Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Yuma, A Hell on Earth
Yuma, A Hell on Earth
Yuma, A Hell on Earth
Ebook226 pages4 hours

Yuma, A Hell on Earth

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

Gene Hamilton walked the heated streets of Yuma, Arizona Territory and felt good. But, the heat was almost unbearable. He did try to stop a fight in front of the saloon. Big mistake. He turned and struck someone he thought was interfering with his peacemaking: Sheriff Sweeney. The 3 months in Yuma Territorial Prison was the sentence. It wasn't long before he found his ranch was taken away from him for failing to pay the taxes. Who? That led him to a strange and tangled mess of unknown people doing very bad things to not just Gene, but to others. Why? Then he saw her. She was a vision in this miserable Hell on Earth. The mystery wove around him, he was shot, taken to the hospital where the vision treated him with the help of a competent doctor. That same woman was taken captive as a warning to Gene and he had to rescue her. The last thing he wanted was a woman of her class and style to be caught up in his problems, but that was only his want, not what happened.
The end of this book deals with the solution to why things were so corrupt in the city at the time. It appears Gene Hamilton and his secret might go to the grave with him. The fast pace of the action leads you to the conclusion this is how things ought to be done.
* * * *
The action is quick and the reading is wonderful. The old west comes alive. The heat and the conditions around the river beside which Yuma was built is as visual as a writer can make it. Wonderful words. Olin is a magic maker. His stories are fast and they make the hero into reality and the heroine a true subject to be admired in the old west.
— Kelly Kelton, writer and editor

LanguageEnglish
PublisherSam Warren
Release dateAug 27, 2011
ISBN9780945949695
Yuma, A Hell on Earth

Read more from Olin Thompson

Related to Yuma, A Hell on Earth

Related ebooks

Western Fiction For You

View More

Related articles

Reviews for Yuma, A Hell on Earth

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    Yuma, A Hell on Earth - Olin Thompson

    Yuma

    A Hell on Earth

    by Olin Thompson

    SMASHWORDS EDITION

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    ISBN: 978-0-945949-69-5

    Copyright © 2008 by Olin Thompson

    This eBook was produced in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

    Published by:

    BOOKWARREN PUBLISHING SERVICES

    3322 Eighth Ave., Studio 1

    San Diego, CA 92103

    mailto:info@bookwarren.com

    Website: http://www.bookwarren.com

    Prologue

    In the late 1800s, 1890 to be exact, there were a group of men and women who became so interested in law enforcement they went to extreme lengths to become what their ancestors had: Sheriffs and Marshals in every large and small town throughout the west.

    There was even a few who got special assignments and went about them in the most professional and serious manner.

    This time of the United States was beginning to know what really good law enforcement was all about. It wasn’t fast draw in the middle of Dodge City or Cut Bank or Cody. It often took long hours, hard work, and the ability to study the evidence and bring bad guys to trial.

    Women soon became as important a part of the law agencies as deputies and detectives as many of the men.

    This story could be one of them. Maybe it was. We might never know unless someone writes a story about them.

    And maybe this is one.

    Chapter 1

    I hated the summers in Yuma and now I even hate them more. I can imagine what the first settlers from the north and east thought when they arrived in the winter. Must have felt like heaven to them.

    But that doesn't mean they, or I, like the summers.

    Damn, it's hot! I nodded to two women who seemed to me to be overdressed for the heat. The Doc walked by carrying his black bag and wearing a somber look.

    Hidy, I said.

    Yes, he said and continued.

    And the weather wasn't any better earlier this year.

    I had just walked out of the bank and onto the board walk – I looked up and saw that whore hanging out of that window and near choked, she was sure a pretty woman for being..., you know.

    Anyhow, my down at the heel boots clomped on the boards as I headed east, all the while swatting the flies away. The traffic was light, it always is at that time of the afternoon. Quiet too, except for the rattle of the high wheel ranch wagon – looked full of groceries and lumber; it kicked up dust on its way out to Lester's place with Lester at the reins.

    I remember the last time I saw Yuma like this. It was like yesterday. But, it was three months ago. Actually a little more than three months, but not much more.

    Nothing hardly never changes in Yuma; so yesterday was much like three months ago and vicey versy.

    But three months ago....

    Rojo Gonzales and another man were pushing and shoving one another out front of the saloon. I tried to avoid them, but they were taking up most of the shade.

