Leaving Yuma

by Michael Zimmer

  My gaze drifted back up the page to a title printed all in caps: document of pardon. I heard a sound like escaping steam, and only belatedly realized it was my own exhalation.

  “Interested?”

  I nodded cautiously, returned the paper to the envelope, then the envelope to the desk top. “What do I have to do to earn it?”

  “I got a party of men wants to go into Mexico without being recognized. What they call incognito. You know what that means?”

  “I know what it means. Where does this party of yours want to go?”

  “Sabana.”

  “My old stomping grounds.”

  “Yeah.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “You could take a train to Tres Pinos. It’s a five-hour ride from there to Sabana. You could be there and back in three days.”

  “A train ain’t an option. We’re going in the back way.”

  I couldn’t help smiling at that. “Through the paramos?”

  Paramos, by the way, means “badlands.” Or more correctly, “barren plains,” although the paramos Buchman wanted to take his party through were anything but flat.

  “You figure you can find your way?” I asked.

  Buchman’s eyes narrowed. “I could use you, Latham, but I sure as hell don’t need you. I could walk outta here right now and we’d still make it. Only difference would be that you’d still be locked away in here like a monkey in a cage, spending the next eight years of your life thinking about what a fool you were to turn down my offer.”

  Well, he had a point there, but he was wrong if he thought he could lead a party of men through those desert lands south of Moralos without a guide. I told him as much, then added, “You couldn’t carry enough water for you and your men. You’ve got to know the water holes, and those are mighty few and hard to find.”

  “It can be done,” he said stubbornly.

  “Not by white men, it can’t.”

  Buchman’s eyes turned flinty, his fingers tightening around his cigar until it jutted from his fist at a nearly forty-five-degree angle. “If you ain’t interested, Latham, say the word.”

  I held his gaze a moment longer, then glanced at the pale envelope sitting on top of Rynning’s desk and sighed loudly. “No, I’m interested. Tell me the rest of it.”

  Buchman leaned back in his chair, his grip relaxing around the panatela. “Six days ago a train on its way to Hermosillo was stopped by bandits. Seven Americans were taken off. Four of ’em were shot on the spot, but a woman and her two kids were taken away. Now, here’s the kicker. On the very same day them three were pulled off that train, her husband gets a proposal from a bandit chief named Chito Soto that ain’t nothing but a ransom demand wrapped in fancy words. This Soto claims he’s a major in something called an Army of Liberation. He wants the ransom delivered to Sabana by May 16, which is eight days from today. They’re threatening to start carving on them kids on the seventeenth if they don’t get the … their ransom on time.”

  “You keep saying ransom, instead of money.”

  “That part of the deal doesn’t concern you. Listen, we’re running outta of time here, Latham. You know that country better than any other white man in the territory. You can get us down there in time to save that woman and those kids.”

  “And if I do, I get the pardon?”

  “That’s the long and short of it. Edward Davenport … he’s the gal’s husband … he packs a lot of sway around here, and he’s got some pretty good friends up at the capital, too. He’s managed to wrangle you a full pardon, on the condition that you cooperate fully, but, if you ain’t already noticed, that paper is one signature shy of being worth anything more than paper for the privy.”

  “Yours.”

  “That’s right. It’s a stipulation I insisted on. You help us get that woman and them kids outta there, and I’ll add that final signature. You’ll be a free man to go wherever you want. But I’ll warn you right now, if you double-cross us, champ, this ol’ world ain’t gonna be big enough for you to hide in. I’ve already talked to Davenport about this, and he’s agreed. He’s vowed to post a five-thousand-dollar reward on your head, along with a description sent to every newspaper between New York and San Francisco, London to Johannesburg. There ain’t gonna be nowhere in this country or any other that you’d be safe in after that. Savvy?”

