CHAPTER ONE
After prison, 1889 . . .
THE MAIN GATES of Yuma Territorial Prison opened. A man walked two steps forward, stopped, and took a deep breath. Just a few feet away from the prison, and the air smelled different.
His clothes were loose on him. When he had gone to prison seven and a half years ago to serve a twelve-year stretch, he’d been a bigger, healthier man. Now he was about thirty pounds lighter—even with the governor’s pardon in his pocket.
He looked down at his shirtfront and could see the pinholes left from where he used to wear his badge. They had been hard on him when they sentenced him because he had been a lawman. But the new governor had given him his pardon because he was an ex-lawman. So the tin had gotten him in, and the tin had gotten him out.
He started walking. No one was there to greet him or pick him up, but that was okay. He wanted to walk, because these were his first steps as a free man in seven and a half years, and he wanted to enjoy every one of them.
MATTHEW WHEELER WAS released from Yuma with enough money for a meal and a hotel room. He’d had a shave and a quick bath before being released.
When he got to the center of town, he paused to take in the activity around him. People were going about the business of living. In prison, they went about the business of just existing, just trying to get by, to survive until they were released or died.
Here people walked around with smiles on their faces, without haunted looks in their eyes. Granted, some of them looked at him and could tell he’d just been released. But several women actually smiled at him, and those smiles lifted his spirits, even though he knew they stemmed from pity.
He stopped in the first restaurant he came to, a small café, and ordered a steak dinner. The waitress, a middle-aged, faded-looking woman, brought him a mug of beer while he waited for his meal.
“On the house, honey,” she said, “’cause you just got out.”
“Thank you.”
His first sip of beer in seven and a half years went down as smooth as silk. His first bite of steak was a revelation. After that, he wolfed down both the meal and the brew, and the waitress brought him a second mug.
“No more after that, though, honey,” she said. “You’re gonna have to get used to drinkin’ again.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re also gonna need a job,” she said. “We could use somebody here to wash dishes.”
“Wash dishes?” he repeated.
“Look,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. Other diners were watching the exchange. “We’ve had lots of ex-cons work here when they first got out. They saved their money and then moved on. You can do the same. And there’s a rooming house near here that’s cheap. Interested?”
“To tell you the truth,” Matt said, “I ain’t thought past this meal.”
“Well, think it over while you finish,” she suggested. “You can let me know when you’re done.” She started to turn away, then turned back and said, “Oh, yeah, if you take the job, this meal’s on the house.”
While Matt finished his meal, he wondered how many other places in Yuma offered the same extras—a job and a place to stay. And what did they get from it? Satisfaction, cheap labor, or both?
He really hadn’t thought beyond his first meal now that he was out. What he was going to need was a place to do that, and a cheap rooming house might fit that bill. But taking a job washing dishes was quite a comedown from having been a lawman. He probably shouldn’t have been thinking of it that way. Instead, the comparison should have been washing dishes here instead of breaking rocks in prison.
Dishes won.
THE WAITRESS TURNED out to be the owner. Her name was Kate Hardin. Once the lunch rush was over, she sat down across the table from Matt and introduced herself.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Matt Wheeler.”
“What did you do for a living before you went to prison, Matt?”
“I was a lawman.”
“Oh? Sheriff? Marshal?”
“Yes.”
“And what did a lawman do to get himself tossed into Yuma Prison?”
“I killed a man.”
“Why?”
“Because he killed my wife,” he said.
“So you’re not a murderer.”
“No, I’m not,” he said. “But occasionally, in the course of my duties, I killed men.”
“And you did kill the man who killed your wife?”
“Yes,” he said, then added, “He was one of them.”
“One of what?”
“One of the men who killed my wife,” he explained.
“So there are others out there?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And are you gonna kill them?”
“I think my days of trackin’ killers and killin’ them are gone. Don’t you?” he asked. He held out his right hand to show her the shakes.
“I suppose so. You can start in the mornin’,” the woman said. “Go around the corner and tell Esther at the rooming house that Kate sent you.”
“Thanks.”
She stood up and asked, “You are gonna be able to wash dishes without dropping and breakin’ any, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” he said, “I will.”
“If you want,” she said, “come back later for supper.”
“I could start tonight,” he offered.
“That’s okay,” she said. “Tomorrow’s good enough. Get yourself settled and do whatever thinkin’ you need to do tonight. Come in here in the mornin’ knowin’ what you want to do.”
As Matt stood up to leave, Kate started for the kitchen, then stopped and turned. “Oh, one more thing.”
“Yes?” he asked.
“You didn’t escape, did you?”
“No,” he said, “the governor gave me a full pardon.”
Kate nodded, said, “Good enough,” and continued on to the kitchen.
MATT WALKED AROUND the corner to the boardinghouse and found that Esther was an older, pleasant woman with a gentle smile, stooped shoulders, but strong-looking hands.
“Of course,” she said at the door, “if Kate sent you, I have a room. Come this way.”
He followed her through a hall and up a flight of stairs. She led him past several closed doors to an open one, and then she stepped aside.
“This will be your room,” she said. “Breakfast is at eight. Supper’s at five. You can eat with us or not. It’s your choice.”
“Thank you. Um, I can’t really give you a lot of money now—”
“Give me a dollar.”
He did.
“In the future you can pay me when Kate pays you. Is that fair?”
“Very fair,” he said.
“I hope you enjoy staying with us, Mr. Wheeler.”
“You can just call me Matt.”
“I call all my tenants by their surnames,” she said. “But you can call me Esther.”
“All right, Esther.”
She went down the hall, and he went into his room.
He was wearing the clothes he had been wearing when he entered to prison. He had been stripped and supplied with his prison trousers and shirt. His own clothes had been stored for him until such time as he was released. The only other things he had were the few dollars they’d given him.
The room had a chest of drawers, but it was unlikely he would ever fill it with clothes. He was, however, going to have to buy something new to wear when he went to work. But that couldn’t happen until after he got paid for the first time.
He closed the door to his room, undressed, and cleaned his clothes off as well as he could with the brush he found on top of the chest. Then, clad only in his drawers, he went and sat on the bed. It was early, and for the first time in seven and a half years, there was no one to tell him what to do next.
He sat there for a very long time. . . .
THE ONLY REASON he knew when five o’clock came was the dinner bell someone downstairs rang. He got dressed again and left the room. He didn’t bother to lock or even close the door, as there was nothing inside just yet.
Rather than eat with the other tenants and suffer the inevitable questions that would be put to the new man, he decided to go back to the restaurant and take Kate up on her offer of supper.