Heyes was soon back in his chains. The marshals got into a neat formation before, after, and around their shackled charges as they approached the Laramie train station. A crowd of gawkers – men and women, adults and children, cowboys and stock clerks, met the train as it arrived in Laramie. They chattered among themselves but did not shout - except one hollow-eyed old man yelled in a deep voice, "Welcome to hell, boys!" Heyes and Curry shared a look – that didn't bode well for them! In combination with what they had already heard about their destination, it made the pair very nervous. But they tried not to show this to anyone – least of all to each other.

The people stared at Heyes and Curry in their chains as the marshals escorted them from the train to a black paddy wagon. Two marshals rode on top of the paddy wagon, while the others rode alongside of it and before and behind it on a dozen horses that had been waiting, tacked up, at the station. It made a regular parade. A few locals rode along on their own horses for a while, but they soon gave up and went home to get out of the dripping rain. Heyes wondered idly when he and the Kid would get to ride horses again - if ever. Would they ever have that much space, that much freedom, again?

As they rode in the jouncing wagon down the dirt road from the dusty frontier town with its false fronted businesses out to the prison, the boys had a chance to talk in relative privacy for the first time since Christmas. They knew that it might be the last time in a long, long time. The rattling wagon made enough noise that they doubted any of their guards could hear them if they kept their voices low.

"Well, here it is - the Wyoming State Pen. We've joked about it plenty. Wonder if we'll get adjoining cells?" said the Kid as lightly as he could.

"I doubt it, Kid. They wouldn't want us together and I can't blame them. Too bad. It'll be lonesome without you around drive me crazy." He winked at his cousin. But then Heyes went deadly serious as he looked into his partner's worried blue eyes, "Kid, we've talked enough about that telegram I got. What did yours say? You never told me. Was it the same as mine?"

The Kid studied the floor of the wagon. "I'd rather not say, Heyes."

Heyes was startled and hurt. "Well, if that's how you want to finish our partnership, by hiding things from me, I guess that's your choice. I trust you, but if you don't trust me. . ."

The Kid was frustrated, "Heyes! It ain't like that. I trust you, but some things . . ."

Heyes was warming into being angry and his voice grew louder, "What? You don't think I could handle it?"

Curry bent low toward Heyes and whispered, "Shush, Heyes! The deal could still come through, some time! We don't want to mess it up by lettin' the marshals hear!"

"Yeah, so what about it?" Heyes asked in a whisper.

Curry spoke very quietly and looked concerned. "Alright, alright, Heyes! But promise you won't fly off the handle!"

"Since when do I fly off the handle?" Heyes asked huffily.

The Kid was angry in his turn, "Since just now when you tried right on purpose to get us killed! I got responsibilities! If there's any chance of us gettin' out of this ever, I got to stick around for Cat and our baby! It don't matter how bad it is until then. I got to put up with it and stick around. And you ought to stick around for Beth, at least."

Heyes spoke quietly and with regret, "I'm sorry, Kid. Yeah, I will stick around – for all the folks I care about - as long as I can. I don't promise more than that. But I need to know all the information I can get. So what did War . . ." Heyes paused and looked at the marshals and decided not to risk the whole name "he say to you in that wire?"

The Kid licked his lips nervously. "He said to stick around. And he said . . . he said to watch you like a hawk." His voice fell to a bare whisper, "He said to make sure you stick around, too."

Heyes made an effort to stay calm, but that people in power thought he was weak enough to be a suicide risk wasn't the world's most comforting piece of intelligence, "And why does he think I need watching? What did you tell him, Kid?"

The Kid looked sad. It hurt him to have to wound Heyes like this, "I don't know who told him what – it wasn't me! But you know real well there's stuff to tell aplenty! After you got shot in the head and you tried to – you know."

Heyes said, in dread, "No, I don't know. What? Come on Kid, we don't have much time."

The Kid looked away and then back into Heyes' brown eyes. "When you tried to . . . tried to do yourself in so many times."

"I tried what?!" Heyes was dumfounded.

The Kid didn't know why the man was denying what they both knew so well. He looked down as he spoke so he wouldn't have to see the hurt in Heyes' eyes. "You know! When you kept goin' out in the freezin' cold without a coat, and looking for knives in the kitchen to stab yourself with, and when you was tryn' to open the safe and get your gun so you could shoot yourself." But then there so long a pause that the Kid had to look up at Heyes to figure out what was going on.

