ENCOUNTERS

Brenda Anders

The young man took another economical sip of his beer and wondered how much longer he was going to be able to make it last.

He had ridden into town with seventeen cents in his pocket and this beer had cost him ten.  So far, he'd managed to make it last a good three-quarters of an hour, which had given him a much-needed respite from the baking sun and dusty trail that awaited him outside.

He had passed the time pleasantly enough at a corner table in the saloon watching a spirited poker game nearby.  There were six players, but his attention centered on the man who was winning the biggest pots.  He might have been a couple of years older than himself; he was slim, with straight dark hair and brown eyes that sparkled with intelligence and wit. When he smiled—which was often—it was quick and genuine.

The other men weren't smiling at all, he noted.  As a matter of fact, they were beginning to look downright grim.  He could smell trouble the way a thirsty horse could smell water, and he kept a wary eye on the table, ready to duck if lead started to fly.  He'd been watching that affable dark-haired man closely and he hadn't spotted any card tricks.  On the contrary, as far as he could see, the man simply played a darned smart game of poker. He seemed to know just when to bet and when to fold.

The blond thought about the seven cents in his pocket and grinned wryly.  Even if he had that kind of card sense, seven cents wouldn't get him into a game.  'Course, if he'd had that kind of card sense, he admitted ruefully, he wouldn't be left now without even the price of another beer.

The sudden rise of voices and the sound of chairs scraping the floor brought him abruptly out of his thoughts.  Just as he'd expected, those five gentlemen had finally decided the stranger's luck was too good to be true. They were all on their feet now, all but the brown-haired man who was still seated, looking up at them with an air of absolute innocence.

He watched for a few moments, a frown gathering on his face.  It was none of his business, that was a fact, but five to one was poor odds. Especially when that one hadn't been cheating to start with. His frown deepened when he saw how the stranger was handling the situation.  He was still seated, still smiling, with a stream of words flowing smoothly from his mouth.  The blond shook his head, half in amazement, half in admiration. The darn fool was trying to talk his way out of it.  You had to give him credit for his nerve; but these men were out for blood, and words weren't about to appease them.  He sensed the dark-haired man had realized that too, because his smile was becoming a bit strained.

A thick-set man with unruly red hair was the one pushing the argument, and he was squared off against the stranger, his intentions clear.  His hand had dropped to his side and he was a heartbeat away from drawing when the blond, who was seated off to his right, got to his feet.

"Excuse me," he said quietly, "but I believe you're making a mistake."

If possible, the tension in the room zoomed.  All eyes shot to him as the red-haired man threw an angry glare in his direction, gave him a brief once-over and summarily dismissed him.

"This don't concern you, sonny.  If you know what's good for you, you'll stay out of it."

He was aware of the stranger's dark eyes on him, widened slightly in surprise, but his eyes were locked on that redhead.  "He wasn't cheatin'," he continued politely, hoping to diffuse the situation.  "I've been watchin' him, and he just plays better poker than you boys.  That's no reason to kill a man."

"I say he was cheatin'," the older man repeated in a loud, belligerent voice.  "And if you say otherwise, then you're callin' me a liar--boy."

"I'm not callin' you a liar, mister," he said coolly, his voice edged with the first traces of anger.  "I'm just sayin' you're a poor card player--and a bad loser."

The large man's face reddened with anger and he shifted suddenly so he was now squared off against him. "Then that's the last thing you'll ever say, sonny--"  He went for his gun.  He was fast, but the blond was faster. An audible gasp went up as everyone suddenly realized the young man's gun was already in his hand, aimed and cocked before the other man had even cleared leather.

The silence was incredible.

"All right," he said quietly.  "Pick up your money and get out of here."  Still stunned, no one moved until he added, "Now, boys."

Money was gathered up hastily by the five men and, in a group, they hurried out the door, his Colt tracking them all the way.  When the saloon was finally cleared, he slipped his .45 smoothly back into its holster and turned back to his table.  Picking up the glass, he quickly drained the last of his warm beer.

"Thank you."

He looked around to find the dark-haired man standing beside him, a quizzical smile playing at his lips. "Don't know of many men who'd do that for a stranger."

He acknowledged the thanks with a nod. "Didn't much care for the odds."

"Neither did I," the stranger admitted dryly.  "But just for the record, I wasn't cheating."

The blond studied him with discerning blue eyes.  "If I thought you were," he said mildly, "I would've let them finish what they started."

At first, the other man looked startled; then his smile widened, warming his brown eyes.  "Friend, I'd like to buy you a drink."

He glanced down at his empty glass with real regret.  "And I'd like to oblige you, mister.  But I don't think either one of us are gonna be too welcome in this town after this.  So, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll just be movin' on."

With a tip of his hat, he bade good-bye to the dark-haired stranger and went on his way.

*

There was nothing like the smell of fresh coffee.  He sank down gratefully onto his bedroll and poured himself a cup.  He tested the hot liquid carefully, then smiled and leaned back against a tree with a contented sigh.  His stomach was full, he had money in his saddlebags, and he was alive.  Not a bad day, all told.

As he sipped the strong brew, his thoughts slipped back to that mishap at the saloon earlier that day, and the blond stranger who had stepped in to save his life.  He doubted the young man could have been as old as he was— although, with a face like that, it was hard to tell.  One thing he did know for a fact: that kid had the fastest draw he'd ever seen—and he'd seen plenty.  A kid that young with a gun that fast...he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.  Where had he come from?  And why would—

A shot cracked in the stillness and something slammed him hard against the tree.  It took a stunned moment for the pain to register and for him to realize the bullet had sliced through his right arm, just above the elbow.

