The harsh grating of metal against metal was a sound that always made Hannibal Heyes grimace, especially when it was the key to a jail cell.
Last night had been long and tedious, much the same as the one before and several before that. He had lain awake until the small hours trying to work out a plan that would see him and his partner, Kid Curry out of these cages, onto fast horses, and as far from Bonneville as they could get.
Bonneville was, in Kid's own words, "a likeable town". The beds at the hotel had clean sheets, there were no signs of fleas or bedbugs and the desk clerk didn't ask questions. Two sizeable saloons sold quality liquor and flaunted a plethora of pretty girls, not to mention harbouring poker players of varying abilities, especially Heyes' favourite — "those who don't know the odds against helping two pair". But, probably the best thing about this town was that it had a sheriff and a deputy that neither of them had seen or heard of before.
Heyes was certain the Kid would agree that Bonneville had been the most fun they'd had in quite some time. As a rule, they never allowed themselves to enjoy a place too much; it had a tendency to make them let their guard down which was not a good idea when, despite going straight, staying one jump ahead of the law still remained an almost daily struggle. Sadly, letting their guard down was exactly what they had done but neither realized it until it was too late. That was when Marshal Tiller showed up.
They had failed to notice the raw-boned figure of the marshal sitting tall in his saddle as he rode into town just as they hadn't seen him enter the busy Bonnie Lass Saloon. As usual, Heyes' attention had been entirely on the poker table and at that very moment he was playing for a particularly large pot, one which he was sure he had a high probability of winning. The Kid, on the other hand, having thrown in his cards was busy getting acquainted with an attractive brunette who had seated herself on his lap and brazenly slipped her hand inside his shirt.
The cold seven-inch barrel of the heavy LeMat revolver as it pressed against the back of Kid Curry's skull had taken the usually vigilant gunman completely unawares.
At the saloon girl's startled cry Heyes had made one of his own in the form of "Hey, what's all this?" before he noticed the silver star pinned to the tall man's jacket. The gun, together with the uncompromising look in his eye, told the reformed outlaw that any further protest at this moment would be pointless. With a dispirited sigh Heyes tossed in his king-high straight.
The late-night crowd at the Bonnie Lass were a raucous bunch but the cocking of the gun together with the words, "you're both under arrest", appeared to have been heard by most of them. The silence was almost palpable as everyone turned their heads in Heyes' and Curry's direction.
Joining the Kid in raising his hands in the air Heyes slowly got to his feet and wary brown eyes connected with angry blue ones conveying a warning to his occasionally short-fused partner not to do anything foolhardy. During their early days with the Devil's Hole Gang there had been one unforgettable occasion when they had both witnessed the sickening damage a LeMat could inflict, especially at close range and neither was keen to repeat it. Heyes' concern was unfounded as Kid Curry, whose knowledge of firearms was second to none, had immediately recognized the sound of the unique pistol being cocked and had no intention of doing anything to make the lawman's finger twitch.
The short walk over to the sheriff's office and jail had been made stony-faced and tight-lipped. It wasn't until they were locked up and Tiller's pistol was safely holstered that Heyes' silver tongue had sprung into action in an attempt to convince the small group of triumphant lawmen that they had, in fact, made a terrible mistake since their names were Joshua Smith and Thaddeus Jones, a pair of drifters just passing through on their way to Texas.
Much to Heyes' frustration nobody had listened. It didn't seem to make a scrap of difference how many times he had pleaded their innocence, claimed mistaken identity, or angrily railed about injustice against the common man — still nobody listened.
That was a little over two weeks ago.
The marshal had been smart — much smarter than your average lawman, in Heyes' professional opinion. Aware that his prisoners had a well-deserved reputation for breaking out of jail he had insisted that they were locked up in separate cells right from the start, and not adjacent cells either; Kid was on the other side of the cell block two cells down. Not having been able to put their heads together and quietly plot their escape had put the two ex-outlaws at a distinct disadvantage and so they had barely spoken to one another except to pass the time of day.
To Heyes it appeared that the Kid had done very little apart from sleep, only waking in order to eat the monotonous, unappetizing food or to read a page or two of a newspaper or tattered dime novel. By contrast he had hardly slept, eaten little, and read everything he could lay his hands on. When he wasn't doing that, Heyes had endlessly paced his cell trying to come up with a plan, his irritation mounting when it became obvious that unless something unexpected happened that they could turn to their advantage, there was not going to be any breakout.
Reclining on the thin, grubby mattress of his cot, for the last half hour Heyes had listened to the tense murmur of voices coming from the office. While he couldn't hear all of what was being said, he had caught a word here and there, and it didn't need his kind of genius to fill in the gaps.