Heyes was staring open-mouthed at the Kid. When Heyes could talk at all, he explained, staying as calm and rational as he could in the face of this stunning revelation, "When I was trying to get my gun, I just wanted to get my own property back. Everything else was taken from me – even my voice. I just wanted to be in charge of my own stuff. I'm a man, after all! I sure didn't want to kill myself! But the rest of that - what you just told me, I don't recall that at all. Are you sure?"

The Kid spoke softly but firmly, "Course I'm sure! I saw you! Peggy and Cat and I saved you over and over! We couldn't hardly trust you for a minute by yourself! The doc even said we might have to put you away, but we wouldn't hear of it. Don't blame the doc! He was at wit's end worryin' over you. And you don't recollect any of it at all?"

Heyes' face showed his grief. He sounded badly shaken, "Put me away? Commit me to an insane asylum? You really had to think about that? I was that bad? Oh Kid, I'm awful sorry I put you and Cat and Peggy through that. No, I don't remember it at all. The time when I couldn't understand – I know it happened, but I don't remember it. It's a blank and it's real fuzzy for a while after that. Kid, thank you for not putting me away! And now we're both being put away in the Pen. I sure hope somebody can get us out one day!"

"God Bless us, Heyes, 'cause it looks like there's nobody nearer to see we're alright," said the Kid. "'Cept our own selves."

"Amen, Kid," said Heyes. "I've got a lot of good friends who've looked after me, but only you've stayed with me through it all." The men locked eyes and reached out to touch each others' hands, but a voice from over their heads interrupted them.

"Come on along, boys!" yelled the head marshal as they drew up in front of the gold and brown brick façade of the Wyoming State Penitentiary. The boys could see at the sides of the building a pair of wood guard towers and high wooden walls guarding what they guessed was the prison yard. This would be their world. It looked so small! Heyes couldn't deny that, after all he had heard about his place, he was scared. He had talked to many an old jail bird, but he still didn't know how to handle himself in prison. He would have to figure it out, and so would the Kid.

The marshal climbed to the ground and called to them again, "Come on down here!" First the Kid jumped down from the wagon to the dusty ground, and then Heyes followed him. Heyes nearly fell, with his gimpy hip bothering him, but the Kid caught him.

The marshals kept a tight cordon around the pair of famous outlaws as they went in the heavy front door in the middle of the gold stone facade. They found themselves in a big front room whose walls were lined with guards standing at attention. They were heavily armed. A stout middle-aged man in a formal black suit said to the head marshal, "Thank you, Marshal Owens, for getting these dangerous men here safely. Our guards will take over now. I'll report to the governor on your good work getting Curry and Heyes here."

"Thank you, Warden," said the head marshal. "We have had no trouble with Heyes and Curry. None at all. I guess they meant it when they said they'd gone straight. But watch them carefully, all the same." Heyes thought the marshal sounded a bit sad. Why that would be, he wasn't sure. He would have thought relief would be more appropriate as the prisoners were safely delivered. The head marshal shook the hand of the warden, then turned and left the building with his fellow marshals in his wake. Just as the man was vanishing out the door, he looked back and caught Heyes' eye with a disconcertingly sorrowful glance. Heyes felt a shiver go down his spine. The Warden turned and went down a hall without even speaking to his new charges.

"Come this way!" said a guard, leading first the Kid and then Heyes down a long stone hallway in their chains. They made sure that there were several guards between the pair as they marched down the hall as if they were in the army. Heyes and the Kid stayed purposely out of step.

The guards took the Kid in one direction and Heyes in another. The partners shared a desperately worried look as they were parted, not knowing how much they would see each other after this. "Kid!" Heyes started to say and to reach toward his partner, but a guard jerked him off balance with his chain and struck him hard in the face. "Shut up! No speaking to one another!" Heyes touched his sore cheek where the man's ring had cut him. So it would be like that.

Heyes was led into a room with large black and white placards on the walls bearing a list of rules. "Can you read?" asked a guard.

Heyes, deeply insulted, said, "I'm just the diploma away from a master's degree from Columbia University! I'm qualified as a college professor!"

