Ticket to Yuma

by J. R. Roberts

  At the end of the hall, however, was one single cell. Danny and Ace stopped.

  “You go on ahead,” Danny said. “We can’t let you in, but you can talk. You only got five minutes.”

  “For what?”

  “That ain’t for us to know,” Danny said. “Just go ahead. We’ll wait right here.”

  “And don’t try nothin’ funny,” Ace warned him.

  “What could I try in here?” Clint asked.

  Ace didn’t have an answer. That was just a warning he used on everybody in Yuma.

  “Go,” Danny said, “you’re wastin’ your time.”

  Clint nodded, and walked toward the cell.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  PRESCOTT, ARIZONA

  A WEEK EARLIER

  When Clint awoke, he was in the back of a wagon. His gun was gone and his hands were tied behind his back. He looked around, and knew it was a prison transport wagon. He was in it alone.

  He was about to call out, but then decided that would be fruitless. Nobody was going to answer him. He had been taken from his hotel, and was now being transported from Yuma to someplace else.

  The fact that he was in a prison wagon meant he had been taken by somebody in law enforcement. He had the feeling the man behind this was Chief of Police Henry Blake, or perhaps it was Mayor Halliday’s idea. Either way, he figured he was either being taken back to Prescott, or they were taking him to Yuma Prison.

  A territorial prison would be the perfect place to stick him, if they didn’t want anyone to be able to find him.

  He tried the door with his feet, which were tied together, but it wouldn’t budge. He settled back against the wall and decided to wait and see where he ended up. If they were going to kill him, they would have done it by now.

  Finally, the wagon stopped and he felt it shift as one or two men climbed down from the top. Abruptly, the door was unlocked and opened.

  “Come on out, Adams.”

  He slid toward the door until two pairs of hands grabbed him and yanked him out, dumping him on the ground.

  “Cut that out,” a voice commanded. “Get him up on his feet.”

  The two men dragged him to his feet, where he came face to face with Chief of Police Henry Blake.

  “What’s this about?” Clint asked.

  “Murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “You committed murder and fled Prescott,” the chief said. “I sent two of my best men to bring you back.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Am I?”

  “Who am I supposed to have killed?”

  “A woman named Hannah and her son, Ben. They run Hannah’s Café.”

  “What?” Clint said, stunned. “Hannah and Ben are dead?”

  “That’s it,” Blake said. “Act like you don’t know anything about it.”

  “When I left them, they were alive.”

  “And you left town pretty quickly.”

  “I had business in Yuma.”

  “Well, you’re back in Prescott now.”

  Clint looked around and asked, “What part of Prescott is this?”

  It was dark and all he saw was the back of a building. He looked around for a few moments, and then suddenly it started to look familiar.

  They were behind the Tim Pot Saloon.

  “Let’s head inside,” Blake said. “The judge is waiting.”

  “The judge?”

  “We’re going to have a trial.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Right now,” Blake said. “Trial, and sentencing.”

  “So we already know what the outcome of the trial will be,” Clint said.

  “Well, of course,” Blake said. “After all, you’re guilty. Everybody knows that.”

  “And who is everybody?”

  “Everybody who matters,” Blake said. He looked at his men. “Come on, get him inside.”

  They grabbed him by his arms and dragged him through the back door, a back room, and into the saloon. He could see that the front doors were closed and barred.

  Behind the bar was a man in a black suit, holding a gavel. In the saloon were twelve men sitting in chairs that were lined up against the wall. Clint didn’t know any of them, but it was obvious that they were his jury.

  “Who’s the prosecutor?” Clint asked Blake.

  “That would be me.”

  “And who is acting for my defense?”

  “Our esteemed mayor will fill that role,” Blake said.

  “Oh, great,” Clint said. “It’s nice that I have someone who believes in me so much.”

  “Are we ready to proceed?” the judge asked, banging his gavel.

  “We’re ready, your honor,” Blake said.

  “The mayor’s not even here,” Clint said. “If he’s my defense, shouldn’t he be here?”

  “Don’t worry,” Blake said, “the judge knows what the mayor was going to say.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Clint said.

  “This is all legal and aboveboard, I assure you,” the chief said.

  “That’s why we’re in a saloon, and not a courthouse?”

  “As long as there is a judge,” Blake said, “there’s a court.”

  The two guards took Clint to an empty chair and sat him down. His hands were still tied behind him.

  “This court is in session!” the judge shouted as his gavel came down on the bar. Bang!

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later the judge said, “Clint Adams, you have been found guilty of murder. I sentence you to life in prison, sentence to be served at the Yuma Territorial Prison outside of Yuma, Arizona. Effective immediately. Court is adjourned.” Bang!

