Ticket to Yuma (7 page)

TWENTY-ONE

Y
UMA
T
ERRITORIAL
P
RISON

A
FEW WEEKS LATER

The two guards were named Ace and Danny.

The girl's name was Amanda.

Ace and Danny had been guards at Yuma for the same six months. They had applied for the jobs and been hired at the same time.

Amanda had been an inmate for three months. She was inside for clubbing her bank manager boss over the head, nearly killing him, and stealing $40,000. The money was never recovered, but she was captured the next day by the local sheriff. She went to trial quickly, was convicted in record time of robbery and attempted murder and sentenced to ten years in Yuma. The bank manager was dead before the trial was over, killed by his wife when it came out in the testimony that he had been sleeping with his bookkeeper, Amanda King.

Ace was a big man, well over six feet, in his forties, with sloping shoulders, not muscular, but possessed of a rawboned strength not many men could match.

Danny was in his late thirties, shorter and slighter than Ace, but smarter. For a while they had been on the wrong side of the law, using Danny's brain and Ace's strength to pull jobs. But they got tired of running from the law, so they applied for jobs as guards in Yuma Prison, and wouldn't you know it, they got hired.

Amanda was a pretty woman, slender with pale skin and auburn hair. Men liked her, which was something she used to her advantage. In Yuma, however, the advantage always fell to the guards. But that didn't mean she—and the other women—couldn't use their femininity to get what they wanted, like warmer blankets and good food.

Some of the guards weren't bad when it came to sex. These two men, they always liked to take a woman together. Today, they had chosen Amanda.

They took her from her cell, walked her to a room the guards used. It had a bed, more comfortable than the cots that were in the cells. Sometimes they'd let her sleep awhile there afterward.

Today they pushed her into the room and Ace said, “Take off yer clothes.”

It looked like he might be in charge today. If that was the case, this would not be easy. Ace was a brute. Sometimes Danny controlled him, and sometimes he let the big man have his way.

She undressed, folded her uniform, and put in on a chair in the corner. Naked, she faced them with her hands folded in front of her.

She had small breasts, but they were hard, like peaches, with pink nipples. Ace licked his lips and undid his trousers. When he pulled them down, his cock sprang out, huge and pulsing.

Danny stood off to one side, still dressed. Sometimes he joined in right away, and some days he watched. Today he was going to watch for a while.

Ace approached Amanda, pawed her breasts, squeezing them, bruising them, biting them hard enough to break the skin on her tender nipples. She bit her own lip, so she wouldn't cry out. When he was done, he pushed her down to her knees.

“Open wide,” he said happily.

She opened her mouth, and he thrust his penis between her full lips. She gagged when the tip hit the back of her throat, but then she began to suck him, working his cock in and out of her mouth, using her hands to further stimulate him. She knew she could get him to finish quickly if he let her. Sometimes he pushed her aside before he was done, but today he was carried away by the sensations of her lips, tongue, and hands, and before long he exploded into her mouth . . .

* * *

Clint had learned from Cates that the guards used the women for their own pleasure. He felt sorry for them, but he wasn't there to save them. He was there for a totally different reason, but maybe—if and when he got to see the warden—he could drop a bug in the man's ear. Of course, there was always the possibility that the warden already knew about it. Perhaps he was also part of it. Clint couldn't know that without speaking to one of the women, but so far—after a week in Yuma Prison—he still hadn't been able to do that.

In fact, after a week, he'd accomplished very little.

* * *

Danny dropped his pants, bent Amanda over the bed, and entered her from behind. Ace continued to paw her while Danny fucked her. She didn't mind Danny so much. Even erect, he had a small penis that she could accommodate with no problem. When Ace took her from behind, she felt like she was being torn up. It seemed like today she was just going to have to put up with a few bruises from the big guy, and not the usual abuse.

Danny grunted and groaned and emptied into her, then withdrew. Hopefully, they were done with her. But when she stood up and turned, she saw that Ace's cock was hard again.

“On your back, baby,” he said, stroking himself. “Daddy's got somethin' for ya.”

She obeyed, got down on her back, and opened her legs for him. As he drove his massive erection into her, she closed her eyes and tried to take herself somewhere else . . .

