Ticket to Yuma

by J. R. Roberts

  “We understand,” Hannah said. “It’s all right.”

  She served coffee for the three of them, and they sat at the kitchen table.

  “When is your meeting?” she asked.

  “About half an hour.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Ben asked.

  “Can you shoot a gun?”

  “A rifle,” Ben said. “I mean, I’ve been huntin’.”

  “Ever fire at a man?”

  “No.”

  “Then you stay home, Ben,” Clint said. “I’ll be just fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Hannah asked.

  “As sure as I can be,” Clint said.

  * * *

  Clint approached the Tin Pot about ten minutes before the time of the meeting. So far, it didn’t seem as if Harlan Banks was such a secret that people were dying over it. Whoever was behind his disappearance, they could have killed Ben’s friend Bobby for sending the telegram, or Larry at the hotel for knowing that Banks had registered there. So maybe this actually was a meeting with somebody who knew something, and not a setup to get him killed.

  He approached the batwing front doors of the small saloon, and entered. This time when the smell hit him he kept going.

  “Beer?” the bartender asked.

  Clint hesitated, then said, “Whiskey.” He figured any germs in the place would thrive in beer, but die in whiskey.

  There was four other customers, all sitting at tables by themselves. Nobody was standing at the bar, so Clint was alone there.

  He sipped his whiskey and wondered which of the four men had sent him the message. Two of them were wearing holsters, while the other two were unarmed. It didn’t look like anyone was there to kill him.

  “So?” the bartender said.

  Clint turned his head and looked at the man.

  “What?”

  “You’re lookin’ for Harlan Banks?”

  Now Clint turned his entire body to face the bartender.

  “You sent me the message?”

  “Sure,” the man said, “you don’t think these other idiots can write, do ya?”

  “What do you know about Harlan Banks?” Clint asked him.

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  Clint studied the man for a moment. Did he actually have information, or was he just trying to cash in?

  “That depends on what you’ve got,” Clint said.

  “Well . . .”

  Clint took out some money and put it on the bar. The man looked at it, looked at Clint, waited, then took the money.

  “That’s a start,” he said.

  “Then tell me what you know.”

  “I know,” the bartender said, wiping the bar top with a dirty rag, “I know where he is.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Hannah found herself thinking about Clint, about what they had done together in her kitchen—on the kitchen table—and then, suddenly, she became aware that Ben was looking at her. She felt her face color, then she turned her head to hide the fact.

  “What’s wrong, Ma?” Ben asked.

  “Nothin’,” she said. “I was just wonderin’ how Clint was doin’.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Ben said. “I think I shoulda gone with him.”

  “No, he was right,” Hannah said. “You wouldn’t have been of any help to him.”

  “I guess not,” Ben said. “Still, if he gets killed—”

  “He won’t,” she said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he’s the Gunsmith, right?” she said. “This is how he lives his life. I assume he knows what he’s doing in these situations.”

  “I suppose he does.”

  “So all we can do is wait,” she said.

  * * *

  “Wait a minute,” Clint said. “You know where Harlan Banks is?”

  “I do.”

  “And you’re going to tell me.”

  “For a price.”

  “How about this?” Clint asked. “You tell me so I won’t shoot up this place.”

  “Go ahead,” the bartender said. “If the word gets out that the Gunsmith shot up my place, I’ll get more business.”

  He was probably right about that.

  Clint took out some more money—more than before—and set it on the bar. The bartender looked at it, waited, but when no more was forthcoming, he picked it up and stuck it in his shirt pocket.

  “So where is he?” Clint aside.

  The bartender hesitated, wiped the bar some more, then said, “Harlan Banks is in Yuma Territorial Prison.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Yuma?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How long has he been in Yuma?”

  “A few weeks, I guess.”

  “How did he get there?”

  “He was railroaded in,” the bartender said. “The chief of police, the mayor, the judge—”

  “Judge?”

  “Judge Fielder,” the bartender said. “He’s in the mayor’s pocket.”

  “So the chief arrested him, and the mayor told the judge to sentence him to Yuma?”

  “Now you got it.”

  “And how do you know this and nobody else I talked to does?”

  “Because they held the trial right in here,” the bartender said. “The Tin Pot courthouse.”

  “Why not City Hall?” Clint asked. “In a real courtroom?”

  “In a real courtroom they probably woulda felt they had to abide by the real law.”

  “So he was railroaded.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Clint finished his whiskey.

  “You goin’ in there after him?” the bartender asked.

  “I don’t know if I want to see him that bad,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  He turned and left the saloon.

  * * *

  After Clint left, the bartender called over one of his customers.

  “Watch the bar ’til I get back.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The bartender—Tom Bennett—left the saloon and made his way across town to a residential area. He stopped at a large, two-story house and knocked on the door. It was answered by a gray-haired, middle-aged woman.

