Certainly, “Three-Ten to Yuma,” which appeared in Dime Western in March 1953, is Leonard at his best and ranks with Hombre as a Western classic. (The 1957 film version, starring Van Heflin and Glenn Ford, is likewise considered by many to be a classic of its type.) But this tense account of a deputy marshal who undertakes the deadly task of delivering a killer to the Yuma penitentiary is also a distinguished noir story, with all the elements of character, plot, incident, and suspense of the best contemporary thriller. With a few alterations, it might well have been written and published as a tale of the 1990s rather than the 1890s.
B. P.
Three-Ten to Yuma
(1953)
He had picked up his prisoner at Fort Huachuca shortly after midnight and now, in a silent early morning mist, they approached Contention. The two riders moved slowly, one behind the other.
Entering Stockman Street, Paul Scallen glanced back at the open country with the wet haze blanketing its flatness, thinking of the long night ride from Huachuca, relieved that this much was over. When his body turned again, his hand moved over the sawed-off shotgun that was across his lap and he kept his eyes on the man ahead of him until they were near the end of the second block, opposite the side entrance of the Republic Hotel.
He said just above a whisper, though it was clear in the silence, “End of the line.”
The man turned in his saddle, looking at Scallen curiously. “The jail’s around on Commercial.”
“I want you to be comfortable.”
Scallen stepped out of the saddle, lifting a Winchester from the boot, and walked toward the hotel’s side door. A figure stood in the gloom of the doorway, behind the screen, and as Scallen reached the steps the screen door opened.
“Are you the marshal?”
“Yes, sir.” Scallen’s voice was soft and without emotion. “Deputy, from Bisbee.”
“We’re ready for you. Two-oh-seven. A corner... fronts on Commercial.” He sounded proud of the accommodation.
“You’re Mr. Timpey?”
The man in the doorway looked surprised. “Yeah, Wells Fargo. Who’d you expect?”
“You might have got a back room, Mr. Timpey. One with no windows.” He swung the shotgun on the man still mounted. “Step down easy, Jim.”
The man, who was in his early twenties, a few years younger than Scallen, sat with one hand over the other on the saddle horn. Now he gripped the horn and swung down. When he was on the ground his hands were still close together, iron manacles holding them three chain lengths apart. Scallen motioned him toward the door with the stubby barrel of the shotgun.
“Anyone in the lobby?”
“The desk clerk,” Timpey answered him, “and a man in a chair by the front door.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He’s asleep... got his brim down over his eyes.”
“Did you see anyone out on Commercial?”
“No... I haven’t been out there.” At first he had seemed nervous, but now he was irritated, and a frown made his face pout childishly.
Scallen said calmly, “Mr. Timpey, it was your line this man robbed. You want to see him go all the way to Yuma, don’t you?”
“Certainly I do.” His eyes went to the outlaw, Jim Kidd, then back to Scallen hurriedly. “But why all the melodrama? The man’s under arrest — already been sentenced.”
“But he’s not in jail till he walks through the gates at Yuma,” Scallen said. “I’m only one man, Mr. Timpey, and I’ve got to get him there.”
“Well, dammit... I’m not the law! Why didn’t you bring men with you? All I know is I got a wire from our Bisbee office to get a hotel room and meet you here the morning of November third. There weren’t any instructions that I had to get myself deputized a marshal. That’s your job.”
“I know it is, Mr. Timpey,” Scallen said, and smiled, though it was an effort. “But I want to make sure no one knows Jim Kidd’s in Contention until after train time this afternoon.”
Jim Kidd had been looking from one to the other with a faintly amused grin. Now he said to Timpey, “He means he’s afraid somebody’s going to jump him.” He smiled at Scallen. “That marshal must’ve really sold you a bill of goods.”
“What’s he talking about?” Timpey said.
Kidd went on before Scallen could answer. “They hid me in the Huachuca lock-up ’cause they knew nobody could get at me there... and finally the Bisbee marshal gets a plan. He and some others hopped the train in Benson last night, heading for Yuma with an army prisoner passed off as me.” Kidd laughed, as if the idea were ridiculous.
“Is that right?” Timpey said.
Scallen nodded. “Pretty much right.”
“How does he know all about it?”
“He’s got ears and ten fingers to add with.”
“I don’t like it. Why just one man?”
“Every deputy from here down to Bisbee is out trying to scare up the rest of them. Jim here’s the only one we caught,” Scallen explained — then added, “Alive.”
Timpey shot a glance at the outlaw. “Is he the one who killed Dick Moons?”
“One of the passengers swears he saw who did it... and he didn’t identify Kidd at the trial.”
Timpey shook his head. “Dick drove for us a long time. You know his brother lives here in Contention. When he heard about it he almost went crazy.” He hesitated, and then said again, “I don’t like it.”
Scallen felt his patience wearing away, but he kept his voice even when he said, “Maybe I don’t either... but what you like and what I like aren’t going to matter a whole lot, with the marshal past Tucson by now. You can grumble about it all you want, Mr. Timpey, as long as you keep it under your breath. Jim’s got friends... and since I have to haul him clear across the territory, I’d just as soon they didn’t know about it.”
Timpey fidgeted nervously. “I don’t see why I have to get dragged into this. My job’s got nothing to do with law enforcement...”
“You have the room key?”
“In the door. All I’m responsible for is the stage run between here and Tucson—”
Scallen shoved the Winchester at him. “If you’ll take care of this and the horses till I get back, I’ll be obliged to you... and I know I don’t have to ask you not to mention we’re at the hotel.”
He waved the shotgun and nodded and Jim Kidd went ahead of him through the side door into the hotel lobby. Scallen was a stride behind him, holding the stubby shotgun close to his leg. “Up the stairs on the right, Jim.”
Kidd started up, but Scallen paused to glance at the figure in the arm chair near the front. He was sitting on his spine with limp hands folded on his stomach and, as Timpey had described, his hat low over the upper part of his face. You’ve seen people sleeping in hotel lobbies before, Scallen told himself, and followed Kidd up the stairs. He couldn’t stand and wonder about it.
Room 207 was narrow and high-ceilinged, with a single window looking down on Commercial Street. An iron bed was placed the long way against one wall and extended to the right side of the window, and along the opposite wall was a dresser with wash basin and pitcher and next to it a rough-board wardrobe. An unpainted table and two straight chairs took up most of the remaining space.