Longarm and the Yuma Prison (6 page)

Ten days later, Longarm and Jessica climbed off the Southern Pacific Railroad in Yuma, tired, hot, and somewhat out of sorts. On their way across southern Arizona, the conductor had been more than happy to give them a little local history concerning the riverfront town. Located at the junction of the Gila and Colorado rivers, Yuma had at first become an important crossing on the road from Sonora to California, and the Spanish had established an early mission on the California side of the river. But only a few years later, the local Indians had massacred everyone, and it wasn't until the California Gold Rush that the United States Army had founded a fort on the abandoned mission site to serve as protection for the overland travelers bound for the gold fields. For many years, steamboats and the Butterfield Overland Mail had been the only suppliers of the fort, and then the railroad had arrived in 1877, which greatly boosted the activity and population.

“When this railroad arrived, suddenly the town mushroomed,” the conductor said. “Land was cheap and city lots cost almost nothing.”

Longarm didn't offer the obvious fact that, given the harshness of the area, land was worthless except for what gold and silver might be found, although some enterprising people had used the sandy shores of Gila and Colorado rivers to grow hay and fresh vegetables.

“After the Civil War, the Union Army established a garrison here that provided military supplies and personnel to posts throughout Arizona and the New Mexico territories.”

“The Apache were pretty hard on the people in this part of the country,” Longarm added to Jessica. “They raided on both sides of the border and were almost impossible to catch and control.

“Does a Captain Maxwell Rodgers still command what remains of the fort?” Longarm asked.

“No, he shot himself in the head about two years ago. His wife and kids buried him and left for the East. Lots of soldiers here committed suicide because Fort Yuma was considered the worst fort in the West.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Did you know the captain or his family?” the conductor asked.

“I did not. But my boss knew and liked him.”

“He was a fine man. Took to drinking pretty hard after his son drowned in the Colorado and he just never seemed to be able to come back.”

“Tragic,” Jessica said.

“Yes,” the conductor agreed. “Most of Yuma either works for this railroad or the penitentiary. Some have businesses in town and a few have mines and little farms that can be irrigated from the river's waters. There are traders and the paddle wheelers still ply the Colorado regularly. They take goods all the way up to Las Vegas. If I didn't work on the railroad, I'd work on a paddlewheel steamer. Being on the water is the coolest place around most times of the year.”

“I suppose so,” Longarm said.

“The old army fort is pretty much abandoned now but the quartermaster depot is still operating. This is the hardest country I ever knew but it does have its own beauty and the winters are mighty nice. The local chamber of commerce sees its future in winter tourism. You know, folks with rheumatism and a little money can come out her in November and enjoy plenty of sunshine and warmth all through the snowy months back East. I do believe that Yuma is going to be around for a long, long time, but me and the missus, we're going to retire somewhere a mite cooler, maybe up around Prescott which has a pleasant climate year-round.”

Longarm and Jessica found rooms at the Oasis Hotel, a fine, two-story stone structure in the middle of town. Because of her father and the complications that were going to be coming their way concerning the mining claim, they took separate but adjoining rooms.

“There's an inside door connecting them,” the hotel clerk said with a wink. “You'll have your privacy, and we have a little café just off the lobby that I'm sure you'll find to your liking. Hotel guests get ten percent off the regular menu price.”

“Nice to know that,” Longarm said.

“Rooms 202 and 203. If you need anything or find something wanting, just come down and I'll gladly take care of it.”

“We'll do that,” Longarm promised, gathering their bags and following Jessica up the stairs.

Once inside their rooms, Jessica collapsed on her bed. “I'm exhausted from the trip,” she told him. “I'd like to take a nap.”

“Lock your door. I'm going to check out the town and see what I can find out about that marshal that pistol-whipped your father and the judge who sentenced him to life in prison.”

“Are you going to let them know that you're a federal marshal from Denver?”

“Not until I have to.”

