Ticket to Yuma (12 page)

FORTY

Amanda got into the bunk with Clint, reached into his pants, and took hold of him. He unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, dropping it on the floor. He wondered if the guard would come along and interrupt them.

She crawled down between his legs and peeled off his trousers, then took him in her hand and stroked him. The guards always made her take them in her mouth, but what she wanted to do with Clint Adams was just mount him and then ride him slowly, at her own speed. When the guards stuck it in her, they fucked her hard and fast, until they had their pleasure, and then they left her. She hadn't had any satisfaction since she came to Yuma Prison.

As she mounted him and took him into her steamy depths, she whimpered, almost started crying. Clint let her have her way, riding him for as long as she wanted, and as long as he could hold out before he exploded inside her. They both bit their lips to keep from crying out and then she snuggled up to him beneath the blanket and they went to sleep . . .

* * *

In the morning the guard, Rock, woke them and told Amanda, “Come on out.”

She got up and, while Rock watched, pulled her dress back on.

“Don't worry,” she said, “I'll see you again.”

“I'm counting on it,” Clint said.

She left the cell, which Rock locked, and they walked away.

* * *

Later Rock came with his breakfast and Clint asked him, “What's Amanda in for?”

“She stole a bunch of money,” Rock said.

“How much?”

“I hear it was forty thousand dollars,” he said, “but nobody knows where she put it.”

“Ah,” Clint said as Rock walked off. That was why she was getting special treatment. And maybe why he was getting it, too.

* * *

Later Rock came to him and asked, “You wanna get some exercise?”

“In the yard?”

“Up to you, the warden said,” Rock told him.

Clint didn't see a problem with going into the general population—not after what had happened. It would be a while before they put together another attempt on his life.

“Okay,” he said, “let's go.”

Rock walked him out to the yard, where he quickly found Cates.

“What the hell are you doin' out here?” Cates asked.

“Relax,” Clint said. “I don't think they'll try anything again so soon—and not out in the open.”

“Yeah, you're probably right.”

“What are you in for, Cates?”

“Banks, stagecoaches, trains,” Cates said. “You name it. I was a regular Jesse James.”

“You wanna get out?”

“What's on your mind?”

“I'm going to find Harlan Banks today.”

“That fella you been lookin' for?” Cates asked. “So he's in here?”

“He is,” Clint said, “and when I find him, we're getting out.”

“Breakin' out?”

“Unless somebody wants to open the doors for us.”

“How?”

“Not sure yet, but I'm going,” Clint said. “You want to come?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “be ready for anything, okay?”

“I always am.”

* * *

Clint stayed in the yard for a couple of hours, mostly just sitting on some stone steps and talking with Cates. At one point one of the guards came walking over to where they were.

“Adams?” the guard asked without looking at him.

“That's right.”

“Hang back when they start goin' back inside.”

“What for?”

The guard looked at him.

“Hell, do I know?” he asked. “I'm just deliverin' a message.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Message delivered, Thanks.”

The guard nodded and walked away.

“Could be a trap,” Cates said.

“Could be I'm going to see Banks,” Clint said.

“You gonna take the chance?”

“That's what life is all about,” Clint said. “Taking chances.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“No, you've done enough,” Clint said. “Like I said, just be ready.”

“I'm ready.”

Clint nodded. When the guards started taking the prisoners in, he hung back, like he was told. Before long he was alone in the yard.

Alone.

FORTY-ONE

All the doors leading to the interior of the building were closed. Clint remained seated on the stone steps, waiting. Suddenly, one of the doors opened. He was prepared for some more men with knives to appear, but instead one man came out—stumbled out, as if he'd been shoved. He paused, shielded his eyes against the sunlight, then took a few more steps.

The man looked around, still shielding his eyes with one hand. When he spotted Clint sitting on the steps, he dropped his hand and started walking over. Part of the way there he stopped.

“Am I supposed to talk to you?” he asked. “They said I was supposed to talk to someone.”

“Harlan,” Clint said. “It's me.”

The man frowned, shielded his eyes again.

“It's me,” Clint said. “Clint Adams.”

Banks squinted, said, “Clint?”