Another shot plowed into the tree by his head and he lunged forward, dousing the fire and plunging himself into the cover of semi-darkness. Grabbing his saddlebags, he scrambled behind the only real shelter available--a large cottonwood tree--as two more shots rang out.  He pulled his gun awkwardly with his left hand and laid it beside him, then clamped his hand around the freely flowing wound.

There he huddled, out of sight for now, his mind racing.  Whoever those bushwhackers were, he thought grimly, they had him cold.  His horse was tethered across the clearing, he had a hole in his right arm, and absolutely no way of escape.  Feeling the warm stickiness seep through his fingers, he grimaced.  If they wanted to, they could probably just wait until he simply bled to death. There was a sudden rustling noise in the bushes behind him and he grabbed for his gun.

"Easy," came the soft voice.  "Thought you might need some help."

His eyes widened in surprise as he recognized the voice, and then the face, of the blond stranger from the saloon.  The young man crept quietly out of the bushes, gun in hand, and knelt beside him.  He nodded in wary acknowledgement but still kept his left hand on his gun.

"I was headin' toward your campfire when I heard the shots."  The blond studied him with a slight smile, his tone dry. "You just can't seem to stay outta trouble, can you?"

"This hasn't been one of my better days," he grunted, trying to decide between keeping a grip on his gun or holding onto his wounded arm.

"How bad you hit?"

"Went right through," he retorted though clenched teeth.  "Hurts like hell, but it didn't hit the bone."

The other man bolstered his gun and pulled a bandana out of his pocket.  "We'd better get that bleedin' stopped first off."  With an air of quiet competence, he wrapped the clean cloth around the wound and tied it off neatly.  "That'll have to do for now."  Looking up from his handiwork, he tipped his hat back.  "Y'know, if that's who I think it is out there, there's five of 'em."

The same unhappy thought had occurred to him.  "Looks like the odds haven't improved much since this afternoon," he observed with a faint smile.

"No, they sure haven't.  But..."  A thoughtful look crossed the blond's boyish face.  "They don't have to know that."

"You've got a plan?"  He didn't mean to sound incredulous, but that's the way it came out.  This youngster just didn't look like the planning type.  He looked more like the type who would ride headlong into something and worry about the consequences later.

The younger man threw him a look of real irritation.  "Somethin' wrong with that?"

"Not if it's a good plan," he said blandly.

The blond man considered that for a moment, then pulled his gun and carefully checked the load.  "Friend," he said mildly, "I wouldn't be too picky about plans if I were you.  I don't see anybody else around here offerin' to help."

A slow, rueful smile spread his lips.  "You've got a point, mister.  I apologize.  What's your plan?"

The younger man's blue eyes darted around, searching the darkness that surrounded them.  "Give me your gun."

He looked up sharply.  His winnings from this afternoon's poker game were considerable, and they were in his saddlebags.  Now it could be there were five angry poker players out there determined to get their money back; or it could be a ruse by this helpful stranger to get his gun and then...

"You look smart enough to me," the blond was saying, matter-of-fact, "to figure out that if I was after your money, I could've had it by now."

He hesitated a moment longer, then slowly held out his revolver, butt first.  "You're absolutely right.  So what's the plan?"

"Well, they probably know you've been hit, and they think you're alone.  But maybe we can give them something else to think about--like maybe you're not alone after all.  Bushwhackers are cowards for the most part, and I don't think these boys are up for a fight."  He grinned suddenly, a wide lopsided grin that, incredibly, made him look even younger "Hell, if I do this right, they might even think you've got a whole gang up here."

"A whole gang, hmm?" That grin was infectious and, in spite of the slicing pain his arm, he grinned, too.  He had a pretty good notion what this youngster had in mind and he had to admire both the boldness of the plan and his nerve in carrying it out. "You must be plannin' on putting on quite a show."

The blue eyes were bright with anticipation.  "Just watch."  Then, armed with a gun in each hand and that devilish grin, he faded into the trees.

The show started almost immediately.  Shots, one right after the other in rapid succession, filled the night air.  They seemed to come from every direction, and he soon gave up trying to track the blond stranger's movements.

He grinned to himself as he heard the alarmed shouts of the surprised bushwhackers.  The last thing he heard was, "Get out of here before they have us surrounded!" before the last shot died away.  In a few moments, he made out the sounds of men and horses crashing through the underbrush, and not long thereafter the young man stepped back into sight, casually reloading his revolver.

"That was some trick," he said dryly, but with genuine admiration, "'surrounding' them like that."

The stranger squatted down beside him and methodically plucked six bullets out of his gunbelt to reload the borrowed gun.  "Piece'a cake," he replied, but sounded pleased.  The gun loaded, he turned it around and handed it back, butt-first.  "I don't think they'll be back."

"They'd be plum crazy to take you on again," he agreed.

The young man lifted the edge of the makeshift bandage and frowned in the growing darkness.  "I think the bleedin's stopped, but I'd better get that fire going again and fix it up proper."

"I'd be obliged."

The blond nodded and moved off.  Within a few minutes he had a well- constructed fire built and was carefully changing the dressing. Now that he had the chance, he studied the boyish face in the firelight before breaking the silence.  "You know," he said conversationally, "if you're going to keep savin' my life like this, maybe we'd better introduce ourselves.  My name's Heyes."

The blond sat back from tying off the bandage and hesitated briefly before reciprocating.  "Curry," he replied.  Then his mouth twitched.  "You need savin' often, Mr. Heyes?"

"Not usually this often," was the rueful reply.