The dissonant grating sound continued as the door to his cell swung open.
"C'mon Heyes, on your feet."
"The name's Smith," intoned Heyes, automatically.
"I said, get up!"
Heyes opened one eye and squinted at the man standing in the doorway. "Bit on the early side, ain't it, Sheriff?"
Propping himself up on one elbow the former outlaw leader ignored the revolver in the sheriff's hand. "Well, I'd appreciate it if you could make this quick, I've got a pretty full schedule today," he said, flippantly.
A snort came from under a brown hat in the other occupied cell.
"Don't sass me, Heyes. The papers arrived yesterday."
A questioning eyebrow was raised. "What papers?"
"Your extradition papers." Sheriff Matt Crowle was eager to get Marshal Tiller's two prisoners out of his jail and on their way to the Wyoming Territorial Prison. Bonneville's jail was more commonly populated by drunks and petty crooks and having two notorious outlaws incarcerated here for two weeks had been a responsibility he didn't welcome, especially when he had no claim to the bounty on their heads.
"Look, I already told you a thousand times... you've got it all wrong. We're not that pair of miserable desperados, we're just—"
"I don't wanna hear it. C'mon, get up. You're going for a little ride."
"Oh?" Getting to his feet Heyes tried not to sound too interested but if they were being transported on horseback there might be a chance, however slight...
"In a stagecoach. Don't go getting any ideas now; you'll be wearing these the whole time."
Young Deputy Gibb jangled a handful of metal as he entered the cell. "Turn around, hands behind your back."
Heyes closed his eyes and allowed his shoulders to sag in defeat as handcuffs were snapped around his wrists. Gibb then proceeded to bolt a set of leg-irons around the prisoner's sock-clad ankles.
"Aww, come on, Sheriff! No boots?"
"Uh-uh. Any gripin' from you and you can go barefoot. See how you like them irons diggin' into your bare ankles."
Heyes cast a sullen look at the man with the gun and sat back down on the edge of his cot while the two lawmen turned their attention to his partner.
Sheriff Crowle's booted foot prodded Kid's leg. "I know you ain't sleepin', Curry. Up!"
With the smallest of movements Kid Curry's forefinger pushed the brim of his hat away from his eyes. A quick glance over to Heyes' cell was all he needed and, noting his partner's grim expression, knew there was nothing for it but to stand so that identical handcuffs and leg-irons could be locked in place.
Gibb pushed the brown hat firmly on the blond curls before steering the prisoner out of the cell. Kid shuffled along uncomfortably, the short heavy length of chain between his ankles affording him no other choice. As he drew level with Heyes' cell the former leader of the Devil's Hole Gang gave his partner a small shrug of resignation.
"Move along, Heyes," the sheriff ordered, gesturing with his gun.
"Just one thing, Sheriff."
"What now?"
"I know you don't want me wearing boots but I would kinda like to wear my hat." Heyes nodded toward the end of his cot. "So...would you mind?" Sheriff Crowle snatched up the shabby black hat and plonked it askew on Heyes' head.
Marshal Tiller, along with his two deputies Hegan and Mitchell, were waiting in the office. All three were armed with rifles as well as pistols. They watched carefully as Deputy Gibb re-arranged the handcuffs so that Heyes was securely attached to Marshal Tiller and the Kid to Deputy Mitchell.
Now that one of his hands was free Heyes took the opportunity to straighten his hat, the small movement provoking a loud clatter as a variety of weapons were all cocked at the same time.
Eyebrows raise, the prisoners exchanged a meaningful look; Heyes trying to suppress a smile while Curry blew out his cheeks.
"Stay alert, gentlemen," said Tiller to his men. He gestured toward the door. "Let's go."
Stepping from the stale, torpid atmosphere of the jailhouse onto the boardwalk and into the cool air of a damp, grey dawn Heyes drew in a deep breath. He glanced up and down the empty main street at the large muddy pools of standing water then up at the overcast sky. A stiff breeze ruffled his navy blue shirtsleeves and he momentarily stiffened his shoulders trying not to shiver. Heyes certainly didn't want any of the men surrounding them to think he might be fearful.
Getting into the large Concord stagecoach with limited mobility and little assistance was no mean feat for the prisoners, but once they were all on board with Hegan on top riding shotgun beside the driver, Marshal Tiller tipped his hat to Sheriff Crowle and knocked on the roof with his fist. With a loud "Ya-haa!" the driver slapped the reins and the stagecoach lurched forward down the main street.
It wasn't long before the horses settled into a fast but comfortable pace. The road north was wide and flat but very waterlogged, the stage splashing through large pools of water and the wheels slewing from side to side in the slippery mud.
