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 but should also stand alone.
Porterville
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"Unh," Kid groaned.
The posse stopped. The horse's movement no longer jolted Kid's bruised and aching body. The farmer removed the big arm wrapped around Kid's waist, the solid body warmth of the man seated behind him these past several hours disappeared. No longer held securely in the saddle, Kid struggled for balance and attempted to put breath to words.
"Where... you... takin'... me?" gasped Kid. The same question he'd asked when the posse first hauled him up on this sturdy broad backed horse. He struggled to take in another breath. More painful words. "I'm... tellin' ya..., you... got... the wrong... man."
"Shaddup!"
Kid recognized the voice. The ineffectual deputy had called the owner of that voice Hudson. Rough hands grabbed the blond's left arm and pulled hard. Handcuffs behind Curry's back held his arms and shoulders tight. Kid's feet dangled, free of stirrups, on either side of the horse. For a moment he hovered off balance, his blue shirted chest in midair above the head of the black haired man yanking on him. Then Kid's right leg scraped across the saddle horn. Gravity took control. The twenty-one year old blond heard the overweight deputy berating the posse member as he started to fall.
"Hudson, I tol' ya before, you ain't got no call to be so rough on the prisoner," protested Deputy Roscoe Emerson. "Sheriff Anderson, he don't like that…"
Jedidiah Curry didn't like rough treatment either. The young outlaw had only a moment to regret that his angle of descent meant he wasn't gonna land on Hudson and flatten him, before the ground rushed up and slammed into Kid Curry's face.
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"Oooh," Kid moaned.
Pudgy, plump fingers slapped the tender side of Kid's bruised and beaten face. Not hard, but persistently. Kid tried to open his eyes, well the right eye anyway. The left eye was swollen shut. A blue eye blinked blearily.
"Wake up young fella," encouraged Lowell's deputy.
Kid found himself staring at wide planks. The floor came into focus. The posse had dragged him inside. Dusty brown boots belonging to Lowell's deputy stood in front of him. Kid's head lolled down again. Behind, and to the left, pointed black boots with sharp spiked spurs told Kid the man gripping his left arm was Hudson. Kid's own long legs sprawled, his knees nearly on the floor between the black boots and a pair of wide gray work shoes on his right. The farmer. The big, heavy set, stolid man that pulled Hudson off of him earlier this afternoon. Kid tried to move his legs, attempting to bring his feet forward to stand up. A sharp, stabbing pain in his lower abdomen brought an involuntary hiss out of his mouth.
"Is he hurt?" demanded a familiar voice.
"Had to subdue the prisoner," responded Hudson. There was a challenge in his tone as Hudson continued, "He's Kid Curry of the Devil's Hole gang. I'm sure you can identify him."
A chair scraped across the wooden floor. Heavy footsteps strode towards Kid. Gentle fingers tilted Kid's chin upwards. A blue eye blinked at the stern face peering down at him. Kid recognized Heyes' friend. Lombard Trevors had left Devil's Hole four years ago, shortly after Heyes and Kid returned to Wyoming from Texas. A year later, Trevors came to Devil's Hole after the Simpsonville job to warn them about the newest wanted posters. Every once in a while, Kid would see Heyes' old friend, Porterville sheriff now, in Wildwood. When Kid asked Heyes about Trevors, his partner always laughed. Heyes said good card players were hard to find no matter what they did for a living. Kid didn't know what kind of card player Lom was as he usually spent his time in Wildwood in the company of a certain dark haired lovely lady.
"I can identify most of the Devil's Hole gang," confirmed Sheriff Trevors as he released Kid's face. "What makes you think this man is Curry? That gang doesn't usually ride this far north. I sure hope you're not bringing trouble to my town!"
Kid found himself staring at the floor again. As the conversation continued above his head, he noted Lom's big black square toed boots. The Lowell deputy's dusty brown boots shuffled sideways, distancing Emerson from the formidable Porterville lawman.
"Oh no, no trouble," Emerson hurried to placate Trevors. His eager rush of words tried to explain. "Lowell Bank and Trust was robbed. Our posse has been following the gang's trail all week. They split up and so did we. Caught up with this fella near the crossroads."
"Lot of folks travel those two roads, not just outlaws," stated Trevors in a level non-committal voice.
"Got close enough to get a few shots just before sundown last night," growled Hudson. "We finally caught up with Curry this afternoon after the piebald collapsed..."
"Piebald?" interrupted Trevors in a sharp tone. "Never heard of Kid Curry riding a piebald."
The spurs jangled as the pointed black boots stepped closer to the square toed boots. Kid groaned again as his left shoulder was pulled forward by Hudson's movements. The wide gray work shoes on his right held steady. The farmer tightened his grasp on Kid's arm, supporting his right shoulder.
"I don't care what kind of horse Curry mighta had in the past," snarled Hudson. "Tracks led right to him."
"This boy's horse was a piebald mare, fourteen and a half hands at the most," stated the farmer. "Small horse, built for endurance, not fast riding."
