Long Ride to Yuma Read online

  Long Ride to Yuma

  When Clyde Manson, Hoss Kemp and the Mexican, Guerrero, ride from the Mexican border to Sasabe, Arizona, there is much more on Manson’s mind than a straightforward bank robbery. Manson is a high-flyer from New York. Why is he involved with outlaws? Why does such a man so desperately need money? Why is he determined to reach Yuma?

  The bank robbery is successful, but Deputy Marshal Will Hawker is shot dead. Suddenly the outlaws have a posse led by Marshal Slade Hawker hot on their heels as they take flight across the arid Arizona deserts.

  With the figure of Deputy US Marshal Wyatt Earp proving a sinister presence there is a final, bloody showdown.

  By the same author

  High Plains Showdown

  Stand-off at Blue Stack

  The Diamond K Showdown

  The Last Chance Kid

  Kilgannon

  The Gold Mine at Pueblo Pequeño

  Long Ride to Yuma

  Will Keen

  ROBERT HALE

  © Will Keen 2009

  First published in Great Britain 2009

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2286-5

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Will Keen to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Part One

  The Posse

  Prologue

  They camped under thirty-foot high saguaro cactuses bordering a dry wash to the west of Nogales, the clatter of the three horses disturbing several Gila woodpeckers as they rode in. The sun was a blood-red disc over the mountains to the far west of Sonora. By the time the men had built a fire, cooked supper and brewed a pot of strong coffee, the sun was down and the mountains had been reduced to a vague purple haze stretching like a shadow across the horizon. The border between Arizona Territory and Mexico, less than a mile to the south of their position, was an imaginary line; their boundary, their world, was the circle of flickering light cast by the crackling fire.

  ‘Forty miles,’ Guerrero said. ‘Three, maybe four hours’ riding to Sasabe. Es fácil.’

  ‘Set off at dawn, we’re there when the town blinks, yawns and comes awake,’ Clyde Manson said. ‘Awake, but not alert.’

  Manson was not the kind of man normally to be found in a rough camp on the Mexican border. He was tall and elegant, his speech was educated and carried the accents and cadences of the East, his range clothes looked too new and the blue eyes studying his companions were more than ordinarily intelligent. A shrewd observer might have taken one look and guessed that Manson was a businessman from somewhere like New York, or Philadelphia, fallen on hard times, and he would have been right. But that description would merely have been scratching the surface of a complex man who had chosen, because of a series of misadventures, to embark on undertakings that not only put his life in danger, but were operating a long way outside the law.

  ‘Es fácil.’

  The third man, Hoss Kemp, was echoing the Mexican’s words. All three men laughed, the fire gleaming on white teeth and dancing on the cold blued metal of the pistols at their belts, the Winchester rifles lying alongside blanket rolls and saddles.

  ‘Easy, yes,’ Manson said, ‘because we’re hitting a small town. In and out. Then another. Ajo. Then Gila Bend. Mohawk, maybe – unless by then or before then we’ve got enough so that we can call it a day and push on all the way.’

  ‘To Yuma,’ Guerrero said, nodding sagely. ‘And when we get to Yuma with this enough that by then will be bulging our saddle-bags – then what?’

  ‘Then it’s Ben,’ Manson said. ‘My brother, Ben, and the end of a long hard road to justice.’

  ‘You transmitted the wire?’

  ‘From Nogales, to Yuma? Yes. To a certain prison warden who’s now rubbing his fat hands as he looks out of his office window. Watching, with impatience and greed, for three riders with fat saddle-bags.’ He grinned. ‘You were there, Guerrero. You saw me write it with a stub of pencil, saw the telegraph man check it, pass it as OK—’

  ‘I speak English very well but—’

  ‘Very well,’ Kemp said, eyebrows raised, and he and Manson grinned without rancour at the Mexican.