“Be careful,” Jessica warned. “Marshal Jeb Beeson is smart and tough. If he suspects you've come here with me to get my father out of the prison and reclaim our mine, he'll be all over you.”

“I can handle it. And anyway, this is a pretty small town so I doubt it will take Beeson long to learn that we arrived together. He probably already has that information. Does he have a deputy or two?”

“Two,” Jessica replied. “Both tough men and completely loyal to the marshal. Custis, what are we going to do now that we've gotten here?”

“I'm not real sure,” Longarm confessed. “I'd say the first thing we do is find an honest lawyer and set about getting your mining claim back. You sold that house on Plum Street for how much?”

“Seventeen hundred dollars.”

“Is there a bank in this town?”

“Yes.”

“First thing in the morning you need to deposit most of that sale money. If someone broke into your room while we're eating or about the town and stole the money, we'd be in a fix.”

“I'll keep it on my person until it is deposited,” Jessica promised.

 • • • 

Longarm left his belongings in his room and headed outside. It was about four in the afternoon and the heat was oppressive. He began to perspire and thought he should have unburdened himself with his coat and vest, but he didn't feel like going immediately back to the hotel.

A few doors up the street he found the Cactus Saloon, and he stepped inside, thinking that he'd find the interior cool and inviting. A beer and he'd mingle with the customers and get some information on Yuma and the lawmen that ran it. The more he knew about those who had put Tom Ray in prison for the rest of his life, the better his chances for success.

“Can I help you?” the bartender asked, offering a friendly smile.

“Beer.”

“I got some in a cool place,” the bartender said with a smile. “You just arrive on the Southern Pacific?”

“That right.”

“What's your business?”

“My own,” Longarm deadpanned.

The bartender didn't seem to take any offense at Longarm's abrupt answer. He brought a beer and a clean mug and then surprised Longarm by pouring himself a glass. Raising it, the bartender smiled and said, “Welcome to hell, stranger!”

Despite the desert heat and the desperate situation he and Jessica face, Longarm had no choice but to swallow the beer and smile.

Longarm sipped his beer and when he was joined by a couple of workmen, he struck up a conversation. “You men live here in Yuma?” he asked.

“Sure do. Both of us work for the railroad on its construction crew.”

“It must be kind of tough in mid-summer.”

The taller and older of the pair nodded. “It's already getting into the nineties and we ain't even gotten into July and August. We start work at the break of dawn and don't stop until we quit at two o'clock. After that, it's too damned hot to do much out in the sun.”

“You can say that again,” the younger of the pair added. “But the Southern Pacific pays higher wages down in this part of the country in order to keep its crews up to size and speed. If they didn't pay extra, no one would be willing to stand it.”

“That's true,” the older man agreed. “Used to be the biggest problem was the Apache. Geronimo and Cochise, they were bad ones, and there were a lot of others that raided and burned folks out.”

Longarm nodded. “I guess now there isn't much trouble around here, huh?”

“Oh, there's enough,” the younger man said, draining his beer and signaling the bartender for more. “After payday, this town can get pretty wild. Lots of fights and sometimes a killing. Keeps Marshal Beeson and his two deputies hopping.”

“I'd imagine so,” Longarm said. “I used to know a man that got into a gunfight. Maybe in this very saloon.”

“What was his name?”

“Tom Ray.”

The two workers exchanged glances and the older one said, “Tom was a good fella. He killed two cardsharps right back there near that wall. Marshal Beeson and one of his deputies came rushing in and hit him from behind. Now, Old Tom Ray is serving life in the penitentiary.”

“Ain't many that last more than five or six years,” the younger man said. “They put them in these little rock cells with flat-iron straps in front. Those prisoners must bake in the daytime and it doesn't cool down all that much at night.”

“Do they ever get off that hill?” Longarm asked.

“Sure they do. About once a week they force march five or six at a time under armed guard down to the river and let 'em soak and swim. They give 'em bars of soap and let 'em wash themselves and their own clothes. By the time they are marched back to their cells, their clothes are dry.”