  I walked over to stare out the window. Buchman probably thought I was thinking it over, but I wasn’t. I’d already made up my mind to go the moment I saw my name on that pardon. What I was thinking about was all that country between Moralos, where we’d likely jump off from, and Sabana, way down deep in Sonora. I was fairly confident I could do it. I knew most of the water holes and trails through those barrancas—meaning those steep-sided cañons that can be nearly impossible to find your way through—then over the Sierra Verdes into the green Sabana Valley, but it was going to be damned hard. That was Yaqui country down there. Yaquis and whatever bandits were tough enough and mean enough to carve out a chunk of it for themselves. For most of the way we were going to be totally on our own, for it was a place where the soldados didn’t often venture, or come back from when they did. And with just eight days to make the journey, we’d have to move light and fast.

  Turning away from the window, I said, “What’s your position with Davenport?”

  “I reckon I’m what you’d call his agent.”

  “So it’ll be you and me?”

  “And others.”

  “How many?”

  “That ain’t your concern, Latham. You’re coming along as a guide only.”

  “I’ll need to know how many men and horses there’ll be before I can decide which trails to use.”

  Buchman’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “You might not want to ask too many questions, champ. The only thing that’s important to you is this.” Reaching across the desk, he flicked the pale envelope containing my pardon a few inches closer to where I was standing. “Savvy?”

  I stared at it for only a few seconds, then met the old lawman’s eyes. “Yeah, I savvy. When do we leave?”

  Buchman smiled coldly. “Just as soon as I can get you sprung.”

  Session Two

  I won’t waste too much space on your disk with the details of how I was processed out of Yuma. That’s not the story you came here for, and, besides, the way the wind is howling out there, we might not have electricity much longer. I will say it didn’t take as long as I was afraid it would, since I didn’t want to spend another night inside those stone and adobe walls, dodging Eliott Walsh and his boys. Fortunately Buchman was able to get me out that same day.

  It was probably after four o’clock when Halsey escorted me in my cheap new suit to the sally port in the prison’s north wall, and I’ve got to admit my heart started thumping a little faster when I thought about those twin, strap-iron gates swinging open for me. You can imagine my resentment when I got there and spotted Del Buchman waiting on the other side with a pair of polished steel manacles dangling from his left hand.

  Standing with Del was Warden Rynning, a deep scowl pulling his eyebrows down in the middle like a funnel. Knowing Rynning’s reputation as a martinet, I suspected his annoyance was at my circumventing a duly administered prison sentence with a reprieve from the governor. I’ll confess I didn’t give a hoot in hell what had the warden’s britches so steamed. I’d rattled around my cell most of the previous night calculating the probability of surviving eight more years in that cesspit with Walsh and his goons stalking me. The odds weren’t too favorable, in case you’re wondering. Then there I was, not even twelve hours later, about to walk through those gates a free man. Or pretty darned close to it.

  Halsey’s parting words were poignant. “Watch your ass, Latham. Walsh is saying that if you ever come back, you’ll be dead before you can be assigned a cell.”

  “I won’t be back.”

 
Halsey grunted like he doubted my promise, but I intended to honor it. I stepped through the inner gate alone, then waited while it was pulled closed and locked. Then the outer gate was unlocked and I stepped outside into the Arizona sunshine. I think I was grinning wide enough to hide my ears.

  As soon as I was clear, Rynning signed off on a final release form, handing that to Buchman and accepting one from the lawman in return. Passing me on the way in, Rynning said, “Good luck, Latham.” It kind of irritated me that he didn’t stop or offer to shake my hand. I’d kind of figured he would.

  Buchman tossed me the bracelets—like handcuffs but with a longer chain—then pulled his jacket back to reveal a large-framed revolver in a shoulder rig under his left arm. “Put those on,” he said, nodding toward the manacles.

  I wanted to protest, but Rynning hadn’t completely closed that outer gate yet. He seemed to be waiting for my reaction. Laughing, I fitted the cuffs over my wrists and Buchman locked them in place. Returning the key to his pocket, he said, “This can go real easy, Latham, or I can make you wish you’d stayed inside those walls. Savvy?”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  We started down the dusty road at a swift walk, the echo of the outer gate clanking shut drifting over our heads. Despite the cuffs on my wrists and the lawman at my side, I was feeling pretty chipper. Like I wanted to whistle. That good cheer lasted about a dozen yards, when Bachman veered toward a four-wheeled contraption parked at an angle under the prison wall, its narrow, rubber-shod wheels chocked with stones to keep it from rolling downhill. It looked sort of like an army ambulance, only it had a steering wheel in front of the wooden bench seat and a metal cowl out in front that reminded me of a bloodhound’s cold black nose. My pace ebbed noticeably, and Buchman’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the matter, champ, ain’t you ever seen an automobile before?”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen them. Are we going to ride that thing into town?”

