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  Gunning for Clint Adams . . .

  “I know he’s the Gunsmith,” Chet Barton said, “but in here he’s just one of us.”

  “I know that,” his cell mate, Tim Kerry, said. “I just don’t know who he’s aligned with.”

  “He ain’t been here long enough to join with anybody. And there might be some folks in here who wanna kill him as much as we do.”

  “That’s what I mean,” Kerry said. “Let’s find out who we got backin’ us before we make a move on somebody like him.”

  “Okay, okay,” Barton said, “maybe you’re right, but I’m gonna promise you this. Clint Adams ain’t gonna walk out of Yuma Prison alive.”

  DON’T MISS THESE ALL-ACTION WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  THE GUNSMITH by J. R. Roberts

  Clint Adams was a legend among lawmen, outlaws, and ladies. They called him . . . the Gunsmith.

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  The popular long-running series about Deputy U.S. Marshal Custis Long—his life, his loves, his fight for justice.

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  Today’s longest-running action Western. John Slocum rides a deadly trail of hot blood and cold steel.

  BUSHWHACKERS by B. J. Lanagan

  An action-packed series by the creators of Longarm! The rousing adventures of the most brutal gang of cutthroats ever assembled—Quantrill’s Raiders.

  DIAMONDBACK by Guy Brewer

  Dex Yancey is Diamondback, a Southern gentleman turned con man when his brother cheats him out of the family fortune. Ladies love him. Gamblers hate him. But nobody pulls one over on Dex . . .

  WILDGUN by Jack Hanson

  The blazing adventures of mountain man Will Barlow—from the creators of Longarm!

  TEXAS TRACKER by Tom Calhoun

  J.T. Law: the most relentless—and dangerous—manhunter in all Texas. Where sheriffs and posses fail, he’s the best man to bring in the most vicious outlaws—for a price.

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  TICKET TO YUMA

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Jove edition / January 2013

  Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi.

  Cover illustration by Sergio Giovine.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-61880-6

  JOVE®

  Jove Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “J” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Contents

  WESTERN SERIES FROM THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Title Page

  Copyright

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  ONE

  YUMA TERRITORIAL PRISON

  The iron door closed with a loud clank. The key turned with a lower click. Clint Adams had been in a lot of small rooms in his time, but never anything as small as this cell. He looked around. There was a cot with a worn blanket and a hole in the ground to use as a privy. He sat on the cot, found it as hard as sitting on the ground. Leaning against the wall, he thought back to how he had become an inmate in Arizona’s famed Yuma Prison . . .

  A FEW WEEKS EARLIER

  Clint rode into Prescott, Arizona, looking for a man named Harlan Banks. Prescott had undergone a growth spurt over the past few years, and was now a thriving community with more than several saloons and hotels. The streets were busy as he rode in at midday, and he had to rein in several times to avoid colliding with a wagon, a pedestrian, or another horse.

  Prescott was too big to be able to find one man easily, unless you knew where to look. For a man like Banks, you looked in saloons—but not just any saloon. The ones that featured not only whiskey, but also gambling and girls. However, first you looked in jail, because a man like Harlan Banks invariably found himself behind bars at one time to another.

  Clint rode through town, filing away locations in his brain. Gambling parlors, hotels, cafés, the sheriff’s office, and a police station. He kept going until he came to a livery stable. He dismounted and walked Eclipse inside.

  “Whoa,” the man inside said, “that’s some animal.”

  “Yeah, he is,” Clint said.

  The man was in his sixties, had the scars to prove he’d been around horses most of his life. At some time or other a horse had nipped his face, his hands, he was even missing half of a finger that some horse thought was a carrot. And he limped, indicating he’d probably been kicked more than on
ce.

  He knew good horseflesh when he saw it.

  He walked around Eclipse, ran his hand over the horse’s withers. Clint was surprised that the Darley Arabian allowed it. There must have been something about the man that the horse liked.

  “What’s your name?” Clint asked.

