Ticket to Yuma (8 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

“Yuma?”

“That's right.”

“How long has he been in Yuma?”

“A few weeks, I guess.”

“How did he get there?”

“He was railroaded in,” the bartender said. “The chief of police, the mayor, the judge—”

“Judge?”

“Judge Fielder,” the bartender said. “He's in the mayor's pocket.”

“So the chief arrested him, and the mayor told the judge to sentence him to Yuma?”

“Now you got it.”

“And how do you know this and nobody else I talked to does?”

“Because they held the trial right in here,” the bartender said. “The Tin Pot courthouse.”

“Why not City Hall?” Clint asked. “In a real courtroom?”

“In a real courtroom they probably woulda felt they had to abide by the real law.”

“So he was railroaded.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Clint finished his whiskey.

“You goin' in there after him?” the bartender asked.

“I don't know if I want to see him that bad,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

He turned and left the saloon.

* * *

After Clint left, the bartender called over one of his customers.

“Watch the bar 'til I get back.”

“Sure thing.”

The bartender—Tom Bennett—left the saloon and made his way across town to a residential area. He stopped at a large, two-story house and knocked on the door. It was answered by a gray-haired, middle-aged woman.

“Yes?”

“I need to see the mayor.”

“You can see him at his office tomorrow.”

“No,” Bennett said, “he said he wanted to see me tonight.”

“Come in.” She let him in and closed the door. “Wait here.”

She went into the house, came back ten minutes later.

“Follow me.”

She led him to a study, where the mayor stood wearing a silk robe, smoking a large cigar and holding a brandy snifter.

“Tom,” the mayor said. “This better be good.”

“It is, sir,” Bennett said. “The Gunsmith came to see me.”

“And?”

“I told him that Banks was in Yuma Prison.”

“And what did he say?”

“Not much,” Bennett said. “I asked him if he wanted to go in there after him, and he said he didn't know if he wanted to see him that bad.”

“Well,” the mayor said, “if he wants to go into Yuma Prison, we can sure accommodate him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right, Tom,” the mayor said. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing.”

“Let me know if he comes to talk to you again.”

“I will.”

“Maria will show you out.”

Bennett turned, saw the woman waiting for him in the doorway. She showed him to the front door, and let him out. He started back across town.

* * *

Clint stood in the shadow of a house across the street. He watched the bartender go in, and then come out about twenty-five minutes later. A house that size, it had to belong to the either the mayor or the police chief. The bartender was reporting his conversation with him to one of them. Did that mean the information was false? Did they just want him to think Harlan Banks was in Yuma Prison?

There was only one way to find out.

* * *

He went back to Hannah and Ben's house. There was no point in bracing the bartender again, because he might still lie. And he doubted he was going to be able to send a telegram from this town.

Hannah let him in with a sigh of relief, and Ben came in from another room.

“What happened?” Ben asked.

“I've been told that Banks is in Yuma Prison.”

“How did he get there?”

“He was apparently railroaded in,” Clint said, “with a quickie trial.”

“So what are you gonna do?” Hannah asked.

“I'm leaving town tomorrow,” he said, “to go to Yuma.”

“Yuma?” Hannah said.

“The only way I'm going to find out if he's really in prison is to go there and ask.”

“How long will you be gone?” she asked.

“Well,” he said, “if I find him, there won't be any reason to come back here.”

“My mom's peach pie?” Ben asked.

“Well, yeah,” Clint said, “that would be a good reason.”

“Do you want some coffee?” Hannah asked.

“No,” Clint said, “I think I'll go to my hotel and turn in so I can get an early start tomorrow.”

“Well, all right,” Hannah said.

“Can you send us a telegram to let us know what happened?” Ben asked.

Although he didn't know if he could trust the telegraph office in Prescott, he said, “Sure, I'll do that, Ben.”

He said good-bye to them at the front door, felt Hannah's grip on his hand tighten before she finally let him go. It had been a wild, enjoyable time in her kitchen that night, but he had more important things to worry about.

Like a man's life.

TWENTY-SIX

Y
UMA,
A
RIZONA

A
WEEK EARLIER

Yuma was a day's ride from Prescott. The prison was half a day's ride farther. He stopped in town to get himself a hotel room.

Yuma had been a major stop on the Colorado River until 1877, when the Southern Pacific Railroad built a bridge over it. So now there was only one steamboat company that utilized Yuma's port.

However, the prison provided a lot of jobs and commerce. As much as Prescott wanted to call itself a city, Yuma actually was one.

Clint was able to get a room in the Apple Blossom Hotel, even though the clerk told him the hotel was almost always full. Many people came to Yuma to visit their loved ones who were incarcerated in the prison.

“What brings you to our fair city?” the man asked as he handed Clint a key.

“Visiting the prison,” Clint said, “but not to see a loved one.”

Once he had his room, he went to the telegraph office and sent a telegram to Rick Hartman in Labyrinth, Texas. He wanted to know if Rick knew anybody in Yuma, or perhaps anyone who actually worked at the prison.

Clint went to a restaurant near the hotel for a steak, and while he was there, the telegraph operator came in looking for him.

“I have your reply, Mr. Adams,” he said, handing it to Clint.

“Thanks very much.”