"Well, let's hope not, 'cause I've got a spell of ridin' to do yet tonight."

Even while Curry was speaking, Heyes caught the quick, almost longing, glances he was giving the tipped over coffee pot.  There was a look to this man that Heyes recognized well enough.

"If you've got the time," he suggested casually, "I'd be happy for you to share some supper.  It's not much, but I've got coffee, beans and some biscuits.  You're more'n welcome."

Although Curry's expression remained unchanged, Heyes didn't miss the way his blue eyes lit up at the prospect of food.  Pride, he thought with some amusement.  He'd be willing to bet everything he had in his saddlebags that this kid hadn't eaten all day but wasn't about to admit it.

Curry pushed his hat back.  "I'd be right happy to take you up on that offer, Mr. Heyes," he said politely.

Twenty minutes later, Heyes was leaning back against that old cottonwood tree, his right arm cradled in his lap, watching Curry dig through a plate of beans.  By the way he was scooping that food into his mouth, Heyes decided his earlier estimate must be off by a day at least.

Curry took a breather from the beans and biscuits long enough to raise a cup of fresh coffee to his lips.  Almost immediately, a look of surprise crossed his features, and Heyes lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.

"Something wrong?"

Startled, Curry looked up, his surprise giving way to sheepishness. "Guess I've been drinkin' my own coffee so long I've forgotten what it's supposed to taste like," he grinned.

Heyes grinned back.  He liked this youngster, and only part of that was due to gratitude.  He prided himself on being able to assess a man both quickly and accurately; and he saw a basic decency in Curry that prompted trust.  He didn't trust easily, but he sensed that loyalty from this man, once earned, would be well-nigh unshakable.  That was a rare thing in these times and these parts.

"You're quite a hand with a gun, Mr. Curry," he noted.  "I have to admire the way you managed to save my life twice in one day without killing a single man to do it."

Curry looked up sharply, his features hardening.  "I don't believe in killin'," he said shortly.  "And most times there's no need to."

"Then we've got something in common," he said easily.  "I don't believe in killing, either."

The younger man seemed to relax somewhat and returned his attention to the beans.  "I did have to wing one of 'em, though," he said between a mouthful of beans.  "One of those fellas had managed to sneak up right close to you, and I'd left you without a gun."

Heyes' eyes widened a little at that news.  He did remember that one shot had sounded awful close to where he was huddled.  He sipped at his coffee, thinking.  Curry.  He'd heard that name somewhere before.  "You a gunfighter, Mr. Curry?"

The question seemed to rob the young man of his appetite.  He sat the plate down by his feet, pulled off his hat and ran his fingers though his tangle of dark blond curls. "Didn't intend to be," he replied in a somewhat distant voice.  "But it looks like I might end up that way--whether I want to or not."

Heyes considered the somber young man for a few moments, then asked quietly, "You in trouble with the law?"

Curry shot him a piercing glance.  "Why?" he asked warily.  "You a lawman?"

Heyes laughed softly at the idea.  "No, Mr. Curry, I'm not a lawman. Not even close.  Just curious."

"Curiosity can be a dangerous thing," the other man pointed out, but without menace.

"So can takin' on another man's fight," he countered.

The two men silently measured one another for a few moments, then Curry relaxed a fraction.  "Ran into some trouble down in Abilene," he said vaguely.  "But not with the law exactly. It was a private matter."  He smiled without any real humor.  "Let's just say I don't plan on heading down that way again for a long time."

Heyes nodded.  "Fair enough. You new to Wyoming?"

The blond nodded.

"Lookin' for work?"

"Why?"

"Could be I might have a job you'd be interested in."

Very slowly, that lopsided grin appeared again.  "If it's keepin' you outta trouble, that could be a full-time job."

It could very well be, Heyes admitted wryly to himself.  He could use someone like Curry riding with him; the more he saw of this young man, the more he liked what he saw.  Curry was a real hand with a gun, yet had none of the bullying tendencies that seemed inherent in most gunmen.  He had proven he could handle himself in a tight situation; but he had no taste for killing.  And he had just admitted he was in some sort of trouble.  It could prove to be advantageous to both of them.

"I appreciate the offer, Mr. Heyes, and I don't doubt for one minute that any job with you would be...interestin'," Curry replied good-naturedly, "but the fact is, I've got a job lined up in Sheridan that should suit me just fine.  But," he scooped up his hat and stood, "I've got me a long ride. So, I thank you for the supper, but I think I'll be on my way."

"I am sorry to hear that," Heyes said sincerely, "but I wish you good luck with it.  And I thank you again for your help."

"If that job don't work out, maybe I'll look you up."

"I'm a little hard to find most times," Heyes said dryly.

"Then I'll just look for the most commotion," Curry said in an equally dry tone.  "You shouldn't be too far away.  Good-night to you, Mr. Heyes."

"Good-bye, Mr. Curry."

Hannibal Heyes leaned back against the tree after he'd left, sipping his coffee thoughtfully.  He wondered if that young man realized he'd just turned down an invitation to ride with the Devil's Hole Gang.

*

Jedediah Curry sat on the floor of the freight car, his back resting against the large safe in the corner, and enjoyed the gentle swaying of the train's motion.  Now this was his idea of a job, he thought contentedly, stretching his legs out in front of him.  Guarding payroll shipments for the Midwestern Railroad.  Easy money.

His thoughts drifted back to the dark-haired man he'd shared supper with two days ago, and he grinned to himself.  He had been tempted to ride along with him out of curiosity if nothing else, but he had an idea from what he'd seen of Mr. Heyes that any job he offered might hold more excitement than he wanted at the moment.  No, this train guard job suited him just fine.  Might even get a little boring, but that, too, was alright. All he wanted in his life right now was enough food to fill his stomach and some peace and quiet...

