Leaving Yuma Read online

  Thankfully Selma was right about Del abandoning the search when he found the derringer. Keeping a firm hold on my collar, he manhandled me through the door and down the stairs, Selma’s forlorn, “Good bye, J. T.,” trailing after me.

  Session Three

  Ready? Well, before we stopped for you to change disks on your recorder, I was telling you about Del Buchman finding Selma’s little Philadelphia derringer tucked inside the waistband of my trousers, and the sulky mood that put him in. He dragged me downstairs, making sure to slam me into the wall a few times along the way to express his displeasure.

  Goldie showed up with a swarthy, broad-shouldered gent I took to be Tony, probably to investigate the ruckus we’d made in Selma’s room, but I reckon Goldie could tell from Del’s expression that whatever was going on wasn’t anything she wanted to involve herself in. Goldie Werner had been running successful whore houses along the Arizona border for nearly two decades, and knew when to keep her lips zipped. She didn’t say anything as Del propelled me through the door and all but pitched me, headfirst, off the front porch. Although I tumbled ass over tea kettle across the bare yard, sweet Selma’s nickel-plated Colt didn’t budge an inch inside its lacy holster—bless that little gal’s true-blue heart.

  “On your feet, Latham,” Del barked.

  I stood, picking up my hat. My left cheek stung from its contact with the gravelly soil and my shoulder ached from its numerous collisions with the stairway wall, but I was more concerned with what Del was going to do next. I won’t deny I was just about quaking in my boots for fear he’d haul me back to Rynning, but I guess he needed my knowledge of that country south of Moralos more than he needed to fulfill his promise of returning me to the Hill if I tried to double-cross him. I decided that was a good thing to know, but nothing I wanted to test the limits on, as we hiked to the Southern Pacific depot a couple of blocks away.

  The 11:40 p.m. to Gila Bend rolled in about twenty minutes early, then spent thirty minutes taking on water and coal while the passengers from San Diego disembarked and those heading on east from Yuma mounted the iron steps to the twin passenger coaches hooked behind the mail car. Del led me to the second coach and pushed me onto a rear bench. His lips were squeezed tight as a poorly healed scar. He hadn’t said a word since leaving Goldie’s, and neither had I.

  The rear car was nearly empty, probably fewer than a dozen passengers, all told. A drummer in a gaudy plaid suit and dusty derby asked to sit with us, but Del jabbed a thumb toward the front of the coach like a choleric hitchhiker, and the salesman took the hint.

  Despite the tension between Del and myself, I was feeling good as the lights of Yuma fell to the rear. As the rails swung north, I could see the massive bulk of the penitentiary, squatting like a fat gargoyle above the town. There was a light glowing at the sally port and another in the warden’s private residence outside the walls, but the rest of the giant structure seemed as dark as the souls of the men trapped inside its eight-foot-thick walls.

  The tracks took us north for a while, then northeast along the south bank of the Gila. I was sitting next to the window on the river side of the car, facing forward with my cheek pressed against the frame, breathing in the cool desert air that flowed through the half-opened portal—intermittently interrupted by vagrant clouds of acidic coal smoke, laced with tiny, wind-borne cinders. But I didn’t care. I was leaving Yuma behind at something like forty miles per hour, and would have ate mud if that’s what it took.

  We were about an hour out of the station when I told Del I needed to use the facilities. After giving me an annoyed glance, he pushed stiffly to his feet and accompanied me to the small chamber at the rear of the coach.

  “I’m going to need these off,” I said, holding up my cuffed wrists.

  He peered inside the rocking privy, grunted at the size of the window, then loosened one of the manacles, only to close it a moment later around a brass rail bolted to the side wall. I had to bite my lip to keep from saying anything, although I’ll admit it was nice to have at least one of the damned things off.

  “You got two minutes,” Del growled.

  “I’m going to need five,” I said, then shut the door in his face.

