Ticket to Yuma (2 page)

TWO

Clint checked into the Statler, found that Handy was right. Mentioning his name got him a room with no questions, and it was clean. He sat on the mattress for a moment, found it very comfortable.

He walked to the window to check on his view, and access. Satisfied that he could see most of the street, and access to his window would be difficult, he left his rifle and saddlebags and went back to the street.

He walked for a while before coming to the sheriff's office. It was easily one of the oldest buildings in the town. He'd been finding this true of many Western towns that were growing. He didn't much care for the towns where East was meeting West in the name of progress, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He entered the office, found a man in his sixties sitting behind the desk with a badge on his chest. He was looking at wanted posters the way most people looked at keepsakes from their past.

“Excuse me?”

The sheriff looked up from his desk, gave Clint a sad look.

“Yeah?”

“My name's Clint Adams,” he said, figuring he might as well start there.

The sheriff's face brightened.

“The Gunsmith?”

“That's right.”

“Well . . . have a seat, Mr. Adams,” the lawman said. “It's a pleasure to have you here. My name's Sheriff Artie Coyle.”

Clint came forward and took a seat across from the man, who suddenly seemed very happy. It must have seemed to him that a shadow of the Old West had entered his office.

“What can I do for you?” Coyle asked.

“I'm looking for a man,” Clint said. “My information is that he came through here.”

“Oh? Who'd that be?”

“His name's Harlan Banks.”

“I know that name,” Coyle said.

“From where?”

“I don't know.” The lawman's gaze fell upon his collection of posters. “Maybe there's paper on him.”

“I don't think so,” Clint said. “Not yet anyway.”

“Well, what'd he do?”

“He's supposed to have killed someone,” Clint said.

“You don't know for sure?”

“No,” Clint said, “that's why I want to find him. To ask him.”

“So you ain't gonna kill 'im on sight?”

“No,” Clint said, “I have to talk to him first.”

“And then kill 'im?”

“If he did kill someone,” Clint said, “I'll bring him in myself to face trial and watch him swing.”

Coyle screwed up his face in concentration.

“It'll come to me,” he said finally. “You stayin' in town?”

“I'm at the Statler.”

“Good,” Coyle said. “I'll know where to find you when it comes to me.”

“Do you think he might have passed through town?” Clint asked.

“Could be.”

“Maybe I'll talk to some of the bartenders in town,” Clint said. “One of them might have something to tell me.”

“There ya go,” Coyle said.

Clint got up, started for the door, then turned and asked, “You got a brother in town?”

“No,” Coyle said, “but I got a cousin.”

“Runs the livery. Named Handy?”

“That's right. How'd you know that?”

“Lucky guess,” Clint said. “I'll be seeing you, Sheriff.”

“If you're lookin' for a good meal,” Coyle said. “try Hannah's Café, on Second Street. Great steaks.”

“Sounds good,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

* * *

Outside Clint thought about checking the saloons, but his stomach growled. That convinced him to go and find Hannah's right away instead.

He walked to First Street, then Second, and found the café. As he entered, he saw that only a few tables were taken, as it was after lunch but before supper.

“Help ya?” a young waiter asked. He was tall and thin, maybe twenty, with a clean white apron on, like he'd just donned it.

“Just rode into town and I've got a powerful appetite. The sheriff told me to come here.”

“You a friend of the sheriff's?” the boy asked.

“We just met,” Clint said. “But he told me this place has the best steak in town.”

“Take a table,” the boy said. “I'll tell Ma to make ya one.”

“Your Ma Hannah?” Clint asked.

“Yeah, how'd you know?”

“Um, that's the name of the place, right?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” the kid said. “You want some coffee?”

“Yeah, a pot,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

He sat at a table while the boy disappeared through a door, presumably to the kitchen.

There was a middle-aged couple sitting across the room from him. They both nodded and smiled, so he returned the greeting.

The boy came out with a pot and a mug and set them down on the table.

“Steak'll be out in a coupla minutes, mister,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Clint poured himself a mug of coffee. From the smell he knew it would be strong, the way he liked it. It was also hot. It made him hopeful for the steak.

THREE

“How was it?” the young waiter asked when he collected the empty plate.

“Can't you tell?” Clint asked.