  “Folks call me Handy.”

  “Well, Handy, I want him well taken care of,” Clint said. “Does that mean I leave him with you?”

  “It sure does,” Handy said. “I’ll take care of him better than anybody in town could.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. He removed his rifle and saddlebags, allowed Handy to take Eclipse’s reins.

  “He got a name?” Handy asked.

  “Eclipse.”

  “Nice name,” Handy said. “You got a name?”

  “Clint.”

  “Where you gonna be, Clint?”

  “A hotel,” Clint said.

  “Which one?”

  “Don’t know,” Clint said. “I just rode in. You got a suggestion?”

  “Statler House, down the street,” Handy said. “Not the best in town, but clean, with good mattresses.”

  “That sounds like the best hotel in most towns.”

  “Well, this town’s growin’,” Handy said. ”Coupla other hotels got what they call honeymoon suites. Ya pay lots for that kinda room. That what you’re lookin’ for?”

  “Nope,” Clint said. “No honeymoon for me. Clean is good enough.”

  “There ya go,” Handy said.

  “How much, Handy?”

  “I dunno,” Handy said. “Why don’t we talk about that later? Ask anybody. I won’t gouge ya. In fact, maybe I’ll end up payin’ you.”

  “Okay, Handy,” Clint said. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “There ya go,” Handy said again.

  Clint turned to leave, then turned back.

  “I’ve got a question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to talk to the law,” Clint said. “I’m lookin’ for a friend of mine, usually gets himself in trouble in saloons. Do I need to talk to the sheriff, or go to the police station?”

  “Police station,” Handy said, as if the words tasted bad. “They call that progress. Naw, if you’re friend needed a night in jail, he woulda gone to the jail. You wanna talk to the sheriff.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “His name’s Artie Coyle,” Handy said. “Been sheriff here over a dozen years.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Folks like him,” Handy said. “But then the town council, they decide we need a police department, like back East.”

  “It’s happening a lot in the West,” Clint said.

  “So now Artie, he handles drunks and stray dogs. Most everythin’ else goes through the new police department, and their chief of police.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Like a store clerk somebody pinned a badge on,” Handy said.

  “How many men on the police force?”

  “Maybe a dozen.”

  “They wear uniforms?”

  “Oh yeah, carry guns and sticks. Some of them, they use them sticks a little too much.”

  Clint nodded.

  “Okay,” he said, “thanks, Handy. I’ll be at the Statler, as long as they have a room.”

  “They got a room,” Handy said. “Just tell ’em I sent ya.”

  “Thanks, Handy.”

  TWO

  Clint checked into the Statler, found that Handy was right. Mentioning his name got him a room with no questions, and it was clean. He sat on the mattress for a moment, found it very comfortable.

  He walked to the window to check on his view, and access. Satisfied that he could see most of the street, and access to his window would be difficult, he left his rifle and saddlebags and went back to the street.

  He walked for a while before coming to the sheriff’s office. It was easily one of the oldest buildings in the town. He’d been finding this true of many Western towns that were growing. He didn’t much care for the towns where East was meeting West in the name of progress, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  He entered the office, found a man in his sixties sitting behind the desk with a badge on his chest. He was looking at wanted posters the way most people looked at keepsakes from their past.

  “Excuse me?”

  The sheriff looked up from his desk, gave Clint a sad look.

  “Yeah?”

  “My name’s Clint Adams,” he said, figuring he might as well start there.

  The sheriff’s face brightened.

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well . . . have a seat, Mr. Adams,” the lawman said. “It’s a pleasure to have you here. My name’s Sheriff Artie Coyle.”

  Clint came forward and took a seat across from the man, who suddenly seemed very happy. It must have seemed to him that a shadow of the Old West had entered his office.

  “What can I do for you?” Coyle asked.

  “I’m looking for a man,” Clint said. “My information is that he came through here.”

  “Oh? Who’d that be?”