  “Yes?”

  “I need to see the mayor.”

  “You can see him at his office tomorrow.”

  “No,” Bennett said, “he said he wanted to see me tonight.”

  “Come in.” She let him in and closed the door. “Wait here.”

  She went into the house, came back ten minutes later.

  “Follow me.”

  She led him to a study, where the mayor stood wearing a silk robe, smoking a large cigar and holding a brandy snifter.

  “Tom,” the mayor said. “This better be good.”

  “It is, sir,” Bennett said. “The Gunsmith came to see me.”

  “And?”

  “I told him that Banks was in Yuma Prison.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Not much,” Bennett said. “I asked him if he wanted to go in there after him, and he said he didn’t know if he wanted to see him that bad.”

  “Well,” the mayor said, “if he wants to go into Yuma Prison, we can sure accommodate him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, Tom,” the mayor said. “Thank you.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Let me know if he comes to talk to you again.”

  “I will.”

  “Maria will show you out.”

  Bennett turned, saw the woman waiting for him in the doorway. She showed him to the front door, and let him out. He started back across town.
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  * * *

  Clint stood in the shadow of a house across the street. He watched the bartender go in, and then come out about twenty-five minutes later. A house that size, it had to belong to the either the mayor or the police chief. The bartender was reporting his conversation with him to one of them. Did that mean the information was false? Did they just want him to think Harlan Banks was in Yuma Prison?

  There was only one way to find out.

  * * *

  He went back to Hannah and Ben’s house. There was no point in bracing the bartender again, because he might still lie. And he doubted he was going to be able to send a telegram from this town.

  Hannah let him in with a sigh of relief, and Ben came in from another room.

  “What happened?” Ben asked.

  “I’ve been told that Banks is in Yuma Prison.”

  “How did he get there?”

  “He was apparently railroaded in,” Clint said, “with a quickie trial.”

  “So what are you gonna do?” Hannah asked.

  “I’m leaving town tomorrow,” he said, “to go to Yuma.”

  “Yuma?” Hannah said.

  “The only way I’m going to find out if he’s really in prison is to go there and ask.”

  “How long will you be gone?” she asked.

  “Well,” he said, “if I find him, there won’t be any reason to come back here.”

  “My mom’s peach pie?” Ben asked.

  “Well, yeah,” Clint said, “that would be a good reason.”

  “Do you want some coffee?” Hannah asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “I think I’ll go to my hotel and turn in so I can get an early start tomorrow.”

  “Well, all right,” Hannah said.

  “Can you send us a telegram to let us know what happened?” Ben asked.

  Although he didn’t know if he could trust the telegraph office in Prescott, he said, “Sure, I’ll do that, Ben.”

  He said good-bye to them at the front door, felt Hannah’s grip on his hand tighten before she finally let him go. It had been a wild, enjoyable time in her kitchen that night, but he had more important things to worry about.

  Like a man’s life.

  TWENTY-SIX

  YUMA, ARIZONA

  A WEEK EARLIER

  Yuma was a day’s ride from Prescott. The prison was half a day’s ride farther. He stopped in town to get himself a hotel room.

  Yuma had been a major stop on the Colorado River until 1877, when the Southern Pacific Railroad built a bridge over it. So now there was only one steamboat company that utilized Yuma’s port.

  However, the prison provided a lot of jobs and commerce. As much as Prescott wanted to call itself a city, Yuma actually was one.

  Clint was able to get a room in the Apple Blossom Hotel, even though the clerk told him the hotel was almost always full. Many people came to Yuma to visit their loved ones who were incarcerated in the prison.

  “What brings you to our fair city?” the man asked as he handed Clint a key.

  “Visiting the prison,” Clint said, “but not to see a loved one.”

  Once he had his room, he went to the telegraph office and sent a telegram to Rick Hartman in Labyrinth, Texas. He wanted to know if Rick knew anybody in Yuma, or perhaps anyone who actually worked at the prison.

  Clint went to a restaurant near the hotel for a steak, and while he was there, the telegraph operator came in looking for him.

  “I have your reply, Mr. Adams,” he said, handing it to Clint.

  “Thanks very much.”

  The restaurant was filled with townspeople having their supper, and no one was paying him any attention until the key operator came in to find him. Now they were actually waiting for him to read his telegram. Instead, he set it down next to his plate, determined to leave it there until dessert.

  After half an hour most of the diners who had seen him get the telegram had left the place. He finished his steak, ordered pie and coffee, and while he was waiting for dessert to come, he unfolded the telegram and read it.

  There was only one person in Yuma that Rick knew and trusted. He gave Clint his name and told him how to find him. Clint finished his pie, paid his bill, put the telegram in his pocket, and left.

