In All the Trains and Banks They Robbed
James Garrison, U.S. Federal Marshal, was long past tired. It had been more than twenty-four hours since he'd last slept and he knew that it would be another full day's ride before he would finally be able to rest. Sleep wasn't important at the moment; his current assignment might just represent a critical crossroads in his career. At just thirty-two, he had achieved a highly respected position. Younger than most federal marshals, he had earned his position through hard work, commitment to duty and bravery. His motivation was his belief that he was making the territory a better and safer place for the people that would come after him.
As he rode on through the valley, he spotted a small camp and turned his horse toward what he believed was his destination. He could make out two men standing guard, and two others sitting near the campfire. He rode in slowly, identifying himself and keeping his hands where the men could see them. As he neared the campsite, the Marshall scanned the area, finally seeing what he'd come for. On the ground, almost hidden by a large rock, was the body of a man lying face down and still.
The two men on guard duty eyed him suspiciously as he rode into their camp. One of the two men who had been seated near the campfire rose to greet the Marshal as he dismounted.
"Good morning, Marshal, I'm Sheriff Ackerman," the man said, reaching to shake the other man's hand. "It's a real pleasure to meet you, your reputation precedes you."
So does yours, Garrison thought grimly.
The fourth man had remained seated near the prisoner with his rifle resting on his knees. Garrison relaxed slightly. They wouldn't be guarding a dead man.
"So how come you rode all the way out here to meet us?" Ackerman questioned. "The telegram I sent said we'd be bringing him in ourselves."
"The Wyoming authorities want this particular prisoner brought in alive, as opposed to the condition that yours usually arrive in."
One of the guards let out a short laugh and Ackerman shot him a warning look.
Garrison produced the documents authorizing him to take possession of the prisoner.
Ackerman's smile faded and he looked scornfully at the marshal. "I'm still entitled to the reward. I'm the one that caught him—took four days but I got him."
"So I see. Is he conscious?" Garrison asked, nodding toward the figure lying on the ground. The man lay curled on his side with his back toward the group. He hadn't moved and Garrison couldn't see his face.
"Oh sure, he's conscious." The deputy sitting next to the prisoner answered, as he jabbed the butt of the rifle into the man's back, eliciting a short grunt.
Garrison could see the prisoner's hands tied tightly behind his back. There was both dried and fresh blood on his wrists and soaking into the leather thong. The man's hands were a shade of light gray, indicating that circulation had been cut off for some time. The marshal could see that his feet were also tied securely with a similar leather thong. The man was barefoot, he realized suddenly, and looked back at the sheriff.
"What happened to this man's boots?" he asked sharply.
"Oh, they're in—" one of the deputies began.
"Lewis, shut your mouth." Ackerman cut him off. "Now what does it matter to you? You get to parade him into Cheyenne all official-like. Way I see it, we caught him and we should at least get a chance at a little souvenir."
"You'll get the reward, that's enough. Bring me his boots. Now," Garrison said with the full force of his physical presence. At well over 6 feet, broad shouldered and solidly built, he was an intimidating man.
"O.K. fine," the sheriff relented, "but we'd better not have any delay collecting that reward."
"You'll get what's coming to you," Garrison growled as Lewis pulled out the boots and set them on the ground. "What about his gun?"
Ackerman only stared back defiantly.
"Sheriff," Garrison said slowly. "These documents authorize me to take possession of this prisoner, and that includes all of his physical property. I have a long ride ahead of me today and I don't want any further delays."
Reluctantly, the sheriff reached into his own saddle bag and produced the colt revolver.
Garrison took it in his hands and turned it over. Perfectly balanced and impeccably clean, this was the gun that belonged to the notorious outlaw Kid Curry.
Ackerman swore to himself as he picked up his saddle and walked toward his horse. This had not gone as planned at all. He'd promised the boys two bounties to split, not one. When they'd finally caught up with Curry, he'd been alone and some of the boys had been mighty angry. They figured Curry knew where his partner Heyes was and tried to beat it out of him. When that produced only a stone-faced silence and an icy stare, they had resorted to simply taking out their frustrations on the man. Ackerman hoped that if they got the anger out of their system they would be less upset with him and the smaller reward. He'd actually begun to doubt whether Curry even knew anything about Heyes' whereabouts. No man would put up with that much abuse just to protect someone else. He'd certainly never seen that kind of loyalty in any of the men who'd worked for him. No, most likely they'd each just taken off and tried to save their own skins.
While Sheriff Ackerman and his deputies were packing up their belongings and stamping out their campfire, Garrison got his first good look at the man now in his custody. Blood and dirt, streaked the young outlaw's bruised face, and his curly hair stuck to his forehead, caked in sweat and dirt. Squatting down in front of his prisoner, he gently nudged his shoulder. Curry's eyes opened slowly, first the right and then slowly the left. The left side of the man's face was bruised and swollen, barely allowing the left to open more than a narrow slit.
Curry stared briefly at Garrison and then looked away. He had given up any hope of rescue as the hours dragged on. If Heyes had still been in the area he would have made some sort of move to free him by now. His remaining hope was that Heyes had made it safely to White Falls, where they had agreed to meet. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe slowly, attempting to settle the rising feeling of nausea that was coming over him.