“That's right.”

“By God, it is you!” Banks said. “You got my telegram.”

“I did,” Clint said, “but finding you hasn't been easy.”

Banks staggered forward, reached out, and grabbed Clint by the shoulders.

“It's great to see you, but . . . are you a prisoner, too?” he asked.

“For the moment.”

“But . . . how?”

“Same way as you,” Clint said. “Railroaded.”

“In Prescott?”

“Yup. Charged with murder. I'm not sure the people I supposedly killed are even dead. At least, I hope not.”

“They charged me with killing the telegraph boy.”

“Bobby? You're in luck. I spoke to him myself.”

“Damn,” Banks said, “it's that chief of police, and the mayor. They're as crooked as they come, Clint. I'd planned to expose them through my connections in the state capital.”

“And they didn't want you doing that,” Clint said, “so they stuck you in here.”

“And then you figured out something was going on, and they did the same thing to you. Jesus.” Banks sat down. “How the hell are we gonna get out of here now?”

“I'm working on it,” Clint said. “We've got some help.”

“Who?”

“Well, a prisoner named Cates, and another one named Amanda.”

“I don't know them,” Banks said. “They been keeping me in solitary.”

“I don't understand. If they were so worried about you, why didn't they just kill you?”

“I don't know,” Banks said. “Maybe they thought I'd die in here. Or maybe they're planning to kill me soon.”

“Have they tried?” Clint asked. “Has anybody tried to kill you?”

“No.”

“Well, they tried to kill me,” Clint said. “Cates helped me out, but I don't know when they'll try again.”

“So what do we do?”

“We get out of here, that's what we do,” Clint said. “I'm coming up with a plan.”

“Well, you better come up with one fast,” Banks said, “before they decide to kill both of us.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “I'll see if Amanda can get you moved.”

“Why would she be able to do that?”

“She has some pull with a couple of guards. And I have the feeling the warden doesn't know anything about you.”

“Yeah, that's what I figured, too.”

“But he knows about me, because I met him,” Clint said, “and maybe it's time for me to talk to him again.”

“About what?”

“About me being too famous to die in Yuma Prison on his watch.”

FORTY-TWO

Banks was taken back to his cell—wherever that was—and Clint told Rock he wanted to see the warden.

“I ain't supposed to take anybody to see the warden without first checkin' with the deputy warden.”

“Well, let's put it this way, Rock,” Clint said. “How much would it take?”

* * *

Later that day Rock walked Clint down the hall to the warden's office.

“Wait here,” he said.

He opened the door and peered in, then withdrew his head.

“Okay, it's like I said. Deputy Warden Simon is out making rounds. Usually takes him a couple of hours. You got that long.”

“Okay, Rock,” Clint said.

“You won't forget my money?”

“I gave you my word.”

“Yeah, you did,” Rock said.

Clint went into the office and Rock walked down the hall. At the end of the hall, where there was a bend, he ran into Deputy Warden Simon.

“Is he there?” the man asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“All right,” Simon said, “it's time to get rid of both of them, Adams and the warden. And I want it to look like escaped prisoners did it.”

“Right.”

“If you have to kill two or three prisoners to sell that scenario, do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And make sure one of those dead prisoners is Harlan Banks.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don't just ‘yes, sir' me, Rock. Do it!”

“We will, sir. I've got some good men, like—”

Simon held his hand up.

“I don't want to know,” he said. “Just get it done, Rock.”

“Yes, sir.”

Simon went down the hall and through a door to perform his rounds.

Rock turned, went through another door, where he had six men waiting. They were all guards, but they were dressed as prisoners, and they were armed with guns. Ace and Danny were not among them. They were busy with Amanda again, and did not know what was happening.

“Let's go,” Rock told them.

* * *

Clint entered the outer office, where Deputy Warden Simon's desk was empty, made his way to the warden's door, and opened it without knocking.

Warden Gordon looked up from his desk and his eyes widened when he saw Clint.

“Adams!” he said. “How did you get here?”

Clint noticed the warden's hand hovering near a desk drawer. He assumed the man had a gun there.

“Relax, Warden,” Clint said. “I just came to talk.”

