Leaving Yuma

by Michael Zimmer

  “I’ll tell you what, Latham,” Walsh returned easily. “You fight Tiny, and, if you can beat him, I’ll let you go.”

  I nodded, but I didn’t believe him. Elliot Walsh maintained his control over the convict population with intimidation and threats of violence he was unquestionably capable of delivering on. Even if I did somehow best Tiny, it wouldn’t erase Walsh’s need to bring me under his heel. My options that day were few and dismal, and made my stomach churn with dread. I wasn’t eager to meet the Reaper, but figured it was a better alternative than serving the rest of my term as one of Elliot’s dogs.

  Bringing my fists up close to my chest, I backed into the open where I’d have room to maneuver. Tiny came after me in his dull, lumbering stride. We made a slow circle with me in reverse, searching for an opening. Although Tiny stayed close, he didn’t rush me. He just kept coming on with the hungry, almost glassy-eyed look of a … well, the look of a man who’d kill a kid for killing a gopher snake.

  Finally, taking a deep breath, I feigned a left, then a quick right. Tiny might not have been the sharpest shovel in the ditch, but he’d been in his share of fights over the years, and wasn’t easily scammed. He batted my fists away as if shooing off a pesky fly, his demeanor never changing. I nodded acknowledgment of his skill, did a partial feint with my left, then took a half step forward as if to bury my toe in his crotch.

  Tiny saw that one coming, too, and was already reaching for my ankle when I abruptly pulled my foot back. For the first time, the big man’s face registered something other than imperturbable confidence. His broad visage was wide open, and he knew it. Using his already badly mauled nose for a bull’s-eye, I drove my fist into it with everything I had. He cried out throatily, reeling backward on stiff, tottering legs.

  A collective note of awe eddied across the yard from Walsh’s men. Tiny came to a halt with his massive feet planted wide and shook his head, flinging droplets of blood into the dust. A look of wonder spread across his face as he probed gently at the buckled lump of flesh and gristle above his mouth, but except for the steady dripping of blood from his left nostril, I don’t think I added any new damage.

  I hung back, not wanting to press my luck, and hoping, I think, that he might yet keel over. I believe the fact that he was still standing after the kind of a blow I’d given him was doing more to undermine my confidence than his size and reputation had.

  Tiny stood there a moment longer, his brows furrowed as if in confusion as he studied the smear of blood across his fingertips. Then he looked at me, and I cursed softly in disbelief and started backing away. Hell, what else could I do? My right hand was still throbbing from its collision with Evans’ face, and my breath was coming, swift and deep, as if I’d just finished a race to town and back. I needed a weapon of some kind, but a prison doesn’t offer a lot of those—not handily, at least. So I kept backing up, staying on my toes and fearful of a charge I wouldn’t be quick enough to dodge. As my thoughts scrambled for a plan, it suddenly occurred to me that, while Walsh and his boys might still have the two main avenues of escape shut off, the laundry was now open. I began widening my circle in a track that would take me within fifteen feet of the rear door. I kept my eyes away from the opening, fearful of telegraphing my intentions to the others.

  “Come on, Evans, finish it,” Walsh called impatiently. I knew what was troubling him. Those hacks in the guard tower couldn’t pretend they didn’t know what was going on forever; sooner or later they’d have to turn around and put a stop to it.

  Tiny’s eyes flitted guiltily toward his boss without actually meeting the man’s gaze, like a dog that had been beaten too often. It was just a fleeting look, but figuring it was probably the only chance I was going to get, I took off for the laundry in a sprint.

  Lord, Tiny was fast. Like a streak of lightning snaking along the ground, and nothing at all like what you’d expect from someone so big and clunky-looking. His fist caught me in the ribs while I was still ten feet shy of the door, and I stumbled to the side with a grunt that all but echoed off the prison’s rear wall. For a moment the laundry’s rear entrance kind of shrunk down like it was sinking into a pool of black tar. Before I could regain my senses, Tiny grabbed my arm and spun me around full circle, slamming me into the building’s rough adobe wall. I grunted again and started to go down, but a hand as imposing as a catcher’s mitt grabbed my shirt and hauled me to my feet. Wobbling like I was, his next swing only grazed my jaw, although it was enough to drop me in my tracks.