The posse had caught up with them just outside of Greeley, Colorado and chased them for four days through the mountains. None of their usual tricks had worked and so as a last resort they had split up. Curry's luck ran out soon after when his exhausted horse stumbled and fell. It had seemed like only minutes before the posse was on him. Some of the members of the posse had headed home soon after, leaving him with Sheriff Ackerman and his deputies.
From the way the men had been talking, Curry had thought these four were planning to take him across the Wyoming border and into Cheyenne themselves. The arrival of this Marshal confused and worried him, although he didn't figure things could get much worse.
He opened his eyes again as he felt the Marshal take hold of his arm to turn him over. Fear swept over him as he realized the marshal was holding a knife. Maybe this man was going to try a new tactic. He lay face down in the dirt, expecting to feel the knife pressed to his throat, or worse, cutting into his flesh. Instead, he felt the knife slowly slice the bonds that pinned his wrists together. He had lost all feeling in both of his hands and begun to fear that the damage would be permanent. He slowly and painfully stretched out his shoulders as he brought his arms around.
Garrison helped him sit up and then took hold of his arms to examine his hands and wrists. "I think they'll be alright." he said in a low voice and then reached for his canteen and held it for Curry to take a drink.
Curry looked at the man curiously, "Thank you," he managed to say, his voice weak and hoarse.
Garrison acknowledged the thanks with a slight nod and then turned to Ackerman, "Untie his feet and put his boots back on," he ordered curtly.
Curry sat there, grateful for the drink, but not sure what to make of this sudden change in plans. His captors had been brutal over the last two days and he still wasn't sure that this new treatment wasn't some sort of game or trap. He watched Garrison return to his horse and realized the Marshall had brought a second horse with him, also saddled and ready for riding. Curry sat rubbing his hands as Sheriff Ackerman threw his boots on the ground next to him. He struggled to get his feet into them, which was nearly impossible with his hands numb and whole body painfully stiff.
Ackerman looked down at him and snickered. "Some tough guy, he can barely dress himself."
Curry refused to acknowledge the taunt and simply concentrated on getting his boots on.
"Time to go," the marshal announced as he finished with the horses. Ackerman glanced down at his former prisoner and suddenly without warning swung his right leg back and planted his boot in the outlaw's ribs. Curry gasped and fell sideways clutching his side.
Garrison lunged at the sheriff and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "What the Hell was that for?" he demanded, and for a moment, the others thought Garrison was going to strike the man.
"What do you care?" Ackerman sneered. He was really beginning to resent this marshal.
Garrison let go of his shirt and pushed him aside with disgust. What bothered him the most was that these men were supposed to be lawmen and protectors of the people.
Curry watched the exchange from the ground, where he lay taking slow painful breathes. He feared that a few of his captor's more vicious kicks had done some real damage. Painfully, and with the marshal's help he climbed onto the horse. They rode away from Ackerman and his deputies and towards the mountains in the direction that the Marshall had come.
After riding only a few miles, Garrison reined both horses to a stop.
"We'll stop here for a while," he announced matter-of-factly. He dismounted and then helped his prisoner do the same, studying Curry's condition as he helped the man down.
"Are you going to be able to keep riding?" Garrison asked, unease showing on his face.
Curry winced as the Marshall touched his side. "Do I have a choice?" he asked, confused by the man's question.
"It might help to bind up those ribs before we head back out. The nearest town's a full day's ride from here."
"No, I think they're ok, I just need a minute to rest is all."
Garrison paused for a moment and then nodded as he went to take care of their horses. He adjusted the saddlebags and moved a few supplies onto the horse his prisoner was riding. When he was finished, he sat down opposite the outlaw and handed him a rag dampened with some water from his canteen. Curry took the rag, hesitantly at first, as though he was unsure of what the marshal was offering. Finally Curry began wiping the blood and dirt from his face and hands.
"Why are you doing this?" Curry asked when he finished, looking at the marshal with a mixture of gratitude and suspicion.
"I'm a federal Marshal, it's my job to take you to Wyoming," he replied flatly.
"No, I mean…"
"What, treating you like a human being?"
Curry locked eyes with the other man. "Yeah."
The marshal gave him a long hard look but didn't respond. Instead he stood up and took a few steps, pacing back and forth.
He'd heard a lot about Kid Curry over the years. Some said he was a hot-tempered killer, others said he was cold and cunning—never showed any emotion at all. Still others claimed that he'd never killed except in self-defense. Most agreed his speed and skill with a gun was unmatched. Now there were new rumors that he and Hannibal Heyes were trying to go straight.
This morning he saw a man who, although brutalized, humiliated and obviously in a great deal of pain, seemed to maintain a sense of self-respect and dignity. Curry's manner with him had been nothing but polite and respectful.
Garrison stopped and looked off toward the mountains. "They say," he began, "that in all the trains and banks you've robbed, you never shot anyone. But that isn't entirely true, is it?"