“I've heard that those weekly outings to the river are all that keep some of those prisoners from killing themselves. Why, they go into the Colorado even in the middle of winter when the water is damn cold.”

“That's right,” the other agreed. “And they got some women serving sentences there, too. Five or six, I hear. A couple of 'em are in for murder, like poor old Tom Ray.”

“Are the prisoners allowed any visitors?” Longarm asked.

“Sure thing,” the younger man said. “Every Sunday afternoon is visiting hours but you won't see any visitors come once the heat of summer sets in on Yuma as it is doing right now.”

“True enough,” the older man said. “Who would come all the way to this hell on earth to see a prisoner for a couple of hours when the sun can bake their brains.”

“I see what you mean,” Longarm said, draining his beer.

“Old Tom Ray has a pretty daughter and the word is that she just arrived in town on the train,” the younger man mentioned. “I'd sure like to get to know her better.”

“I'll bet you would,” the older man said. “She's pretty. It's a sad thing when she has a father sentenced for life.”

“I heard,” Longarm said, “that they own a mining claim just up the river. One that produces gold.”

“The daughter must have sold it because it's being worked by some men. I don't know who they are, but they come in now and then to drink, whore, and buy supplies.”

 • • • 

Longarm figured he'd heard about as much as he was going to get from these two men so he told them good-bye and stepped outside into fading light. It was still hot, but with the sun gone down it was cooling a bit.

Longarm lit a cigar and took a chair by the sidewalk, hoping that someone would come along looking for conversation. He didn't have to wait but a few minutes when a big man with a drooping handlebar mustache and two upper front gold teeth stopped to talk.

“Evening,” the man said.

“Evening,” Longarm replied.

The man took an empty chair beside Longarm and rolled a cigarette in silence before he asked, “You been in Yuma long?”

“Nope.”

“You arrive earlier on the train?”

“That's right.”

“I heard that you came in with Tom Ray's daughter, Miss Jessica, and that you took adjoining rooms at the Oasis Hotel.”

Longarm blew a ring of smoke out toward the street, then he turned and looked at the stranger. “You seem to be a real observant sort of fella.”

“It's my job.”

“Then you must be Marshal Jeb Beeson.”

The man inhaled deeply and let the smoke drain through his nostrils. “I
know
who I am, but the question is . . . who the hell are you and what are you doing with the Ray girl?”

“What if I told you we were planning to get married and she wanted me to meet her father up on the hill this coming Sunday afternoon?”

The marshal was silent for a moment. “Well, I'd say that was a good and reasonable thing to do. However, if you were to stay in my town, then I'd probably come to believe that you weren't being completely honest about why you came to Yuma.”

“I guess what you'll have to do is to wait until next Monday to find out if Miss Ray and I are on the outbound train.”

“But you see, mister, I'm a very curious man and also an impatient one. So I don't intend to wait until next Monday if you're intending to stay here.”

Longarm came to his feet. “Last I heard, Marshal Beeson, this was a free country where a man can come and go as he damn well pleases. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to say good night.”

The marshal came to his feet. He was almost as tall as Longarm and probably twenty pounds heavier. “What is your name?”

“Custis. Custis Long.”

“Well, Mr. Custis Long, Yuma is no place to get married or have your honeymoon. If you have any sense at all, you had better be headed out of town with Miss Ray come Monday or I'm going to have all kinds of unpleasant questions for you to answer.”

“I understand,” Longarm told the man as he walked away.

“Long! You don't want to cross me!”

“No, sir,” Longarm called back over his shoulder. “Wouldn't dream of doin' such a foolish thing as that.”

“Glad to hear it, and congratulations on catching such a pretty woman even though she sure ain't goin' to be no virgin bride.”

That last comment stopped Longarm dead in his tracks. He took a deep breath, turned, and walked back to stand toe-to-toe with the town marshal. “Marshal Beeson, you are not a gentleman and I don't like you very much.”