Ticket to Yuma (4 page)

NINE

In his office, Chief of Police Henry Blake stared out the window at the street below. He stood there, waiting for the Gunsmith to show up. He knew what the mayor wanted him to do, and he intended to do it. He was not intimidated by some Old West legend who was past his prime. These were modern times, and Henry Blake was a modern man. He knew his superior intelligence would serve him well if he came out West, and that eventually he'd be able to work his way back East—to Washington, D.C.

* * *

Clint finished eating, paid his bill, and left the café. Ben, busy with other tables, simply waved at him as he went out the door.

From his walks around town the day before, Clint knew where the police station was. He walked that way, taking his time negotiating the busy streets. When he came within view of the place, he saw a man standing in a large window on the second floor, looking out. Instinctively, he knew this was the chief of police.

Clint stood across the street for several minutes, just watching, making the man wait. Then he realized the man didn't know what he looked like, so he stepped from the doorway he was in and walked across the street to the front door of the police station.

Inside he presented himself to a uniformed policeman standing behind an oversized desk.

“Clint Adams to see the chief, please.”

“Do you have an appointment, sir?”

“I think he'll see me,” Clint said.

“So he's expectin' you?”

Clint decided to just say, “Yes,” and leave it at that.

“Wait here, sir.”

The man disappeared into the bowels of the building, then returned and waved at Clint.

“Come with me, sir.”

The policeman led him down a hallway to an open door, which the man knocked on.

“Chief?” he said. “This here is Clint Adams.”

“Thank you, Officer,” the chief said. “You can go back to your desk.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come in, Mr. Adams,” Chief Blake said. “Have a seat.”

Clint approached the desk and sat down. Neither man offered his hand. The chief sat also.

“What can I do for you Mr. Adams?”

“I think you know why I'm here, Chief.”

“And how would I know that?”

“I'm sure the sheriff has been to see you since yesterday. Told you I came to see him.”

Chief Blake smiled. Clint noticed he had very white teeth.

“Let's pretend he didn't come to me,” the chief said. “Why don't you tell me what I can do for you?”

“I'm looking for a man named Harlan Banks. I was given to understand that he had passed through Prescott. Do you know anything about him?”

“No, I don't.”

“Then I'll have to ride on,” Clint said. “To Yuma. Maybe I'll find him there.”

“Maybe,” the chief said.

“So you've never heard of him?”

“I said no.”

“Perhaps the mayor—”

“I doubt it,” Blake said. “No one passes through this town without me knowing it.”

“So you knew exactly when I arrived?”

“I did.”

Clint stood.

“I think I should speak with your mayor.”

“Why?”

“I think there might be something you're not telling me.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“I'm saying maybe you're . . . mistaken.”

“And you think the mayor might know something I don't?”

Clint shrugged.

“Who knows?”

“Then be my guest,” the chief said. “Go and talk to the mayor. See what he tells you. But after that, you have to ride out.”

“Are you running me out of town?”

“Yes,” Chief Blake said. “You've called me a liar. I want you gone, Mr. Adams.”

Clint smiled at the chief.

“What's so funny?” the man demanded.

“Driving me out of town,” Clint said. “How very Old West of you, Chief.”

TEN

Clint left the police department, having learned nothing, but he'd made an enemy of the chief. The man wanted him out of town by tomorrow, but if Clint didn't find Harlan Banks by then—or, at least, word of him—it would be time for him to leave anyway. His next stop would be Yuma, but first . . . the mayor.

* * *

He went to City Hall, presented himself to the mayor's secretary.

“You don't have an appointment,” the severe, middle-aged woman said.

“No, I don't,” Clint said, “but I think he'll see me. The chief of police sent me.”

“Chief Blake?”

“That's right.”

“One moment, please.”

She stood up and went through a door behind her, presumably into the mayor's office. When she came back, she said to Clint, “He'll see you.”

Clint had gone this route many times before, been in the offices of many mayors in many towns. Certain rituals were repeated from town to town. There was no way around it. Leaving his horse at a livery, registering at a hotel, that first beer and first steak after the trail.

The mayors he had met in the past usually fell into two categories. All were politicians, but some were satisfied with their job, while others wished to use it as a stepping-stone to bigger things. Having already met the chief—and talked to the sheriff—he had a feeling he knew what kind of man Mayor Halliday was.

He entered the office. The mayor was a large man, broad in the shoulders, had not gone soft like many politicians did behind a desk.

The man didn't look happy.

“I understand you just came from the chief of police.”

“I have.”

“Why would he send you here?”

“He didn't send me,” Clint said. “I told him I was coming.”

“You told my secretary—”

“I lied,” Clint said. “It was a little white lie, though.”

“I don't like jokes, Mr. Adams.”

“This is no joke, Mayor,” Clint said. “I'm here looking for a man named Harlan Banks. Everyone I've talked to—bartenders, storekeepers, the law—all claim to have never heard of him.”

“What's that got to do with me?”