  The first thing I did after throwing the dead bolt was to lower my trousers far enough to retrieve the Colt from its black lace holster. Although the gun had remained snuggly in place all night, its sharper edges, and especially the hammer spur, had been gouging into the soft flesh above my knee ever since leaving Goldie’s. Figuring it would be too risky to carry it in my pocket, I scooted everything—pistol and garter both—down until it was cradled inside my right boot top with the butt sloping forward for an easy grab. Well, as easy as it was ever going to get, buried inside my boot and under my pant leg.

  Del was glowering suspiciously as he led me to my seat—I’d lost a lot of ground with him over that derringer—but, instead of reattaching the shackle to my other wrist, he fastened it to the decorative, wrought-iron scroll of the seat’s arm.

  I studied him curiously as he locked the cuff. “You ain’t getting soft in your old age, are you, Del?”

  “Shut up, Latham. I’m going outside for a smoke, but I’ll be poking my head back inside from time to time, in case you get any more fancy notions like that one you got at Goldie’s.”

  “I reckon I’m fresh out of fancy,” I replied, grinning.

  “You’d better get fresh out of that smartassed attitude of yours, before I go looking for a crowbar to pry it out.”

  He pocketed the key, then exited the coach, pulling the door closed, none too gently, behind him.

  I was tired, and after a few minutes I pulled my coat over my shoulders and curled up on the hard bench as best I could. It wasn’t comfortable, but I’ve slept in worse locations, and it wasn’t long before I dozed off.

  It was still dark when a change in the train’s cadence eased me from my slumber. I opened my eyes. Del was seated across from me, arms folded, his head bobbing loosely, although he came instantly awake when I sat up, his hand sliding instinctively inside his coat for the revolver. I smelled whiskey on him, and knew it hadn’t been a cigar he’d gone outside for.

  Sensing the train’s slackening speed, Del twisted around to peer out the window. There was a light up ahead, a red-shaded lantern swinging steadily back and forth in a stationmaster’s hand, signaling a stop.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “Sentinel, more than likely.”

  “What time is it?”

  He hauled out his pocket watch. “Three o’clock.”

  I leaned close to the window to see what I could in the moonlight. We’d come through Sentinel on our way to Yuma in 1903, but hadn’t stopped. It was, to my knowledge, a refueling station for coal and water, and of little use otherwise. There were a few buildings scattered around the station house, some scrubby trees, a water tank, and not much else. Then the engine began to brake firmly enough for the cars to roll forward with their customary crash of steel couplings that shook everyone from their slumber.

  The conductor came down the aisle, swaying with a natural rhythm to the coach. “Just a quick stop, folks. Need to let a couple of passengers off.”

  I leaned back in my seat and chuckled. “Who in their right mind would get off out here?” I wondered aloud. Then my smile faded at the taut grin on Buchman’s face.

  “On your feet,” he ordered, loosening my cuff just long enough to return it to my free wrist.

  I stood reluctantly. I could tell from the way the bushes were whipping back and forth in the light from the station house that it was windy. It was probably going to be cold, too, the way nights in the desert often are at that time of year.

  The train stopped and we got off, and then it pulled forward again, couplings clashing as it slowly picked up speed. I stood on the station platform and watched it grow smaller, the single lantern hanging from the re
ar of the caboose pulling in on itself like a rapidly healing wound. The elderly stationmaster blew out his lantern and set it inside the shack that passed for the depot, then hobbled down the steps and made his way to a small frame house, its wood siding scoured by blowing sand to the same dull gray as the rest of the town.

  “Ain’t very talkative, is he?” I observed as the lamp inside the stationmaster’s house was extinguished, reducing the structure to a dark blob against the lighter desert behind it.

  “I doubt he’s got much to talk about out here,” Del replied.

  “You’d think he’d be curious about us.”

  “I expect his curiosity’s already been satisfied on that subject.”

  There was an ungodly roar from behind the depot, then a pop like a gunshot. Looking relieved, Del said, “Grab your stuff. We’re pulling out.”