The restaurant was filled with townspeople having their supper, and no one was paying him any attention until the key operator came in to find him. Now they were actually waiting for him to read his telegram. Instead, he set it down next to his plate, determined to leave it there until dessert.

After half an hour most of the diners who had seen him get the telegram had left the place. He finished his steak, ordered pie and coffee, and while he was waiting for dessert to come, he unfolded the telegram and read it.

There was only one person in Yuma that Rick knew and trusted. He gave Clint his name and told him how to find him. Clint finished his pie, paid his bill, put the telegram in his pocket, and left.

* * *

He entered the store, looked around, feeling comfortable. Once he'd wanted his own gunsmith shop. For a while he rode around the country in a wagon, plying his trade as a gunsmith. But soon the wagon became a burden, and it was his ability to use a gun that became important, not his ability to fix them, or build them.

But still, when he entered a gunsmith shop, he felt a sense of calm, as if he was at home.

“Can I help ya?”

He turned his head, looked at the man behind the glass counter. Beneath the glass were all kinds of guns, old and new.

“Ken Tohill?” he asked.

“That's right,” the man said. He was in his fifties, solidly built, bore the scars on his face and hands of a man who had not always worked behind a counter. “Do I know you?”

“No, but you know a friend of mine,” Clint said. “Rick Hartman.”

The man smiled.

“I do know Rick,” he said. “Haven't seen him in a long time. And who might you be?”

“Also a friend of Rick's,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams.”

“Adams!” Tohill said. “What brings the Gunsmith to my shop?”

“I need help,” Clint said. “Rick said you were a man who could be trusted in Yuma. He also said there aren't many.”

“There are a few,” Tohill said, “but I'm the only one he knows.”

“Can we talk?”

“Turn that Open sign to Closed, and I'll break out a bottle of whiskey,” Tohill said.

Clint obeyed.

“Come on,” Tohill said, “I live in the back.”

Clint followed the man into a spacious back room complete with a stove, a table, a chest of drawers, and a bed.

“This is a nice place to live,” Clint said.

“It's comfortable,” Tohill said. “Sit. I'll get the whiskey.”

Clint sat and Tohill brought a bottle and two glasses to the table.

“First, welcome,” he said, extending his hand. They shook. “Now drink.”

He poured two glasses and handed one to Clint. They both drained them, and Tohill drank another.

“Okay,” the gunsmith said, “why don't you tell me what brought you here?”

Clint did, telling the man about his search for Harlan Banks.

“Now it seems he might be in Yuma Prison,” he said finally.

“You goin' out there to see?”

“I am.”

“And you need backup.”

“I've gone this far without it, and I've been lucky,” Clint said. “I can't depend on luck anymore.”

“Well, you're a friend of Rick's,” Tohill said, “and I know your reputation. So just tell me what you want me to do.”

“I'm going to ride out to the prison tomorrow,” Clint said. “I was thinking of talking to the sheriff today. Would it do any good? Or is he in somebody's pocket?”

“The sheriff is his own man,” Tohill said. “He'll talk to you.”

“And do you have a police department?”

“We're resisting the Eastern law enforcement agency here,” Tohill said, then added, “so far.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Clint said. “I'm tired of finding a police chief when I come into a town.”

“Like Prescott?”

“Exactly. Okay, so what's the name of the sheriff here?”

“Tucker Coe,” Tohill said. “Been the law here for twelve years.”

“How old is he?”

“That's just the thing,” Tohill said. “He got the job when he was barely thirty, so he's gonna be around for a while.”

“As long as he keeps getting elected,” Clint pointed out.

“Or until the town fathers do decide to bring in a police department.”

“Right.”

“When do you want to meet him?”

“As soon as possible,” Clint said. “Tonight, even. I do want to ride out to the prison tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Tohill said. “I'll set it up. Wait at your hotel until you hear from me.”

“Will do,” Clint said. “And thanks.”

“Any friend of Rick's . . .” Tohill said.

* * *

Clint went to his hotel, up to his room, and unlocked the door. There was no indication that anything was wrong, no warning. As he walked in, he was hit on the head, and everything went dark.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Y
UMA
T
ERRITORIAL
P
RISON

A
WEEK LATER

They came for Clint later at night. He knew the two guards, Ace and Danny.

“Come on,” Danny said.

“Where?”

“Somebody wants to see you.”

“The warden?”

“You'll see,” Danny said. “Come on.”

Taking him to see someone, or taking him to be killed? Clint was surprised that no attempts had yet been made on his life. Maybe this was the first one.

Both men were armed. Maybe he could get the gun off one of them. With a gun in his hand . . .

“Come on out,” Ace said.

Both guards backed away, leaving plenty of space between them.

“Take it easy, Adams,” Danny said. “This ain't nothin' but somebody wantin' to talk to you.”

“Yeah,” Ace said, “if somebody wants to kill you, we ain't about to help 'em. We ain't gonna get into trouble that way.”

Clint didn't know why, but he believed the two of them.

“Okay,” he said, coming out of the cell. “Okay.”

“Follow me,” Danny said.

The slender guard took the lead, and the brute the rear. They marched Clint down several halls, past some cells to the jeers of the occupants, then into another hall with concrete walls but no cells on either side.

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

P
RESCOTT,
A
RIZONA

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.