Ticket to Yuma

by J. R. Roberts

  “Me?” the boy said. “I’m nineteen. Mom was sixteen when I was born.”

  The boy returned to the kitchen. Clint attacked the pie, found it every bit as good as the rest of the meal. He wondered if she’d be able to combine the blueberry pie with peach, if he asked her to.

  * * *

  The next time the boy came out, Clint asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Ben.”

  “That was a great meal, Ben,” Clint said. “Be sure to tell your mom I enjoyed it.”

  “Well, if you’re stayin’ in town, come by again,” the kid said. “You can try her beef stew.”

  “I’ll do that,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  As Clint headed for the door, Ben said, “I think there’s peach pie tomorrow.”

  “I’ll remember,” Clint promised.

  FOUR

  Later Clint stopped into a saloon called The Red Garter. It was doing a good business for that time of day, considering the gaming tables were still covered and there was only one girl working the floor.

  Clint went to the bar and ordered a beer from a bored-looking bartender. He wondered how soon he’d be hearing from the sheriff, or maybe even the chief of police.

  * * *

  Sheriff Coyle watched from his window as Clint entered The Red Garter Saloon. Satisfied that Clint wasn’t on the street, he grabbed his hat, strapped on his gun, and left the office.

  He walked a few blocks away to the new police department building and entered.

  “Afternoon, Sheriff,” the uniformed policeman on the front desk said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Please tell the chief I’m here to see him.”

  “I think he’s busy—”

  “Tell him it’s about Harlan Banks,” Coyle said. “I think he’ll see me.”

  “Wait just a minute.”

  The desk man disappeared down a hallway, then reappeared moments later and said, “You know where his office is, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Coyle said.

  He walked down the hall to the man’s office and knocked on the open door.

  “Arthur,” Chief of Police Henry Blake said. “Come on in.”

  Coyle entered, looked at the chief’s proffered hand a moment before shaking it. Henry Blake had actually not been a store clerk before he became the chief of police in Prescott, Arizona. He’d been the headmaster of a school back East. But he came to Prescott with an impressive education and the town council hurriedly hired him before he could change his mind.

  “Have a seat, Arthur.”

  Even though the chief was about fifteen years younger than the sheriff, Coyle always felt like a boy in the headmaster’s office when he came to see him. On the other hand, Chief Blake never came to see the sheriff in his office.

  “What’s on your mind, Sheriff?”

  Whenever anyone in uniform—or the chief, who wore expensive three-piece suits—said “Sheriff,” it was always with a smirk in their tone.

  “I had a visitor today,” the old-time lawman said.

  “Yes? A stranger to our fair city?”

  City. To Coyle, Prescott was still a town, but the chief of police always referred to it as a city.

  “Yes, a stranger to Prescott,” Coyle said, “but not really an unknown.”

  “This sounds very mysterious,” Blake said. “Who was it?”

  “Clint Adams.”

  Blake stared at the sheriff for several seconds without comment.

  “The Gunsmith,” Coyle said.

  “Yes, yes, I know who Clint Adams is, Sheriff,” Blake said. “I was waiting to hear why I should be concerned with this development.”

  “Because,” Sheriff Coyle explained, “he said he’s here lookin’ for Harlan Banks.”

  That made the chief frown, giving Coyle some small feeling of satisfaction.

  “Did he say why?”

  “Claims he heard that Banks killed someone,” Coyle said. “Says he wants to find out if it’s true.”

  “Not kill him?”

  “No.”

  “Isn’t that odd for a gunman like him?” the chief asked.

  “You can’t always believe what you hear, Chief,” Coyle said. “Especially what you hear back East. Wild West stories just seem to grow between here and there.”

  “So he’s not a gunman and a killer?”

  “He has a reputation for being good with a gun,” Coyle said. “Possibly the best ever. He does not have a reputation for being a killer.”

  “But he has killed people, right?” Baker asked.

  “Uh, well, sure, I suppose so,” Coyle said.

  “All right, then,” Baker said. “In my book, that makes him a killer. And in my city, it’s my book that counts.”

  “So what do you intend to do?” Coyle asked.

  “I’ll meet with the mayor and the town council,” Baker said. “Among us we can come up with a course of action. Meanwhile, how long is he staying?”

  “He didn’t say,” Coyle answered.

  “Well,” the chief said, “maybe you should find out.”

  “Me?” Coyle asked. “I’m not part of your department. Why wouldn’t you have your own man do it? Or do it yourself?”

  “Because you and Adams have something in common,” Blake said. “You are both remnants of a bygone time.”

  “You think he’ll talk to me, but not to you,” Coyle said.

  “Exactly.”

  Coyle thought Clint would probably react to the chief the same way he did. He wanted to throw the man through the window behind him.

  The sheriff stood up.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll find Adams and talk to him for a while, see what I can find out.”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” Blake said.

  The sheriff made his way back to the front of the building, where the policeman behind the front desk now ignored him.