The train braked suddenly, throwing him off balance.  Once he recovered, he pulled his watch and checked the time with a frown.  They were a good hour away from their scheduled stop.  No reason at all for them to be stopping out in the middle of nowhere, unless...

There was a loud banging at the freight car door.  "You in there! This here train's bein' robbed by the Devil's Hole Gang!" a familiar voice called pleasantly.  "Open up so we can get to that safe and you won't get hurt."

Curry pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the door.  He knew that voice...  Suddenly he dropped his head against the door.  "Heyes. Devil's Hole Gang. Hannibal Heyes.  Curry, you idiot!" he groaned.  "That was Hannibal Heyes you had supper with!"

"Come on in there.  We don't have all day, y'know."

"Easy money," he muttered in disgust.  Then he took a deep breath and called out, "Looks like we might have a problem here, Mr. Heyes."

There was a brief silence, followed by a tentative, "Mr. Curry?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Couldn't you find any better way to make a livin', Mr. Curry?" Heyes called back with more than a touch of exasperation.

"I had an offer," he retorted ruefully, "but I'm afraid I turned it down."

There was a longer silence this time, and when he spoke again, Heyes seemed closer to the car because his voice wasn't as muffled.  "I'm afraid we do have a problem here, Mr. Curry.  See, me and the boys came a long way to rob this train and we mean to have the payroll in that safe you're guardin'."

"'Fraid I can't let you do that, Mr. Heyes.  The railroad's payin' me good money to keep you away from this payroll."

"They payin' you enough money to get blowed up?" Heyes asked in a friendly tone.

Curry frowned.  "What?"

"Mr. Curry, I recognize that I owe you a mighty big debt, that's why I'm givin' you this warning," Heyes continued in that same good-natured tone.  "You hear that sound?"

Curry could hear some kind of scraping noise at the door.  "Yeah," he answered warily.

"We're fixin' dynamite to the door to blow it.  Now, I figure if you get behind that big o1' safe and cover yourself real good, you might not get hurt...too bad, that is."

Curry glanced at the safe.  It was in the corner.  There was no way to get behind it, and nothing else in the otherwise empty freight car to offer shelter from any kind of explosion.

He cursed softly under his breath.  The MidWestern Railroad wasn't paying him that much money.

"Wait a minute!"  the scraping noise stopped and he fumbled with the lock, then slid open the heavy door, blinking in the sudden light.

Hannibal Heyes was standing in front of the door, thumbs hooked in his belt,  not a stick of dynamite in sight.  The outlaw tipped his hat with a grin.  "Afternoon, Mr. Curry."

Curry glared down at the dark-haired man.  "You weren't goin' to blow that door at all, were you?"

Heyes looked surprised.  "With you in there?  'Course not.  Why, you would've been killed if I did that."

He nodded slowly.  "I should've remembered your poker game."  He'd never seen a man bluff with so much success in a card game before.

"That's a fact," Heyes said cheerfully.  "Now, why don't you get down here and out of the way so's you don't get hurt, 'cause we are gonna blow that safe."

While Heyes' gun was still bolstered, there was a semi-circle of men behind him all armed with either pistols or shotguns. No, the MidWestern Railroad definitely wasn't paying him enough to fight those odds. With a sigh, he jumped down.

The dark-haired outlaw walked over to him and offered an apologetic smile.  "I really am sorry about this, Mr. Curry.  I hope it doesn't cause you any trouble with your job." He turned to a dust-covered outlaw to his left. "Kyle, get that dynamite set.  And Wheat..."  He shot Curry a knowing grin.  "You'd better relieve Mr. Curry here of that firearm.  He's pretty fancy with a gun."

"He is, huh?"  A swaggering man with a shotgun approached him and belligerently stuck the business end of the weapon under his nose.  "Just how fancy are you?" he taunted.

"Mister."  Curry's voice was very quiet, but laced with cold steel. "Unless you plan on pullin' that trigger, you better get that thing outta my face."

"Is that so..."

"Wheat!"  There was no humor in Heyes' voice as he ordered sharply, "Just get his gun and keep an eye on those passengers."

Wheat's manner was blatantly churlish, but he did as he was told.  "He some kind'a friend of yours or somethin', Heyes?"

Heyes cool eyes rested on the outlaw.  "We've met a couple of times. Now go on over there and give the boys a hand with those passengers.  We don't want anybody gettin' any ideas."

Wheat looked like he wanted to say something, but turned and walked stiffly away.  When he was out of earshot, Heyes touched Curry's arm. "You'd better move over here," he suggested.  "When that thing blows, it can cause a lot of damage."

Still annoyed at how easily he'd been outmaneuvered by this affable man, Curry followed in silence as Heyes led him a safe distance away.

"How's the arm?"

Heyes flexed his arm with little difficulty.  "A little sore, a little stiff, but it's mending nicely."  There was amusement in his dark eyes as he added, "You do nice work."

Curry let his eyes sweep over the activity around the halted train. "Was this the job you had in mind?  Robbin' people?"  But there was no censure in his tone and Heyes didn't appear to take any offense.

"We don't rob people, Mr. Curry," he corrected.  "We rob trains and banks."

Curry blinked.  "There's a difference?"

"All the difference in the world," Heyes assured him, perfectly serious.  "And, by the way, my offer still goes.  I could use a man like you."

"I'm not a hired gun, Mr. Heyes," he said grimly.  "Someone made that mistake in Abilene.  I don't want that kind of trouble again."