  “His name’s Harlan Banks.”

  “I know that name,” Coyle said.

  “From where?”

  “I don’t know.” The lawman’s gaze fell upon his collection of posters. “Maybe there’s paper on him.”

  “I don’t think so,” Clint said. “Not yet anyway.”

  “Well, what’d he do?”

  “He’s supposed to have killed someone,” Clint said.

  “You don’t know for sure?”

  “No,” Clint said, “that’s why I want to find him. To ask him.”

  “So you ain’t gonna kill ’im on sight?”

  “No,” Clint said, “I have to talk to him first.”

  “And then kill ’im?”

  “If he did kill someone,” Clint said, “I’ll bring him in myself to face trial and watch him swing.”

  Coyle screwed up his face in concentration.

  “It’ll come to me,” he said finally. “You stayin’ in town?”

  “I’m at the Statler.”

  “Good,” Coyle said. “I’ll know where to find you when it comes to me.”

  “Do you think he might have passed through town?” Clint asked.

  “Could be.”

  “Maybe I’ll talk to some of the bartenders in town,” Clint said. “One of them might have something to tell me.”

  “There ya go,” Coyle said.

  Clint got up, started for the door, then turned and asked, “You got a brother in town?”

  “No,” Coyle said, “but I got a cousin.”

  “Runs the livery. Named Handy?”

  “That’s right. How’d you know that?”

  “Lucky guess,” Clint said. “I’ll be seeing you, Sheriff.”

  “If you’re lookin’ for a good meal,” Coyle said. “try Hannah’s Café, on Second Street. Great steaks.”

  “Sounds good,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  * * *

  Outside Clint thought about checking the saloons, but his stomach growled. That convinced him to go and find Hannah’s right away instead.

  He walked to First Street, then Second, and found the café. As he entered, he saw that only a few tables were taken, as it was after lunch but before supper.

  “Help ya?” a young waiter asked. He was tall and thin, maybe twenty, with a clean white apron on, like he’d just donned it.

  “Just rode into town and I’ve got a powerful appetite. The sheriff told me to come here.”

  “You a friend of the sherif
f’s?” the boy asked.

  “We just met,” Clint said. “But he told me this place has the best steak in town.”

  “Take a table,” the boy said. “I’ll tell Ma to make ya one.”

  “Your Ma Hannah?” Clint asked.

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “Um, that’s the name of the place, right?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” the kid said. “You want some coffee?”

  “Yeah, a pot,” Clint said. “Thanks.”

  He sat at a table while the boy disappeared through a door, presumably to the kitchen.

  There was a middle-aged couple sitting across the room from him. They both nodded and smiled, so he returned the greeting.

  The boy came out with a pot and a mug and set them down on the table.

  “Steak’ll be out in a coupla minutes, mister,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  Clint poured himself a mug of coffee. From the smell he knew it would be strong, the way he liked it. It was also hot. It made him hopeful for the steak.

  THREE

  “How was it?” the young waiter asked when he collected the empty plate.

  “Can’t you tell?” Clint asked.

  “Yeah, the plate looks almost like you licked it,” the kid said. “Dessert?”

  “Is your mom’s dessert as good as her steak?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “What do you have?”

  “Pie.”

  “Peach?”

  “Not today,” he said, “but she does have apple, rhubarb, and blueberry.”

  “Blueberry?” It had been a long time since Clint had blueberry pie. “I’ll have that one.”

  “Comin’ up.”

  “And more coffee.”

  By the time the kid brought the pie out, the place was empty, except for Clint. So when he came out with the pie, his mother came behind him with the coffee.

  “This is my mother, Hannah,” the kid said.

  “You’re his mother?” Clint asked, looking at the beautiful young woman as she poured him some more coffee.

  “I am,” she said. She stood up and put her hand on her son’s shoulder. “He’s a fine boy. Enjoy your pie.”

  She turned and went back to the kitchen.

  “How old—how old are you?” Clint asked.