“Where's Simon?”

“He's not out there,” Clint said. “I think he's making rounds.”

“Well,” the warden said, “w-what did you want to talk about?”

“Me,” Clint said. “I think we both know I don't belong in here. And we both know there are others inside with the same problem.”

“I don't understand—”

“Sure, you do. You've got a special ‘unofficial' area of this prison where people disappear. No files, no records, many of them railroad in a kangaroo court, like me, for crimes that didn't happen.”

“What do you want—”

“I'm sure you heard four prisoners tried to kill me,” Clint said. “They paid for it.”

“That was you?” Gordon asked. “You killed all four?”

“That's right.”

Again, the warden's hand almost went to the desk drawer, the top one to his right.

“Warden,” Clint said, “I think there's something else we can agree on.”

“What's that?”

“I'm much too famous to die in here, and have it kept quiet. Don't you think?”

The warden frowned.

“And on your watch,” Clint said. “Word would get out quickly, and you'd have some questions to answer. And if the State Prison Board comes in here and takes a closer look at your operation, you'll be in trouble.”

The warden bit the inside of his cheek, then said, “It's not me. It's Simon. It was all his idea.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” Clint said. “Look, there's an easy way for you to avoid this.”

“How?”

“Release me,” Clint said. “Let me walk out of here with Harlan Banks and Amanda King.”

The warden frowned again.

“Who are they?”

“Exactly,” Clint said. “You don't know about them, but you're taking the money that's being paid to keep them in here. I think your deputy has taken on a little too much authority here, don't you?”

Actually, the warden did think that. But the extra money, and the sex, had blinded him.

“I need you to get me out of here, Warden,” Clint said.

“Yes,” the warden said. “Yes.”

At that moment they heard something in the other room. Clint lunged for the desk, and the warden thought he was attacking him. But Clint wanted to get to that drawer, and he hoped he was right about the warden keeping a gun in there.

FORTY-THREE

The door slammed open just as Clint got the drawer open and saw the Merwin & Hulbert revolver in the drawer.

As the men came in with guns out, the warden put up his hands and said, “Don't shoot, I'm the warden.”

“Yeah,” one of the men said, “we know.”

Three of the men pointed their guns at the warden, and he knew he was dead. The other three pointed theirs at Clint, but that was a different matter.

Clint grabbed the gun from the drawer, hoping against hope it was fully loaded, because there were six men.

Holding the gun in his hand, he darted over to the warden, who was frozen in place, and shoved him to the floor. At the same time he started firing.

The six men were told they'd be firing at a Gunsmith who had no gun. Seeing the gun in Clint's hand, they panicked. Their shots flew all around Clint as he fired very deliberately.

Two of the guards were blown back into the arms of the others, so their subsequent shots also went wild. These men were prison guards, not gunfighters. They were sent in to perform executions.

Clint fired a third time, and another guard fell. The others were screaming for the falling guards to get out of their way.

A fourth shot dropped a fourth guard. Two left, and Clint hoped he still had two bullets.

The warden was on the floor, curled into a ball with his hands and arms covering his head.

Outside the room Rock heard all the shooting, and rushed inside. On the off chance the warden survived, it had to look like he was rushing to the rescue, routing the escaped prisoners. But when he entered, he was surprised to see four guards down, and the remaining two seemed to be firing with their eyes closed.

Clint pulled the trigger a fifth time, disposing of a fifth guard, and then the burning question was about to be answered.

He pulled the trigger a sixth time, hoping he wouldn't hear the hammer clicking on an empty chamber. The gun fired, and the sixth guard went windmilling out the door into the outer office.

Rock had to step aside to avoid the sixth guard, but then he pointed his shotgun at Clint.

“That's it, Adams,” he said, looking around the room. “Six dead guards, six shots. Stand up, Warden.”

Warden Gordon stood up and stared at Rock.

“What the hell is going on, Rock?”

“Deputy Warden Simon said it's time to get rid of both of you,” Rock said, “and I agree. Who's first?”

“You are, Rock,” Clint said, and fired the seventh shot from the rare 7-shot .32-caliber Merwin & Hulbert revolver.