"I don't need a hired gun," Heyes replied evenly.  "Just a good man."

Curry watched the outlaw called Kyle scramble out of the freight car and yell a warning.  The passengers were kept well back out of the way as a loud explosion rocked the car.  With a whoop, several of Heyes' men poured inside through the smoke to clean out the blown safe.

The passengers didn't seem unduly frightened, no one was injured, not a shot was fired...he'd heard that about the Devil's Hole Gang.  After meeting their leader, he found he wasn't surprised. He had nothing personal against making a living by means of larceny. He certainly hadn't had much luck up to now with honest work.  Even when he did try to stay with it, something seemed to go wrong--like in Abilene... and here.  True, he'd never stick a gun in someone's ribs and demand their money; but there was a strange kind of logic to Hannibal Heyes' contention that robbing trains and banks just wasn't the same as robbing people.

But he'd promised himself a fresh start, and he was trying so hard to believe that if he could just get honest work and stick with it, his life could be different.

"Mr. Curry?"  Heyes' quiet voice interrupted his thoughts.  "You havin' some trouble makin' up your mind?"

"No, Mr. Heyes," he sighed, "unfortunately I'm not."  Turning, he met the outlaw's steady gaze.  It felt like those dark, intelligent eyes could see straight into his soul.  "I signed on for a job," he explained carefully, "and I've already been paid for it.  So I owe it to the people who paid me to see it through.  I don't think I can just walk out on a job half-done."

Heyes stared at him for a long moment before giving his head a shake. "Mr. Curry," he pointed out gently, "there's nothing left to guard."

Curry nodded as he watched the outlaws pack the bags of stolen money onto the horses.  "That's a fact.  But when I took this job, it was the same as givin' my word, so I figure I have to see it through.  Besides..."  He smiled slightly, "I made myself sort of a promise, too.  I'm gonna try to keep it."

There was incredulity on the outlaw's face that slowly gave way to a mixture of respect and understanding.  Heyes stuck out his hand.  "Mr. Curry," he said sincerely, "I hope we meet again.  Because I have an idea you and I could make quite a team."

Curry accepted the firm handshake with a grin.  "Well, I don't think it would be boring."

*

"Heyes! Heyes!"

Kyle Murtry burst into Heyes' cabin, forgetting in his haste to knock, waving a newspaper excitedly.

"You gotta read this!"

Heyes, deep in concentration, didn't look up from the train schedules he had spread out over his desk.  "Not now, Kyle."

"But Heyes—"

"Kyle, I said—"

"Heyes, I think you'd better read it."  That was the Preacher's sober voice, and Heyes looked up quickly.

"What's wrong?"

Kyle held out the newspaper.  "Says here the law in Madison arrested an important member of the Devil's Hole Gang."

"What?!"  Heyes snatched the paper out of his hands and quickly scanned the front page under the bold headline, DEVIL'S HOLE GANG MEMBER ARRESTED!  "What 'important member'?"

"Kid Curry," the Preacher supplied.

"Kid Cu--"  Heyes broke off abruptly.  Kid Curry.  Now he remembered where he'd heard that name before.  With growing unease, he began to read the article, his lips moving soundlessly as he passed over each typed word. When he finally finished, he threw the paper onto his desk in disgust.

"Can't the Law do anything right?"

Kyle was watching him with a puzzled frown.  "Who's Kid Curry?"

The Preacher spoke up from across the room.  "That was the boy from the train, wasn't it?"

Heyes nodded.  "Yeah.  They think he was in on the robbery.  Some of the passengers heard us call each other by name and saw him let us in that freight car without so much as a shot fired.  So now they figure it was an inside job.  They're puttin' him on trial for armed robbery."

Kyle still looked confused.  "But if he was in on it, he wouldn't have stayed behind."  He looked first at Preacher, and then at Heyes for confirmation.  "Would he?"

"No, he wouldn't, but I don't think the Law's too concerned with particulars right now," Heyes said grimly.  "We've been hittin' the trains pretty hard in the last few months, and the railroads have been screaming for our heads.  My guess is that the law in Madison figures they've got themselves a scapegoat.  If they convict Curry as a member of the Devil's Hole Gang, it'll make them look like heroes and take the heat off 'em for a while."  He stared into the empty air for a few moments, then abruptly pulled himself out of his thoughts.  "Thanks, Kyle."

Recognizing the dismissal in his leader's tone, Murtry bobbed his head and left.  The Preacher remained standing silently by the door as if sensing Heyes' need to talk.

"I left Curry in a parcel of trouble, Preacher," he said finally.

"He was in the wrong place at the wrong time," Preacher pointed out. "Happens to all of us at one time or another.  Can't blame yourself for that."

"I can't let them put him in prison for something he didn't do, either.  Hell, Preacher, I had to threaten to blow up that car before he'd let us in."  His somber eyes met the Preacher's.  "Besides, if he goes on trial as a member of the Devil's Hole Gang, you know what kind of chance he'll have."  Heyes picked up the paper once again and frowned, his tone pensive.   "Kid Curry.  Guess I should've realized from that draw.  You recall the name, Preacher?"

The other man nodded slowly.  "Down Texas way, wasn't it?  Didn't we hear somethin' about a Kid Curry when we were down there a couple'a months ago?  Somethin' about a cattleman's war."

"He said he'd run into some trouble in Abilene, but I just never put it together 'til now."

"You know, Heyes," Preacher said in his slow, deliberate drawl, "you don't owe him anything."