Looking out of the window on his side of the coach all Hannibal Heyes could see were rolling hills covered in vast swathes of uninteresting pine forest. This appeared to go on for miles and so, as he had already seen all he could stomach of the marshal over the past couple of weeks, he concentrated on observing the young deputy.
In Heyes' experience, US Marshals mostly employed mature, experienced deputies especially when on the trail of hard-case outlaws like them, but the two he had in his employ right now were relatively young. This led him to the conclusion that being spotted by Marshal Tiller was more a matter of chance; of being in the right place at the right time, or the wrong place, depending on which side of the cell bars you ended up. Deputy Mitchell looked to be in his mid-twenties. He sported a moustache which Heyes couldn't help but liken to a blonde woman's eyebrow and must have taken him quite a while to grow if the strands of pale, sandy-coloured hair poking out from under his hat were anything to go by. He knew how long it took his partner to grow anything resembling a beard or moustache and Kid's blond hair was dark by comparison.
Observing the young man's demeanour Heyes drew the conclusion that this must be Mitchell's first involvement in a high-profile arrest. His grey-blue eyes flitted nervously between him and the Kid and it had taken the man quite a while to relax in his seat and not fidget or keep checking his gun.
For a while Heyes amused himself inventing a brief life story for the deputy but he soon grew bored with this and went back to trying to formulate an escape plan. Half an hour later he broke the silence.
"So, gentleman, where exactly are we headed? I'm guessing Channing. Am I right?" He grinned. "I am, aren't I? It's gotta be Channing; that's the nearest place I figure has a railroad line. We are taking a train, aren't we, one that goes through the mountains?" He shook his head and chuckled. "I sure wish I could have been there when they blasted all that rock to build those tunnels."
Heyes kept up a continuous flow of chatter hoping to distract the two lawmen and give his partner an opportunity to snatch a handgun from one of their holsters. Kid was well aware of what Heyes was up to, but it didn't take him long to conclude that the heavy shackles around his ankles, not to mention being handcuffed to a deputy, were too many restrictions for his marginally slower left hand to make an effective lunge for a weapon without getting one or both of them killed in the process.
"And the bridges across the ravines!" Heyes continued. "Heck, if we had to go round the mountains it'd sure be a real long trip and—"
"It's gonna be a real short trip for you if you don't shut up," growled Marshal Tiller. "As much as I'm looking forward to seeing you locked up for twenty years, Heyes, I ain't obliged to take you in alive. Understand?"
Heyes put on his best hurt expression. "Sheesh, I was only making conversation, Marshal. Y' see me and Thaddeus we've never been arrested before, or been inside a courthouse, and I guess I'm kinda nervous. I can't speak for him of course but—"
"You're doin' a real good job of tryin', Joshua," interrupted Curry with what Heyes knew to be a fake hard stare to accompany a barely discernible shake of the head. Heyes interpreted the signal correctly and replied with a humourless smile.
With nothing better to do Kid tilted his hat over his eyes and settled down to take a nap. Heyes took a moment to regard his partner with something resembling envy. He had always found sleeping on a stage virtually impossible but the Kid was never disturbed by the constant rocking and jolting. In fact, he never had a problem sleeping anywhere.
ooooo-OOO-ooooo
Two more hours dragged by before the stagecoach began to slow.
Marshal Tiller consulted his pocket watch. "Relay station coming up, Mitchell. Stay on your toes."
"Talking of toes," said Heyes, "are you proposing we walk through the mud in our socks?"
"You're not getting out; not here anyway," the Marshal replied as the driver pulled the sweating horses to a halt. "We're only changing the team. There will be a way station stop in another couple of hours. You can get out there."
Now that great globs of mud were no longer flying past the window Heyes leaned along the seat and stuck his head out, glancing dubiously at the puddles that surrounded the coach. "Sure seems to have been a lot of rain around here."
"It hasn't stopped pourin' for about a week, Joshua," yawned Kid, having just woken from his nap. He tutted irritably as he went to stretch his arms forgetting his right was still attached to Deputy Mitchell. "Couldn't you hear it fallin' outside the jailhouse window? If'n you could call that grill in the wall a window."
"I sure hope that doesn't mean the road has been washed out." Heyes couldn't help a sly grin. "We might have to turn around and head all the way back to Bonneville and this little trip will all have been for nothing."
Kid frowned dubiously. "You say that like it's a good thing."
"Beats heading to the territorial prison."
