Longarm and the Yuma Prison by Tabor Evans Page A

of just a sidearm, but he hadn’t wanted to provoke a fight when he would be badly outnumbered. His hope was that he could ride onto the claim and pretend that he was making a little money delivering and selling whiskey. Maybe he would be invited into the mining camp and the claim jumpers would get drunk and talkative.
    â€œThere they are,” Longarm said out loud to himself after he’d ridden only a mile or two. He reined in the gelding when he saw a sign hanging on a piece of mesquite with the crudely written words NO TRESPASSING! Longarm dismounted and tied the blue roan to a bush, then moved off the road toward a low and rocky hillside that overlooked the river. Flattening out on the hilltop, he studied the work going on about a quarter mile north. Right away he saw two shirtless men busting rock, talking and laughing while another pair came and went delivering wheelbarrows of ore extracted from the mine.
    Longarm studied the men carefully saw that none of the men were packing pistols so he returned to his horse, checked his gun, and remounted. Then, forcing a smile to his face, he rode up the track, ignoring the sign, and came right up on the miners, who were so busy at their labors that they didn’t notice him.
    â€œGood morning!” he called. “You boys sure are hard at work!”
    The pair that had been busting rocks jumped up as if they’d been shot in the pants and lunged for the rifles. Longarm didn’t make any attempt to go for his gun because none of these men looked particularly dangerous. What they really looked like were overworked and underfed prospectors.
    â€œHold up there!” Longarm called, raising his hands. “I didn’t mean any harm and was just following the river north.”
    One of the miners raised his rifle and pointed it at Longarm. “Mister, didn’t you see the sign that says no trespassing!”
    â€œI saw a sign, but I never learned to read. I mean you no harm.”
    â€œTurn that skinny blue horse of yours around and git!”
    Longarm patted his bulging saddlebags. “Truth be told, I’m a whiskey peddler.”
    All four men lowered their rifles and grinned. “You bring some whiskey to sell to us?”
    â€œThat’s right. Four bottles. You men look like you could use a little whiskey to make your lives easier.”
    â€œWe could at that,” a miner with a long, gray beard agreed. “We ain’t been allowed to go into Yuma in more’n a week. When you work as hard as we do in this heat, a week is a long damn time.”
    â€œSure is,” Longarm agreed, trying to look sympathetic to their plight. “So I’ll bet you boys have built up quite a thirst.”
    â€œWe have,” another man said, swallowing hard. “Nothin’ sounds better to me than to sit in that Colorado River and drink whiskey while the water runs over my bare skin like the soft, cool hands of a woman.”
    â€œHow much a bottle?” one of the miners asked.
    â€œTwo dollars.”
    â€œWe ain’t got eight dollars between us,” another said. “But we got these rifles in our hands and you ain’t got shit in yours. Maybe we’ll just shoot you out of the saddle and take your whiskey, your horse, and any money you might be carrying along with that pistol you’re packin’.”
    â€œYou could do that,” Longarm told the men, “but Marshal Beeson and his deputies consider me a friend and they’d be pretty unhappy about you robbing and then killing me.”
    â€œMarshal Beeson is one of the fellas that hired us!” a miner growled, raising his rifle and taking aim.
    Longarm suddenly felt sweat begin to trickle out of his armpits. “Sure he did, along with the judge.”
    The men exchanged questioning glances. “Are you friends with Judge John Thompson, too?” one asked, cocking his head a little to one side as if a slightly different perspective