Anger flashed in Curry's eyes. "I never shot anyone while I was robbing them, and it's a damn lie if anyone says I did," he spat out, showing more emotion that the marshal had seen since he arrived.
Garrison turned toward the younger man and raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say you shot someone you were robbing, just that you shot someone during a robbery."
Curry stared back at him suspiciously, not sure where the marshal was going with this and too tired to think about it.
"You shot one of your own gang members, seven years ago, just up the line from Cold Creek."
Curry's eyes flew open in recognition and Garrison could see his body tense up.
The outlaw was silent for a moment, and then finally answered, "One of the men was bothering a lady, so I stopped him." His tone was indifferent but Garrison could tell he'd touched a nerve.
Curry closed his eyes and felt a knot tighten in his stomach as the memory came flooding back. Bothering—the man had practically raped her…
He had just joined back up with Heyes and Big Jim Santana was still running the gang. It was the first train he'd ever stopped. He'd jumped onto the train while it was moving slowly up a steep grade, then made his way to the engine and held his gun to the back of the engineer's head.
The rest of the gang had been waiting on the side of the tracks and ordered the passengers out. He sent the two men in the engine to join the others and was scanning the area to make sure there were no stragglers. Just as he was walking around the front of the engine he heard a muffled scream.
He whirled around and raced back toward the sound. Several car lengths down he saw two figures on the edge of the woods. As he approached, a cold chill ran down his spine. One of the gang members had pulled a woman off the train and dragged her to the edge of the wood. Her blouse was nearly ripped off and from the way he was pawing her, his intentions were obvious.
"Let her go, Harvey!" he shouted.
"Get your own, Curry," Harvey sneered.
"Now!" he shouted again, in as threatening a voice as he could manage.
Harvey flung the young woman down and stood to face him.
"I'm gonna have to teach you to mind your own business, boy." Harvey reached for his gun, but Curry's bullet caught him in the shoulder before he had it out of the holster.
Harvey cried out and grabbed his arm.
The shouts and shot sent Heyes and Jim running from the other side of the train.
Kid suddenly worried that his shot might have caused a panic and prayed that no one would get hurt.
Heyes took the situation in at a glance—the woman on the ground, Kid with his gun out and Harvey with a bleeding arm—and realized immediately what had been going on.
"You two—on your horses!" Jim ordered.
Jim had been inclined to kick them both out, but in the end, Heyes had persuaded him to let Kid stay and send Harvey packing.
As the rest of the gang hurried to leave, Kid had gone over to the young woman, who still sat on the ground, whimpering and looking terrified. Kid realized she couldn't be more than 17 or 18. When he reached out to help her up, she pulled away and looked at him with a fear he'd never had directed at him before. He felt as if he'd been gut punched. This girl thought that he was going to hurt her—that he was just like Harvey.
"I'm sorry," he almost whispered. "I'm not going to hurt you, I'm sorry this happened."
He'd left then, with the others, but the look in her eyes had haunted him. He'd gotten used to that look over the years; it came with the reputation he'd earned.
"Why'd you do it?" Garrison's question brought Curry back to the present.
"He drew on me," the outlaw replied simply.
"No, I mean why'd you get involved, why'd you put your own life at risk?"
Curry blinked, "He was going to hurt her, probably kill her, I couldn't let him do that."
Garrison nodded, his decision made. He reached into his saddlebag and retrieved Curry's gun. He walked back to his prisoner and held the gun out to him. "Do you have enough feeling back in your hands to shoot straight?" he asked wryly.
Curry hesitated only a moment before standing up and grabbing the gun. "I can shoot straight," he replied. He didn't know what was going on, but now that he had his gun back he wasn't going to stick around to find out.
"Good, then shoot me," the marshal replied.
Curry stared at him in disbelief.
"A little graze is all I need, the left shoulder might work."
"What?" Curry asked incredulously.
"Well I'm not looking forward to it, but I figure it's my only chance of salvaging any part of what will be left of my reputation after I let you go. At least I can say the shot knocked me off my horse and gave you the chance to get away. Those hills ahead look like they'd make aa good spot for someone to hide out and take a shot at a rider. That's the way I'll tell it. Better put some distance between us first so it looks right."
Shaking his head in disbelief, Curry strode back a few yards and then turned and faced the marshal. He swallowed hard and aimed his gun. He hoped and prayed that he was steady enough to merely graze the shoulder and miss the bone. He held his breath and fired. The marshal took the impact with a grunt and grabbed his shoulder, but he remained standing. Confident that the wound wasn't fatal, Curry mounted his horse and turned toward the desert. Before riding away he took one last look at the Marshal who remained standing and clutching his shoulder, his own gun still in its holster. Heyes was never going to believe this one.
--- --- ---
Slowly, Marshal Garrison wrapped a bandage around his shoulder. He'd have a couple hours ride to the nearest town, but he'd made sure on the way out that it had a doctor. He'd have plenty of time to memorize his story. He thought of his wife and baby boy at home. He wondered if he should tell her the real story of his encounter with Kid Curry. After all, she'd trusted him enough to tell him about hers.