The guard stared in surprise and hostility at his new charge. "Just answer the questions – don't get uppity." the man said harshly. "If you read so good, you can read all these for yourself and memorize them. You'll live by them from now on. Silence is the rule around here unless you got a good reason."

Heyes read the boldly lettered rules. He took in the tight strictures of the world he would now inhabit. He learned that he would now be getting up at 5:50 AM every day except Sunday, and that he would change his underwear once a week and wash it when directed – not nearly often enough by his personal standards when he was in New York rather than on the trail. He learned that he would be unable to speak to the other men unless he asked permission of a guard. How could a man live without communication? The only rules he had ever lived by before were the liberal rules of Columbia University and his own rules. Now life would be far more regulated for sure. And far quieter.

A clerk standing by a desk called Heyes over to sign a paper. Heyes tried to read what he was signing, unsure of what it was and not wanting to agree to anything blindly. But even as Heyes began to read the close set lines of type outlining his agreement to live by the rules of the prison, the man said, "You've got no choice here. Just sign it! Now!" Heyes took up the pen. He hesitated for a moment. He hadn't actually signed his real name in years. He had to make sure that he didn't accidentally sign "Joshua Smith" instead of Hannibal Heyes. The clerk glared at him for the delay.

The clerk processing Heyes ordered, "Strip! Down to the skin. Now." Heyes obeyed unhappily. He hated to give up these last belongings that were his own. The cut on his cheek was still bleeding badly. His blood-stained formal clothing made a small pile that quickly vanished. Heyes kept only the case with his precious glasses. The guard said, "You can keep nothing of your own! What is that?"

"Those are my glasses. I need them to see distances!" answered Heyes defensively.

"Oh. Then you can keep them, I guess. But you won't have far to see here." The guard stared at Heyes. As used as he was to naked men with violent pasts, he looked surprised at Heyes' many scars.

A man in coveralls came with shears and cut off Heyes' long hair. Then he used a razor dipped in tepid water to shave the outlaw's face and scalp. Heyes bit his tongue and didn't utter a sound when blood was drawn by the swiftly moving blade. "You will stay clean while you are here!" declared the guard. "No lice!" Heyes bristled that anyone could assume he was that filthy when he obviously wasn't, despite what he had been through in jails recently. The man glanced uneasily at the dark diagonal scar on Heyes' left temple where the ricocheting bullet had struck him five and a half years before. It was now on display for all to see.

Then the man led Heyes to a shallow metal tub filled with rapidly cooling water. He handed Heyes a coarse sponge and a tub of soft brown soap and ordered him to wash himself thoroughly all over. He watched the prisoner with care, ordering him, "Get soap everywhere! We don't want you to bring any infection here from the jails where you've been." When he had seen Heyes comply – not a very comfortable procedure - the guard poured water over Heyes. The outlaw shivered. The rinse was not very effective and the water was pretty cold. Heyes could feel the harsh lye soap still stinging in certain intimate and sensitive places and where he had been cut.

A clerk handed Heyes a set of rough woolen drawers and a suit of coarse wool clothing with bold horizontal black and white stripes. It didn't fit well, but it didn't fall off. It was going to get horribly hot as summer came on, but cotton was more expensive than wool and this prison was nothing if not efficient. The distinctive striping would make escape impossible, at least without a change of clothing. There was a crude brimless hat to cover Heyes' bleeding scalp and make it hurt worse. The shoes and loose socks didn't fit well, either, promising blisters to come. But Heyes knew he couldn't complain about it. It was shaming to look so awful, but he had no time to worry over it. Before he left the room, the clerk handed Heyes a set of bedding, soap, and a candle. "Since you say you are literate, you can get reading materials, if you don't cause trouble. Listen to me, Mr. Heyes – don't cause trouble." The clerk looked Heyes hard in the eyes. Heyes nodded. He got the message.

Two guards marched Heyes out of the room and down the hall. He saw no sign of the Kid anywhere.

His guards took Heyes through a polished wooden door that stood out from the rough edge of the other architecture of the prison. A suited young man looked at him contemptuously and spoke to the guards as if Heyes could not understand English, "Bring him through. The warden will see him now. Make sure he's respectful."