    Stop this, I said. I really meant it. You guys stop it right now! I added somewhat forcefully and I think I sorta pushed them toward the door of the Bird Dog Saloon and Gaming House. At least that's their story; they said I shoved them. I don't think it was that much of a push, but then everyone is entitled to their opinion. Even if it's wrong.

    Shit! the other man said and spit a big brown glob of something ugly at my feet. Never knew this jasper's name. Called him Brownie for some reason.

    I think, I might be wrong; I was pretty near in control when I hit him in the forehead with a blow that shook my shoulder. I turned to Gonzales, who raised both hands to indicate he wanted no trouble. None of us were wearing guns that day. Musta been a holiday or something.

    Now I'm almost six feet two and in this climate and under these conditions I'm pretty slender and fit. I think I weighed up near a hundred eighty about then. But, I don't take advantage of my strength. It don't pay a bit to push other folks around a lot. I was, that day, celebrating the nearness of my twenty fifth birthday. Older than I wanted to be at that time and still single even though everyone knew I'd been married, in New Mexico, once, to a pretty woman who rode off with a thieving banker from San Antonio, though I’d been sorta attached to several nice looking women, but that was also in the past and none of them ever seemed to work out. She got the divorce and I had nothin to say about it.

    Maybe not enough baths in the stock tank? Hell, I donno. I gotta admit I missed a few days now and then with the soap; but, as I'd explain to anyone who really cared, after my woman left there was no one around but me anyhow, and I can't smell myself mos'times. And I never even reconsider the woman I married.

    I'd tell any who wondered, Her bankerman's dead, I hear. Died trying to defraud some other bank of its money and got plugged as he ran out the door. Defraud may not be the word, but it's more charitable than bank robbing and I think he mighta been doing that more than the other,

    I told that to a fellow at the poker table one night. Won the pot. Musta been near fifty dollars. Also musta been drinking a little too much as well. I hardly never say anythin' about her. Or that damn banker neither.

    But back last spring, the hand on my shoulder was firm.

    I figgered it was a friend of the downed man, Brownie, who was rubbing his eyes and then rolled over on his stomach.

    I turned and launched a fist at the shoulder grabber. It was the right thing to do, I believed. At the time. I used my left, a looping hard swung left; but, I could hardly take it back when I saw the star pinned to Jim Sweeney's pocket.

    He went down like a pole axed steer and didn't bounce back up real fast. I bent over and touched his arm and thought I was comforting him.

    I didn't mean to hurt you, I told him. My voice, I hoped, was filled with sorrow and sadness at the act. Sorry, Jim, I said again.

    The Doc, who happened along, tended to the Marshal just then, touching his wrist, checking his eyes, and got waved off for all the trouble.

    Sorry, my ass; it don't get you no days off, Sweeney said ignoring the doctor, did a push up, then knees under, and finally stood.

    I said I was sorry, I told him once more and hoped the plea in my voice was enough.

    Listen here, Gene. You done three things wrong here. You hit that man, and I saw you. Jim nodded to the downed fellow who was now standing by the door with what looked like a wet cloth as a compress on his eye. You hit me, and I seen and felt that, Sweeney rubbed his temple where the blow had obviously landed, and you didn't get outta town 'fore I could catch you. The deep blue forty four forty appeared sudden like in his fingers. Real gentle, Sweeney was, with that gun. And the meanest look you ever saw in a person, but about average for the typical law dog.

    The Doc shook his head and walked off down the street without further comment. It seemed he had nothing to say except that one word when we met earlier.

    I wasn't leavin' for no reason, I said easily, knowing full well I wasn't a bad man and didn't need to run anywhere.

    You are under arrest for the assault of that man, Jim said loudly and looked to the groggy fellow once more.

    I shook my head and felt Sweeney might be right, but now it was too late to run.

    And also you done hit me, a law official person in the course of my duties. Gonna get you some time in the juzgado, Jim informed me. He waved the pistol in an arc toward the sunshine side of the street and I knew it was time to do as he said. We marched off toward the cracker box he called a jail where he hung his pistol and belt on a peg stuck in the adobe wall. Mine was over the saddle of my horse in the barn down the street – YUMA HAY AND FEED they called themselves.

    So, there I was and hanging wasn't good enough for me, it appeared. Trial followed quickly. Too quickly if you were to ask me. The Judge is reputed to give fast and furious justice, if someone wanted to call it justice.

    Harumph. I'm living proof the reputation is earned. Overnight, it seemed, though it was actually three days.

    Guilty, the five men said. They couldn't get a full twelve men sober enough in Yuma to serve on the jury, it seemed, so the judge allowed as how five was enough. Three of the near drunks were soldiers from the fort and two were citizens dragged off the street.