“I'm giving you a chance to be the only one to tell me the truth.”

“The truth being?”

“That Harlan Banks was here,” Clint said. “And while you're at it, you can tell me where he went. Or what happened to him.”

“I could do that, except . . .”

“Except?”

“Except that I've never heard of Harlan Banks,” the mayor said.

“Which is what everybody else in town says.”

“Maybe that's because it's the truth,” the mayor said. “Maybe this Banks fellow is in Yuma.”

Clint stared at the mayor. Was he telling him that Banks was in Yuma?

“Why don't you go there?”

“And get out of Prescott?” Clint asked. “Funny, that's what the chief told me.”

“Then he's doing his job.”

“So,” Clint said, “let me get this straight, Mr. Mayor. Nobody in this town has ever heard of Harlan Banks?”

“That's correct.”

“Okay,” Clint said. “Well, then, I guess I'm done here.”

“So you'll be leaving?”

Clint stood and nodded.

“In the morning, yes.”

“I hope you enjoyed your stay in Prescott, Mr. Adams,” the mayor said.

“Well, no, I didn't,” Clint said.

The mayor did not respond to that.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Mayor.”

Clint turned and headed for the door.

“Would you do me a favor?” the mayor asked.

“Sure, why not?”

“Send my secretary in on your way out.”

“Sure thing.”

He stopped at the woman's desk and said, “He wants to see you now.”

“Right now?” she asked.

“Yes,” Clint answered, “that's what he said, right now.”

She remained seated behind her desk, staring at him. He realized she wasn't going to move until he was gone. He entertained the thought of just standing there and seeing if he could outlast her, but in the end he turned and left.

ELEVEN

As the secretary entered his office, the mayor stared out the window with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You wanted me, sir?”

“Yes,” he replied without turning. “I need you to send a message to the chief of police.”

“Of course, sir.”

“I want him here as soon as possible.”

“But . . . he was just here this morning, wasn't he?” she asked.

He turned and looked at her over his shoulder,.

“Don't be addled, Margaret,” he said. “Of course he was here. You saw him.”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“I want him here again,” he said, “and as soon as possible. Get that message to him.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Of course.”

She turned and left the office. The mayor turned his attention back to the window.

* * *

Clint left City Hall and went directly to the telegraph office.

“Can I help ya?” the clerk asked. He was a man in his fifties, very pale from hours spent inside, very thin except for a bulging belly.

“I received a telegram sent from this location,” Clint said. “I'd like to know if you sent it.”

“Um, well, I guess . . . can I see it?”

“No.”

“But then, how can I tell—”

“It was a few weeks ago,” Clint said. “The man would have been in his thirties, with blue eyes and a scar here.” Clint touched the spot next to his left eye.

“I don't . . . that doesn't sound familiar, sir,” the man said nervously.

Was everyone in this town a liar? Clint wondered.

“Does anyone else work here?”

“No, sir,” the man said. “Only me.”

“I see.” He could have asked if anyone had been working at the telegraph office several weeks ago, but the man would only have lied again.

“Okay, thank you.”

Clint left the telegraph office, paused just outside. Who was the only person in town who had not lied to him—yet?

* * *

Clint walked to Hannah's Café. There was only one man seated at a table, eating. Ben was nowhere to be seen, but at that moment he came out from the kitchen.

“Hey, can't keep you away from here,” he said.

“I'm not here to eat,” Clint said. “I need to ask you a question.”

“Okay, ask.”

“Can we sit?”

“Sure. Want some coffee? No charge.”

“Okay.”

Clint sat at the same back table he'd occupied at breakfast while Ben went into the kitchen. He returned with coffee and a piece of pie.

“Peach,” he told Clint. “Also no charge.”

Clint put a hunk into his mouth. It was sweet as sugar, the peaches soft but not mushy.

“It's great,” he said, washing it down with coffee.

“What was the question?”

Clint looked around. The lone man was paying attention to his food, and nothing else.

“So far everyone I've talked to in this town has lied to me, except you,” he said to the young man.

“Lied about what?”

“Harlan Banks.”

“Really, Clint,” Ben said, “I never met the man.”

“That's okay,” Clint said. “I believe you. My question is about something else entirely.”

“What's that?”

“The telegraph office,” Clint said. “Do you know how many key operators there are?”

“One,” Ben said. “His name's Lenny.”

“Pale as a ghost?”

“That's him.”

“No one else?”

“Nope,” Ben said. “Just him.”

Clint frowned, had another slice of pie.

“What about a few weeks ago?”

“Oh, well,” Ben said, “back then there was two.”

“There was?”

“Sure,” Ben said, “my friend Bobby worked there.”

“And what happened to Bobby?”

“He got fired.”

“What for?”

“He never told me.”

“Did you ask?”

“I did,” Ben said. “A couple of times. He said he couldn't tell me.”

“I'd like to meet your friend Bobby,” Clint said. “Can you arrange that?”

