Message on the Wind

by J. R. Roberts

  After that he’d find out from Bennett why Clint Adams was in town, and how long he was intending to stay. It would be better for Callum if he had a few days to work with, but if all he had was tomorrow, he’d have to make the best of it.

  But first he’d finish his beer. After all, he’d paid for it.

  Later that night Clint Adams entered his hotel room, looking forward to a good night’s sleep. He’d had a few beers in the Wagon Wheel, where he’d been able to drink them in peace, at his own leisure. If he spent another night in Yuma, maybe he’d look for a poker game, or drink somewhere more lively, like the Dusty Trail, but at the moment he wanted to go to bed.

  He reached for the dirty shirt he’d been wearing when he arrived. It was lying on top of the bed. He’d have to get it washed. As he picked it up, he felt something crumpled in the pocket. When he took it out, he saw that it was the note he’d collected from the wind before getting to Miller’s Crossing. He’d forgotten about the note, and about Organ Pipe.

  He smoothed it out and read it again. Then he read the stories on both sides. Nothing exciting there. The only thing of interest on either side was the childish scrawl that said, “Please help us.”

  He smoothed out the paper some more and put it on the table next to the bed. Surely, in a town the size of Yuma, someone would have heard of a town called Organ Pipe.

  He’d ask some questions in the morning.

  SEVENTEEN

  Clint had breakfast in the hotel dining room the next morning. While he was eating his bacon and eggs, an idea occurred to him. When he’d finished his breakfast, he paid his check, left the hotel, and walked to the office of the Yuma Daily Sun.

  As he entered the newspaper office, he could hear the press operating. It was a deafening sound, and the man operating the press hadn’t heard him come in. Clint looked around, and saw some more men behind a glass partition in an office. They were in a heated conversation. He looked for the door to the office, found it, and opened it.

  “. . . once I’ve told you a thousand times, check your sources, Lou,” one man was saying. “If I had run that story without checking, it would have embarrassed me and the newspaper. I can’t have that kind of carelessness.”

  “Gimme another chance, Mr. Wynn,” the other man said. “One more.”

  “I’ve given you enough chances, Lou,” Wynn said. “I’m done. We’re done.”

  “Ya can’t fire me!”

  “I just did, Lou.”

  The man Clint assumed was the newspaper’s editor—after all, he was firing someone—was tall and white-haired, with remarkably unlined skin. When Clint got a better look, he realized that the man’s hair wasn’t white because he was old. He was closer to forty than sixty.

  The other fellow was in his fifties, a small, slovenly man who was sweating heavily.

  “You’re too experienced to be making these mistakes, Lou,” Wynn said. “I’ve got to assume that you’re losing it.”

  “Mr. Wynn, please—”

  “We’re done here, Lou.” The editor turned to Clint. “Can I help you, friend?”

  The fired man stood there for a moment, then turned and skulked out the door.

  “I assume you’re the editor?” Clint said.

  “That’s right. My name’s Steve Wynn. You’re not a reporter looking for a job, are you?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Too bad. Who are you?”

  “My name’s Clint Adams.”

  “Clint Adams?” Wynn said. “The Gunsmith? Jesus Christ, how the hell did you get into town without me knowi—Wait a minute. Are you really Clint Adams?”

  “Doesn’t really matter if you believe me or not, Mr. Wynn,” Clint said. “I’m not going to try to prove it to you. I just have a question.”

  “Wait, wait,” Wynn said, excitedly. “You are the Gunsmith, right?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Well, this is great!” Wynn said. “You just come walking into my paper? This is great.”

  “Mr. Wynn—”

  “We can do an interview right now,” Wynn said, apparently looking around for a pad of paper. “Course, I just fired my only reporter, but it hasn’t been so long since I—”

  “A newspaper in a town this size and you only had one reporter?” Clint asked.

  “I had two,” Wynn said. “One was killed last week, and I just fired the other one. Ah, here.” He grabbed some paper and a pencil and turned to Clint.

  “Mr. Wynn, I’m not here for an interview.”

  “That’s okay,” Wynn said. “You want some time to form your thoughts?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I mean I didn’t come in here to give you an interview. I came in to ask you a question.”

  “Well, okay,” Wynn said, “but can we do an interview later?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “But it would be good for you,” Wynn said. “You could let people know who the real Clint Adams is.”

  “Why do you think anyone would believe what you write in your paper about me?”

  “Because it’ll come straight from your mouth.”

  “And what makes you think they’ll believe me?”

  “Well . . . whether they believe you or not, I’ll sell some papers.”

  “So then you don’t care if I tell you the truth or not in this interview.”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  “You’re missing my point,” Clint said. “No, I won’t do an interview.”

  Wynn stared at him and his face fell.

  “Sure,” he said, “why should today be different? No reporter, nothing to write.” The man sat heavily in his desk chair, looking up at Clint. “All right, so what’s your question?”