  He was perfectly willing to talk to Clint Adams, but anything beyond that would be up to the chief and his men. Coyle was too old to start bracing legends now. And he had no deputies to back a play. So talking was as far as he was willing to go.

  Maybe it really was time for him to get out of this job.

  FIVE

  Sheriff Coyle checked a few of the saloons, finally found Clint Adams standing at the bar in The Red Garter.

  “Sheriff,” Clint said as the man sidled up alongside him. “Hey, I tried that café you told me about.”

  “How was it?”

  “It was great.”

  “Yeah,” Coyle said. “Hannah’s the best damn cook in town.”

  “Then it looks like I found the best place to eat the first time around. Can I buy you a beer?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  The bartender brought the lawman a beer with the same bored look on his face.

  “You ask Roscoe about your man, Banks?” Coyle asked.

  “Roscoe?”

  “The bartender.”

  “No, I hadn’t gotten around to it yet.”

  “Just as well,” the sheriff said. “Roscoe’s an odd one.”

  “In what way?”

  “He’s a bartender who minds his own business.”

  “Then I guess I wouldn’t have gotten much out of him,” Clint said. He looked around. “Maybe when the covers come off the tables, I’ll find somebody who knows something.”

  “How long are you willin’ to stay in town and look for Banks?” Coyle asked.

  “Until I get some answers, I guess,” Clint said. “Or until I’m convinced he was never here. Then I’ll just have to move on.”

  “Few days, then.”

  “Probably,” Clint said. “How about the chief of police?”


  “I told you,” Coyle said. “He’s a schoolmaster.”

  “You said store clerk.”

  “Same thing,” Coyle said. “What I mean is, he’s an Easterner. You can go and talk to him if you want, but I gotta warn you. He might not even know who you are.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Clint said. “I don’t care if he knows who I am, as long as he knows who Banks is.”

  Coyle finished his beer and set the empty mug down on the bar.

  “Good luck to you, then,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you around town.”

  “Sure, Sheriff.”

  The lawman walked out, watched by Clint and the bartender, Roscoe.

  “Another one?” Roscoe asked when Clint looked at him.

  “You ever heard of a man named Harlan Banks?” Clint asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Then no,” Clint said, “I don’t need another one. Thanks.”

  He decided, instead of waiting for the gaming tables to be opened for business, to move on, try a couple of other saloons, maybe some of the businesses like the mercantile and the hardware stores, places a man might go when he got to town.

  He stepped outside the saloon, looked up and down the street. Still busy, with men and women walking back and forth, wagons going up and down the street, as well as horses. In about two hours some of the business would start to close, and the saloons would start to fill up. As dusk came, cowboys from the surrounding ranches would ride in and it would start to get very busy. Clint could have gone to see the chief of police, but he decided to put that off until the next day.

  A little saloon hopping first.

  SIX

  Clint hit two other saloons, engaged the bartenders in some talk, and came up empty. Both men claimed never to have heard of Harlan Banks. Clint thought that was odd. If Banks was in town, he’d be certain to go into several saloons. And he wasn’t shy about introducing himself to people.

  He decided to stop into one more saloon before going to his room. It was a small place called Brother’s Saloon. Inside he found a few men drinking at tables with bored looks on their faces. There was one man at the bar, and as Clint approached, he recognized him. It was Ben, the waiter from Hannah’s.

  As Clint moved up alongside him, the young man recognized him.

  “Hey,” Ben said, “fancy meetin’ you here. Want a beer?”

  “Sure,” Clint said, “but aren’t you a little young?”

  “Actually,” Ben said, “I didn’t tell ya, but tomorrow’s my birthday. I’m twenty-one.”

  He figured the boy had forgotten he’d already told him he was nineteen, but he decided not to press it.

  “In that case, I’ll buy.” He looked at the bartender and said, “Two beers.”

  The bartender nodded and delivered them in record time.

  “Thank you . . . what did you say your name was?” Ben asked.

  “Don’t recall if I did, but it’s Clint.”

  “Thanks, Clint.”

  They both drank.

  “So what brings you to Prescott, Clint?” Ben asked.

  “I’m looking for somebody,” Clint said. “A friend of mine.”

  “And he’s here?”

  “I don’t know,” Clint said. “Either he’s here, or he was here.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Harlan Banks,” Clint said. “Know him?”

  “Banks,” Ben said thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think I know the name.”

  “Then I guess if he was here,” Clint said, “he didn’t manage to find the best restaurant in town.”

  Ben smiled at that.

  “My mom really likes to hear that,” he said. “She’s worked really hard on the place.”

  “And what about you?” Clint asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Well, you’re a young man,” Clint said. “What have you got planned for your life?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben said with a shrug. “Right now I’m just working with my mom.”

  “Can you cook?”

  “Oh, no,” he said, “that’s her job. I just wait tables and clean up.”

  “And that’s enough for you?”

  “For now,” he said. “Hey, I’m only nine—uh, twenty-one.”

