YUMA TERRITORIAL PRISON
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.”