  “Have you ever heard of a town called Organ Pipe?” Clint asked. “Or a newspaper called the Organ Pipe Register?”

  EIGHTEEN

  Mike Callum woke with a pounding head, a scratchy throat, and a thick tongue. He reached for the bottle by the bed, checked himself before taking a huge swallow, and instead just took a little nip. He then put the top back on the bottle and left it on the night table.

  He staggered to his dresser, poured water from a pitcher into a basin, and washed. That was just to get started. He dressed and went down to get some breakfast, which he’d follow with a bath, a shave, and a hair-cut.

  If Clint Adams managed to kill him, he was going to be a presentable corpse.

  Editor Steve Wynn walked to the office door, opened it, and shouted until the pressman heard him.

  “Take a break,” he said.

  “How long?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “But I gotta—”

  “Just go!”

  He slammed the door and returned to Clint, who had taken a seat.

  “Organ Pipe,” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “The Register, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have—”

  Clint held the newspaper scrap out to him. Wynn studied it, both sides, read the scrawled message.

  “Let’s talk about an interview,” he said.

  “Let’s not.”

  “Fine,” Wynn said. He handed the scrap back to Clint. “I don’t know anything.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Oh?”

  “A lot of people are lying to me,” Clint said. “What’s so special about this place that people lie about knowing where or what it is?”

  The editor sat back in his chair, which creaked. “You think people are lying to you?” he asked. “Everybody?”

  “Well . . . a lot of people,” Clint said. “Everybody I talk to can’t be so ignorant of this place.”

  “You are.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve traveled extensively throughout the West.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Then why haven’t you heard of it?”

  “Look,” Clint said, “you’re a newspaperman. Y
ou must have heard of this newspaper.”

  “Must I have?” asked Wynn.

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “you must have.”

  “Well then, if I know something,” Wynn said, “let’s discuss a trade for it.”

  “You want an interview.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re news,” Wynn said.

  “I’m old news.”

  “Not so old,” Wynn said. “Everybody knows who the Gunsmith is. Everybody wants to know what you think, what you’re doing, why you’ve done the things you’ve done.”

  Clint thought a moment, then said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”

  “What?”

  “You tell me what I want to know,” Clint said.

  “And what do I get?”

  “You get to ask me questions.”

  Wynn sat back in his chair.

  “That sounds oddly like an interview,” Steve Wynn said.

  “On one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m always being asked for an interview,” Clint said. “And people always have the same questions.”

  “I’ll bet they do.”

  “So I’ll only answer your questions,” Clint said, “if you can come up with one—just one—that I’ve never heard before.”

  Wynn considered the terms.

  “Okay,” he said, “done.”

  “Okay,” Clint said, “what do you know about a place called Organ Pipe?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then this isn’t going to work.”

  “But I know somebody who might know.”

  “Who?”

  “A man named Hickey,” Wynn said, “Joe Hickey.”

  “And where do I find Joe Hickey?”

  “Close by,” Wynn said, “very close by.”

  NINETEEN

  Clint and Steve Wynn were admitted to the office of Paul Kelsey, the warden of Yuma Territorial Prison. A large, florid-faced man in his sixties, Kelsey stood and extended his hand from behind his desk.

  “Steve, it’s good to see you,” Kelsey said. “What brings you out here?”

  “Warden,” Wynn said, “this is Clint Adams.”

  The warden stopped a moment, then moved his hand over to Clint, who shook it.

  “Well, I heard you were bringing someone with you, but I had no idea it would be the Gunsmith. A pleasure, sir. Have a seat, please.”

  Both men took seats and the warden sat down behind his desk.

  “Now, what can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked.

  “Joe Hickey,” Wynn said.

  “What about him?”

  “Clint, here, would like to talk to him.”

  “Oh? What about?”

  “It’s personal,” Clint said. So many people had acted odd when he mentioned Organ Pipe that he’d decided to keep the details to himself.

  “I see. Do you know Hickey?”

  “No.”

  “I see. I don’t have any objection to you seeing him,” the warden said, “but Hickey might. I’ll have to go and ask him.”

  “While you’re at it, Warden,” Wynn said, “why don’t you ask him if he’d do it as a favor to me?”

  “Well, your paper did speak on his behalf during his trial,” the warden said. “He might do it for that reason. I’ll still have to go and ask him.”

  “We can wait,” Clint said.

  “Yes, well,” Kelsey said, standing, “I’ll just go and see, then. Can I get you gents something while you wait? Coffee? Whiskey?”

  “We’re fine,” Clint said.

  “I’ll be a few minutes, then,” the warden said.

  As Kelsey left the office, Wynn said, “I could’ve used a whiskey.”

  “I get what I want from Hickey, I’ll buy you as many as you want.”

  “One’s my limit,” Wynn said. “I have a little trouble if I go beyond that. Tend to lose jobs. You know, get myself fired.”