  * * *

  As the two guards dragged Clint back out the rear door and tossed him into the transport wagon again, he said to Blake, “Why didn’t you just have him give me the death penalty?”

  They slammed the door closed and Blake put his face to the barred window.

  “Anything can happen in Yuma,” he said.

  TWENTY-NINE

  YUMA TERRITORIAL PRISON

  A WEEK LATER

  After a week in Yuma, Clint was starting to think he was going to have to break out. But he didn’t think he could do that before finding Harlan Banks—alive or dead.

  As Clint approached the lone cell, he wondered if he would find Banks inside. Instead, when he reached it, he saw there was a woman inside.

  “Clint Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  She was in the shadows, but he could tell it was a woman. For one thing, he could smell her. No perfumes, or lotions, just pure woman. The smell was unmistakable.

  She came out of the shadows and he saw she was one of the women he’d seen in the mess earlier in the week. She was slender and pretty.

  “My name is Amanda King.”

  “What’s on your mind, Amanda King?” he asked. “Those two guards said we have five minutes.”

  “Don’t worry about them,” she said. “They’ll do what I want.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I give them what they want.”

  “Don’t they get what they want from all the girls?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “but I’m the one they don’t have to force.”

  “So when they don’t want it to be rape, they pick you?” he said.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” she said. “It’s still rape. I’ve just learned to deal with it on my own terms.”

  “Well, whatever works for you, I guess,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I want to get out of here.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “Because you’re gonna break out.�
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  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because you’re the Gunsmith,” she said. “You’re not gonna let them keep you in Yuma.”

  “I’m in here for murder,” he said.

  “So am I. Well, attempted murder anyway.”

  “I was convicted of two murders—crimes I didn’t commit.”

  “That’s where we differ.”

  “I can’t get out of here until I’m proven innocent,” he said. “I don’t want to break out and be on the run.”

  “How are you gonna prove yourself innocent if you stay in here?”

  “I’ve got some people on the outside.”

  “A lawyer?”

  “People.”

  “And they know you’re here?”

  He hesitated. Ken Tohill would have been looking for him after he disappeared from his hotel. Maybe he and the sheriff would look for him. Maybe Tohill would figure out where he was. Maybe not.

  Maybe Amanda King was right. He had to get himself out, and then take steps to prove his innocence.

  “Okay,” he said, “say I want to get out. Say I do get out.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “You mean aside from the obvious reasons?” she asked, looking him in the eyes.

  “I’m not really that anxious to rape you, Amanda,” he said.

  “With you,” she said, ”it wouldn’t be rape. And I know I don’t look so great in here, but you can smell me, can’t you?”

  “What?”

  “I smell like a woman,” she said, “and you strike me as the kind of man who likes a real woman.”

  He stared at her and then said, “You’re right about that.”

  “Also, I can be helpful.”

  “How?”

  “Remember,” she said, “I have control of two of the guards. Maybe more.”

  Clint turned and stole a look at the two guards in question. He was sure she had control of them at times, but more often than not?

  “Here they come,” she said. “We’ll talk again soon. Okay?”

  He stared at her hopeful look, and just as the guards reached them, he said, “Sure.”

  “Okay, that’s it,” the smaller guard said. “We gotta get ’im back.”

  “Come on, Adams,” Ace said, closing his big hand around Clint’s arm.

  As they pulled him away from Amanda’s cell, he could see how truly frightened the girl really was.

  “We’ll talk again,” he said to her. “Soon.”

  THIRTY

  Back in his cell Clint thought about the things he could have done differently. But there was no point in that, because here he sat, dead sure that, at some point in time, they’d try to kill him. Why else would they have put him in here?

  He’d been there a full week and still had not seen the warden. He was starting to wonder if the man even knew he was there. The word had passed through the prisoner population, but did that mean the warden had heard it as well? Not necessarily.

  He didn’t even know the warden’s name. The middle-aged guard with the bulging belly was named Rocco—or “Rock”—and he seemed to have been assigned as Clint’s personal guard. In on the frame-up? Maybe not. If he were, he could have killed Clint very easily, anytime.

  Rock appeared at the bars and stared in at Clint.

  “Don’t get used to any special treatment, Adams,” he said.

  Clint laughed. “What special treatment are we talking about?”

  Now Rock laughed roughly. “I know Ace and Danny took you to see one of the girls. I don’t know what you did to deserve that.”

  “That wasn’t so special,” Clint said. “I wasn’t even allowed into her cell.”

  Now Rock cackled.

  “That’s about what you deserved.”

  He walked away, laughing and shaking his head.

