Disclaimer: Alias Smith and Jones does not belong to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit.
Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.
A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate. Story exists in the same No Amnesty - Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.
A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing?
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"Phhtt!" sputtered Heyes.
Spitting dust, dried grass and pine needles, the dark haired former outlaw lifted his face up off the ground. Aching muscles, jolted by the sudden impact with the earth, protested at the movement. So did something else. Heyes froze. A low rumbling growl made the hairs on the Kansan's neck rise up in a primeval response to danger.
"Jezebel!" ordered an unfamiliar deep voice. "Down!"
The weight upon Heyes' back lifted. Small rocks skittered and bounced over the edge of the trail to his left, descending rapidly out of hearing range. Huge, thick gray paws padded around Heyes before the creature lowered itself, settling in front of the fallen man. Heyes found himself staring at a pair of dark wild eyes, mere inches from his own. The animal's mouth gaped open, panting, red tongue and yellowed fangs too close for comfort.
"You set your dog on me! You could have killed me if I had gone over the edge," accused Heyes as he started to push himself upwards and away from the menace. "Why?"
With a glance over his shoulder, Heyes could see the white stockinged feet of his skittish horse do a nervous back step towards the pinyon pine clinging along the rocky ledge. Reins that Heyes had been holding just moments ago now trailed through the dust, farther away from Heyes' reaching hand. His pinch front black hat lay on the ground. The silver conchos studding his hatband glinted in the late afternoon sunlight. Heavy footsteps clomped towards Heyes.
"Oh no you don't," objected the lumbering man.
A huge hand clutched Heyes by the collar. The genius tasted dirt again as his captor forced his body back down. The overpowering odor of stale sweat, tobacco and something reminiscent of a recent visit to the cordwainer's shop in Denver, made Heyes' eyes water. Strong hands grabbed first one slender wrist and then the other. Heyes' heart sank as he felt hard metal bite into his wrists.
"And now you're handcuffing me?" protested Heyes.
"Yep," agreed the brawny man as he tightened the clamps around Heyes' wrists. "Tha's right."
The man turned Heyes' body towards the right and removed his pistol. Heyes had a brief glimpse of his grizzled captor, before noting the crevice in the rocks. The source of his attack, a sheltered gap in the stone, barely big enough to conceal the man and his dog, appeared visible now that Heyes was right beside it.
"Jezebel and I been waiting for you," continued the older man.
"You can't just go waylaying people by the side of the road!" insisted Heyes.
"Ha," a deep bellowing laugh gurgled up from the man. "That's rich coming from the likes of you."
"What do you mean, from the likes of me?" asked Heyes dropping his voice.
The seeming coolness in his tone masked the undertone of worry in Heyes' voice. The big man yanked Heyes upright. The former outlaw's shrewd brown eyes focused level with his captor's Adam's apple protruding from between the collar of the man's red checkered shirt. The slim man tilted his neck back. A wary gaze travelled upwards past shoulder length lank graying hair to meet a pair of rheumy gray eyes staring back at him. The big man wore a dusty rounded black felt hat, curled up on the brim sheltering his pallid face from the harsh sun.
"Who are you?" demanded Heyes. "And why are you handcuffing me?"
"I'm a professional bounty hunter," informed the older man with a smile and a tone of pride, "Josiah Simmons."
Heyes blinked in surprise at the familiar phrase and the almost familiar name. Was there a training program for bounty hunters now? Heyes didn't like bounty hunters, professional or otherwise. The last professional bounty hunter Heyes had met was young, quick moving, and about the same height as himself. This aging mountain of a man was nothing like Joe Sims.
"Here in New Mexico, the rancher's association pays real well for bringing in skins of animals," explained the bounty hunter. "Coyote skins fetch a dollar each, wolf pelt brings in two dollars."
"As you can see," snapped Heyes indignantly, "I'm neither a coyote nor a wolf!"