* * *

Amanda had heard that the Gunsmith was in Yuma. She had also been hearing talk about some of the prisoners wanting to kill him. She wondered how effective he would be as a killer without his gun. If they tried to kill him, and he managed to survive, maybe he was somebody she'd be able to use while he was in Yuma.

She had to think of a way to meet him, get to talk to him, maybe get to know him a little, and win him over to her side. With somebody like the Gunsmith on her side, maybe she wouldn't have to put up with the indignities heaped upon her by these guards anymore.

TWENTY-TWO

P
RESCOTT,
A
RIZONA

E
ARLIER

Clint and Hannah found Ben at the house, waiting for them.

“Hey,” he said when they walked in, “I was lookin' for you two.”

“I was looking for you,” Clint said, “ran into your mother along the way. She offered to bring me here to see if you were here.”

“I went to the café, Ma,” he said. “You left the lights burning when you locked the door.”

“I realized it later, dear,” she said. “I went back and doused them.”

“Why were you looking for me?” Clint asked.

“I found somebody you can talk to about Harlan Banks,” Ben said.

“Who?”

“A desk clerk,” he said. “He's a friend of mine. Banks stayed at his father's hotel, where he works.”

“Well, let's go and talk to him,” Clint said. “Maybe he can save me the bother of having to go to this meeting tonight.”

Ben looked at his mother.

“Go ahead,” she said. “I have to get myself washed up. When you're done, you can both come back here. I'll have a pot of coffee on.”

“Sounds good to me,” Clint said. “Lead the way, Ben.”

* * *

Ben took Clint to Kellogg's hotel, found his friend Larry still behind the desk.

“Is your Dad around, Larry?” Ben asked.

“Naw, not tonight.” Larry was staring at Clint with eyes as wide as saucers.

“Larry, this is my friend Clint Adams,” Ben said. “Clint, this is Larry Kellogg.”

“Hello, Larry.”

“Muh—Muh—Mr. Adams.”

“Relax, Larry,” Clint said. “There's no need to be nervous. Understand?”

“Yuh-yuh-yes.”

“Good,” Clint said. “Ben tells me you know something about Harlan Banks.”

“Um . . .” Larry said.

“Come on, Larry,” Ben said. “Tell him what you told me.”

“Uh, well, Mr. Banks did have a room here, but then he disappeared, and a page was torn out of our register.”

“Who tore it out?”

“I don't know,” Larry said, “but I figured it was my pa.”

“And why would he do that?”

“My pa does what he's told.”

“By who?”

“By the town council,” Larry said, “or by the mayor.”

“And the chief of police?”

“Him, too.”

“And what about you? You don't do what you're told?” Clint asked.

“I do what my pa tells me to do,” Larry said. “To the others, I'm nobody.”

“Where's your pa now?”

“I dunno.”

“Would he talk to me?”

“No,” Larry said, “he'd be too scared.”

“Okay, Larry,” Clint said, “thanks for your help.”

They turned to leave, but then Clint thought of another question.

“When Banks disappeared, did he leave anything behind in his room?”

“Nope,” Larry said. “The room was clean.”

“Who cleaned it?”

“I figured Mr. Banks took his stuff with him.”

“What happens to stuff people leave in their rooms?”

“We got a room in the back,” Larry said. “Pa keeps it for a while, then sells what he can.”

“Can I see that room?”

Larry looked at Ben, who nodded.

“Okay,” Larry said. “This way.”

He led them down a long hallway to a back room, which was cluttered.

“Where would the newer stuff be?” Clint asked.

“Against that wall,” Larry said, pointing.

Clint walked to the wall, looked at the saddlebags, weapons, books, clothes, carpetbags, and other things piled there.

“Nothing is marked with the room number they came out of?”

“No,” Larry said.

Clint bent down, started to go through the saddlebags. There were clean and dirty shirts, bandannas, letters, and receipts. There were rifles laid against the wall but no pistols. The rifles looked as if they'd need to be cleaned after being there for so long, but one—a Winchester—looked newer, cleaner. He picked it up. There were two initials scrawled into the stock—small letters, but legible. “H.B.”

“I'm going to take this,” he said to Larry.

“Uh, okay.”

“If your pa notices and wants to know where it is, tell him you don't know.”

“Okay.”