In no time at all the driver, together with the resident stock-tender, had changed the team and the coach was back on the road. Shortly, a steady rain began to fall from the now iron-grey sky making it necessary for the passengers to unfurl the leather roll-down curtains in order to keep the coach interior dry. Unfortunately, this also kept out most of the daylight that managed to penetrate the thick cloud cover.
Kid once again tilted his hat over his eyes.
The four fresh horses effortlessly pulled the coach for several miles along a trail which stretched the whole length of a long, steep hogback. A rocky slope with little vegetation towered above them on one side while the other dropped away sharply into a ravine. Soon, rocks of various sizes began to litter the road ahead and the further they went the more the driver slowed the horses until eventually they fell back to only a walk, the amount of debris rendering the trail not much wider than the stagecoach itself. Eventually they ground to a complete halt prompting Marshal Tiller to push the curtain to one side and lean out of the window.
"Why are we stopping?"
"We're gonna have to clear the way some, Marshal," replied the driver. "There's a whole heap of rocks on the road and I ain't got enough room to safely take the team round them. If I try, we'll bust a wheel for sure."
"Fine. Hegan you get down and help him. Try and get it done quick, will ya?" instructed the marshal. Pulling his head back inside he shook the rain from his hat while looking steadily at the former outlaw leader. "This better not have anything to do with you, Heyes."
"The name is still Smith."
"If that gang of yours is waiting—"
"What gang? There is no gang!" Heyes almost yelled.
"— for us, I have to tell you Deputy Hegan is real handy with that rifle," the marshal continued, ignoring Heyes' outburst. "So if the Devil's Hole Gang have blocked that road to bust you out there's gonna be a massacre and I can guarantee you two will be the first to stop a bullet."
Deputy Mitchell glanced uncertainly from Marshal Tiller to Heyes and back again. He considered himself a fair shot but if it came to a shootout against a whole gang of seasoned outlaws, and that bunch in particular, he wasn't at all confident he would be on the winning side.
Outside the coach Deputy Hegan's boots had only just hit the muddy road when the rain began to fall more heavily and a faint rumble, like that of distant thunder, could be heard. The horses shifted restlessly, whickering to each other as a trail of small pebbles spilled down from the slope above, coming to a stop against their hooves.
"I hope that weren't thunder. I ain't too partial to thunder and lightnin'," complained Deputy Mitchell, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as the wind caught the leather curtain blowing it inwards and showering his legs with large droplets.
"That's enough, Mitchell," growled Tiller.
The rumble increased in volume and the horses began to whinny and stamp. Both the driver and Hegan glanced around nervously and worked as quickly as they could in the pouring rain in order to clear the rocks and rubble and get the stagecoach moving again.
With a mounting sense of trepidation Heyes reached forward and tapped Kid Curry on the knee with a murmured, "I think we may have another problem."
Responding to his partner's tone rather than his words Kid, who for once wasn't actually sleeping, sat up straight and adjusted his hat. At the same time, Tiller once again stuck his head out of the window and was just about to call to his deputy when several large rocks careered down the slope just missing the lead horses but causing them to rear in panic. The stagecoach creaked and rocked alarmingly as it was pulled forward against the brake. A scattering of loose stones varying in size now followed, bouncing across the road and rattling against the fancy red and gold paintwork.
"Hegan! Watch out for th—"
Marshal Tiller didn't get to finish his warning. There was a sickening dull thud and the marshal slumped in his seat, his cuffed hand hanging loosely at his side. Kid and Deputy Mitchell reached forward and helped Heyes heave the marshal back inside and all three men stared aghast at the bloody mess which had once been the right side of his head.
The young lawman looked a little bilious as he croaked, "Is he...?"
Heyes dipped his ear to the man's chest and listened as best he could. "Yep. A rock must have killed him outright." He sent a troubled glance toward his cousin who confirmed Heyes' previous statement, "We've got a problem, alright."
"We should get out," urged Mitchell.
"Only if you want to end up like him." Kid gestured toward the marshal. "And anyway, how's Joshua supposed to go anywhere shackled to a dead man?"
"We need to get these chains off or none of us will stand a chance," Heyes said, looking earnestly at the deputy. "Where are the keys?"
"I don't know as I should be takin' off your—"
"Don't argue with me. Just do it!" ordered the former outlaw leader, instantly reverting to type under pressure.
Any further protests went unheard as the rumble grew deafening. Kid Curry barely had time to yell "Get down!" before the ground began to tremble and a tide of gravel and rocks slammed into the side of the coach.
The three men hit the floor.
Amid the roar of the moving earth all four horses squealed and struggled in vain to free themselves from the harness as they were swept sideways across the road along with the stagecoach, before eventually toppling over the edge of the ravine.