Ticket to Yuma

by J. R. Roberts

“I like burnt meat,” still another prisoner said. “At least there ain’t nothin’ in it that’s movin’.”

  Clint was afraid to ask about breakfast.

  * * *

  Clint did manage to get through the meal without anyone trying to kill him. The same guard walked him back to his cell, which was away from the general population.

  The guard pushed him inside, slammed the door, and then stood there looking at him.

  “What?” Clint asked.

  “Don’t think every day, or every meal, is gonna be this easy.”

  “I didn’t think this one would be easy.”

  “Well,” the guard said, “I can help you, if you need help.”

  “And how much would that cost me?”

  “We could come to an understanding.”

  “And what do I get for my money?”

  “Protected.”

  “From what?”

  “From gettin’ killed,” the guard said. “Sleep on it. If you want me, ask for Ernie.”

  “Ernie,” Clint said. “I’ll remember.”

  But the man he really needed to see was the warden—only not yet.

  Ernie tapped his gun barrel on the bars of Clint’s cell and said, “Get yerself some sleep. Tomorrow’s yer first full day.”

  Clint sat on his cot, which was almost as unyielding as the floor.

  * * *

  In another cell, two prisoners sat with their heads together, speaking in low tones. Voices carried from cell to cell, and they didn’t want anyone else hearing their conversation.

  “I know he’s the Gunsmith,” Chet Barton said, “but in here he’s just one of us. He ain’t got no gun.”

  “I know that,” his cell mate, Tim Kerry, said. “I just don’t wanna rush into anythin’. We don’t know who he’s aligned with.”

  “He ain’t been here long enough to join with anybody,” Barton pointed out.

  “Because of who he is, he might already have some people inside.”

  “And there might be some folks in here who wanna kill him as much as we do.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Kerry said. “Let’s find out who we got backin’ us before we make a move on somebody like him.”

  “Okay, okay,” Barton said, “maybe you’re right, but I’m gonna promise you this. Clint Adams ain’t gonna walk out of Yuma Prison alive.”

  EIGHT

  PRESCOTT, ARIZONA

  A FEW WEEKS EARLIER

  Chief of Police Henry Blake entered the mayor’s office, crossed the room, and shook hands with the portly politician.

  “Good morning, Henry,” Mayor Halliday said. “What can I do for you this morning? Coffee?”

  “No, thank you,” Blake said. “I’ve had my breakfast. We have something to discuss, Mr. Mayor.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?”

  The two men sat and eyed each other. Blake had been the mayor’s personal choice for chief of police, and believed the younger man was destined to go even further. But he also knew he had to maintain control in their relationship.

  “Harlan Banks.”

  The mayor frowned.

  “What about him?”

  “There’s a man in town looking for him.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Well, he told one person he was trying to figure out whether a murder charge against Banks was true.”

  “And?”

  “And he told someone else Banks was a friend of his.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, obviously you think this man is a problem,” the mayor said. “Who is it?”

  “His name is Clint Adams.”

  The mayor’s eyes widened.

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s in town?”

  “He is.”

  “Well, what the hell . . .”

  “My feeling exactly.”

  “Have you spoken with the man?”

  “I have not,” the chief said. “He had a talk with the sheriff.”

  “That old fool?”

  “Coyle actually handled himself quite well,” the chief said. “Didn’t tell Adams anything.”

  “When do you expect to talk to him?”

  “I expect him to come and see me later today.”

  “Well, you know what you have to do, Chief,” the mayor said. “Get rid of him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And I mean fast!”

  “Yes sir,” the chief said. “Fast.”

  * * *

  Clint awoke the next morning with sunlight streaming through the window. From outside he could hear the sounds of wagons passing, people yelling back and forth, the day in a busy town getting started.

  He got out of bed, walked to the window, looked out without standing directly in front of it. The main street was bustling. He stepped to the dresser to use the pitcher and basin there to clean up, then dressed, strapped on his gun, and went down to find breakfast.

  Actually, breakfast was not hard to find. He decided to go back to Hannah’s, where he found the place a lot busier than the day before.

  Ben spotted him when he walked in and said, “I saved you a table in the back.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clint walked to the back, found the table, and sat. Ben appeared with a pot of coffee and a mug, set them on the table.

  “Help yerself,” he said, “I’ll be back to take your order.”

  “Steak and eggs,” Clint said. “I’ll take steak and eggs.”

  “Okay, comin’ up!”

  Ben disappeared into the kitchen and Clint poured himself some coffee. He looked around, saw that the town loved Hannah’s food as much as he did. There were men, women, and children eating breakfast there. Some of them were looking at him curiously, but most of them were concentrating on their food.

  He watched as Ben carried plates out, up and down his arms, and served them without dropping a single one. Finally, he came out carrying Clint’s plate and set it down in front of him.

  “There ya go!”

  “Looks good.”

  Clint picked up his knife and fork and cut into the steak. Ben watched as he put the first bite into his mouth and nodded his approval, then went back to work.

  Clint was halfway through his meal—including a basket of biscuits Ben had brought out—when Sheriff Artie Coyle walked in. He looked around until his eyes fell on Clint, then crossed the room to him, exchanging a few greetings along the way.

  “Mornin’, Sheriff,” Clint said. “Why do I get the feeling you’re keeping a close eye on me?”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “Pull up a chair,” Clint said. “Have some coffee.”

  Coyle sat and poured himself a cup.

  “What’s on your mind?” Clint asked.

  “A warnin’, I guess.”

  “About what?”

  “You’re gonna go talk to the chief today, ain’t cha?” Coyle asked.

  “I am.”

  “You should know that him and the mayor, they got their own agendas in this town.”

  “Doesn’t everybody?”

  “No,” Coyle said. “I ain’t got one, and I know lots of people who don’t. But them two, they’re politicians.”

  “From your tone it sounds like you have the same opinion of politicians that I do.”

  “I hate ’em!”

  “Yeah, we feel the same, all right.”

  “Well,” Coyle said, pushing back his chair, “I just wanted to let you know.”

  The sheriff stood up, but didn’t leave.

  “Something else?” Clint as
ked.

  Coyle hesitated. Clint felt the man had something else he wanted to say, but perhaps couldn’t figure out how to say it.

  “No,” he finally said, turned, and left.

  Something was on the lawman’s mind. Maybe after a few hours to think it over, while Clint talked with the chief, he might find a way to say what he wanted to say.

  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 Ba
nks?”

  “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.”