Then Heyes went through into the warden's office. It was embarrassing to be in this elegantly decorated place confronting a well groomed man in a neat, formal suit, when Heyes himself was bleeding and beaten and dressed in the rough, unfamiliar prison uniform. It had been only a few days since Heyes had gone around New York in a tailored suit. He felt the terrible change in his fortunes keenly.

"Welcome to the Wyoming State Penitentiary, Mr. Heyes," said the warden, "You do not look pleased to be meeting up with justice at last. I hope that we can help you up out of the slough of dishonesty and ignorance into which you have fallen. Do you have anything to say?"

"Your guards are brutal," said Heyes, with his eyes blazing with fury and his voice hard. "I have done nothing to deserve this violence at their hands." He gestured to his bleeding cheek. "They struck me simply for speaking to my own partner!"

The warden was not fazed in the least. His spoke in the arrogant tones of someone who felt that he had the moral high ground. He was shocked that anyone would argue against striking a man for speaking. "Silence is enforced here to allow you reconsider your choices in life. Speaking out of turn is against the rules! Our guards are trained to deal effectively with violent criminals like yourself. To get along here you must learn discipline and order. If you disobey the rules, you will be punished. You will learn to take orders from your superiors. If you attempt to escape, you will be shot. Is that clear?"

"Yes," Heyes said, his resentment clear in his voice. He seriously doubted that anyone here was really his superior – at least intellectually, but he didn't expect the warden to share that view.

The warden looked at him with pity and what the man clearly perceived as mercy. That made Heyes more furious than ever. But not wanting to be perceived as a trouble maker or to court punishment, he did not dare to interrupt. This man would be in charge of his life for the coming days, weeks, and who knew how much longer. Perhaps decades, if there was no change in the position.

The warden gave his new prisoner a speech that sounded often rehearsed. Heyes doubted that the man had made many changes for his benefit besides inserting his name at the beginning. "Mr. Heyes, this is a place of rescue and redemption. We know that you and your fellow prisoners have led violent, undisciplined, ignorant lives before you came here. You must understand that we cannot allow you to live like that. You cannot continue to be violent, drunken, debouched and ignorant. You must learn upright and responsible ways. We will teach you that. Considering the charges against you, I doubt that you will ever leave here. Within these walls you will find a world fairer and more just than you have known outside. Knowing the brutality of your background, I understand that you have a lot to learn. I will be glad to meet with you frequently to help you on your way. I think I might be able to manage to meet with you every two weeks. We will schedule it. We will teach you patiently, but our patience is not boundless. You must do your best to pay attention and to obey. Good-bye for today. Send word to me if I can help in any way." The warden smiled condescendingly. Heyes wanted to kick the man in a place where it would really hurt.

Instead, Heyes thought he would just offer a little correct information. Heyes began to say, gently and as politely as he could, "Thank you. But Warden, you must not know . . ." But before Heyes could say more, the guards took his shoulders and steered him back in the direction from which he had come. The warden turned to his desk and ignored the man being led away. Heyes was incensed at being treated as a common, low, ignorant criminal. The warden was so sure that he was the one who could help, yet he would not even bother to learn about his charges. He clearly had no idea of the life Heyes had been leading, with his great academic record. Anyone who could earn two degrees, with honors, in four and a half years when most people took six working at full tilt was hardly undisciplined! And the warden actually thought he was being kind! From what Heyes and the Kid had heard, there was real brutality practiced here, far past the relatively mild blows he had yet experienced. Heyes wondered if the warden even knew what was done to his charges when he wasn't looking. The warden was the ignorant one!

But even as he fumed inwardly, two guards took Heyes to a long, echoing hall where there were three levels of cells. They went all the way across to the last cell on the bottom – the most airless - row. It was a tiny chamber behind a gate made of a grid of wide metal slats. The bare, whitewashed cell was almost entirely filled by a pair of crude bunk beds with the bedding folded up neatly at the foot of the lower bunk. Evidently it was already occupied while the top bunk would be Heyes'. There was also a single tiny desk and a bench. The only belongings he could see anywhere were a single copy of the Bible on the desk and an ink well, as well as a small basin of water, and the other man's soap and candle. Heyes noticed that the lid of the ink well was fused to the sides by old, dried ink. It had obviously not been used in some time.