  ‘But my reading is not so very well,’ Guerrero went on as he matched their broad grins. ‘So now I am making sure, before we proceed, what I see with my eyes is what happens, exactamente, sin lugar a dudas, which is to say—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I got it right, no question, amigo,’ Manson said, nodding. ‘That’s the way it is. Exactamente.’

  ‘So after the business with the wire, and a succession of small towns that take us eventually to the ciudad of Yuma with its prisión and your brother – after that. . . ?

  ‘After that,’ Hoss Kemp said, ‘you and me, we’re in the dark.’

  For the first time there was a faint hint of annoyance in his voice as he looked at Manson.

  ‘We know how some of the cash we accumulate in a succession of highly risky ventures will be used, but what happens to the rest of it? You about to enlighten us, Manson?’

  ‘Cash has a habit of dribbling through a man’s fingers. I want it to grow, for us, for you, me, for Ben – for all of us. I’ve got it all figured out, trust me—’

  ‘Manson is a caballero,’ Guerrero said, as if talking to himself, and now his white teeth glistened beneath his fine moustache, but the grin failed to reach his liquid black eyes. ‘He is a caballero, but like us he is also a bandido – and yet he is ask us to a confiar en él, to trust him—’

  ‘You’ve got no choice,’ Manson said bluntly.

  ‘But yes, we have every choice.’

  ‘Leave it, Guerrero,’ Kemp said impatiently, and he stabbed a finger at Manson. ‘Sasabe. Why there first? Why not another small town? One closer to Yuma would make more sense, save riding halfway across Arizona Territory with stolen banknotes busting from our saddle-bags.’

  ‘There’s a man in Sasabe with a debt to pay,’ Manson said, and as the sudden edge in his voice made the other two men exchange swift glances, understanding flared in Kemp’s eyes.

  ‘This debt got anything to do with your brother?’

  ‘Not anything,’ Manson corrected, ‘everything.’

  ‘And this man,’ Guerrero said, ‘he is aware that you are about to collect?’

  ‘He’s not aware now,’ Manson said, ‘and when he does realize what’s happening he’ll be looking into the muzzle of my six-gun and bracing himself for the bullet that will end his miserable life.’

  The next day, in a low timber office block on a naked ridge overlooking the lights of Tombstone, Arizona, another three men were sitting at a long table. Blinds were pulled down over the small windows. A single oil lamp with a battered tin reflector cast its light over just a small portion of that room. Beneath it, the smoke from expensive cigars swirled and eddied. The men were all dressed in dark suits. String ties were pulled down from white collars loosened around glistening, fleshy necks.

  Instead of coffee from tin cups, the men were drinking expensive whiskey from crystal glasses. The heavy glasses did not belong to them. They and the whiskey they contained were the property of the man who should have been sitting at the head of the table. Some three months previously, in July of 1880, he had been shot dead by a drunken cowboy as he walked out of the Eagle Brewery on the corner of Fifth and Allen Streets.

  When Frank ‘Haggerty’ Hainsworth dropped dead in a pool of blood, his big heart ripped asunder by the blast from a powerful six-gun, the Silver Lode Mining Company that was his brain child was effectively finished. He was the man with the drive, the personality, the intimate knowledge of silver mining. He was also the man with the money. Regularly over the past three months the men who were his business colleagues had gathered around the table agonizing over how to keep going while all around them vital supplies were dwindling, hard-working men were clamouring for wages and the banks were turning stony faces to entreaties that lacked the weight of collateral.

  This latest, late-night meeting had been called out of desperation. At least one of the men had been recommending that they cut and run. That man was Dane Swift. Now, ten minutes after the door had banged shut, match flames had been applied to fat cigars and whiskey splashed into the late Frank Hainsworth’s sparkling glasses, the man who had been planning a new life in California was sitting back in his chair and looking smug.

  ‘Swallowed the cream,’ Dougie Grant said, rocking as he watched Swift.

  ‘Aye, and then the cat got his tongue.’