Heyes grinned ruefully.  "Not quite true, Preacher."  Briefly, he outlined his two previous encounters with Kid Curry, and when he was finished, there was a broad smile on the Preacher's face.

"Kind'a pulled your biscuits outta the fire, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Heyes agreed dryly, "and that kind'a puts a different light on things, doesn't it?"

"Yep, guess it does."

Suddenly, Heyes jumped to his feet and began pacing around the room, his mind already hard at work.  "Preacher, tell the boys to stay close and be ready to ride when I give the word."

Preacher moved toward the door, then stopped and looked back at his leader.  "What're you plannin' on doin', Heyes?"

Heyes stopped his pacing long enough to throw the other man a flashing grin, mischief sparking in his eyes. "I plan on pulling Mr Curry's biscuits out of the fire for a change."

***

Hannibal Heyes stopped outside the door to the Sheriff's office in Madison and took a moment to adjust his tie.  His brown dress-up suit had seen better days, but it would do.  Cleaned up, attired in a fresh-pressed suit with matching brown derby set squarely on his head...he looked downright respectable.

Standing with his hand on the doorknob, he took a long, deep breath before taking this final step.  He was taking a dangerous chance; he knew it, and both Wheat and the Preacher had pointed that out to him at some length. But he didn't feel scared.  It wasn't fear that was sending a strange, tingling thrill through his blood--it was excitement, anticipation.  He was a gambler by nature; he thrived on the idea of devising a plan and then matching wits with the Law, gambling that he was just a little smarter than the men he was up against.  He hadn't had much time to fine tune this plan, that was true, but he had confidence it would work.  After all, it was a Hannibal Heyes plan.  And if for some reason it didn't...Heyes squared his shoulders and smiled grimly...well, then, Mr. Curry would just have some company in that jail cell.

With a final adjustment--this time to his expression--he opened the door and stepped inside.

Both the Sheriff and Deputy were manning the office--no surprise to Heyes; they probably expected the entire Devil's Hole Gang to come roaring into town to spring Curry--and practically sprang to attention when he entered.  So he had a couple of nervous lawmen on his hands; that could be good or it could be bad.

He found himself staring down the barrels of two Colt peacemakers and responded by producing his most charming smile.  "Sheriff.  The name's Thatcher.  William S. Thatcher, the Third.  Attorney-at-Law," he added with a touch of authority.  "I'm here to see your prisoner."

The Sheriff, a burly man with slate-grey eyes and an untamed snow-white mustache, was listening, but didn't lower his gun.  "Why?"

"Why?  Why because he's my client." Heyes replied pleasantly.

"Your client?" The Sheriff's gun dropped to his side.  "Kid Curry?  In case you didn't know it, Mr. Thatcher-the-Third, your 'client' is an outlaw. He rides with the Devil's Hole Gang!"

"Well, now, Sheriff, that's yet to be proven," Heyes pointed out politely.  "In this great land of ours, a man's innocent 'til he's proved otherwise.  Surely you've heard of that?"

The Sheriff glared at him through narrowed eyes.  "What I heard or ain't heard don't have nothin' to do with this.  The fact is we got us a member of the Devil's Hole Gang, and he's set to go to trial tomorrow."

"The fact is," Heyes continued in that same pleasant tone, "Mr. Curry is my client, and I'm here to see him.  You can't deny me that right, Sheriff."

The Deputy, a younger man who seemed to have a scowl etched permanently in his face, hadn't lowered his gun.  "Sheriff, do we have to let him?  The judge said no visitors."

The Sheriff was wrestling with that very question, but Heyes knew this was one struggle he was going to win.  Finally, the lawman reached out reluctantly and laid a hand on the levelled Colt, pushing it down.  "Can't stand between a lawyer and his client, John.  It's the law."  He nodded at Heyes.  "Alright, young fella, I can't stop you from seein' your client. But..." He aimed a thick finger at Heyes' chest.  "We're gonna search every inch of you, Mr. Thatcher-the-Third, because no member of the Devil's Hole Gang is gonna escape from my jail."

Heyes was unarmed.  That had been the hardest part of his plan to swallow, but he knew he'd be searched, and he couldn't afford to raise any suspicions.  He was only going to get one chance at this.  He raised his hands immediately.  "Escape?  Oh my, no. Sheriff."  He sounded positively shocked at the very idea.  "Mr. Curry will do his escaping legally in court--when I prove him innocent beyond the shadow of a doubt."

John the deputy began a thorough search of his clothes and person. "You sure are a cocky one, ain't you?  What makes you think--Hey!"  He stepped back suddenly, suspicion glinting in his watery blue eyes.  "If you're his lawyer, how'd you find out he was in jail?  He didn't send no telegrams."

"Deputy, it's in all the papers that you've got an alleged member of the Devil's Hole Gang in your jail--"

"A what member?"

"Alleged," Heyes explained patiently.  "It means it hasn't been proved yet.  Well, when Mr. Curry's family read that Jedediah had been arrested—"

"His family?"

Heyes was enjoying himself immensely.  "My father had been the family attorney for the Currys for years."  Removing his hat, he rested it briefly over his heart, looking appropriately sorrowful.  "But since he passed on-- may he rest in peace; he was a faithful husband and loving father--I've been seeing to the family business. You have to understand, Mr. and Mrs. Curry are getting on in years and Jedediah is their only son.  And a good son he's been, too.  He's never been in a lick of trouble before this.  Maybe you've heard of the Currys?  Their ranch is just over the border in Dakota territory.  Why, ever since we read that newspaper article about Jedediah, I've been traveling day and night to get here on time.  I can't tell you what a relief it was—"

"You do go on a spell, don't you, Thatcher?" the deputy interrupted sourly.  Straightening from his search, he nodded at the older man.  "He's clean. Sheriff."