They left the room, walked back to the desk.

“Thanks, Larry.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ben nodded to his friend, and he and Clint walked outside.

“Is that Harlan Banks's rifle?” Ben asked.

“I think so,” Clint said. “His initials are carved into the stock. Too much of a coincidence for it to be anyone else's.”

“So now what?”

“Now I'll keep my appointment,” Clint said. “See what else I can find out.”

“Then what?”

“Then I'll have to come to a decision,” Clint said. “Do I leave town, or do I press on?”

“If you stay, the mayor and the chief won't like it.”

“Yes,” Clint said. “I know.”

TWENTY-THREE

They went back to the house, where Clint decided to leave the rifle, with Hannah's permission.

“I don't want it to be found in my room,” he explained.

“We understand,” Hannah said. “It's all right.”

She served coffee for the three of them, and they sat at the kitchen table.

“When is your meeting?” she asked.

“About half an hour.”

“Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?” Ben asked.

“Can you shoot a gun?”

“A rifle,” Ben said. “I mean, I've been huntin'.”

“Ever fire at a man?”

“No.”

“Then you stay home, Ben,” Clint said. “I'll be just fine.”

“Are you sure?” Hannah asked.

“As sure as I can be,” Clint said.

* * *

Clint approached the Tin Pot about ten minutes before the time of the meeting. So far, it didn't seem as if Harlan Banks was such a secret that people were dying over it. Whoever was behind his disappearance, they could have killed Ben's friend Bobby for sending the telegram, or Larry at the hotel for knowing that Banks had registered there. So maybe this actually was a meeting with somebody who knew something, and not a setup to get him killed.

He approached the batwing front doors of the small saloon, and entered. This time when the smell hit him he kept going.

“Beer?” the bartender asked.

Clint hesitated, then said, “Whiskey.” He figured any germs in the place would thrive in beer, but die in whiskey.

There was four other customers, all sitting at tables by themselves. Nobody was standing at the bar, so Clint was alone there.

He sipped his whiskey and wondered which of the four men had sent him the message. Two of them were wearing holsters, while the other two were unarmed. It didn't look like anyone was there to kill him.

“So?” the bartender said.

Clint turned his head and looked at the man.

“What?”

“You're lookin' for Harlan Banks?”

Now Clint turned his entire body to face the bartender.

“You sent me the message?”

“Sure,” the man said, “you don't think these other idiots can write, do ya?”

“What do you know about Harlan Banks?” Clint asked him.

“What's it worth to you?”

Clint studied the man for a moment. Did he actually have information, or was he just trying to cash in?

“That depends on what you've got,” Clint said.

“Well . . .”

Clint took out some money and put it on the bar. The man looked at it, looked at Clint, waited, then took the money.

“That's a start,” he said.

“Then tell me what you know.”

“I know,” the bartender said, wiping the bar top with a dirty rag, “I know where he is.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Hannah found herself thinking about Clint, about what they had done together in her kitchen—on the kitchen table—and then, suddenly, she became aware that Ben was looking at her. She felt her face color, then she turned her head to hide the fact.

“What's wrong, Ma?” Ben asked.

“Nothin',” she said. “I was just wonderin' how Clint was doin'.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Ben said. “I think I shoulda gone with him.”

“No, he was right,” Hannah said. “You wouldn't have been of any help to him.”

“I guess not,” Ben said. “Still, if he gets killed—”

“He won't,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“Because he's the Gunsmith, right?” she said. “This is how he lives his life. I assume he knows what he's doing in these situations.”

“I suppose he does.”

“So all we can do is wait,” she said.

* * *

“Wait a minute,” Clint said. “You know where Harlan Banks is?”

“I do.”

“And you're going to tell me.”

“For a price.”

“How about this?” Clint asked. “You tell me so I won't shoot up this place.”

“Go ahead,” the bartender said. “If the word gets out that the Gunsmith shot up my place, I'll get more business.”

He was probably right about that.

Clint took out some more money—more than before—and set it on the bar. The bartender looked at it, waited, but when no more was forthcoming, he picked it up and stuck it in his shirt pocket.

“So where is he?” Clint aside.

The bartender hesitated, wiped the bar some more, then said, “Harlan Banks is in Yuma Territorial Prison.”