  That was Ernest Gallagher, the bruiser of the trio, the Scotsman who spent a lot of time getting his hands dirty alongside the men mining the silver. He had no time for banks, but knew that without money no project could succeed. He left the negotiating to the other two men, but was fast running out of patience.

  ‘So what is it?’ he said now. ‘Have you a light in your eye because your passage is booked? Are you letting us know that you’re away from Tombstone on the morrow?’

  ‘Not tomorrow,’ Swift said. ‘There’s no longer any need to run like dogs with our tails between our legs. When we do walk out of here we’ll walk out with our heads high and money in the bank.’

  ‘The banks don’t want
to know you,’ Gallagher said bluntly, ‘and if you’ve got any money to put in there it’ll be swallowed up.’

  ‘New money,’ Swift said.

  ‘New money from where?’

  Swift met Grant’s challenging gaze.

  ‘I’ve been doing some quiet negotiating. To keep the banks in the dark and ensure secrecy I needed to hide everything from you. Now that the deal’s done, I can apologize. And, yes, the deal is done. As you know, I was in Benson yesterday. A final offer came in by telegraph, and it’s an offer we cannot refuse—’

  ‘Be very careful,’ Grant said, again cutting in. ‘Bank drafts, cheques, they can all go belly up. If those bank drafts come from an unreliable source. . . .’

  He pulled a face, glanced across at Gallagher who simply shrugged.

  ‘This is cash,’ Swift said quietly, and there was quiet amusement in his eyes as he watched his companions digest the startling news.

  ‘A time of seven days was mooted,’ Swift went on. ‘I agreed. When that time or its approximation has elapsed, a man will walk in here and on this table he will spread enough cash to buy us out.’ He grinned at Gallagher. ‘California’s still there in my sights, Paddy, only the dream’s become a reality.’

  ‘Has he got a name?’ Grant said, ‘this mysterious benefactor?’

  ‘He’s intelligent, and a humorist,’ Swift said. ‘He calls himself Midas.’

  Chapter One

  It was well past midnight when eighteen-year-old Nathan Creed walked unsteadily out of the Buenos Tiempos saloon in Sasabe, Arizona. He wore tipped back on his head the battered, flat-crowned black hat with silver conchos sewn on its band that he had picked up on a trip into Mexico. He walked carefully, but the worn-down heels of his boots rolled on the rough plank walk. He staggered, muttered a soft, ‘Whoa, there,’ as he listed gently to one side and, with intense concentration, rested his weight carefully against one of the mesquite poles supporting the ramada. There, his shoulder occasionally slipping off old peeled wood worn slick by the grasp of countless hands – and drawing a startled ‘Whoops’ from parted lips – he dug out the makings and began rolling a cigarette.

  He did it well, chuckling throatily as he managed to get most of the tobacco flakes into the paper, the paper rolled into a misshapen cylinder. He stuck the somewhat flattened cylinder between his lips. It hung there, quivering and shedding tobacco as he twisted his lips this way and that way in a grimace and patted his pockets for a Lucifer. He tried to focus his gaze on the cigarette between his lips, and succeeded only in crossing his eyes. Then, wagging his head in drunken appreciation of his quick thinking, he took the cigarette out of his mouth and cupped it in his hand to avoid further damage.

  Suddenly, with his other hand trapped in his pocket, he grunted in shock as a tremendous blow struck him between the shoulders. He hit the mesquite pole with his head, lost his footing and fell sprawling on the warm boards. Prostrate, head ringing, he heard two men roaring with laughter as they fled, their pounding boots vibrating the boards beneath his face.

  ‘Sons of bitches.’

  Cursing softly and with a noticeable slurring of the sibilants, he clambered to his feet. He opened his fist, stared blankly at the crumpled ruins of his cigarette, then threw it high in the air and tilted his head backwards to watch the shreds of paper and tobacco float away on the breeze. The move was his undoing. He promptly spun dizzily and fell off the plank walk into the street.