"No, you're something much more profitable," grinned Simmons. "You're an outlaw! Just 'cause I fetch in pelts for the rancher's association don't mean I can't capture outlaws and bring 'em in to the law too."
"An outlaw?" snarled Heyes, his voice rising in anger, or perhaps fear. "I don't know who you think I am, but…"
Jezebel rose on her haunches. Arching her back, hair bristling upright, the huge dog let out a warning growl at Heyes' tone.
"You're Hannibal Heyes," interrupted the big man.
A massive hand scooped up Heyes' hat and thumped it down securely on the mastermind's head. Heyes blinked his eyes and tried to wiggle his eyebrows to loosen the tight fit. The glib former safe cracker didn't normally pull his hat all the way down over his forehead.
"You're mistaken," insisted Heyes smoothly, trying to fast talk his way out of this mess. "My name is Joshua Smith. I'm headed home to my wife and baby boy…"
Heyes awkwardly shifted his arms to the left, tapping his left hand with his right index finger. The plain wedding band gleamed on his finger. Clem had purchased the ring years ago for Kid to wear during their trip to Mexico, but the ring wouldn't go over his partner's knuckle. The ring fit Heyes' narrower finger. Heyes kept the ring and occasionally wore it, one more prop in his arsenal of alias wardrobes. He'd put the wedding band on three weeks ago when the partners split up for two separate delivery jobs. A flip of a coin sent Kid to Waltersboro, while Heyes went to Wildcat Junction.
"No, you're not," stated the bounty hunter firmly. "You're Hannibal Heyes!"
"What makes you think I'm Hannibal Heyes?" huffed Heyes in irritation.
"You fit the description on the wanted poster," answered Simmons.
"There must be lots of men that fit the description on that outlaw's wanted poster," contended Heyes.
"Most especially you," chuckled Simmons.
The bounty hunter turned Heyes to face his horse and gave the reformed bandit a little nudge.
"If I was Hannibal Heyes, don't you think I'd have Kid Curry and the rest of the Devil's Hole Gang with me?" argued the conniving former bandit. "You'd never catch Hannibal Heyes."
"I reckon if you was still with Kid Curry and the Devil's Hole Gang, you might be right," agreed the bounty hunter in an affable tone. "But ain't nobody heard of Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry doing any robbin' for nigh on to five years."
"Huh?" Heyes narrowed his eyes as he began to calculate.
Had it really been that long? Governor Hoyt's one year provisional amnesty had stretched into two before the man departed office. Lom insisted the delay was due to false accusations against the partners, but Kid thought Hoyt had reneged because of what happened in Matherville.
"Five years?"
Lom continued to assure the partners that it was just a matter of time. "Just stay out of trouble a little longer, until you can prove you deserve amnesty." Hoyt's replacement, Governor Hale agreed with the original deal, but stalled until he died without signing any pardon. Temporary Acting Governor Morgan was replaced before anyone even had a chance to talk to him about amnesty and now current Governor Warren considered it a new deal, and wanted them to prove they deserved amnesty. Again.
"Yep," crowed the bounty hunter. "Course the wanted poster ain't the only reason I know who ya are."
"What makes you so sure I'm Hannibal Heyes?" demanded Heyes in frustration.
"I rode as a deputy back in Wyoming," answered the bounty hunter. "Five years ago, I was in the posse that trailed after you, Curry and the rest of the Devil's Hole Gang."
Heyes tried to remember that long ago last train robbery. Somethings were unforgettable. Dynamite that wouldn't explode. A safe that wouldn't open. A life altering piece of paper. But there had been too many men shooting at the partner's over the years for Heyes to remember one face in a posse.
"Did you ever get close enough to actually see anyone's face?" asked Heyes. "Or were the outlaws just riders in the distance?
"We followed the marks of a safe being dragged across the ground," responded the bounty hunter, not really answering Heyes' question. "We got within firing range a couple different times."
