Ticket to Yuma

Gunning for Clint Adams . . .

“I know he's the Gunsmith,” Chet Barton said, “but in here he's just one of us.”

“I know that,” his cell mate, Tim Kerry, said. “I just don't know who he's aligned with.”

“He ain't been here long enough to join with anybody. 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.”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

TICKET TO YUMA

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Jove edition / January 2013

Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi.

Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 978-1-101-61880-6

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ONE

Y
UMA
T
ERRITORIAL
P
RISON

The iron door closed with a loud clank. The key turned with a lower click. Clint Adams had been in a lot of small rooms in his time, but never anything as small as this cell. He looked around. There was a cot with a worn blanket and a hole in the ground to use as a privy. He sat on the cot, found it as hard as sitting on the ground. Leaning against the wall, he thought back to how he had become an inmate in Arizona's famed Yuma Prison . . .

A
FEW WEEKS EARLIER

Clint rode into Prescott, Arizona, looking for a man named Harlan Banks. Prescott had undergone a growth spurt over the past few years, and was now a thriving community with more than several saloons and hotels. The streets were busy as he rode in at midday, and he had to rein in several times to avoid colliding with a wagon, a pedestrian, or another horse.

Prescott was too big to be able to find one man easily, unless you knew where to look. For a man like Banks, you looked in saloons—but not just any saloon. The ones that featured not only whiskey, but also gambling and girls. However, first you looked in jail, because a man like Harlan Banks invariably found himself behind bars at one time to another.

Clint rode through town, filing away locations in his brain. Gambling parlors, hotels, cafés, the sheriff's office, and a police station. He kept going until he came to a livery stable. He dismounted and walked Eclipse inside.

“Whoa,” the man inside said, “that's some animal.”

“Yeah, he is,” Clint said.

The man was in his sixties, had the scars to prove he'd been around horses most of his life. At some time or other a horse had nipped his face, his hands, he was even missing half of a finger that some horse thought was a carrot. And he limped, indicating he'd probably been kicked more than once.

He knew good horseflesh when he saw it.

He walked around Eclipse, ran his hand over the horse's withers. Clint was surprised that the Darley Arabian allowed it. There must have been something about the man that the horse liked.

“What's your name?” Clint asked.

“Folks call me Handy.”

“Well, Handy, I want him well taken care of,” Clint said. “Does that mean I leave him with you?”

“It sure does,” Handy said. “I'll take care of him better than anybody in town could.”

“Okay,” Clint said. He removed his rifle and saddlebags, allowed Handy to take Eclipse's reins.

“He got a name?” Handy asked.

“Eclipse.”

“Nice name,” Handy said. “You got a name?”

“Clint.”

“Where you gonna be, Clint?”

“A hotel,” Clint said.

“Which one?”

“Don't know,” Clint said. “I just rode in. You got a suggestion?”

“Statler House, down the street,” Handy said. “Not the best in town, but clean, with good mattresses.”

“That sounds like the best hotel in most towns.”

“Well, this town's growin',” Handy said. ”Coupla other hotels got what they call honeymoon suites. Ya pay lots for that kinda room. That what you're lookin' for?”

“Nope,” Clint said. “No honeymoon for me. Clean is good enough.”

“There ya go,” Handy said.

“How much, Handy?”

“I dunno,” Handy said. “Why don't we talk about that later? Ask anybody. I won't gouge ya. In fact, maybe I'll end up payin' you.”

“Okay, Handy,” Clint said. “We'll talk about it later.”

“There ya go,” Handy said again.

Clint turned to leave, then turned back.

“I've got a question.”

“Yeah?”

“I need to talk to the law,” Clint said. “I'm lookin' for a friend of mine, usually gets himself in trouble in saloons. Do I need to talk to the sheriff, or go to the police station?”

“Police station,” Handy said, as if the words tasted bad. “They call that progress. Naw, if you're friend needed a night in jail, he woulda gone to the jail. You wanna talk to the sheriff.”

“What's he like?”

“His name's Artie Coyle,” Handy said. “Been sheriff here over a dozen years.”

“That's a long time.”

“Folks like him,” Handy said. “But then the town council, they decide we need a police department, like back East.”

“It's happening a lot in the West,” Clint said.

“So now Artie, he handles drunks and stray dogs. Most everythin' else goes through the new police department, and their chief of police.”

“What's he like?”

“Like a store clerk somebody pinned a badge on,” Handy said.

“How many men on the police force?”

“Maybe a dozen.”

“They wear uniforms?”

“Oh yeah, carry guns and sticks. Some of them, they use them sticks a little too much.”

Clint nodded.

“Okay,” he said, “thanks, Handy. I'll be at the Statler, as long as they have a room.”

“They got a room,” Handy said. “Just tell 'em I sent ya.”

“Thanks, Handy.”