  My stomach was already knotting up as I followed Del down off the platform. The racket grew louder, a mechanical barrage of valves and pistons, seemingly at war with each other. After a moment the gnashing smoothed out, settling into a low, steady rumble like that of an asthmatic cougar. Seconds later a hulking steel giant lumbered around the side of the station and rolled to a stop a few feet away. Huge brass headlights mounted in front of the fenders reminded me of the bulging eyes of a child’s nightmare, the exposed front chassis its sinister snarl. The roar of the engine quieted to an idle, and the door swung open.

  Del quickly stepped forward to shake the driver’s hand. “Damn it, Spence, when I didn’t see you, I was afraid you hadn’t made it,” he said loudly, above the digestive-like sounds of the machine.

  “Sure, I made ’er. I was just catchin’ me some shut-eye out back, where the old man who runs this shit hole couldn’t give me the evil eye.” He was of average height but thickly built, with a head like a rock fixed to the top of a three-foot section of crosstie instead of shoulders, his face a battered map of past brawls. He wore a linen duster over heavy wool trousers and a red-and-green striped sweater. A pair of goggles hung from around the stump that was his neck. Eyeing me with the scrutiny of a horse trader judging a possible purchase, he said, “I see ye got ’im.”

  “Yeah, I got him. Rynning didn’t want to give him up, but there wasn’t much he could say when I showed him the governor’s letter and the pardon.”

  “Still cuffed, though.”

  Del chuckled. “He got a little too ambitious back in Yuma and tried to steal a gun.”

  “That wasn’t stealing,” I protested. “It was a gift from an old friend.”

  “It was one of those old, single-shot muzzleloading popguns a whore gave him,” Del corrected. “The dumbass forgot to cap it.”

  The driver laughed good-naturedly. “Ye’ve gotta cap ’em, lad,” he told me. “They won’t fire if ye don’t.”

  “It was a gift,” I repeated stubbornly. “I didn’t cap it because I didn’t want it going off and shooting ol’ cupid there in the butt.”

  Del swung around. “You put a cork in that trap of yours, Latham, or I’ll by God cork it with my fist.”

  I looked at the other guy and winked. I knew I was risking a punch in the nose for my trouble, but something was telling me to push back a little, keep the old lawman off balance.

  Buchman threw his gear—a leather valise and a pair of saddlebags, plus my stuff—into a wooden trunk bolted to the automobile’s rear fender, then shrugged into a heavy corduroy coat with a fur collar and toggle buttons.

  While he was doing that, the burly driver came over. “Spencer McKenzie,” he said, thrusting a mechanic’s greasy paw toward me. “I reckon ye’re Latham?”

  “J. T. Latham.”

  “Well, best we be gettin’ mounted, J. T. Latham, for ’tis a long trip to Moralos, and a poor road, to boot. Assumin’ we can find it.”

  I hesitated. “We’re going to Moralos from here? Ain’t that taking the long way in?”

  “Aye, but ’twas Mister Davenport’s orders, and I won’t question a man who’s payin’ me seventy-five dollars a month. Come on now, time’s a-wastin’.”

  “What is this thing?” I asked as we approached the automobile.

  “She’s a 1906 Berkshire!” he exclaimed proudly. “Belongs to Lord Davenport, she does, though he’s hired me to wrangle the thing for him.” He patted the hood as affectionately as a cowpuncher might the shoulder of a favorite horse. “She’s got a thirty-five horsepower engine and a transmission guaranteed never to strip a gear, which makes me love her all the more out in these lonely parts.”

  What he was said makes perfect sense now, but it might as well have been ancient Greek at the time. The only thing I knew with any certainty was that I’d never ridden in an automobile in my life, and I sure as Hades didn’t want to start then.

  Laughing good-naturedly, Spence said, “Don’t act so glum, lad. ’Tis the future ye’re lookin’ at here.”

  Well, it was the future, all right, and we all know it now, but, that night in Sentinel, the thought of crawling inside that huffing contraption had my stomach tied in knots that just kept drawing tighter and tighter.

  Del was already in the back seat. He motioned me into the front. “Where I can keep an eye on you,” he said, then tapped the revolver under his arm. “I’ll be keeping my hand close to this, too, in case you start thinking unhealthy thoughts, like trying to jump and run.”