“Yeah, the plate looks almost like you licked it,” the kid said. “Dessert?”

“Is your mom's dessert as good as her steak?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“What do you have?”

“Pie.”

“Peach?”

“Not today,” he said, “but she does have apple, rhubarb, and blueberry.”

“Blueberry?” It had been a long time since Clint had blueberry pie. “I'll have that one.”

“Comin' up.”

“And more coffee.”

By the time the kid brought the pie out, the place was empty, except for Clint. So when he came out with the pie, his mother came behind him with the coffee.

“This is my mother, Hannah,” the kid said.

“You're his mother?” Clint asked, looking at the beautiful young woman as she poured him some more coffee.

“I am,” she said. She stood up and put her hand on her son's shoulder. “He's a fine boy. Enjoy your pie.”

She turned and went back to the kitchen.

“How old—how old are you?” Clint asked.

“Me?” the boy said. “I'm nineteen. Mom was sixteen when I was born.”

The boy returned to the kitchen. Clint attacked the pie, found it every bit as good as the rest of the meal. He wondered if she'd be able to combine the blueberry pie with peach, if he asked her to.

* * *

The next time the boy came out, Clint asked, “What's your name?”

“Ben.”

“That was a great meal, Ben,” Clint said. “Be sure to tell your mom I enjoyed it.”

“Well, if you're stayin' in town, come by again,” the kid said. “You can try her beef stew.”

“I'll do that,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

As Clint headed for the door, Ben said, “I think there's peach pie tomorrow.”

“I'll remember,” Clint promised.

FOUR

Later Clint stopped into a saloon called The Red Garter. It was doing a good business for that time of day, considering the gaming tables were still covered and there was only one girl working the floor.

Clint went to the bar and ordered a beer from a bored-looking bartender. He wondered how soon he'd be hearing from the sheriff, or maybe even the chief of police.

* * *

Sheriff Coyle watched from his window as Clint entered The Red Garter Saloon. Satisfied that Clint wasn't on the street, he grabbed his hat, strapped on his gun, and left the office.

He walked a few blocks away to the new police department building and entered.

“Afternoon, Sheriff,” the uniformed policeman on the front desk said. “What can I do for you?”

“Please tell the chief I'm here to see him.”

“I think he's busy—”

“Tell him it's about Harlan Banks,” Coyle said. “I think he'll see me.”

“Wait just a minute.”

The desk man disappeared down a hallway, then reappeared moments later and said, “You know where his office is, don't you?”

“Oh, yeah,” Coyle said.

He walked down the hall to the man's office and knocked on the open door.

“Arthur,” Chief of Police Henry Blake said. “Come on in.”

Coyle entered, looked at the chief's proffered hand a moment before shaking it. Henry Blake had actually not been a store clerk before he became the chief of police in Prescott, Arizona. He'd been the headmaster of a school back East. But he came to Prescott with an impressive education and the town council hurriedly hired him before he could change his mind.

“Have a seat, Arthur.”

Even though the chief was about fifteen years younger than the sheriff, Coyle always felt like a boy in the headmaster's office when he came to see him. On the other hand, Chief Blake never came to see the sheriff in his office.

“What's on your mind, Sheriff?”

Whenever anyone in uniform—or the chief, who wore expensive three-piece suits—said “Sheriff,” it was always with a smirk in their tone.

“I had a visitor today,” the old-time lawman said.

“Yes? A stranger to our fair city?”

City. To Coyle, Prescott was still a town, but the chief of police always referred to it as a city.

“Yes, a stranger to Prescott,” Coyle said, “but not really an unknown.”

“This sounds very mysterious,” Blake said. “Who was it?”

“Clint Adams.”

Blake stared at the sheriff for several seconds without comment.

“The Gunsmith,” Coyle said.

“Yes, yes, I know who Clint Adams is, Sheriff,” Blake said. “I was waiting to hear why I should be concerned with this development.”

“Because,” Sheriff Coyle explained, “he said he's here lookin' for Harlan Banks.”

That made the chief frown, giving Coyle some small feeling of satisfaction.

“Did he say why?”

“Claims he heard that Banks killed someone,” Coyle said. “Says he wants to find out if it's true.”

“Not kill him?”

“No.”

“Isn't that odd for a gunman like him?” the chief asked.