  * * *

  He entered the store, looked around, feeling comfortable. Once he’d wanted his own gunsmith shop. For a while he rode around the country in a wagon, plying his trade as a gunsmith. But soon the wagon became a burden, and it was his ability to use a gun that became important, not his ability to fix them, or build them.

  But still, when he entered a gunsmith shop, he felt a sense of calm, as if he was at home.

  “Can I help ya?”

  He turned his head, looked at the man behind the glass counter. Beneath the glass were all kinds of guns, old and new.

  “Ken Tohill?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” the man said. He was in his fifties, solidly built, bore the scars on his face and hands of a man who had not always worked behind a counter. “Do I know you?”

  “No, but you know a friend of mine,” Clint said. “Rick Hartman.”

  The man smiled.

  “I do know Rick,” he said. “Haven’t seen him in a long time. And who might you be?”

  “Also a friend of Rick’s,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams.”

  “Adams!” Tohill said. “What brings the Gunsmith to my shop?”

  “I need help,” Clint said. “Rick said you were a man who could be trusted in Yuma. He also said there aren’t many.”

  “There are a few,” Tohill said, “but I’m the only one he knows.”

  “Can we talk?”

  “Turn that Open sign to Closed, and I’ll break out a bottle of whiskey,” Tohill said.

  Clint obeyed.

  “Come on,” Tohill said, “I live in the back.”

  Clint followed the man into a spacious back room complete with a stove, a table, a chest of drawers, and a bed.

  “This is a nice place to live,” Clint said.

  “It’s comfortable,” Tohill said. “Sit. I’ll get the whiskey.”

  Clint sat and Tohill brought a bottle and two glasses to the table.

  “First, welcome,” he said, extending his hand. They shook. “Now drink.”

  He poured two glasses and handed one to Clint. They both drained them, and Tohill drank another.

  “Okay,” the gunsmith said, “why don’t you tell me what brought you here?”

  Clint did, telling the man about his search for Harlan Banks.

  “Now it seems he might be in Yuma Prison,” he said finally.

  “You goin’ out there to see?”

  “I am.”

  “And you need backup.”

  “I’ve gone this far without it, and I’ve been lucky,” Clint said. “I can’t depend on luck anymore.”

  “Well, you’re a friend of Rick’s,” Tohill said, “and I know your reputation. So just tell me what you want me to do.”

  “I’m going to ride out to the prison tomorrow,” Clint said. “I was thinking of talking to the sheriff today. Would it do any good? Or is he in somebody’s pocket?”

  “The sheriff is his own man,” Tohill said. “He’ll talk to you.”

  “And do you have a police department?”

  “We’re resisting the Eastern law enforcement agency here,” Tohill said, then added, “so far.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Clint said. “I’m tired of finding a police chief when I come into a town.”

  “Like Prescott?”

  “Exactly. Okay, so what’s the name of the sheriff here?”

  “Tucker Coe,” Tohill said. “Been the law here for twelve years.�
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  “How old is he?”

  “That’s just the thing,” Tohill said. “He got the job when he was barely thirty, so he’s gonna be around for a while.”

  “As long as he keeps getting elected,” Clint pointed out.

  “Or until the town fathers do decide to bring in a police department.”

  “Right.”

  “When do you want to meet him?”

  “As soon as possible,” Clint said. “Tonight, even. I do want to ride out to the prison tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Tohill said. “I’ll set it up. Wait at your hotel until you hear from me.”

  “Will do,” Clint said. “And thanks.”

  “Any friend of Rick’s . . .” Tohill said.

  * * *

  Clint went to his hotel, up to his room, and unlocked the door. There was no indication that anything was wrong, no warning. As he walked in, he was hit on the head, and everything went dark.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  YUMA TERRITORIAL PRISON

  A WEEK LATER

  They came for Clint later at night. He knew the two guards, Ace and Danny.

  “Come on,” Danny said.

  “Where?”

  “Somebody wants to see you.”

  “The warden?”

  “You’ll see,” Danny said. “Come on.”

  Taking him to see someone, or taking him to be killed? Clint was surprised that no attempts had yet been made on his life. Maybe this was the first one.

  Both men were armed. Maybe he could get the gun off one of them. With a gun in his hand . . .

  “Come on out,” Ace said.

  Both guards backed away, leaving plenty of space between them.

  “Take it easy, Adams,” Danny said. “This ain’t nothin’ but somebody wantin’ to talk to you.”

  “Yeah,” Ace said, “if somebody wants to kill you, we ain’t about to help ’em. We ain’t gonna get into trouble that way.”

  Clint didn’t know why, but he believed the two of them.

  “Okay,” he said, coming out of the cell. “Okay.”

  “Follow me,” Danny said.

  The slender guard took the lead, and the brute the rear. They marched Clint down several halls, past some cells to the jeers of the occupants, then into another hall with concrete walls but no cells on either side.