"Curry is a big man," asserted Trevors. "According to rumors, he usually rides a black gelding, sixteen hands at least. Are you sure you've got the right man?"
The men stopped talking. The only sound in the room was a labored wheezing sound coming from Kid's chest. A drop of blood spattered the floor between the pointed black boots and the gray work shoes. His chin, or maybe his nose, was bleeding again.
"The prisoner is Kid Curry," insisted Hudson. "There is a five hundred dollar reward on that outlaw. I'm… we're claiming the reward."
"The boy had his hands raised up when we caught up to him," continued Deputy Emerson. "He talked real peaceable, pretended he didn't know about the robbery, even asked why we were chasing him."
"Hands up? Peaceable?" asked Trevors. The menace in the Porterville Sheriff's tone was palpable. "If this man surrendered peacefully, how did he get in this condition?"
Hudson's pointed black boots took a quick half step backwards. Deputy Emerson's dusty black boots did another nervous shuffle sideways. Kid would have smirked if his face didn't hurt so much.
"Well Hudson here, he got a little overzealous when we captured the prisoner," stammered the Lowell deputy.
"I was trying to get information from Curry about the rest of the gang and the bank's money," protested Hudson.
"By beating it out of him?" demanded Trevors.
"We're real sure he's Kid Curry," interjected Deputy Emerson.
The square toed black boots shifted a smidgen towards the gray work shoes.
"Do you think the prisoner is Kid Curry?" asked Sheriff Trevors.
"I ain't sure at all," answered the farmer. "Kid Curry is known for being a fast draw, this boy didn't have anything but a rifle with him."
"Hmmm," observed Trevors. "If this man is Kid Curry, where is his pistol?"
This time Kid's swollen lips did curl up at Lom's question. After tending the wounded animal the previous night, Lobo had said he thought Preacher's horse was still able to be ridden. That was a mistake. The piebald collapsed later that morning, throwing Preacher. Kid and Lobo had been hard pressed to get Preacher remounted on Kid's black gelding. Lobo was all for sending Preacher back with Kid, not wanting to return to Devil's Hole, and Heyes, without the young blond. Kid had to forcibly remind Lobo that Preacher needed his medical care more than Kid's fast draw. Kid's last minute decision to unbuckle his holster and shove his new Colt into Lobo's surprised hands was primarily to give Lobo another weapon if needed, and only just a little bit so no one would confiscate his treasured forty-five. Kid had spent a lot of time customizing the balance and didn't want to lose the revolver. Kid convinced Lobo that without the handgun he would have a better chance of not getting shot by the posse. Hudson and his angry fists were an unpleasant surprise.
"Identify him!" demanded Hudson. "He's Kid Curry!"
"I can't identify him," objected Trevors. "Look at him! Black eyes, split lip, face all swollen up! Right now I don't think his own mother could identify him."
Kid quit listening to the argument as he passed out again.
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"Ow!"
"Sorry about that young man," apologized a soft spoken man dressed in a gray suit with a white starched shirt. "I hoped to finish the stitching before you regained consciousness."
Scissors snipped perilously close to Kid's lower jaw. A cracked white ceiling was overhead. The open blue eye focused balefully on the small man. Kid was stretched out on a cot. It was easier to breathe laying down. Metal bars behind the physician gave evidence of a jail cell.
"There," continued the medical man in a satisfied tone. He sat down the scissors and reached for Kid's shirt. "Now, let's see what we have here."
A big hand flashed and caught the doctor's smaller wrist. The sudden movement pulled aching muscles and Kid found himself sucking in a deep breath.
"Young man," stated the doctor firmly as he withdrew his wrist from the clutches of his patient. "I need to examine you. I'm not going to hurt you, there's been enough of that already."
The white haired man unbuttoned Kid's blue shirt, tutting about the blood stains from the cut beneath Kid's chin and the bloody nose. Then the physician began to examine tender bruised flesh. Kid shivered in the cold cell.
"What's your name?" asked the doctor as he pressed a long slender tube against Kid's chest. "Are you really Kid Curry?"
"Posse got the wrong man, my name is Owens, Henry Owens," rasped Kid. The alias was one he'd used before travelling with Heyes. He felt comfortable with the name, it was family after all. Jedidiah Curry's father had been named Owen, his brother named Henry. "I had my hands raised, surrendering, next thing I know, one of the men was off his horse and…"
He winced as the doctor pressed on a particularly painful spot. Kid's voice faded as he remembered the sudden upper cut to his abdomen, the hard woosh of air as his breath departed. The man's second fist making contact with his chin. Rocks hard beneath his back as he fell next to Preacher's poor dead piebald mare. Heavy fists pummeled his face. Sunlight glinted off the sparkling stone in Hudson's ring.
"Who is President of the United States?" continued the doctor conversationally.
"Huh?
The doctor stopped listening to whatever sounds he could hear through the tube and looked more closely at Kid. Little frown lines appeared between the older man's eyes and his lips pursed for a moment before he asked another question.
"Do you know what day it is?"