Heyes straightened his lapels.  "Well, I should hope so," he said stiffly.

"He means you're not carryin' a weapon."

"A weapon?"  Heyes eyes widened.  "Gracious me.  Perish the thought, Sheriff."

A look passed between the other two men and Heyes grinned to himself. He could almost read their thoughts:  This citified lawyer probably wouldn't know which end of a gun the bullets came out.  Well, let them keep right on thinking that.

"Alright, Thatcher."  The Sheriff jerked his head toward the hallway. "Take him on back, John.  You got ten minutes."

"I think ten minutes will be just fine. Sheriff."  Actually ten minutes was perfect.  "In private," he added.

The Sheriff glared, but nodded curtly.  "In private."

Heyes followed the Deputy back the short hallway to the cells.  Kid Curry was the only occupant, and he was lying on one of the cots, hat tilted down over his face.

"On your feet. Curry.  Got a visitor."

"Jedidiah, it's me," Heyes called out quickly.  "William S. Thatcher the Third."

At the sound of Heyes' voice. Curry pushed his hat back, then slowly sat up.  For a moment those imperturbable blue eyes locked with his, and Heyes held his breath.  Actually, this was the most dangerous part of the plan, the part that could explode in his face...the part he had absolutely no control over.  Being a gambler, he was gambling that he had read this man right.  There was nothing, for instance, to stop Curry from jumping to his feet, pointing a finger and yelling, "You want the man who robbed your train?  Well, there is he. Sheriff!  That's Hannibal Heyes!"

But he didn't.  He simply sat back on his cot, his deliberately casual movements camouflaging the wire tautness of his muscles, studying Heyes from under the brim of his hat.  He was watching, waiting, ready to take his cue from Heyes.

Heyes felt more than a small thrill of satisfaction. He had gambled right on this young man.  They hadn't spent more than a few hours together all told, but they were damn near functioning as a team.  It was a rare thing, he thought again, to have such a immediate rapport with a stranger.

"It's good to see you again, Jedediah," he said heartily.  "It's been a long time."

The blond man raised an eyebrow.  "Not near long enough," he said mildly.

The Deputy grinned as he swung open the cell door. "I don't think he likes you much, Mr. Thatcher."

Heyes lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  "Jedediah's folks had always hoped for him to become a lawyer, but I'm afraid he just didn't have the callin'."  He tapped a finger against the side of his head. "If you get my meanin'.  I think he's always resented me for it."

The Deputy snorted as Heyes stepped inside the cell.  "Ten minutes," he said briefly, then locked the door and left.

Heyes waited until he was sure the lawman was out of earshot, then sat down on the cot opposite Curry and tipped his hat.  "Hi, there."

The younger man shook his head in pure wonder.  "You must have more nerve than good sense."

"Actually, I've got 'em in about equal parts."

Curry leaned forward suddenly, his voice a sharp whisper.  "You do realize this is where that train ended up, don't you?  Did it ever occur to you that there might be people in this town who were on that train and might recognize you?"

Heyes had to smile at the exasperation he heard in his tone.  "It occurred to me.  But I figured it was worth the risk."  He clapped the younger man on the knee.  "I couldn't just sit back and let them send you to prison as a member of the Devil's Hole Gang, could I?  I knew you didn't rob that train."

Curry folded his arms across his chest and regarded him with a steady blue gaze.  "So you decided to come on in and give yourself up."

Heyes felt his lips twitch.  "Not exactly."

"Then exactly what are you doin' here?"

Heyes chuckled softly at a private joke.  "Pullin' your biscuits outta the fire, Mr. Curry."

The blond's face went blank.  "What?"

He waved that aside.  "Never mind.  All you have to know right now," he said with a touch of pride, "is that we're workin' with a Hannibal Heyes plan here.  So just sit back and enjoy it."

Curry removed his hat and ran his fingers through the uncombed tangle of curls finally freed from the weight of the hat.  "I've been here three days now, Mr. Heyes, and so far I haven't enjoyed any part of it."

Pulling out his pocket watch, Heyes flipped up the cover and studied it for a moment.  "You'll enjoy this."  He watched the second hand make a complete sweep around the face before speaking again.  "You got any plans for the immediate future, Mr. Curry?"

The blond took in the small cell with a wave of his hand.  "Didn't seem to be much need to plan my future."

Heyes flicked his eyes up.  "That's when you need a plan the most," he pointed out.  "Lucky for you I came along."

"Lucky?"

"Why, sure.  So happens I do have a plan for your immediate future... and it includes gettin' out of here."

For the first time, annoyance edged into Curry's tone.  "Do you mind tellin' me just how in the hell you expect to--"

"Sheriff!  Sheriff!"

An excited shout from the Sheriff's office brought a smile to Heyes' lips and he snapped the watch cover shut with satisfaction.  "Wheat," he murmured, "for once your timing was perfect."

"Sheriff, the bank's bein' robbed!"

They heard the Sheriff's voice raised in alarm.  "What?!"

"The bank!  It's being robbed!"

Curry snapped his eyes to Heyes, who merely shrugged.  "We needed a diversion, so I didn't see any harm in mixin' a little business with pleasure."  Then, holding his finger to his lips for silence, he moved over to the cell door and listened.  There were more shouts and noise as rifles were grabbed, then a door slammed, and then there was silence.