  “But this is your paper, isn’t it?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m the editor. It’s owned by . . . somebody else. I could still get my ass fired.”

  “Well,” Clint said, “I wouldn’t want to contribute to that.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “So, tell me about you and Hickey.”

  “Nothing to tell,” Wynn said. “I was one of the few who didn’t think he was guilty.”

  “So another innocent man goes to prison?”

  “Oh, he’s not innocent,” Wynn said. “I just don’t think he was guilty of the murder he’s in here serving time for. He is a killer, though. Even he admits that.”

  “And what about the warden?”

  “I did a nice write-up about him a while back,” Wynn said. “You know, about the improvements he’d made here at Yuma since he took over.”

  “How long has he been warden?” Clint asked.

  “A year,” Wynn said.

  “And is he doing a good job?”

  “As good as anyone can do,” Wynn said. “The men are eating better than they used to, and have better visitation rights.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s also pushing for something he calls ‘conjugal visits.’ ”

  “Conjugal . . . what?”

  “He thinks that prisoners should be allowed to spend time with their wives once a month.”

  “Spend time with? You mean . . .”

  “That’s what I mean,” the editor said. “Sex.”

  “That’s kind of radical thinking for a warden, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Wynn said, “but it would probably make him the most popular warden in the history of the penal system—in any country.”

  “I can see why it would,” Clint said.

  The door opened at that moment and Warden Kelsey reentered the room.

  “He’ll see you, Mr. Adams. Come this way.”

  Wynn stood up with Clint and moved toward the door, but Kelsey blocked his way.

  “Just Mr. Adams,” he said.

  “Why?” Wynn asked.

  “I don’t know, Steve,” Kelsey said. “I’m just tellin’ you what he said.”

  Wynn looked at Clint and said, “Okay, then, good luck. I’ll see you when you get out.”

  “This way,” the warden said.

  TWENTY

  As they walked down the hall, the warden asked Clint, “Do you know anything about Joe Hickey?”

  “Just that he might be in here for a murder he didn’t commit,” Clint said.

  “That’s probably true,” Warden Kelsey said, “but he’s probably in here for all the murders he did commit and never got caught for.”

  “Does that sit right with you?” Clint asked.

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “Mr. Wynn indicated to me that you might be a little . . . radical in your thinking. Not really like any other wardens I might have known.”

  “That’s true enough,” Kelsey said. “I don’t think these men have to be treated like animals just because they’re behind bars.”

  “I’m sure they appreciate your thinking.”

  “There aren’t many of them who take me seriously,” Kelsey said, then added, “yet.”

  “Hickey one of the ones that does?”

  “Hickey and I get along,” Kelsey said, “and he has a lot of influence on the prison population. When he talks, they tend to listen. Or they stop listenin’—sometimes permanently.”

  “Sounds like you and him might have a special relationship.”

  “We might,” the warden said, “one day.”

  They went down several hallways and—Clint swore—a tunnel or two before reaching a wooden door with a small barred window. There was a guard standing in front of it.

  “Open it,” the warden said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The guard produced a key and unlocked the door. As he opened it and Clint started in, the warden put his hand on Clint’s arm to stop him.

  “I’ll ne
ed your gun,” the man said.

  Clint hesitated, but he understood and handed the weapon over.

  “You have any trouble in there, just yell out and the guard will come in.”

  “Okay.”

  Clint walked through the door.

  The prisoner was seated at a wooden table, his wrists shackled together, his ankles shackled together, and then his wrists and ankles connected by a chain. He was once a big man, but had lost a lot of weight recently. His prison stripes hung on him. He had a prison pallor, but seemed relatively healthy. Clint thought that a few meals would do wonders for him, bring him back to health. He seemed to be in his late forties, but might have been younger. His face was black with stubble.

  “You him?” he asked. “You the Gunsmith?”

  “That’s me,” Clint said. “Clint Adams. You’re Joe Hickey?”

  “That’s right. Siddown, why don’t ya?” Hickey said. “Make yerself comfortable.”

  There was one other chair, at the opposite end of the five-foot table. Clint sat.

  “Took your gun, huh?”

  “Yup.”

  “As you can see,” Hickey said, moving his hands and rattling his chains, “I can’t do nothin’ anyway.”

  “Guess they just wanted to be sure.”

  “I don’t get too many visitors,” Hickey said, “and none as famous as you. What brings ya here?”

  “Organ Pipe.” Clint decided to get right to the point.

  “What?”

  “Have you ever heard of a place called Organ Pipe?” Clint asked.

  Hickey sat back in his chair and stared at Clint. “What are ya askin’ me about that fer?”

  Clint shrugged. “I’m curious.”

  “That kinda curious could get ya killed.”

  “So you have heard of it?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re the first person I’ve talked to who’s admitted that the place exists.”

  “Existed.”

  “What?”

  “It don’t exist,” Hickey said. “It existed.”

  “What—what happened to it?”