Free Ticket to Yuma by J. R. Roberts

out?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Larry said, “but I figured it was my pa.”
    â€œAnd why would he do that?”
    â€œMy pa does what he’s told.”
    â€œBy who?”
    â€œBy the town council,” Larry said, “or by the mayor.”
    â€œAnd the chief of police?”
    â€œHim, too.”
    â€œAnd what about you? You don’t do what you’re told?” Clint asked.
    â€œI do what my pa tells me to do,” Larry said. “To the others, I’m nobody.”
    â€œWhere’s your pa now?”
    â€œI dunno.”
    â€œWould he talk to me?”
    â€œNo,” Larry said, “he’d be too scared.”
    â€œOkay, Larry,” Clint said, “thanks for your help.”
    They turned to leave, but then Clint thought of another question.
    â€œWhen Banks disappeared, did he leave anything behind in his room?”
    â€œNope,” Larry said. “The room was clean.”
    â€œWho cleaned it?”
    â€œI figured Mr. Banks took his stuff with him.”
    â€œWhat happens to stuff people leave in their rooms?”
    â€œWe got a room in the back,” Larry said. “Pa keeps it for a while, then sells what he can.”
    â€œCan I see that room?”
    Larry looked at Ben, who nodded.
    â€œOkay,” Larry said. “This way.”
    He led them down a long hallway to a back room, which was cluttered.
    â€œWhere would the newer stuff be?” Clint asked.
    â€œAgainst that wall,” Larry said, pointing.
    Clint walked to the wall, looked at the saddlebags, weapons, books, clothes, carpetbags, and other things piled there.
    â€œNothing is marked with the room number they came out of?”
    â€œNo,” Larry said.
    Clint bent down, started to go through the saddlebags. There were clean and dirty shirts, bandannas, letters, and receipts. There were rifles laid against the wall but no pistols. The rifles looked as if they’d need to be cleaned after being there for so long, but one—a Winchester—looked newer, cleaner. He picked it up. There were two initials scrawled into the stock—small letters, but legible. “H.B.”
    â€œI’m going to take this,” he said to Larry.
    â€œUh, okay.”
    â€œIf your pa notices and wants to know where it is, tell him you don’t know.”
    â€œOkay.”
    They left the room, walked back to the desk.
    â€œThanks, Larry.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Ben nodded to his friend, and he and Clint walked outside.
    â€œIs that Harlan Banks’s rifle?” Ben asked.
    â€œI think so,” Clint said. “His initials are carved into the stock. Too much of a coincidence for it to be anyone else’s.”
    â€œSo now what?”
    â€œNow I’ll keep my appointment,” Clint said. “See what else I can find out.”
    â€œThen what?”
    â€œThen I’ll have to come to a decision,” Clint said. “Do I leave town, or do I press on?”
    â€œIf you stay, the mayor and the chief won’t like it.”
    â€œYes,” Clint said. “I know.”

TWENTY-THREE
    They went back to the house, where Clint decided to leave the rifle, with Hannah’s permission.
    â€œI don’t want it to be found in my room,” he explained.
    â€œWe understand,” Hannah said. “It’s all right.”
    She served coffee for the three of them, and they sat at the kitchen table.
    â€œWhen is your meeting?” she asked.
    â€œAbout half an hour.”
    â€œAre you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” Ben asked.
    â€œCan you shoot a gun?”
    â€œA rifle,” Ben said. “I mean, I’ve been huntin’.”
    â€œEver fire at a man?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen you stay home, Ben,” Clint said. “I’ll be just fine.”
    â€œAre you sure?” Hannah asked.
    â€œAs sure as I can be,” Clint said.
    * * *
    Clint approached the