“You can't always believe what you hear, Chief,” Coyle said. “Especially what you hear back East. Wild West stories just seem to grow between here and there.”

“So he's not a gunman and a killer?”

“He has a reputation for being good with a gun,” Coyle said. “Possibly the best ever. He does not have a reputation for being a killer.”

“But he has killed people, right?” Baker asked.

“Uh, well, sure, I suppose so,” Coyle said.

“All right, then,” Baker said. “In my book, that makes him a killer. And in my city, it's my book that counts.”

“So what do you intend to do?” Coyle asked.

“I'll meet with the mayor and the town council,” Baker said. “Among us we can come up with a course of action. Meanwhile, how long is he staying?”

“He didn't say,” Coyle answered.

“Well,” the chief said, “maybe you should find out.”

“Me?” Coyle asked. “I'm not part of your department. Why wouldn't you have your own man do it? Or do it yourself?”

“Because you and Adams have something in common,” Blake said. “You are both remnants of a bygone time.”

“You think he'll talk to me, but not to you,” Coyle said.

“Exactly.”

Coyle thought Clint would probably react to the chief the same way he did. He wanted to throw the man through the window behind him.

The sheriff stood up.

“All right,” he said. “I'll find Adams and talk to him for a while, see what I can find out.”

“I'll talk to you later,” Blake said.

The sheriff made his way back to the front of the building, where the policeman behind the front desk now ignored him.

He was perfectly willing to talk to Clint Adams, but anything beyond that would be up to the chief and his men. Coyle was too old to start bracing legends now. And he had no deputies to back a play. So talking was as far as he was willing to go.

Maybe it really was time for him to get out of this job.

FIVE

Sheriff Coyle checked a few of the saloons, finally found Clint Adams standing at the bar in The Red Garter.

“Sheriff,” Clint said as the man sidled up alongside him. “Hey, I tried that café you told me about.”

“How was it?”

“It was great.”

“Yeah,” Coyle said. “Hannah's the best damn cook in town.”

“Then it looks like I found the best place to eat the first time around. Can I buy you a beer?”

“Sure. Why not?”

The bartender brought the lawman a beer with the same bored look on his face.

“You ask Roscoe about your man, Banks?” Coyle asked.

“Roscoe?”

“The bartender.”

“No, I hadn't gotten around to it yet.”

“Just as well,” the sheriff said. “Roscoe's an odd one.”

“In what way?”

“He's a bartender who minds his own business.”

“Then I guess I wouldn't have gotten much out of him,” Clint said. He looked around. “Maybe when the covers come off the tables, I'll find somebody who knows something.”

“How long are you willin' to stay in town and look for Banks?” Coyle asked.

“Until I get some answers, I guess,” Clint said. “Or until I'm convinced he was never here. Then I'll just have to move on.”

“Few days, then.”

“Probably,” Clint said. “How about the chief of police?”

“I told you,” Coyle said. “He's a schoolmaster.”

“You said store clerk.”

“Same thing,” Coyle said. “What I mean is, he's an Easterner. You can go and talk to him if you want, but I gotta warn you. He might not even know who you are.”

“That won't be a problem,” Clint said. “I don't care if he knows who I am, as long as he knows who Banks is.”

Coyle finished his beer and set the empty mug down on the bar.

“Good luck to you, then,” he said. “I guess I'll see you around town.”

“Sure, Sheriff.”

The lawman walked out, watched by Clint and the bartender, Roscoe.

“Another one?” Roscoe asked when Clint looked at him.

“You ever heard of a man named Harlan Banks?” Clint asked.

“Nope.”

“Then no,” Clint said, “I don't need another one. Thanks.”

He decided, instead of waiting for the gaming tables to be opened for business, to move on, try a couple of other saloons, maybe some of the businesses like the mercantile and the hardware stores, places a man might go when he got to town.

He stepped outside the saloon, looked up and down the street. Still busy, with men and women walking back and forth, wagons going up and down the street, as well as horses. In about two hours some of the business would start to close, and the saloons would start to fill up. As dusk came, cowboys from the surrounding ranches would ride in and it would start to get very busy. Clint could have gone to see the chief of police, but he decided to put that off until the next day.

A little saloon hopping first.