  He laughed. “I’ll be damned, the mighty J. T. Latham, scared of a panel truck.”

  I gave him a dismissive look and didn’t say anything else, but, yeah, I’ll admit it. My mouth was cottony and my palms itched, like they do even today when I get antsy over something. You can go ahead and laugh if you want. Knowing how it all turned out, I don’t blame you. But the fact is, although I’d never ridden in an automobile at the time, I’d been around a few, and I considered them nothing less than snorting, belching deathtraps, no safer than a crate full of dynamite bouncing around inside a tub of burning fuses.

  “Come on,” Buchman said. “We ain’t got all day.”

  Although I kept my mouth shut, I won’t deny a hefty dose of relief when we passed the panel truck and made for a sleek black buggy with the words, yuma cab co. written in block letters across the low sideboards. An old sorrel mare was standing patiently in the traces, swatting flies with a tail grown thin from age. Del released the snap on the sorrel’s halter and tossed the tether-weight under the seat, then we both climbed in, the buggy swaying wildly on ancient springs.

  We followed the road from Prison Hill south to level ground, then west into town, the lowering sun nearly blinding us. Yuma had changed over the years. When I came through there in 1903 to begin my sentence, I don’t recall seeing any automobiles. Now there were cars and trucks in every direction, probably a couple of dozen between the Hill and downtown alone. There were numerous bicycles, too, and the streets through the business district were festooned with electrical and telephone wires.

  Buchman’s first stop was the Yuma Livery, where he returned the rented buggy. Then we walked back downtown to Hunsaker’s Department Store, a two-story brick building on the corner of Third and Jefferson. Hunsaker’s was where a lot of the cons went after their release to replace the cheap suits they’d been issued inside with more suitable clothing. Frankly I was hoping for something a little less scratchy in the crotch.

  We entered through a side door, where we were met by a young man sporting a Teddy Roosevelt haircut, complete with mustache and thin-framed eyeglasses. He noticed my cuffs right away, but didn’t seem alarmed.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Buchman hooked a thumb in my direction. “I need to get this jasper outfitted for an extended trip into the desert. Can you do that for under twenty bucks?”

  “I believe we can,” Teddy replied with the flash of a smile that paled in comparison with the real thing. “Follow me.”

  He led us to a back room, where a long wooden table was piled high with used clothing. Shelves along all four walls were lined with shoes, boots, hats, cheap pasteboard suitcases, and a number of smaller items like spurs and gloves.

  Never having been accused of being a stickler for fashion, I didn’t waste time looking for fancy. I picked out a pair of sturdy, copper-riveted jeans, some low-heeled work boots that would do nicely for the saddle, and a couple of plain wool shirts, shaded in the same light tan as the desert we’d be crossing. For a hat I chose a silver-belly Stetson that time, weather, and the previous owner’s hands had transformed into something uniquely its own. Its brim curved slightly upward both front and back, and its crown was lumpy from handling. An engraved leather hatband was saved from being labeled ornate by hard use and sweat. I also picked out a light blue bandanna, leather gloves, a corduroy vest, and a heavier canvas jacket that came down over my hips.

  Hunsaker’s didn’t carry socks or underwear in their used clothing department, so I had to purchase those new. Then Buchman had the clerk add one of those new screw-open razors with the flat blades, a bar of castile soap, a towel, a sodbuster’s knife—its little four-inch blade the largest Buchman would consent to—and a palm-size sewing kit because, believe it or not, most of the men who roamed the frontier in those days were pretty handy with a needle and thread, having to rely on our own resources if we ripped a shirt on an ocotillo or popped a button wrestling with a balky mule.