  I lay on my back watching the sky do a jerky little dance overhead until Tiny hove into view, casting me in shadow. I was more than a little worried when I realized he was grinning, and impulsively brought my right leg up as if to aim a kick at his groin. He was ready for that, but caught completely off guard when my left heel smashed crosswise into his left knee.

  I rolled clear of Tiny’s plummeting form. Up in the guard’s tower, one of the hacks uttered an expletive of disbelief. I guess my unexpected success, no matter how short-lived it was likely to be, had proved too much for their curiosity; they were leaning over the low wall like fans at a dogfight. Lurching to my feet, I spied the laundry door just a few feet away and quickly darted inside. Walsh shouted for his goons to go after me, but I wasn’t running. Hell, I was in prison. Where was I going to go?

  There were stacks of clothing everywhere, but not a flatiron in sight. Then my eyes lit on a squat, three-legged stool, the kind you can still see at some of the smaller dairy farms where they milk by hand. Grabbing a leg, I whirled to face the door.

  Brad Butler was the first of Walsh’s thugs to come through the door. I hit him in the face with everything I had, dropping him in his tracks. The others skidded to a halt outside, fanning out in front of the door but wisely hanging back. I could see Tiny behind them, whimpering pitifully as he rolled back and forth on the ground, clutching his busted knee. Butler lay sprawled across the threshold, cupping his face with both hands. Blood—a lot of it—was seeping from between his fingers.

  We stood that way for perhaps a full minute, and I was glad for the opportunity to catch my breath. Finally Walsh wandered over as if just passing by, although I noticed he was careful to stay well to the rear of his men. Nudging Tiny with the side of his foot, he said, “You impress me, Latham. Most men I’ve sent this ol’ boy against don’t even get in one good lick. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “You want your money back?”

  You might recall that I’d said I wouldn’t do that, but that encounter behind the laundry had me reevaluating my options.

  Walsh seemed to mull over the offer for a moment, then shook his head. “I reckon we’ve gone too far for that.”

  One of his men turned part way around. “A couple of us could go around front, come in that way.”

  “Naw, the situation’s changed.” Walsh glanced toward the guard tower. The hacks still hadn’t called for help, but we both knew they soon would. They’d have to. Scowling, he said, “Get Evans and Butler on their feet and take ’em to the infirmary. We’ll deal with Latham later.”

  It took a couple of minutes for Walsh’s men to get Evans on his feet. Walsh hung around after his men had moved off with their staggering cargo. “It’s too bad,” he said after they were gone. “I could have used you.”

  “For what, another half-baked cutthroat to kiss your ass?”

  Walsh shrugged. Then he abruptly stiffened, and I tossed the three-legged stool behind a pile of dirty laundry. From beyond my field of vision I heard a voice bark, “What in the goddamned name of hades is going on out here?”

  Rubbing the back of my right hand, the one I’d bruised from knuckles to wrist on Tiny Evan’s jaw, I moved to the door. Yuma’s chief turnkey was coming toward us like a thunderstorm on bowed legs. His name was Chuck Halsey, which I believe I’ve already mentioned. He was tall and slim and hot-eyed, as if he was always half ticked off about something.
I hadn’t been in Yuma long before I realized Chuck Halsey was more in control of the day-to-day operation of the prison than the superintendent, a burly guy named Tom Rynning. Halsey interacted with the prisoners on a daily basis, and knew us all by name, crime, and reputation. He had a pretty fair idea of what each man was capable of, too. Which ones he could depend on and which ones he didn’t dare turn his back to, although I noticed he never really trusted any of us completely.

  Coming to a stop about ten feet away, he spent a long moment just glaring at us. Walsh and I remained silent and kept our eyes averted. We didn’t ignore the man, but we were careful not to look directly at him, either. Living behind bars can be like walking a tightrope sometimes. Finally turning to me, Halsey said, “All right, what happened here, Latham?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not really sure, boss.”

