Free Ticket to Yuma by J. R. Roberts Page A

Tin Pot about ten minutes before the time of the meeting. So far, it didn’t seem as if Harlan Banks was such a secret that people were dying over it. Whoever was behind his disappearance, they could have killed Ben’s friend Bobby for sending the telegram, or Larry at the hotel for knowing that Banks had registered there. So maybe this actually was a meeting with somebody who knew something, and not a setup to get him killed.
    He approached the batwing front doors of the small saloon, and entered. This time when the smell hit him he kept going.
    â€œBeer?” the bartender asked.
    Clint hesitated, then said, “Whiskey.” He figured any germs in the place would thrive in beer, but die in whiskey.
    There was four other customers, all sitting at tables by themselves. Nobody was standing at the bar, so Clint was alone there.
    He sipped his whiskey and wondered which of the four men had sent him the message. Two of them were wearing holsters, while the other two were unarmed. It didn’t look like anyone was there to kill him.
    â€œSo?” the bartender said.
    Clint turned his head and looked at the man.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou’re lookin’ for Harlan Banks?”
    Now Clint turned his entire body to face the bartender.
    â€œYou sent me the message?”
    â€œSure,” the man said, “you don’t think these other idiots can write, do ya?”
    â€œWhat do you know about Harlan Banks?” Clint asked him.
    â€œWhat’s it worth to you?”
    Clint studied the man for a moment. Did he actually have information, or was he just trying to cash in?
    â€œThat depends on what you’ve got,” Clint said.
    â€œWell . . .”
    Clint took out some money and put it on the bar. The man looked at it, looked at Clint, waited, then took the money.
    â€œThat’s a start,” he said.
    â€œThen tell me what you know.”
    â€œI know,” the bartender said, wiping the bar top with a dirty rag, “I know where he is.”

TWENTY-FOUR
    Hannah found herself thinking about Clint, about what they had done together in her kitchen—on the kitchen table—and then, suddenly, she became aware that Ben was looking at her. She felt her face color, then she turned her head to hide the fact.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Ma?” Ben asked.
    â€œNothin’,” she said. “I was just wonderin’ how Clint was doin’.”
    â€œYeah, me, too,” Ben said. “I think I shoulda gone with him.”
    â€œNo, he was right,” Hannah said. “You wouldn’t have been of any help to him.”
    â€œI guess not,” Ben said. “Still, if he gets killed—”
    â€œHe won’t,” she said.
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œBecause he’s the Gunsmith, right?” she said. “This is how he lives his life. I assume he knows what he’s doing in these situations.”
    â€œI suppose he does.”
    â€œSo all we can do is wait,” she said.
    * * *
    â€œWait a minute,” Clint said. “You know where Harlan Banks is?”
    â€œI do.”
    â€œAnd you’re going to tell me.”
    â€œFor a price.”
    â€œHow about this?” Clint asked. “You tell me so I won’t shoot up this place.”
    â€œGo ahead,” the bartender said. “If the word gets out that the Gunsmith shot up my place, I’ll get more business.”
    He was probably right about that.
    Clint took out some more money—more than before—and set it on the bar. The bartender looked at it, waited, but when no more was forthcoming, he picked it up and stuck it in his shirt pocket.
    â€œSo where is he?” Clint aside.
    The bartender hesitated, wiped the bar some more, then said, “Harlan Banks is in Yuma Territorial Prison.”

TWENTY-FIVE
    â€œYuma?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œHow long has he been in Yuma?”
    â€œA few weeks, I