“Yuma?”
“That’s right.”
“How long has he been in Yuma?”
“A few weeks, I guess.”
“How did he get there?”
“He was railroaded in,” the bartender said. “The chief of police, the mayor, the judge—”
“Judge?”
“Judge Fielder,” the bartender said. “He’s in the mayor’s pocket.”
“So the chief arrested him, and the mayor told the judge to sentence him to Yuma?”
“Now you got it.”
“And how do you know this and nobody else I talked to does?”
“Because they held the trial right in here,” the bartender said. “The Tin Pot courthouse.”
“Why not City Hall?” Clint asked. “In a real courtroom?”
“In a real courtroom they probably woulda felt they had to abide by the real law.”
“So he was railroaded.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Clint finished his whiskey.
“You goin’ in there after him?” the bartender asked.
“I don’t know if I want to see him that bad,” Clint said. “Thanks.”
He turned and left the saloon.
* * *
After Clint left, the bartender called over one of his customers.
“Watch the bar ’til I get back.”
“Sure thing.”
The bartender—Tom Bennett—left the saloon and made his way across town to a residential area. He stopped at a large, two-story house and knocked on the door. It was answered by a gray-haired, middle-aged woman.
“Yes?”
“I need to see the mayor.”
“You can see him at his office tomorrow.”
“No,” Bennett said, “he said he wanted to see me tonight.”
“Come in.” She let him in and closed the door. “Wait here.”
She went into the house, came back ten minutes later.
“Follow me.”
She led him to a study, where the mayor stood wearing a silk robe, smoking a large cigar and holding a brandy snifter.
“Tom,” the mayor said. “This better be good.”
“It is, sir,” Bennett said. “The Gunsmith came to see me.”
“And?”
“I told him that Banks was in Yuma Prison.”
“And what did he say?”
“Not much,” Bennett said. “I asked him if he wanted to go in there after him, and he said he didn’t know if he wanted to see him that bad.”
“Well,” the mayor said, “if he wants to go into Yuma Prison, we can sure accommodate him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, Tom,” the mayor said. “Thank you.”
“Sure thing.”
“Let me know if he comes to talk to you again.”
“I will.”
“Maria will show you out.”
Bennett turned, saw the woman waiting for him in the doorway. She showed him to the front door, and let him out. He started back across town.
* * *
Clint stood in the shadow of a house across the street. He watched the bartender go in, and then come out about twenty-five minutes later. A house that size, it had to belong to the either the mayor or the police chief. The bartender was reporting his conversation with him to one of them. Did that mean the information was false? Did they just want him to think Harlan Banks was in Yuma Prison?
There was only one way to find out.
* * *
He went back to Hannah and Ben’s house. There was no point in bracing the bartender again, because he might still lie. And he doubted he was going to be able to send a telegram from this town.
Hannah let him in with a sigh of relief, and Ben came in from another room.
“What happened?” Ben asked.
“I’ve been told that Banks is in Yuma Prison.”
“How did he get there?”
“He was apparently railroaded in,” Clint said, “with a quickie trial.”
“So what are you gonna do?” Hannah asked.
“I’m leaving town tomorrow,” he said, “to go to Yuma.”
“Yuma?” Hannah said.
“The only way I’m going to find out if he’s really in prison is to go there and ask.”
“How long will you be gone?” she asked.
“Well,” he said, “if I find him, there won’t be any reason to come back here.”
“My mom’s peach pie?” Ben asked.
“Well, yeah,” Clint said, “that would be a good reason.”
“Do you want some coffee?” Hannah asked.
“No,” Clint said, “I think I’ll go to my hotel and turn in so I can get an early start tomorrow.”
“Well, all right,” Hannah said.
“Can you send us a telegram to let us know what happened?” Ben asked.
Although he didn’t know if he could trust the telegraph office in Prescott, he said, “Sure, I’ll do that, Ben.”
He said good-bye to them at the front door, felt Hannah’s grip on his hand tighten before she finally let him go. It had been a wild, enjoyable time in her kitchen that night, but he had more important things to worry about.
Like a man’s life.