry asked. “You want me to talk to the Gunsmith?”

  “Yeah,” Ben said. “I’ll put the two of you together.”

  “Well, gee . . .”

  “Larry? Come on, man.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Larry said. “Okay. I’ll talk to ’im.”

  “All right,” Ben said. “You stay here and I’ll go and get him.”

  “You know where he is?”

  “I’ll try his hotel,” Ben said, “and then I’ll see if maybe he went to the café. Just stay here ’til I get back, you hear?”

  “I hear ya, Ben,” Larry said, not sure he was doing the right thing. “I hear you.”

  NINETEEN

  Clint lifted Hannah off the table, a
fraid it was going to break beneath her weight. It would certainly break under their combined weight.

  “The kitchen,” she said, hanging on to him, kissing his neck, wrapping her strong legs around him. “There’s a table in the kitchen that’s strong.”

  He nodded, took them both to the kitchen, which was hotter than the rest of the place because of the stove, even though it had been shut down for the night.

  “There,” she said, pointing.

  He saw the table. Somebody had built it to be extra sturdy. He went over to it and set her down on it, spread her legs, and wasted no time. He drove himself into her and she gasped, her eyes going wide.

  “Oh my God,” she said very loudly, “it’s been so long . . .”

  She grabbed for him as he drove himself in and out of her, and before long the room was filled with their grunts, the smell of their combined perspiration, and the sound of their flesh slapping together . . .

  * * *

  Ben went to Clint’s hotel, asked the desk clerk if he was there.

  “I seen him go out, Ben,” the man said. “Ain’t seen him come back.”

  “Did he ask you about a man named Harlan Banks?”

  “He did,” the man said. “I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

  “Okay,” Ben said. “When he comes back, tell him I’m lookin’ for him. You know where I live?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you tell ’im.”

  “I will.”

  Ben nodded, turned, and headed for the café.

  * * *

  Clint slid his hands beneath Hannah’s butt, got both his hands full, and pulled her to him. She grunted every time they came together, their breathing coming in hard raps . . . and then there was a banging on the door.

  They stopped.

  * * *

  Ben got to the café and tried the front door. It was locked, the shades were drawn, but the lights were still on. He figured his mother was inside, cleaning up. He put his hand in his pocket, but realized he didn’t have his key.

  He started pounding on the door.

  * * *

  “It’s Ben,” Clint said.

  “Oh, God,” Hannah said, clinging to him.

  They remained that way for a moment, and then the banging started again,