  Buchman paid the man out of his own wallet. I didn’t mention the twenty dollars I had in wages from the prison, or the forty-five dollars I’d taken off of Walsh while shooting craps. Afterward the clerk escorted us to the same side door we’d entered though, as if wanting to steer us away from the more genteel clientele up front, where the latest fashions were on display. Being older and a bit more traveled myself nowadays, I can appreciate the clerk’s sentiment; at the time I just didn’t give a damn.

  We went to a bathhouse run by a Chinaman named Charlie Ye next, where I got my first hot bath in nearly half a decade. I’ll tell you what, there are few indulgences I prize more today than a regular bath with hot water, good soap, a soft washcloth, and a little electric heater in the corner if it’s chilly. Living like I did back then makes a man treasure some of the things folks today take for granted.

  I left my cheap prison suit in a heap on the bathhouse floor. Our next stop was the Acme Saloon, where Buchman bought me the first honest-to-God beer I’d had since my arrest in 1903. It wasn’t cold, but it was cool—Yuma had its own ice factory by then—and I drank it down fast enough to give myself a headache. Buchman laughed and bought me another and told me to take my time, as it would have to last me a spell. Del was still working on his first one, and, as I watched his face in the backbar mirror, I noticed how he kept eyeing the whiskey bottles lined up behind the bar. Buchman was a man in conflict, and I had a good idea what was gnawing at him.

  Later on we stood on the boardwalk in front of the Acme and Buchman offered me a cigar from an inside breast pocket of his jacket, courtesy, I suspect, of Thomas Rynning’s top desk drawer. The sun had dipped below the horizon and the sky was streaked in shades of red, gold, violet, and turquoise. For a moment, all I could do was stare. I’ve traveled some since those woolly days of my youth. I’ve been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York a couple of times, and spent a day touring the Musée du Louvre in Paris, along with shorter excursions through London, Rome, and Berlin, but I’ve yet to se
e anything in a gallery to match the grandeur of a desert sunset. On the Hill, the guards always made sure we were locked down well before dusk, so this was the first eventide I’d seen in nearly four years.

  “Delmar,” I said, taking a pull on my cigar, “you’re turning out to be more of a gentleman than I figured you for.”

  “I told you if you minded your manners, we’d get along.”

  “I’m guessing Davenport is paying for this?”

  “Uh-huh, although he doesn’t know it yet. I’ve got a letter of credit lets me pull cash outta the bank whenever I need it. You got a rough road ahead of you yet. I figure you might as well enjoy a few amenities before we leave all this luxury behind.”

  I glanced up and down the dusty thoroughfare. There was a canvas-topped automobile rattling and popping on the street, spewing noxious clouds of exhaust into the air. Closer, a couple of dogs were copulating in the mouth of an alley, and half a block farther an ox was voiding itself in front of a feed and grain store. Not exactly Paris, but I knew what Del was thinking. Once we got into Mexico, Yuma was going to seem like a metropolis.

  We went to the Moorhead Hotel next and ordered a supper of flaky fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, baked corn, green beans, strong coffee, then peach cobbler with cream for dessert—my mouth still waters when I recall the perfection of that meal. Afterward we paused on the boardwalk out front for Del to light another cigar.

  “How many of those things did you steal?” I asked as he struck a match.

  “No more than the damned government owes me,” he growled, sucking furiously on the slim panatela until he had the tip glowing to his satisfaction.

  I didn’t ask him what he meant by that, or point out that the cigars he’d taken had probably been paid for out of Rynning’s own pockets; in my limited association with Yuma’s newest warden, he hadn’t seemed the type to abuse the prison’s annual budget.

  Del—and yeah, I was starting to think of him as “Del” then, rather than Buchman—tossed his match into the dust, then pulled a silver-plated pocket watch from his vest. He studied its face in the dim light, then snapped the lid closed and returned it to his pocket. “We’ve got tickets on the eleven-forty to Gila Bend,” he told me, expelling a thin cloud of smoke toward the sky. “It’s just past seven now. We’ve got four hours to kill.”