  * * *

  Warden Gordon Scott—“Warden Gordon” they all called him—sat back in his chair while the girl undid his trousers and pulled out his flaccid member. Ingrid Simpson was one of the three female prisoners in Yuma at the moment. She was serving six years for stealing some merchandise from a store, then injuring a clerk when he tried to stop her from leaving.

  As she worked his penis with her hands, it began to swell. He knew she didn’t mind coming to him for this. It was the only time she had sex in the prison that wasn’t actually forcible rape. And she didn’t care how long it took him to finish. It just meant she was out of her cell longer, and away from the other guards.

  Finally, she had him hard enough to take into her mouth. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back as she sucked him. He sat that way, without making a sound, until she sucked his orgasm from him. Then she released his penis, and settled back on her haunches.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was a pretty little thing, about twenty-five. She stared up at him with wide eyes, hoping she had pleased him.

  “Very good, Ingrid,” he said, and she smiled. “I’ll have them take you back to your cell now.”

  “Must I?” she asked meekly. “Must I go back now, sir?”

  “They’d be taking you to the mess for supper, wouldn’t they?”

  She nodded.

  “Don’t you like the food?” he asked. “It’s better than what the general population gets.”

  “Yes,” she said, “yes, it’s fine.”

  “All right,” he said. “You can stay in your cell tonight, and I’ll have them bring you something nice.”

  “But . . . the other girls . . .”

  “The other girls didn’t suck my peter, did they, Ingrid?” he asked.

  “N-No, sir.”

  “All right, then,” he said. “You can go.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She got to her feet. Her slender frame was almost lost inside her clothes. Warden Gordon had never seen her naked. Maybe next time.

  He watched as she went out the door, closing it softly behind her. Then he stood up, turned, and stared out his window. Below him was the yard. The prisoners were milling about down there. Occasionally one of them would look up at his window. He knew there were prisoners he never saw in the yard, but he didn’t know who they were, or why they were inside. They were not part of the ongoing operations of Yuma Prison. But he also knew there as someone special within the walls, possibly for the past week. He didn’t like not knowing who it was.

  He knew there were things the prisoners knew that he didn’t. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t have much choice. His masters were playing their games, and while he liked to think of himself as the king of this particular chessboard, the truth was he was little more than a knight. But at least he wasn’t a pawn.

  He turned away from the window and buttoned up his trousers, then walked to the door and stepped through it.

  “Eddie,” he said to his deputy.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “See that Ingrid gets a steak brought to her cell. All the trimmings.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I’ll have two in my office.”

  “Two?”

  “Yes,” the warden said. “Two. And have Angus Fowler brought to my office just after the steaks.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He went back into his office.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Clint sat next to Cates at every meal. The others at the table changed, but it was always Clint and Cates. He had learned to eat the gruel they served the prisoners, but he still gave Cates half of it at each meal. And he ate his bread, minus the moldy bits.

  “What’s the word, Cates?”

  “What word is that, Clint?”

  “About when they’re going to come for me.”

 
Cates didn’t bother to pretend he didn’t know what Clint was talking about.

  “They’re still watchin’ you,” he said. “They want to see who you become friends with. Who you’ll have on your side.”

  “Why not come for me before that?” Clint asked. “While I’m alone?”

  “They’re afraid of you.”

  “Even without my gun?”

  “Even without your gun.”

  “Do you know who’ll come for me?”

  “No.”

  Clint looked at him skeptically. “Come on, Cates . . .”

  Up to this point Cates had been staring at his food. Now he raised his head and looked at Clint.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you find out?”

  “I might.”

  “Will you?”

  Cates looked at Clint’s plate.

  “You gonna eat that bread?”

  Clint had already picked off the moldy parts, but he hadn’t started to eat it yet.

  “Be my guest.”

  * * *

  Angus Fowler nervously entered the warden’s office. He smelled the meat before he entered. The warden was seated at a table, working on a steak with a knife and fork. The plate was filled by the meat, which was accompanied by potatoes, carrots, and onions. Angus’s mouth began to water immediately. He saw the other plate across from the warden.

  “Hello, Angus.”

  “Warden.”

  “Had a bath lately?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “The stench shouldn’t be too bad, then,” the warden said. “Have a seat, Angus. Eat.”

  “Eat?”

  The warden nodded.

  “T-That’s for me?”

  “Of course,” the warden said. “Come on, sit. It’s getting cold.”

  Angus rushed to the table, sat, and picked up the knife and fork. He hastily cut off a hunk of steak and stuffed it into his mouth before the man could change his mind.

  “Take your time, Angus,” the warden said. “Enjoy the meal. Would you like a glass of wine with it?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  The warden poured Angus a glass of red wine. The prisoner took a gulp, choked for a few seconds, then went back to his meal, this time eating more slowly, but with gusto.