  “Right.” Clint looked at the bartender, who was standing there wiping down the bar. “You ever hear of a man named Harlan Banks?”

  “Nope,” the man said, “can’t say I have.”

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “that’s the answer I’ve been getting all over town.”

  “You talk to the sheriff?” Ben asked.

  “I did,” Clint said. “He’s the one who told me about your restaurant.”

  “Yeah, he eats there all the time,” Ben said. “What about the chief of police?”

  “Why? Does he eat there, too?”

  “Oh, no,” Ben said, “we’re too small for him. He eats at some of the fancy places in town. The Red Bull Steakhouse. The dining room in the Magnolia House Hotel. Best food in town—they say.”

  “Well, no, I haven’t talked to the chief yet,” Clint said. “I figure to do that in the morning. I heard he’s an Easterner.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Ben said, “came here with all kinds of plans to civilize us, turn us into a city.”

  “As chief of police?”

  The bartender, who had been listening, joined in.

  “He’s got other plans,” he said. “Chief of police is just a startin’ place for him.”

  “So he’s a politician?”

  “Oh, yeah,” the barman said. “He’s got his sights set on bigger things.”

  “Like mayor?”

  “The mayor’s the one who brought him in,” the bartender said, “and he’s got some plans of his own.”

  “The mayor wants to move up, and give the chief in his job?”

  “That’s the way it seems. He’s got his eye on the state capital.”

  “I guess I’ll just have to form my own opinion of the man tomorrow.”

  SEVEN

  YUMA TERRITORIAL PRISON

  A FEW WEEKS LATER

  The door to Clint’s cell slammed open.

  “Dinnertime,” a guard said. The man gestured with his rifle. “Let’s go.”

  Clint stood up from his cot, wiped his hands on the striped pants they’d issued him, along with a matching top.

  Once out he wasn’t moving fast enough, so the guard prodded him with his rifle.

  “Easy,” Clint said.

  “That’s the one thing you don’t get in here, Mr. Gunsmith,” the guard said. “Don’t nothin’ come easy in here.”

  “Nothing comes easy in life, friend.”

  “You’re right about that,” the man said, “but it comes a lot harder in here.”

  The guard was a big, middle-aged man with years of experience. He had a soft, bulging belly, but his arms and shoulders were still rock-hard muscle.

  When Clint got to the prisoners’ mess, he joined the line of men waiting to eat. He noticed that at least half of the other prisoners were ignoring him, while the other half turned to look him over. He had known what to expect when he was sent here. Being the Gunsmith without his gun was like having a bull’s-eye painted on his back. He was going to be challenged. It was going to happen, and he was as ready for it as he could be. He wondered if it would happen here, during the meal.

  Eventually, they reached the point in line where each prisoner could pick up a tray. Everything had to be eaten with spoons, as there were no knives or forks made available to prisoners.

  Inside the large mess room, the smell of the cooking food mixed with the odor of unwashed bodies. Clint wondered if he’d be able to eat with ju
st a spoon, but when he saw the gruel that was being served, he knew it didn’t matter. There were servers, who scooped the mush into a metal plate and then set a piece of stale or moldy bread on top of it. After that he received a tin cup filled with brackish water.

  Clint carried his tray to a table, where several men were already seated, and several more came after him. For the time being the men were giving each other enough elbow room with which to eat. Clint was wondering if his first day would be uneventful. Maybe the prisoners would watch him for a few days before trying something.

  Tentatively, he lifted a spoonful of his supper to his nose and sniffed it. That was a bad idea. Next he lifted it to his mouth, took a small bit into his mouth. That was an even worse idea. He quickly took a sip of water, swished it around his mouth. Next he picked up the bread, picked off a few spots of green mold, and bit into it. It was something he thought he’d be able to keep down.

  “You gonna eat that?” one prisoner asked him, indicating his tray.

  “Huh? Oh, no, help yourself.”

  Suddenly, hands holding spoons appeared, and everyone at the table got at least one scoop, leaving Clint’s plate empty.

  The prisoner next to him said, “If you ain’t gonna finish that bread, lemme know.”

  “Sorry,” Clint said. “I’m going to eat it.”

  The man shrugged and went back to his meal.

  The prisoner across from Clint said, “After a few days, you’ll eat anythin’. Believe me.”

  “Is it always like this?” Clint asked.

  “No, sometimes it’s worse,” the man said.

  Most of the men around him wore either full beards or certain degrees of stubble. This man didn’t seem able to sprout anything significant, just a scraggly mustache and a few chin hairs.

  “How long have you been here?” Clint asked.

  “Six months.”

  Clint chewed some bread, washed it down with a sip of water.

  “Sometimes, if it’s a holiday, or the warden’s birthday, we’ll get a piece of meat.”

  “Really?”

  The man next to him said, “Yeah, but it’s greener than the mold on the bread.”

  “Yeah,” somebody else said, “but they cook it so much it don’t matter.”