The guard looked at Heyes in pity. "Welcome to cell block A, Heyes. Keep quiet and keep your nose clean and you might make it. But I doubt it, from what they say about you." Then he locked the cell door and marched away. He left Heyes utterly alone. Heyes hoped that his reputation wouldn't cause him too much trouble here, but he had the unpleasant feeling that it would.

Heyes could smell the unemptied chamber pot under the lower bunk. He held his nose and added to it, not having had opportunity to relieve himself since early morning. He had little water for washing, but was grateful to have soap.

The only light came through a window across the hall that gave a view only of the grey Wyoming sky. The air was hot and stale. Flies buzzed around.

Heyes was surprised to see no other men in the cell block, but he realized that they must be out working somewhere. Except for the ironically cheerful sound of barn swallows cheeping as they swooped outside, the place was utterly silent. Heyes took the Bible and climbed up to the top bunk and sat in shock. He didn't know what else to do. Despite the guards' exhortations to be clean, Heyes felt utterly filthy and debased. He had heard the word "dehumanizing" before. Now he knew what it meant. He had often been in jail, but never in prison. He could see that he had a lot to learn about this life.

Hearing nothing around him, not even the sounds of any patrolling guards, Heyes took a long chance. He shouted as loudly as he could "Kid?"

The sound echoed down the empty cell block. There was no answer. The Kid must be in the other cell block. Within what seemed only seconds, a guard – a different man than the one who had brought Heyes here - was at Heyes' cell door, opening it. The man was furious. "Get down here!" he yelled. Heyes complied as quickly as he could. The guard shouted at the top of his lungs, "No talking to each other! And absolutely no yelling! Mr. Johnson ain't going to take to you."

Heyes tried to ask "Who's Mr. J . . ," but before he could get the words out, the guard hit Heyes across the face, reopening the cut on his cheek. Heyes suppressed a gasp of pain.

The guard turned, locked the cell, and left. Heyes climbed back up to what he must now see as his own place – his bunk. He tried to read the Bible for a while, but he couldn't concentrate. Soon he heard the sound of men marching in the distance, with the occasional shout of a guard. The sounds got closer and closer. Then men were being marched into the cell block around him. Heyes jumped off of the top bunk and put the Bible back before his cell mate could return. The Bible might be personal property, although Heyes doubted that anything in this place could truly be considered personal. He gripped his glasses case like it was a precious thing. It was to him – his lone remaining belonging.

Heyes could smell sweat as the men came into the cell block. Obviously they had been at labor. A guard opened Heyes' cell and let in a skinny little man with graying brown hair. The man was surprised and frightened to see another man in his cell. Heyes supposed that having no cell mate was a luxury the man would miss.

When the guard was gone, Heyes' cell mate whispered softly, "I'm Bill Smith. You?"

"Heyes." The outlaw didn't dare to sound friendly – he kept his voice as soft and impassive as he could.

Bill Smith looked at him warily and questioningly. It was clear that he hadn't heard what Heyes had said. Heyes repeated, more loudly, "Heyes." There had been a low sound of whispering around the cell block. It instantly fell silent. Heyes guessed that they were listening and wondering what his first name might be – and maybe making accurate guesses at it.

Bill Smith shook his head and looked embarrassed. He still couldn't hear. "Heyes!" said the outlaw loudly. Now Smith nodded – he had heard that. It was strange – Smith spoke very quietly but was obviously deaf. He must be used to being totally unable to hear himself.

Heyes could hear a procession of whispers going around the cell block. He could hear questioning "Hannibal Heyes?" from cells around him. Then a guard came paroling by and all talk fell utterly silent. Heyes was shaken to realize how cowed his fellow prisoners were. He had been around a lot of criminals in his day and in a lot of jails. It was not until the guard was far gone that Heyes' cell mate spoke again, his voice very low. "First name?"

"Not that I use," said Heyes in clear, loud tones. Bill Smith shook his head again. "I don't use it!" Heyes almost shouted.

Smith nodded and looked puzzled. Obviously, the man was unable to hear any of the whispered gossip from the cells. So Bill Smith didn't realize who his new cell mate really was, while the other men in the block had already guessed.

Bill Smith climbed into his bunk and rested after what must have been a day of hard work. Heyes could smell his sweat. Heyes reached for the Bible, "Is it yours? Mind if I read?" he asked loudly.

