Ticket to Yuma

by J. R. Roberts

  “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.

  THIRTEEN

  Clint and Ben left the house and headed back to town.

  “So you figure your friend was in a jam?” Ben asked.

  “That’s the way it looked.”

  “He didn’t say that in his telegram?”

  “He said he was charged with murder in Prescott, and he asked me to come running,” Clint said.

  “That sounds like a heap of trouble.”

  “Yeah. So I came to find him,” Clint said. “But where did he go from the telegraph office?”

  “Coulda been anywhere,” Ben said, “but I know he never came to eat at our place.”

  “And why not?” Clint asked. “Best food in town, right?”

  “Maybe he didn’t have a chance,” Ben said.

  “And if that’s the case, why not?”

  They reached town and started walking down the main street, which in Prescott was First Street.

  “You got any idea when he got here?” Ben asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “so I don’t know how long he was here before he sent me the telegram.”

  “He didn’t register in a hotel?”

  “I haven’t checked them all,” Clint said, “but I have a feeling I’ll find that he didn’t—even if a few pages got torn out of a register book.”

  “If you want, I could ask around,” Ben said. “I know most of the clerks in town.”

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Clint said, “or put you in danger.”

  “I won’t be in no danger,” Ben said. “I’ll just be askin’ some friends some questions.”

  “What about your mother?” Clint said. “I don’t want to get into trouble with her.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ben said. “I’ll be able to ask questions and still do my work.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “but be careful who you ask and who hears you ask your questions.”

  “Don’t worry, I will,” Ben said.

  They reached Clint’s hotel, where they split up. Clint went into his hotel while Ben continued on to the café.

  In the lobby the desk clerk noticed him and called out, “Mr. Adams?”

  Clint walked over to the desk.

  “Sir, I have a message for you.”

  “From who?”

  “I wouldn’t know that, sir,” the man said. “I found it waiting for me here on the desk. I put it in the slot for your room.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. When the man didn’t move, Clint added, “I’ll take it now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man turned, retrieved an envelope, and passed it to Clint.

  “Thank you.”

  Clint decided to take it to his room to read it. When he got inside, he opened the envelope and took out the slip of paper. The handwriting was neat and legible, the kind of thing you’d expect to see from a woman.

  I have some information for you. Meet me at ten o’clock at the Tin Pot Saloon.

  Clint had seen a saloon with that name while he’d been in town. But would a woman pick a saloon as a meeting pace? It seemed fairly obvious that this was some kind of trap. But what was he being set up for? A beating? A frame-up? Or to be killed himself?

  If Harlan Banks had been killed, then there’d be no hesitation to kill his friend as well. But if someone was trying to cover up a murder, wouldn’t they have gotten rid of Bobby, the key operator, instead of just firing him?

  It seemed Clint had no choice but to keep the appointment, stay alert, and see what happened.

  FOURTEEN

  YUMA TERRITORIAL PRISON

  A FEW WEEKS LATER

  It was the next morning, at breakfast, when Clint saw the women.

  He had found himself sitting at the same table with the same prisoners as the night before. When he saw the three women come in, he leaned over to the man sitting beside him.

  “There are women here?” he asked.

  “Just those three.”

  “I didn’t know they put women in Yuma Prison,” Clint commented.

  “Not that many,” the man said. “You gonna eat that?”

  Clint looked down at the mess in his plate that was supposed to be eggs.

  “No,” he said, “I’m just going to have the biscuit.”

  “You mind?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Since they were keeping their voices down, none of the other men at the table realized what was going on until all of Clint’s eggs were on the other man’s plate.

  “Thanks,” the man said. “My name’s Cates, Jack Cates.”

  “Clint Adams.”

  Cates nodded. He was a big, hulking man with shaggy blond hair and beard stubble.

  “I know who you are,” Cates said. “You’re gonna have ta watch yer back.”

  “I always do.”

  “No, I mean, really watch yer back in here,” Cates said. “The word’s gone out on who you are. And you ain’t got no gun in here.”

  “I see what you mean,” Clint said. “Thanks for the warning. Tell me about the women.”

  “Don’t know much,” Cates said. “Don’t know what they’re in fer. The guards usually keep them for themselves.”

  “You mean . . .”

  “Yeah, they pass ’em around,” Cates said. “The women get treated pretty well as long as they cooperate with the guards and give ’em what they want.”

  Clint saw what Cates meant. The women seemed to get different food, not the mess the men were eating, and they got a table for themselves, away from the rest of the prisoners. Two of them looked to have black hair, one red. They were wearing dresses that matched the pattern on the men’s shirts and trousers, but their clothes looked clean, as did their hair. Well, if what Cates said was true and the guards were using the women for sex, they’d want them to smell like women, not like prisoners.

  Clint went back to eating his biscuit. If he didn’t want to be constantly hungry, he was going to have to l
earn how to eat the slop the prisoners were served for their meals.

  He looked over at the women, who seemed to have not only eggs, but meat. Many of the other prisoners were looking at them as well, either because they were eating better food or simply because they were women.

  As Clint watched, one of the dark-haired women looked over at him and caught his eye. There was a moment of recognition between them, but he was convinced it was on her side, not his. Even when she looked away, he stared at her, but became convinced he didn’t know her. That meant she must have recognized him from somewhere.

  He leaned toward Cates again and asked, “How many other prisoners get special favors?”

  “Only a couple,” Cates said. “If you got money and power on the outside, you can get special treatment on the inside.”

  “Can you steer me towards them?”

  “Sure, why not?” Cates asked. “After all, you gave me yer eggs, right?”

  FIFTEEN

  PRESCOTT, ARIZONA

  EARLIER

  He still had hours before the meeting at the Tin Pot Saloon. He decided to find the place while it was still light out and take a look it.

  It turned out the Tin Pot was a small saloon on the side street, in an area of town that appeared to need some rehabilitation. There were empty storefronts on either side, and just a few stores across the street that were still open.

  When Clint entered the Tin Pot, the first thing that hit him was the smell, the second the cramped quarters. This certainly did not seem the kind of place a woman would come to.

  The place smelled like a bunch of ranch hands had just come in off the range without cleaning up first. Clint looked around, expecting to see cow manure on the floor.

  “Beer?” the bartender called.

  Clint waved his hand at the man and backed out of the place. The smell was too much for him. There was no way he could have stood in there and had a beer. He decided to walk around the building, see how many other doors there were.

  Several minutes later he had determined there was only one other door to the saloon, in the back. He’d return later for the meeting.

  * * *

  Clint decided to go and see the sheriff, fill him in on his meetings with the chief and the mayor. He felt that the sheriff was a kindred spirit. Maybe if he spent more time with him, the man might come forward with the truth, because as much as the man might be a remnant of the Old West, he was still lying, too.