Oh. Kid understood. The questions were part of the doctor's examination, just like the stitches, the poking and prodding.
"I don't know how long I was out, but it was Saturday when the posse came upon me," answered Kid, "and Grant is president."
The doctor smiled broadly and patted Kid gently on his arm.
"Good. It's still Saturday. Now, do you think you're able to sit up?" asked the doctor. He helped Kid upright, then felt along the blond's left collarbone. Pushing against the left shoulder joint, the man directed, "lean in."
Kid leaned forward as the medical man pushed against him. Suddenly a minor shift, bone slipped into joint, muscle tension released. Kid exhaled, a grateful sigh of relief as the pain lessened.
"That's better," stated the doctor. "Now let's get your chest wrapped up, then you can lay down and rest."
"In the jail?" questioned Kid.
"Yes, Mr. Owens," answered the doctor as he wrapped white cloth around Kid's bruised torso. "The posse from Lowell brought you here, to Porterville. They asked Sheriff Trevors to keep you in a cell to prevent you from escaping until they could take you back to Lowell by train."
"I'm not…," protested Kid.
"Unfortunately, your face is so swollen and puffy, Sherriff Trevors wasn't able to clearly state you are not Kid Curry," nodded the doctor. "It will be a few days before the swelling goes down enough for this mis-identification to get cleared up."
The doctor's tube, his scissors, the unused wrapping were soon returned to the small black valise beside the man's feet. The soft spoken man pulled out a long narrow pad of paper and a pencil. The doctor jotted down some figures on a piece of long narrow paper.
"Is that the bill?" asked Kid. He felt his pockets. Empty now. "I don't have money..."
"You don't need to worry about this," interrupted the doctor. "Sheriff Trevors insisted that I account for all treatment and bill accordingly. Lom says the town of Lowell will be paying."
The doctor smiled once more at Kid, then reached for the handle of his black bag. Standing, the physician moved to the cell door.
"I know you're hurting, but with the bouts of unconsciousness I don't want to give you laudanum," said the doctor. "There is no major damage. It looks worse than it is."
"Feels worse," murmured Kid as he touched the side of his battered face.
"You should be just fine within a week or two. You just need to rest," continued the doctor. "Are you hungry? I could have the diner send over some broth."
"No," Kid replied. He traced his tender lips with the tip of his right forefinger. Broth sounded hard right now and he wasn't sure his churning stomach would be able to keep it down. "Maybe breakfast?"
The doctor nodded understandingly, then turned towards the front of the jail.
"Deputy Wilkins," called the doctor, "I'm ready to leave. And my patient needs a blanket. It's cold in here."
The sound of shuffling footsteps accompanied the jangling of keys. A tall, gray haired man peered into the cell.
"So is that fella really Kid Curry?" asked Wilkins as he inserted the big black iron key into the lock. "We ain't never had a real notorious outlaw here before."
"Afraid you don't have one now Deputy," responded the doctor with a chuckle. "My patient said his name was Owens."
"He's lying," growled a voice from somewhere past the deputy.
Kid turned his head. One blue eye looked beyond Wilkins to see the man seated beside the sheriff's desk. Hudson frowned and shifted his rifle from one side to the other as the doctor made his goodbyes and disappeared out the front door.
"It's a waste of time for us to have to guard him here," grumbled Hudson. "We should be taking him back to Lowell on the evening train."
"Now that ain't what Sheriff Trevors said," admonished Wilkins. "We ain't got enough manpower to guard your prisoners. Lowell folks have to guard Lowell prisoners, and Sherriff Trevors ain't releasing this fella until we know who he is."
There was a pause in the Porterville deputy's words. Wilkins arched one eyebrow speculatively.
"And iffen he ain't Curry," added Wilkins, "you may find yourself facing some assault and battery charges."
"I'm a duly sworn member of the posse," grumbled Hudson, "subduing a prisoner is part of the job, not assault and battery."
"Did your Sheriff Anderson tell you that?" asked Wilkins. "Sheriff Trevors always tells us deputies in Porterville that a man is innocent until proven guilty, and to treat any prisoner decent. We're lawmen, not vigilantes."
Hudson's only response was a disgruntled snort. The kindly Porterville deputy shuffled back to the front of the jail. He returned a few minutes later carrying a warm red woolen blanket, Kid's floppy brown hat and Preacher's extra black coat.
"Thought you might want the coat and hat too," explained Wilkins.
"Much obliged," agreed Kid.
Kid's own sheepskin jacket was probably still tied to the back of his saddle. With any luck, Preacher and Lobo had made it back to Devil's Hole by now and Heyes would be planning a way to get him outta here. Kid settled back against the pillow. The young blond pulled his hat down over his face and tried to go to sleep, but his mind was spinning. The Devil's Hole gang stayed out of Porterville in deference to Heyes' friendship with their one time gang member. Was Lom trying to help him? Or did Lom really not recognize him? Would Heyes attempt to break Kid out of jail in Porterville? Or wait until Kid was back in Lowell?
"Heyes," murmured Kid as he drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep, "what are you gonna do?"
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