Ticket to Yuma (3 page)

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

Y
UMA
T
ERRITORIAL
P
RISON

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 just 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.”

“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

P
RESCOTT,
A
RIZONA

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 asked.

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.