Ticket to Yuma (5 page)

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

Y
UMA
T
ERRITORIAL
P
RISON

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 learn 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

P
RESCOTT,
A
RIZONA

E
ARLIER

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.

Clint entered the sheriff's office, found the man seated behind his desk.

“Hey, Adams,” Coyle said. “Pot of coffee on top of that stove. How about fillin' two cups?”

“Sure.”

Clint found two tin cups next to the stove, filled them with coffee, carried them to the desk. He handed the lawman one, then sat down with the other one.

“In case you're wonderin',” Coyle said, “I was just waitin' for somebody to come in so they could get me a cup of coffee. You're the lucky one.”

“No problem.”

“What's on yer mind?”

Clint decided to be frank.

“I talked with the mayor and the chief.”

“And?”

“They each lied to me.”

“So? That's what politicians do. Was that a surprise to you?”

”No,” Clint said, “I figure everybody in this town has lied to me about Harlan Banks.”

“Why do you think they done that?”

“They're hiding something.”

“The whole town?”

“The people I've talked to.”

“Then,” Sheriff Coyle said, “why don't you talk to some more? Maybe you'll find somebody who won't lie to ya.”

“What about you?”

“Whataya mean?”

“Well, you've been lying to me.”

“What makes you say that?” He seemed totally unconcerned about having been called a liar.

“Come on, Sheriff,” Clint said. “I know Harlan Banks was here in town. He sent me a telegram from here. Obviously he got himself into trouble and something happened to him. That couldn't have all happened without you knowing it.”

“Why not?”

“You're the law.”

“I used to be the law,” Coyle said. “Now the police department is the law. If you think somebody knows something they're not telling you, go to the chief.”

“As I said, I already talked to the chief. He told me to leave town tomorrow.”

“And the mayor?”

“Him, too.”

“So you'll be leavin' tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

“I thought you said—”

“Never mind,” Clint said. He leaned forward, set the coffee cup on the desk, and stood up. “I've got things to do the rest of the day.”

“Adams,” Coyle said, “why don't you just do what you're told and leave?”

“I can't do that,” Clint said.

“I can't help you, you know,” Coyle said. “Even if I wanted to, I can't.”

“Actually,” Clint said, “I believe that if it comes right down to it, you'll do your job.”

Coyle put his own cup on the desk and said, “Don't bet your life on that, Adams.”

SIXTEEN

Clint left the sheriff's office, still not convinced that Coyle would stand by and do nothing if Clint was in trouble. But as the man had suggested, he certainly wasn't going to bet his life on it.

He had two options while waiting for his meeting at the Tin Pot. He could go to his room and wait there, accomplishing nothing. Or he could go to Hannah's Café and . . . do what? Have more pie? A steak? Or maybe he had more options. Like a saloon and a few beers.

Then a thought occurred to him. He could go to the livery stable, check on Eclipse, and talk to Handy. Even if he was related to the sheriff, maybe he'd have something to tell him about Harlan Banks.

* * *

He found Handy mucking out some stalls at the livery.

“Not takin' him out of here already, are you?” Handy asked, leaning on his pitchfork.

“No, not yet,” Clint said. “Just wanted to check in with him.”

“That animal eats more than any other two horses,” Handy said.

“Yes, he has a good appetite.”

Clint walked to Eclipse's stall, stroked the big horse's neck, spoke to him briefly while Handy continued his work.

“Hey, Handy,” he said, coming out of Eclipse's stall.

“Yep?”

“I found out something interesting.”

“What's that?”

“You and the sheriff are apparently cousins?”

Handy stopped mucking, sniffed, and said, “Yeah, our mothers was sisters.”

“You're not happy about that?”

“We might be related,” Handy said, “but we ain't exactly friends.”

“Well, that's too bad.”

Handy leaned on his pitchfork and stared at Clint.

“You got somethin' on your mind, my friend,” he said. “I ain't the smartest guy in the world—like my cousin keeps tellin' me—but I know that. Is there somethin' you wanna know about the sheriff?”

“No,” Clint said, “there's something I want to know about Harlan Banks.”

Handy lifted the pitchfork up and drove it down into the ground two or three times.

“What'd my cousin say?”

“He never heard of him.”

The pitchfork went up and back down.

“You talk to anybody else in town?”

“Lots of people,” Clint said. “They're all lying to me. I know Banks was here, he sent a telegram from here, and then he disappeared.”

“You talk to the chief of police?”

“The chief, and the mayor,” Clint said. “They lied to me, too.”

“Lots of people lyin' to ya.”

“That's the way it looks.”

“So why ya askin' me?”

“I was thinking maybe you were different,” Clint said. “I thought maybe I'd get the truth out of you.”

The pitchfork went up then down again.

“I tell you what,” Handy said. “This here's the truth. If I was you, I'd just forget all about this Banks fella and get out of town.”