  “You’re not sure? What kind of idiot do you take me for?”

  Now there was a question rife with possibilities if ever I saw one, but Ma Latham didn’t raise no fool, so I kept my mouth shut and my gaze on a middle button of Halsey’s shirt.

  “What about you, Walsh? What have you got to say about this, since those were your boys I saw heading for the infirmary spilling blood all over everything?”

  Affecting a friendly grin, Walsh said, “Butler and Evans? They ain’t my boys, captain. They’re just friends. As far as what happened, I wasn’t a part of it, but, from what I could see, it looked like Latham was coming out the back door of the laundry just as Tiny and Brad were going in, and they accidentally ran into one another. Although what Latham was doing over here when he was supposed to be framing bricks is …”

  “What are you doing over here?” Halsey interrupted, and Walsh’s smile faded. Without giving Walsh time to fabricate a new story, the turnkey turned back to me. “What about it, Latham? Is that your story, too, that you and Tiny bumped into one another in the door?”

  “Sounds about right to me, boss.”

  Halsey nodded curtly. He knew we were lying. Swiveling at the waist, he pegged the guard’s tower with a smoldering look. Both hacks were standing smartly at attention by then, their Winchesters at the ready. It was pretty clear from the expression on Halsey’s face that he knew what was up with them, too, and that they would be in for an ass chewing before the day was out. But not right away. Turns out Halsey had other business to deal with first.

  “You come with me, Latham,” he said. “The warden wants to see you.”

  Being a smart con, I stayed two paces behind Halsey all the way to the main yard, where the turnkey stopped me in front of the kitchen’s side door. Squinting at the still-oozing cut above my brow, he said, “I would have liked to have seen the fight that put Brad Butler and Tiny Evans on their asses.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t really believe he was trying to trick me into confessing to something I’d already denied involvement in, but it never hurts to keep your mouth shut when you’re not sure what to say. I’ve found that to be true in most situations, but especially in Yuma.

  Jutting his chin toward the kitchen door, he said, “Go clean yourself off. You look like the bottom of a spittoon.”

  Ignoring the gray-haired cons inside, sitting at a long plank table peeling potatoes for that night’s supper, I filled a tin basin with water and scrubbed off as much dust and blood as I could with my bandanna. Although Halsey didn’t seem particularly impressed with the results when I came back outside a couple of minutes later, he kept his opinion to himself.

  “Come on, they’re waiting for us,” he said, jerking his head toward the sally port.

  Rynning’s office was located not too far outside the prison gates. This was my first visit to the office, and what caught my attention as soon as I walked in was how cool it seemed. Even though it was only early May, it was as hot as a chili pepper outside, and my gray and black striped shirt—yeah, just like in the picture shows—was dark with sweat.

  We entered a small outer office, where a trusty named Harold Warner sat at a drawerless desk shuffling through stacks of papers. A sign above a second door in the far wall read: private. Halsey rapped firmly on the thick wood, and a voice from within bade us to enter. Halsey motioned me inside first, but, as I started to slip past him, he grabbed my arm and whispered, “You mind your manners in there, Latham, or I’ll hand you over to Walsh myself.”

  He’d do it, too. Chuck Halsey was a fair man if you treated him right and minded the rules, but he could be a son of a bitch if you crossed him. I spent four days in the snake pit my first week at Yuma after telling him to go to hell, and learned a valuable lesson for my impertinence.

  Thomas Rynning was a former Arizona Ranger who had been appointed to the position of superintendent only a few months earlier. There was no welcome in the warden’s eyes as I was ushered inside. Hearing the door close behind me, I knew I was on my own.

  There was a second man in the room, a burly guy deep into his fifties by then, with thinning gray hair, thick brows, and a heavy gut. His cheeks and nose were finely threaded with broken capillaries, and there was a watery weakness to his eyes that I recognized. Over the years I’d met a lot of men with too much fondness for the bottle, but I’d never expected Delmar Buchman to be one of them.

  “Hello, Latham,” Del said in a voice like a mean dog’s growl. He chuckled at my disheveled appearance. “Been making new friends?”

