All the doors leading to the interior of the building were closed. Clint remained seated on the stone steps, waiting. Suddenly, one of the doors opened. He was prepared for some more men with knives to appear, but instead one man came out—stumbled out, as if he’d been shoved. He paused, shielded his eyes against the sunlight, then took a few more steps.
The man looked around, still shielding his eyes with one hand. When he spotted Clint sitting on the steps, he dropped his hand and started walking over. Part of the way there he stopped.
“Am I supposed to talk to you?” he asked. “They said I was supposed to talk to someone.”
“Harlan,” Clint said. “It’s me.”
The man frowned, shielded his eyes again.
“It’s me,” Clint said. “Clint Adams.”
Banks squinted, said, “Clint?”
“That’s right.”
“By God, it is you!” Banks said. “You got my telegram.”
“I did,” Clint said, “but finding you hasn’t been easy.”
Banks staggered forward, reached out, and grabbed Clint by the shoulders.
“It’s great to see you, but . . . are you a prisoner, too?” he asked.
“For the moment.”
“But . . . how?”
“Same way as you,” Clint said. “Railroaded.”
“In Prescott?”
“Yup. Charged with murder. I’m not sure the people I supposedly killed are even dead. At least, I hope not.”
“They charged me with killing the telegraph boy.”
“Bobby? You’re in luck. I spoke to him myself.”
“Damn,” Banks said, “it’s that chief of police, and the mayor. They’re as crooked as they come, Clint. I’d planned to expose them through my connections in the state capital.”
“And they didn’t want you doing that,” Clint said, “so they stuck you in here.”
“And then you figured out something was going on, and they did the same thing to you. Jesus.” Banks sat down. “How the hell are we gonna get out of here now?”
“I’m working on it,” Clint said. “We’ve got some help.”
“Who?”
“Well, a prisoner named Cates, and another one named Amanda.”
“I don’t know them,” Banks said. “They been keeping me in solitary.”
“I don’t understand. If they were so worried about you, why didn’t they just kill you?”
“I don’t know,” Banks said. “Maybe they thought I’d die in here. Or maybe they’re planning to kill me soon.”
“Have they tried?” Clint asked. “Has anybody tried to kill you?”
“No.”
“Well, they tried to kill me,” Clint said. “Cates helped me out, but I don’t know when they’ll try again.”
“So what do we do?”
“We get out of here, that’s what we do,” Clint said. “I’m coming up with a plan.”
“Well, you better come up with one fast,” Banks said, “before they decide to kill both of us.”
“Okay,” Clint said. “I’ll see if Amanda can get you moved.”
“Why would she be able to do that?”
“She has some pull with a couple of guards. And I have the feeling the warden doesn’t know anything about you.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured, too.”
“But he knows about me, because I met him,” Clint said, “and maybe it’s time for me to talk to him again.”
“About what?”
“About me being too famous to die in Yuma Prison on his watch.”