  It was a drop of two-and-a-half feet. He hit hard, and rolled under the hitch rail. That put him too close to the stamping, razor-sharp hoofs of his skittish pony. He rose, spitting dust, grabbed a stirrup and hauled himself upright. Then, breathing hard and rubbing his ribs, he climbed aboard the brown-and-white pinto, looped the reins in his palm and leaned forward with both hands resting on the saddle horn.

  ‘All right then,’ he said harshly, ‘if that’s the way you want it.’ And as he looked down the street, there was menace in his voice, and a vindictiveness out of all proportion with the rough but harmless prank that had been played on him.

  The two men who had slammed into him were clear in the moonlight. As Creed watched, they split up. One crossed the street, heading for the livery barn. The other, the taller and broader of the two, turned into the jail.

  Creed grinned lopsidedly. Sasabe was a border settlement in the Altar Valley – not big enough to call a town, in Creed’s opinion. There was a saloon – Good Times, if you wanted it in English – a general store, a livery barn at the end of the one wide, dusty street, with a big corral out back. A bank, too, which Creed’s pa managed; the main office was in Phoenix. And a jail. With an honest to goodness marshal, and his ornery brother who was also deputy marshal: Slade and Will Hawker.

  The marshal and his jail were special for two reasons. First was that a settlement the size of Sasabe wouldn’t have a lawman of any kind if it wasn’t for the proximity of the border with Mexico. The second was that the adobe building housing the jail and the office was the only business premises in Sasabe that didn’t bear Nathan Creed’s very special signature.

  That was about to be rectified.

  With a click of his tongue and a flick of the reins, Creed started his horse down the street. It was less than fifty yards to the jail. There was nobody about. By the time he’d covered half the distance he had a Colt .44 in each hand and was guiding the paint with his knees.

  The man who had entered the jail had slammed the door behind him; the thud of its closing had drifted up the street to Creed. The office windows – one either side of the door – were small and barred. Creed could see the light glowing inside the room. Shadows drifted between the light and the windows. As he drew closer he could hear the murmur of voices.

  Then he was level with the building. With a nudge of his right knee he turned the pinto. Then he settled himself in the saddle, and opened fire.

  He had six shells in each Colt. Adobe chips flew from holes punched in the walls as he planted a neat row of six spaced shots beneath each window. He took his time. Gunsmoke coiled around his head as the six-guns kicked in his hands. Muzzle flashes lit up the white walls. The fierce crackle of the explosions bounced back from the adobe and was absorbed by the night.

  Then the door crashed open.

  Two men piled out, bare-headed. Guns glittered in their fists. On their chests, badges in the shape of stars glinted in the moonlight.

  With a mighty ‘Yee-hah’, Creed spun both pistols so that they entered their respective holsters with a dull thunk, wheeled his horse away from the squat building and raked it with his spurs. Flattened along the pony’s neck, arms outstretched above its head so that the reins were held high and the horse’s soft mane flared in his face, he pulled a long plume of dust behind him as he left town at a furious gallop with the loud yells of angry men and his own helpless laughter ringing in his ears.

  He’d expected the house to be in darkness when he arrived home, but, as he rode around to the small corral and settled the pinto in the stable for the night, he was aware that the oil lamp was still lit in the main room. He lingered, knowing that more trouble was brewing. When he finally left the corral, made his way back along the white picket fence and walked up the path to the steps, his father’s tall, bearded figure was a menacing shape in the doorway.

  ‘We live too damn close to town for your good,’ Alexander Creed said. ‘I could hear the shooting and the shouting even before I heard you hammering that pony down the trail.’

  ‘Nothing more to say, then,’ Nathan Creed said, and he stepped up and tried to push his way in.

  ‘You think not?’ his father said, his bulk blocking the way. ‘I’m beginning to believe it’s wrong for you to live at home. You cause so much trouble you’d be better off out of here; better off in a room at that drinking den where you perform menial tasks, on your own where the only harm you do is to yourself.’

  ‘Strikes me that’s what you’ve been planning for some time,’ his son said bitterly. ‘First Ma, now me—’