Heyes swallowed. That was another thing he remembered vividly from that day. The posse had come awfully close with their gunshots. The echo of his partner's voice rang in his mind, "there's one thing we gotta get..." Heyes' own question was nearly drowned out by the whiz of a bullet. Kid's answer, "outta this business!" was the start of their quest for amnesty.
"I always thought the reason you fellas dropped out of sight was 'cause mebbe we killed one or both of you," continued the bounty hunter as he nudged Heyes closer to his horse. "Or mebbe you killed each other."
Heyes stumbled in shock at the man's words. Did people think that they were killers? The dog barked sharply and backed up a couple of steps. Heyes would have fallen to his knees, except for the quick action of his captor. Grabbing him from behind, the old bounty hunter steadied the slender schemer.
"Careful," reminded the big man. "That's a steep drop. I don't want to have to go after you and pick up what's left."
Heyes rolled his dark brown eyes. He didn't want the bounty hunter going to retrieve him after the long fall either. The silver tongue began to speak quickly.
"What makes you think Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry would kill each other?" asked Heyes. "They were partners, and always known for not hurting anyone."
"First time for everything," answered Simmons. "However, since you're here, and there ain't been no word of Curry in years, I figure Kid Curry must be dead. Lucky me."
"Lucky?" echoed Heyes in a questioning tone.
"Yeah," nodded the bounty hunter. "Curry was always the dangerous one, I wouldn't have even tried to capture him."
"Not that I'm Hannibal Heyes," warned Heyes, "but you might be wrong about who was the dangerous one."
"Hah!" snorted Simmons. "Look at you, you puny little thing! You let me and Jezebel get the drop on you. Gotcha handcuffed without any fuss. You always was the planner, the schemer. Curry was the threat."
Heyes started to object, the echo of Joe Sim's soft laugher "even Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry can have an off day" ringing in his ears, but the big man blustered on.
"What made the Devil's Hole Gang different was Kid Curry and his gun!" continued Simmons.
"The Devil's Hole Gang was different because they never shot anyone!" objected Heyes.
"Still just a pack of thieves," responded the bounty hunter with a harsh laugh. "Just happened to be better at it than most."
Simmons prodded Heyes forward. The two men stepped closer to the side of Heyes' horse. The wild eyed equine back stepped once more. With a low mutter, the bounty hunter reached for the reins. The big man began a continuous stream of low murmurs to accompany a gentle rhythmic stroke. Slowly, the frightened animal stilled. The man beckoned Heyes closer.
"Really? You can't expect me to ride with my hands cuffed behind me?" objected Heyes.
"Ride or walk, don't make no never mind to me," replied the grizzled man. With a glance at Heyes polished, narrow toed black boots, he added, "Might make a difference to you though."
The bounty hunter beckoned again. At the prompt Heyes placed his foot in the stirrup. Simmons boosted Heyes up into the saddle with a loud huffing exhalation.
"Now try to stay on your horse," ordered Simmons.
The big man tugged on the reins and gave a low whistle to the shaggy gray dog. Heyes found himself in an odd processional. The bounty hunter plodded forward. In the middle, Heyes balanced upon the broad back of his chestnut mare. White stockinged hooves stepped daintily across the dusty trail. The gray canine brought up the rear. Jezebel snuffled in zig-zag searching motion from one side of the trail to the other.
"You've got the wrong man! I'm not an outlaw," grumbled Heyes in frustration. "And whoever heard of a bounty hunter capturing an outlaw on foot? What kind of bounty hunter does that?"
"The kind that rode ahead of you and set up camp already," answered the big, burly bounty hunter with a deep throated chuckle. "We'll ride down to Hopewell in the morning. I'll turn you into the sheriff there. Ten thousand dollars will keep me and Jezebel in biscuits and beans for a good long while."
Heyes gulped. The partners were to meet up in Hopewell. Being captured by a bounty hunter was trouble enough. Leading that bounty hunter to his partner was worse trouble.
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