Smith shook his head and looked fearfully toward the cell door. He whispered "I can't read."

"I could teach you," said Heyes. Men around him shushed Heyes. The smell of fear was everywhere.

Smith gazed at his roommate in amazement. He whispered, "You could?"

Heyes nodded and smiled to encourage his cell mate. If he could have the satisfaction of teaching, of improving someone's life, it might make this place almost endurable.

"No – I'm too stupid. Nobody can teach me," said Smith under his breath in shame

"I don't believe that! You just don't hear well." said Heyes slowly and clearly, "I'm a teacher. I would be glad to teach you," Smith smiled for just a brief moment, and then stopped as if the guards might hit him for smiling.

"Shh!" hissed down the cell block. Guards were coming. Heyes had never experienced anything like the intimidation that was rampant in this place.

Two guards came up to Heyes' cell and unlocked the door. A red-headed man glared at Heyes in fury. Heyes slide down to the floor and stood at attention. The guard said in a low but threatening voice, "I hear you've been having quite a conversation here, Heyes. You are offering to teach this dim-witted man to read, are you?" Heyes nodded. "Not only is that stupid; it is dangerous. Mr. Johnson, our kindly cell-block warden, don't like talking at all. Talking is against the rules. Teaching would be a lot of talking. You will stay quiet and leave your cell mate be or you will regret it."

Heyes nodded. He hoped that the warning would be all that he would get. But suddenly the guard struck him with a switch, right across the face, hard, again and again until the earlier cut opened and bled again profusely and the cheek around it felt bruised black and blue. As the guards locked the cell and stalked away the smell of fear was everywhere in the silence.

Soon, a bell rang out somewhere. Heyes could hear men getting out of their bunks all along the cell block. He guessed that this was dinner time. He dreaded to think what the food might be like, but he was hungry. He would have to eat it. He got up and stood ready next to Bill Smith by the door of their cell. Guards came and herded all of the men down the hall in the order of their cells. Soon they could smell food ahead. It didn't smell bad.

As the men jostled into the dining hall, Bill Smith whispered to the man ahead of him "I got a teacher in my cell! Gonna teach me to read!"

The man shook his head and grimaced, miming working a safe lock and pointing at Heyes.

Obviously in a place where talking was forbidden, sign language thrived. Bill Smith stared at his cell mate uneasily and with some angry. It was evidently occurring to him who the man might be. Smith assumed he had been lied to. That his cell mate might be both Hannibal Heyes and a teacher did not seem possible.

Then they got to the food. Each man picked up the dishes numbered for his cell and marched off to eat in his cell. The soup was thin with few vegetables and no meat. The paltry broth was evidently made from cheap salt pork that hadn't been soaked enough to get rid of the excess salt. Heyes was surprised to find that the bread was fresh and warm and delicious. It had obviously just been baked. It was the only good surprise Heyes had had in this prison. There just wasn't enough of the tasty bread. And, of course, there was no butter. The only drink was water. Heyes was starting to long for whiskey.

As they were marching in and out of the hall where they got their food, Heyes looked around anxiously to see if he could spot the Kid. But he couldn't see him anywhere. Not that he would have been easy to spot at a distance in this silent, anonymous crowd, with his golden curls cut away and wearing the same baggy clothes and brimless hat that everyone else wore.

After dinner Heyes lit his candle and tried again to read the Bible. He hoped to find a simple passage or two that he could use to start to teach his cell mate to read. He wasn't going to give up on that project, despite the chilly reception it was getting from the prison officials.

Heyes could smell tobacco faintly from other cells where some men were chewing and spitting. That was the one permitted luxury here, other than reading.

After a while, Heyes had to get up and relieve himself. Then Bill Smith did the same. It was horrible to have to do this in front of one another. But there was no help for it. Heyes could hear and smell men all over the cell block doing the same. At least Smith had the decency to turn his head.

After a nasty, smelly hour or two, guards came around with a big stinking bucket into which they emptied the chamber pots. They rinsed out the pots with not enough water. By the time the bucket got to the very last cell where Heyes was, the smell from the bucket was almost unendurable.

