YUMA, ARIZONA
A WEEK EARLIER
Yuma was a day’s ride from Prescott. The prison was half a day’s ride farther. He stopped in town to get himself a hotel room.
Yuma had been a major stop on the Colorado River until 1877, when the Southern Pacific Railroad built a bridge over it. So now there was only one steamboat company that utilized Yuma’s port.
However, the prison provided a lot of jobs and commerce. As much as Prescott wanted to call itself a city, Yuma actually was one.
Clint was able to get a room in the Apple Blossom Hotel, even though the clerk told him the hotel was almost always full. Many people came to Yuma to visit their loved ones who were incarcerated in the prison.
“What brings you to our fair city?” the man asked as he handed Clint a key.
“Visiting the prison,” Clint said, “but not to see a loved one.”
Once he had his room, he went to the telegraph office and sent a telegram to Rick Hartman in Labyrinth, Texas. He wanted to know if Rick knew anybody in Yuma, or perhaps anyone who actually worked at the prison.
Clint went to a restaurant near the hotel for a steak, and while he was there, the telegraph operator came in looking for him.
“I have your reply, Mr. Adams,” he said, handing it to Clint.
“Thanks very much.”
The restaurant was filled with townspeople having their supper, and no one was paying him any attention until the key operator came in to find him. Now they were actually waiting for him to read his telegram. Instead, he set it down next to his plate, determined to leave it there until dessert.
After half an hour most of the diners who had seen him get the telegram had left the place. He finished his steak, ordered pie and coffee, and while he was waiting for dessert to come, he unfolded the telegram and read it.
There was only one person in Yuma that Rick knew and trusted. He gave Clint his name and told him how to find him. Clint finished his pie, paid his bill, put the telegram in his pocket, and left.
* * *
He entered the store, looked around, feeling comfortable. Once he’d wanted his own gunsmith shop. For a while he rode around the country in a wagon, plying his trade as a gunsmith. But soon the wagon became a burden, and it was his ability to use a gun that became important, not his ability to fix them, or build them.
But still, when he entered a gunsmith shop, he felt a sense of calm, as if he was at home.
“Can I help ya?”
He turned his head, looked at the man behind the glass counter. Beneath the glass were all kinds of guns, old and new.
“Ken Tohill?” he asked.
“That’s right,” the man said. He was in his fifties, solidly built, bore the scars on his face and hands of a man who had not always worked behind a counter. “Do I know you?”
“No, but you know a friend of mine,” Clint said. “Rick Hartman.”
The man smiled.
“I do know Rick,” he said. “Haven’t seen him in a long time. And who might you be?”
“Also a friend of Rick’s,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Adams.”
“Adams!” Tohill said. “What brings the Gunsmith to my shop?”
“I need help,” Clint said. “Rick said you were a man who could be trusted in Yuma. He also said there aren’t many.”
“There are a few,” Tohill said, “but I’m the only one he knows.”
“Can we talk?”
“Turn that Open sign to Closed, and I’ll break out a bottle of whiskey,” Tohill said.
Clint obeyed.
“Come on,” Tohill said, “I live in the back.”
Clint followed the man into a spacious back room complete with a stove, a table, a chest of drawers, and a bed.
“This is a nice place to live,” Clint said.
“It’s comfortable,” Tohill said. “Sit. I’ll get the whiskey.”
Clint sat and Tohill brought a bottle and two glasses to the table.
“First, welcome,” he said, extending his hand. They shook. “Now drink.”
He poured two glasses and handed one to Clint. They both drained them, and Tohill drank another.
“Okay,” the gunsmith said, “why don’t you tell me what brought you here?”
Clint did, telling the man about his search for Harlan Banks.
“Now it seems he might be in Yuma Prison,” he said finally.
“You goin’ out there to see?”
“I am.”
“And you need backup.”
“I’ve gone this far without it, and I’ve been lucky,” Clint said. “I can’t depend on luck anymore.”
“Well, you’re a friend of Rick’s,” Tohill said, “and I know your reputation. So just tell me what you want me to do.”
“I’m going to ride out to the prison tomorrow,” Clint said. “I was thinking of talking to the sheriff today. Would it do any good? Or is he in somebody’s pocket?”
“The sheriff is his own man,” Tohill said. “He’ll talk to you.”
“And do you have a police department?”
“We’re resisting the Eastern law enforcement agency here,” Tohill said, then added, “so far.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Clint said. “I’m tired of finding a police chief when I come into a town.”
“Like Prescott?”
“Exactly. Okay, so what’s the name of the sheriff here?”
“Tucker Coe,” Tohill said. “Been the law here for twelve years.”
“How old is he?”
“That’s just the thing,” Tohill said. “He got the job when he was barely thirty, so he’s gonna be around for a while.”
“As long as he keeps getting elected,” Clint pointed out.
“Or until the town fathers do decide to bring in a police department.”
“Right.”
“When do you want to meet him?”
“As soon as possible,” Clint said. “Tonight, even. I do want to ride out to the prison tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Tohill said. “I’ll set it up. Wait at your hotel until you hear from me.”
“Will do,” Clint said. “And thanks.”
“Any friend of Rick’s . . .” Tohill said.
* * *
Clint went to his hotel, up to his room, and unlocked the door. There was no indication that anything was wrong, no warning. As he walked in, he was hit on the head, and everything went dark.