  “Why don’t you take these cuffs off so I can put my coat on?” I said. “It’s going to get cold when we start moving.”

  “You’re gonna freeze your ass off,” he agreed cheerfully, and I knew he was getting back at me for that cupid remark.

  Climbing into the huge front seat, I pulled my coat over me like a blanket. Spencer got in behind the big wooden steering wheel and began fiddling with levers and pedals and knobs and who knew what all, and the next thing I knew we were moving. I remember pressing back into the deep leather of the Berkshire’s seat, bracing my heels against the floorboard as the vehicle lurched over the iron rails of the Southern Pacific tracks and gradually picked up speed. Although the car was equipped with headlamps, Spence hadn’t bothered to light them. With the moon nearly full and the lights of the tiny station quickly fading behind us, we didn’t need them.

  For the first hour or so it seemed like we were just weaving aimlessly through the desert, circling sprawling patches of prickly pear or creeping through shallow arroyos, but after a while Spence found a trail that appeared to follow the natural contours of the land, taking us southeast toward the Sonita Mountains. I knew those Sonitas pretty well, having traveled through that country numerous times before my arrest, and figured Spence intended to skirt the mountain range’s barren western slopes until we could turn south to Moralos. From the southern tip of the Sonitas, the town would be no more than eighty miles away. If we didn’t end up driving into a cañon and breaking our necks, we’d probably be there sometime that afternoon.

  We were making good time in spite of the ruggedness of the terrain—a whole lot better than we could have done on horseback, that’s for sure—and as much as I hated to admit it, I was growing impressed with the automobile’s capabilities. We were probably doing twenty miles an hour over the flatter stretches, dodging jack rabbits and cactus beds with a dexterity I would have thought impossible for something so big. And the odd thing is, I was enjoying it. I was having fun. Coney Island roller coaster kind of fun, and if you’ve ever been to Coney Island or ridden the Loop-the-Loop, you know what I’m talking about.

  The moon dropped toward the horizon and the light grew dimmer. Spence finally had to stop and light the massive headlamps. While he was doing that, Del leaned over the back of the seat and loosened one of my cuffs.

  “Put your coat on,” he said gruffly. “You keep trembling like that, you’re liable to force us off the road.”

  “What road?” I demanded between chattering teeth.

  Del guffaw
ed as I shivered into my coat and quickly buttoned it to my throat. I was already wearing the deer-hide gloves I’d picked up at Hunsaker’s, and had tugged my hat down almost to my eyes. I could have used a blanket, or, better yet, a heavy buffalo robe, but I doubted if Spence had one in the Berkshire’s wooden trunk.

  We continued on through the night and into the next day, the Berkshire’s engine humming smoothly. We almost made the border before one of the tires went flat. Spence told us not to worry and hopped out of the car. Five minutes later he had a wagon jack under the frame and was cranking the vehicle into the air. He removed the tire with tools dug from the bottom of the trunk, patched the inner tube with a piece of rubber and some glue—not the first time it had been repaired that way, I noticed—then had me refill it with a tire pump while he checked the oil and the water in the radiator. He added gas from a five gallon can strapped to a rear fender, then hauled out some sandwiches and beer for breakfast. Thirty minutes later, we were on our way.

  The trail veered sharply east below the Sonitas, but our destination lay more to the southeast, across a rumpled land of cactus and rocks and a stifling heat that had us shedding our coats before midmorning. Spence had the Berkshire to a crawl as he wove through a jungle of cholla and ocotilla, the spiny plants gouging unrelentingly at the automobile’s paint, peeling it back in thin curling whiskers. Spence was cursing steadily as he battled the huge wheel, while Del and I clung to whatever handhold we could find as the pitching vehicle bulled through the desert flora. When we came to a low-banked, sandy wash late in the morning, Spence wrestled the Berkshire into its middle and cut the engine.

  “What are you doing?” Del demanded. “We can’t stop here.”

  “I can,” Spence wheezed, pulling a wool cap from his head and tossing it on the floor. He slumped back in his seat with his arms limp at his sides, muscles twitching.