"Hey, Sheriff!  Hey, is anybody out there?  I'm ready to leave now!" His only answer was more silence, and he quickly bent down and raised his pants leg, exposing his boots.  In another moment he had retrieved a long, slim lock pick and set to work on the cell lock.  It proved to be no challenge to his considerable  skills, and with a final click, he felt the lock give.

Swinging the cell door open, he motioned for Curry, who had watched all this in silence.  "We don't have much time.  They'll be headin' back here any minute to form the posse.  Mr. Curry."  Heyes touched his hat.  "I believe this makes us square."

For the first time in three days that lopsided grin appeared.  "Reckon it does, Mr. Heyes."

They tarried only long enough for Curry to retrieve his gun from the Sheriff's desk, then Heyes quickly led the way out the back door where they found two horses saddled and waiting.

"The boys'll be leadin' 'em north," Heyes said over his shoulder as they mounted up.  "We'll be goin' south."  His brown eyes twinkled. "Unless, of course, you've got other plans."

Curry took a deep breath of fresh air as he settled into the saddle. "No, siree," he said sincerely.  "So far I like your plan just fine."

Heyes winked.  "A Hannibal Heyes plan.  They work, Mr. Curry."  Then he headed his horse south and dug in his heels. Curry close behind him.

*

They rode at a good clip for a little over an hour.  Curry followed Heyes in silence as the outlaw doubled back once to confuse their tracks, then led him off into territory that was unfamiliar to him.  Heyes, however, seemed to know exactly where he was going, and Curry soon found himself by a stream of clear running water well concealed by trees.

"We'll let the horses rest a bit," the older man directed, and dismounted.

Curry followed suit and both turned their horses loose to drink their fill. Heyes wandered over to a tall, leafy aspen and leaned against the trunk, his eyes searching the surrounding cover for any movement.

Curry finished filling his canteen, then walked over to join him. "You're about the last person I figured on seein' again," he said quietly, "'specially in that jail cell.  You took quite a chance comin' back like that.  I'm obliged to you."  Fact was, he was still a little stunned by it all; no one had ever done anything like that for him before.  All the men he had ever ridden with or worked with would have taken off at the first sign of trouble.  Yet here was this stranger who had risked his own freedom to pull him out of jail.  It just didn't figure...but then, again, maybe it did.

"Well, you were one ahead, Mr. Curry," Heyes said easily.  "I was just tryin' to even us up."  Then he grinned, waggling a finger.  "But let that be a lesson to you--you can't trust the railroad."

"I think my career with the railroad is pretty much over," he agreed. "And I'd be obliged, too, if you'd stop callin' me mister."

"Kid?"

He hesitated a moment, then nodded.  "Seems to be a name I picked up along the way."

The dark-haired man studied him thoughtfully.  "It doesn't take much to pick up a reputation, does it?  Seems it's a lot easier to get one than it is to lose it."

"So I noticed.  And now seems I've got me the reputation of bein' a member of the Devil's Hole Gang."

"You know that's really something of an honor," Heyes pointed out. "You could do a lot worse. By the way," he continued, "folks generally just call me Heyes. So, what are your plans now, Kid?"

His tone was casual, but Curry knew the question wasn't.

He shrugged.  "I never was one for plannin'  much."

"Well, then it's lucky for you I came along."

Curry felt a grin tug at his lips; it was impossible not to like this man.  He had a way of looking you right in the eye and speaking direct that made him believe that trust placed in this man would never be betrayed. "Lucky?"

"Sure."  The dark-haired man flashed that engaging smile.  "Planning's one of the things I do best.  In case you hadn't noticed."

That was his invitation, and this time Curry considered taking it.  So far, honest work had gotten him into a gunfight and more trouble than he could handle in Abilene and thrown in jail in Wyoming.  A little more honest work and he could well end up at the end of a rope.

"Might be nice to have someone do the plannin'," he said thoughtfully. He thought about it for a moment, then looked hard at Heyes, his eyes darkening with memories.  "But I'll tell you again," he said steadily, "I'm no hired gun.  I'm grateful for what you've done for me, and I'd like to ride with you, but I don't sell my gun.  So if that's what you have in mind--"

"Kid."  Heyes interrupted him with a smile and a hand on his arm.  "In the first place, things are gonna go a whole lot smoother if you just let me do the thinkin' from here on out.  And in the second place..."  His smile faded as his tone turned serious.  "I don't know what kind of trouble you had in the past and you don't have to tell me.  But you're awful good with that gun, and I'm guessin' somebody tried to use that and you found yourself caught up in somethin' you had no control over.  That's not gonna happen here.  I give you my word on that."

Tipping his hat back, the outlaw studied him with dark, solemn eyes. "A man with your kind of talent can use his gun for one of two things, Kid-- he can use it to start trouble, or to stop it before it gets started.  Now I don't aim on startin' any trouble.  And it sure would be nice to have a man beside me who thinks the same way I do along those lines."

It didn't take him long to weigh Heyes' sincerity and decide it was genuine.  He couldn't forget what happened to him the last time he trusted someone; but some instinct inside him told him this would be different. This man was different.

"I reckon I'd like that, too."  Then he grinned and stuck out his hand.  "I guess you've got yourself a new member of the Devil's Hole Gang."

Heyes grasped his hand in a firm shake, his dark eyes twinkling with humor.  "First time I ran into you, Kid, I had a feelin' we'd make quite a team.  Now I guess we'll have the chance to find out if I was right."

Curry's eyes widened in mock disbelief.  "Why, Mr. Heyes, are you ever wrong?"

White teeth flashed as Heyes' lips parted in a broad grin.  "Very rarely, Mr. Curry.  Very rarely."

ASJ