“Sure,” Ben said with a shrug, “why not?”

“Good. Today?”

“Now, if you want,” Ben said. “I'll take you to his house.”

“That's fine,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

Ben stood up.

“You finish your pie. I'll take care of my last customer and tell Mom.”

“Okay.”

Ben went into the kitchen. Clint looked over at the man, who was dressed poorly, eating with dirty hands. The man looked at him and smiled.

“The food here is real good,” the man said.

“Very good,” Clint said.

The man nodded, smiled, and ate his last bite.

TWELVE

As they walked away from the café, Clint asked, “Tell me about the man who was eating.”

“That's Randy. He's broke, so we feed him when we can.”

“The town drunk?”

“Oh, no,” Ben said, “he's just fallen on bad times, is all. He does odd jobs around town, but he hasn't had one in a while.”

“Why not give him a job?”

Ben laughed.

“Mom won't have him around the café for any longer than it takes him to eat,” he said. “And only if there are no other customers.”

“I see. Tell me about your friend Bobby.”

“Well, he had the job as a key operator for a few months, then suddenly got fired. He won't tell me why. Now he does odd jobs.”

“Like Randy?”

“Not quite like Randy,” Ben said. “Bobby has a house, he pays his bills, he's a hard worker.”

“Then what happened with the key operator job?”

Ben shrugged and said, “Maybe he'll tell you.”

* * *

The house was a small shack just outside town. Ben led Clint to the front door, which he knocked on loudly.

“He might be out back workin',” Ben said, but at that moment the door opened and a slender young man, Ben's age or a little older, appeared.

“Yeah? Hey, Ben. What brings ya out here?”

“I got a friend here wants to ask you some questions, Bobby,” Ben said. “This is Clint Adams.”

Bobby looked at Clint for a moment before recognition dawned in his eyes.

“The Gunsmith?”

“That's right.”

Bobby looked at Ben. “He's a friend of yours?”

“Sure is. You mind if we come in?”

“Huh? Oh, uh, no, come on in.”

They entered, closing the door behind them. It was one room with a cot, a table, a potbellied stove. There was a pot on top of it with something crusted inside.

“I, uh, ain't got nothin' to drink,” Bobby said.

“That's okay,” Clint said. “We won't be here long.”

“So . . . what's the Gunsmith doin' in Prescott?” the young man asked. “And whataya want with me?”

“It's very simple,” Clint said. “A few weeks ago I got a telegram from this town. It was sent by a friend of mine. I believe you sent it to me. And then you got fired.”

Bobby looked down, stuck his hands in his back pockets.

“I—I ain't supposed ta talk about that.”

“I understand,” Clint said, “and I'm not going to tell anyone. Neither is Ben.”

“Well . . . okay.”

“My friend's name in Harlan Banks. That name mean anything to you?”

“Banks?” Bobby thought, furrowing his brow. “I don't remember that name.”

“Maybe you'll remember this,” Clint said, taking the telegram from his pocket. “Go ahead, read it. See if it jogs your memory.”

Bobby took the telegram, read it quickly, then handed it back. He immediately stuck his hands beneath his arms.

“I don't remember.”

“I think you do, Bobby,” Clint said. “Why'd you get fired?”

The boy shrugged and said, “They said they didn't need me no more.”

“Who told you that?”

“Lenny.”

“It was the other operator who fired you?”

“Yeah.”

“And he didn't tell you why?”

“H-He didn't really know,” Bobby said. “He said he was sorry, but he was told ta fire me.”

“Told by who?”

“The mayor.”

“The mayor himself?”

“I dunno,” Bobby said. “Maybe he sent a message, but it came from the mayor.”

“Okay, Bobby,” Clint said. “You know why you were fired. Tell me.”

Bobby bit his lip.

Clint took out some money and showed it to the boy. It was more than he'd earn from odd jobs in a week.

“Come on,” Clint said, “answer the question, and then you can go and get a good meal.”

“Go on, Bobby,” Ben said. “Nobody's gonna know.”

Grudgingly, Bobby reached out and accepted the money.

“I got fired for sendin' that telegram,” he said.

“And my friend sent it himself?” Clint asked. “Tall man, blue eyes, with a scar here?”

“That was him.”

“Was he in trouble?”

“I dunno.”

“What did he say?”

“Just that he wanted to send that telegram.”

“Then what?”

“He left.”

“Did you ever see him again?'

“No.”

“When did you get fired?”

“'Bout an hour later.”

Clint handed Bobby the money.

“Has anybody talked to you since then?”

“When Lenny fired me, he said he was sorry, but I shoulda asked somebody before I sent that telegram.” He screwed up his face and whined, “How was I to know?”

“You couldn't.”

“I really liked that job.”

Clint felt sorry for the boy, took out some more money, and handed it to him.

“Get yourself cleaned up, buy some food,” Clint said. “You'll get another job.”

“Maybe I don't want another job in this town.”

“Can't say I blame you,” Clint replied.