  Oh, I had more than a few remarks I would have liked to have shot right back at that old bastard, but I’d been a guest of the territory long enough by then to know when to keep my lips sealed. Focusing on Rynning, I said, “Chief Halsey said you wanted to see me, sir.”

  “That’s correct.” He tipped his head toward Buchman. “You know Acting Deputy Buchman?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He knows I’m the one put him here,” Buchman said with a spreading grin. “Like a rat to a trap, ain’t that right, champ?”

  “Refrain yourself, Mister Buchman,” Rynning said curtly. “Prisoner Latham is no longer in your charge.”

  “Well, he might soon be again,” Buchman replied, but the smile had slid off his face.

  Eyeing an open folder on his desk, Rynning said, “You’ve already served a third of your sentence here, Latham. According to both your records and Chief Halsey’s assertion, you’ve been, overall, a fairly disciplined inmate. If I were a betting man, I’d say your chances of getting out early are quite good. Possibly even before we make the move to Florence.” (Editor’s note: The Territorial Penitentiary at Yuma was officially closed in 1909, with operations and prisoners moved to Florence that same year.) He looked up, eyeing the cuts and bruises Tiny Evans had planted around my face. “Assuming you can continue to stay out of trouble,” he amended.

  Buchman snorted and looked away. After an irritated glance in the old lawdog’s direction, Rynning continued, “I want you to understand, Latham, that you are under no obligation to accept Mister Buchman’s offer. If you would prefer to remain here and finish out your sentence, you may do so. Is that clear?”

  I nodded like it was, like I knew what the hell he was talking about.

  Rising effortlessly, Rynning said to Buchman, “You’ve got five minutes … champ.” Then he stepped around his desk and left the room.

  I stayed where I was, as rigid as a soldier under inspection, my eyes trained on a spider making its slow way across the wall. Pushing to his feet, Buchman shuffled behind the desk to commandeer the warden’s chair, dropping the last few inches with a faint grunt. Opening a top drawer like he already knew what he’d find inside, he took out a slim Cuban panatela, bit off the tip, and spat it into a wastebasket, then placed the cigar in his mouth. With a match lifted from a little iron box atop the desk, he calmly lit his pilfered smoke, then leaned back to jet a slim blue cloud toward the ceiling.

  “How they treating you in here, Latham?” he asked, then chuckled when I didn’t reply. “Teac
hing you some manners, anyway, huh?”

  I waited patiently, and it wasn’t long before I could tell my silence was starting to aggravate him. Prisoners everywhere have to toe the mark pretty closely, but we have our ways of getting back, too, exacting a little revenge whenever the opportunity presents itself. And I didn’t like Buchman, for reasons that had nothing to do with him being the cop who’d arrested me in Moralos in ’03—but I guess I’m getting ahead of myself, again. I seem to be doing that a lot tonight.

  Anyway, back there in Rynning’s office, I glanced at an ornate clock sitting on the warden’s desk, its small white face embedded in the side of a bronze elephant. I didn’t know how long Rynning had been gone, but the implication was clear, and Buchman’s cheeks reddened.

  “I hope you take my offer, Latham,” he rumbled. “I’d surely like to finish the training they started on you here.”

  “Just what offer is that, Buchman?”

  The brows above the old lawman’s eyes started to wiggle like a pair of woolly worms preparing to do battle. I could tell it bothered him that I referred to him by his last name, rather than sir or boss, but I didn’t care. I had to jump through enough hoops in that place, I’d be damned if I’d start doing it for a man like Del Buchman.

  “I’ve got a proposition for you,” the lawman said, reaching into his jacket to pull out an ivory-colored envelope that he tossed casually across the desk in my direction. “Go ahead, take a peek.”

  I hesitated only briefly, then picked up the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper inside, marked with the official seal of the Territory of Arizona at the top. I scanned the document, noted the governor’s signature at the bottom, and a line next to it for a second signature. Typed above the second line was the name Delmar C. Buchman, followed by the title, Acting Deputy Sheriff, Pima County.

  “Play your cards right, champ, and that’s your punch outta here.”