    Your honor, I tried to complain. That damn lawyer I'd hired from the bottom of my meager bank account sat there stump stupid writing or doodling on a piece of paper.

    Too late. You get ninety days in jail for hittin' Sweeney and if you don't like that I'll hand you over for another thirty days for hittin' that other fellow, the Judge said and banged his gavel. Yuma prison too, since the jail's bein' tore down for a new one. That prison is a place you don't ever want to go to twict, the Judge gravel voiced at me and glowered at the same time.

    But, your honor, the other feller didn't even come to court and complain, I tried.

    It's enough that Sweeney saw it all. You got that ninety days for assault on a peace officer in his official duties and a ten dollar fine to pay for court costs. Now, next case, the Judge said to Sweeney.

    Your honor, I pled over my shoulder as Sweeney dragged me out of the court room. My lawyer just sat there. He had done little enough to help me get out of this predicament; sonofabitch didn't even sweat. What sort of lawyer man is that? And, he didn't even call Gonzales to get him to tell the whole story and nothing but the truth. And then that damn ten dollar Fine was just a way to get the judge some money he didn't deserve. He'd likely drink it up before the night was down where the coyotes would start yowling.

    Git! the Judge said and glowered some more. The gavel came down, Bang!

    I wondered what my lawyer – what the hell was his name? I think it was something like Sonderberg, anyhow he was a Swede who came south from Wisconsin or someplace and settled in Yuma which was his big mistake – I wondered how he would handle the appeal.

    The stupid oaf just shrugged.

    Now, three months plus later, my horse had been sold as part of the fine I was required to pay. I knew my ranch had gone to seed, I was afoot in Yuma with little enough money in the bank, and the Marshal looking over my shoulder as if daring me to be a bad boy again and get sent off for life or worse in that damn' Yuma prison.

    I need to get a horse, I told the banker and wrote a counter draft to take enough money out to get off my feet and on the hurricane deck of some cayuse.

    Your money's been growin', the man informed me as he smiled and took the ledger to his desk. Looks like you got nearly eight hundred dollars.

    I know I looked amazed. I had nothing near that when I started my first day in prison – damn that was a bad day for me to remember and I would have to try to forget it. That was like a person trying not to think of the elephant, though.

    How much?

    Seven hundred ninety one dollars and 44 cents. What with the deposits and the interest at two and a half percent, well, it mounted real quick, he said.

    Deposits?

    Sure, he turned the ledger toward me. You know, he said and pointed to the forty dollars a week entries.

    Who did that? I was looking at him with what had to be the most amazed expression ever. I'd never earned that much money in a month, much less a week when I was riding. Hell, as a ranch owner, and that's a big comeup from what I usta be, I made less than half that each month with expenses. Forty a week was big money to me no matter what job I hold.

    Donno, he said, still smiling and wiping sweat, but seemed to be as interested as me. Came in the post. From, he paused and rummaged around his desk and workplace as if looking for something, I just opened the envelopes and took out the money and credited it to your account. He shrugged as if he'd been unable to locate what he was looking for and looked up to me. I think they came from Tucson.

    Someone loves me, I breathed softly and then said I hoped it was not a big mistake. I actually figured I had nearer two hundred than eight hundred. With my own money I could get me a feeble saddle horse, though I'd seen my hull which had cracked from the heat and sun was still sitting on the fence down at the feed and grain lot. I'd have to head back to the ranch soon. It was only down to the Salidita, a smaller version of the Laguna Salida over by the Mexican border with California; but that didn't mean I wanted to walk it. Thirty miles is thirty miles, but seems more like a hundred in cowboy slippers, and they were as cracked and worn as my uncared for saddle.

    And, I dreamed, with eight hundred dollars the possibilities were clearly more appealing. A good horse and a new saddle both. But, fortunately, I held back. Good sense is not my middle name, but today it was the better choice.

    Thanks, I said as the man handed over tens, a couple of fives, and a hand full of change. I asked for it that way.

    Anytime. Ya'll come back now, hear?

    Sure, I said to myself. Why not? I got a rainbow pot full of gold here. Why wouldn't I?

    The grulla I bought was named Red Rock. I don't know why. No grulla has any part of him red, so I still wasn't any wiser. The saddler gave him to me for a good price. Better than I thought I ought to have had.

    And after a night of saddle soap and leather dressing the hull was in good enough shape I could ride it without the crack pinching my butt. That old hurricane deck would have to be replaced sooner than I would have

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1