Heyes lay in his hard, thin bunk. He wondered how the Kid was doing. He supposed his partner was enduring much the same dispiriting, dehumanizing routines he was enduring, but he wished that he could know the details. It was very strange to lie there with another man in the bunk just below and to be unable even to speak to the man without fear of punishment.

"Heyes!" called a voice from a nearby cell, when the patrolling guards were at their farthest away.

"Yeah?" answered Heyes warily.

"It's Harry Wagoner. Remember me?"

Heyes kept his voice low and cautious. Harry's cell had to be very close – up one row he guessed. "Yeah, Harry. How are you?"

"How do you think? You and the Kid put me here!" The man's fury had not abated after six years. Harry wasn't well suited to this contemplative mode of prison. Considering the surroundings, frankly Heyes didn't blame Harry for being angry. Though, of course, he did blame Harry for kidnapping the Kid and forcing Heyes to rob a bank in the first place.

"Shh!" hissed along the corridors. The guard was coming back. Then Heyes heard Harry howling as he got his comeuppance from the guards.

"Oh great!" thought Heyes. "What a jolly cell block mate Harry's gonna be. He's never grown a lick of sense. By now he should have learned to shut his mouth. I wonder how many other old 'friends' I'm gonna find here. And how many more times I'm gonna get hit by those guards."

Heyes also wondered what would happen now that the men around him knew without a doubt who he was. A man would have to have been put away for a long, long time not to have heard of Hannibal Heyes. It had been twenty-three years since Heyes had begun practicing his old, dishonest trade. It hadn't taken him very long to get his name know in all the wrong ways.

As it grew dark, the exhausted men around Heyes fell asleep. He could hear their snoring. Heyes, who had not spent the day laboring as his fellow prisoners had, lay awake for a long time. He ached in all the places where he had been hit and cut. He grieved for his lost freedom. He missed his partner, his lover, his friends, and his dreams for the future. He missed the scholarly satisfaction of his days. He missed the ability to get out and do what he pleased –when he decided that he had time to do so. He missed his honest pride in his accomplishments. He missed being respected. He missed being good at things that mattered to the wider world outside the prison walls.

And yet, Heyes wasn't nearly as upset as he had thought that he would be. Rather than grieving, he was giving more and more of his mind to a series of mysteries that had been bothering him all day.

Most pressingly, he worried about the level of cowed obedience he saw around him. This was not normal from hardened violent criminals like those Heyes had come to know so well over the years. The unpleasant but not really serious blows Heyes had endured so far were nothing like bad enough to explain it. No, something much worse was lurking that frightened these undisciplined men. This fear and silence came from a much deeper and more serious threat from which even the most violent men recoiled. Heyes was beginning to suspect that the mysterious cell block warden, Mr. Johnson, had something to do with it. He could only hope that, in the other cell block, the Kid would be safe from that threat.

And there was the unjustness of Heyes' own and his partner's confinement. The senator and the governors knew perfectly well that Heyes and the Kid did not need the crude level of "teaching" and "redemption" that were on offer at this prison. If allowed to remain free, the pair could have offered a great deal of good to society with their law enforcement and teaching talents. Why, logically, would even the most selfish politicians condone the confinement of useful men posing no threat to society in such a place? It was a terrible, unconscionable waste.

And now that he knew what Senator Warren had said in his telegram to the Kid, Heyes had a new twist on these mysteries that combined the two. Warren was obviously truly worried that Heyes, at least, would do away with himself in this prison. And by asking the Kid to watch Heyes so carefully, of course Warren was also giving protection to the loyal Kid by intrusting him with a mission. Why would Warren worry that this place would be so terrible that it would make men kill themselves? Heyes had met nothing that bad thus far. It was unpleasant, but not unendurable. Whatever the answer to the first question about the fear in this place was, Warren seemed to have some knowledge of it.

Yet why did it matter if two men killed themselves, if they had been consigned to a Hell from which they would never be redeemed? Valuing men and simultaneously throwing them away posed a senseless contradiction that went beyond what the most excessive political expediency could explain. Perhaps there was a disagreement between the senator and at least one of the four governors? How would it be resolved – or had it already been? Had things changed between the politicians since the telegrams had been sent? Was the exhortation never to give up no longer valid? Or was it more valid than ever?

With those worries chasing themselves in his sore, shaved head, Heyes finally fell asleep.