The cold stone touched his face and made him want to shiver. No doubt the early spring sunshine was warming the air outside, but Kid Curry couldn't feel it.
He huffed impatiently. How long had he been standing at this darned window? One hour? Two? It could just as easily be two days, or two months — time dragged at a pace all its own when you were in jail. There was nothing much to see from the small window, only a wide, empty alley bordered by scrub, with a garbage heap to the right and the rear porch of a run-down house to the left.
Although he had the ability to sleep anywhere, anytime, the Kid was already bored with spending the greater part of each day laying on the thin, lice ridden mattress of his cot. He was also sick of being offered a bland corn and potato mush for breakfast, not to mention the daily bowl of suspicious smelling, gristly stew that the law in these parts dared to call supper.
Curry closed his eyes willing his partner, Hannibal Heyes, to hurry up and break him out. He had been locked up for seven whole days now and as time passed it was looking more and more likely that Heyes had elected not to use dynamite to blow a hole in the jailhouse wall, but to wait until the day of his trial when he would have to make the walk, under guard, from his cell to a temporary courtroom. This town didn't have the population required to merit a courthouse of its own so a circuit judge would commandeer the largest building available, usually the saloon. To the gunman this all appeared very sensible, after all he would rather risk dying in a hail of bullets than have his head stove in by a piece of flying masonry, but its timing was very much dependant on whether the judge had an opening in his busy schedule and could spare the time to make the long trip from Denver. His trial may not be for weeks yet and Kid Curry didn't know if he could wait that long.
The robbery, only their third since Heyes had been in charge, had gone like clockwork and had seen the Devil's Hole Gang in and out of the First National Bank of Delarue, Colorado, in no time at all. The manager, having been threatened with the use of dynamite on his expensive new safe, had obligingly opened the vault and the frightened tellers had placed all the cash they had in their drawers straight into the bag the very second it was thrust in their direction. Thankfully, none of the customers or bank staff had tried to be a hero, so nobody got hurt. Except for him.
Because of the layout of the town and to ensure a smooth getaway, the horses had been left out front, tied to a hitching rail with a quick release knot. As the outlaws dashed from the bank clutching four large gunny sacks full of cash and bonds, they had barely had time to scramble into their saddles when all hell broke loose. In response to shouts from bystanders, the town's sheriff and deputy had emerged from the jailhouse with their guns drawn and had begun firing at the gang as they hightailed it down the main street.
Being a professional gunman, Curry had spent a considerable amount of time training his horse to be tolerant of gunfire; he would even go so far as to say the mare was dynamite proof because she never reacted to any loud noise. Unfortunately, she chose that particular day to make an exception.
He had just begun to swing his leg over the saddle when, for no apparent reason, she had taken it upon herself to rear up so high that she almost overbalanced. Curry was an accomplished rider, but this took him totally by surprise and threw him onto his back in the middle of the street. The impact knocked the air out of his lungs and he suspected he must have blacked out because when he next opened his eyes he was staring up at two men, both sporting tin stars and pointing their six-guns in his face. To make matters worse his horse was nowhere to be seen. She had bolted down the main street after the others; the sound of her hooves falsely reassuring Heyes and the rest of the Devil's Hole Gang that he was right behind them.
Curry was about to turn away from the window when a movement caught his eye. For once it wasn't one of the scrawny curs which frequented the dump, pawing at the garbage in search of scraps. This was a sight much more to his liking. It was a young woman.
She looked to be in her mid to late twenties. Her figure was slender — a little too thin, perhaps — her drab, brown dress ragged at the hem and hanging off her bones rather than fitting properly. Blonde hair, so fair it was almost white, was piled in a haphazard fashion on top of her head. She took small, quick steps occasionally glancing behind her with a pair of bright blue eyes similar to his own and a frown on her pretty, heart-shaped face.
Not only did Kid Curry possess an unnatural skill with a firearm, he also considered himself to be something of an expert when it came to the fairer sex, albeit a self-proclaimed ability and one which Heyes teased him about at every opportunity. From a very young age he had appreciated everything about women: their shape, their scent, how they walked and talked and especially how they might, ultimately, respond to him. He was blessed with a face that a lot of women seemed to like, usually getting their attention in one of two ways: they either fell in love with him, or they wanted to mother him. Whichever way it happened to be he usually enjoyed himself.
It was not long before she was out of sight and, cursing at how much the small, barred window restricted his field of view, Curry thumped the wall with his fist before limping back to his cot. Although he was unlucky to have been arrested he did have one thing to be thankful for, his foot hadn't got caught in the stirrup. If it had, he could have been dragged down the street and out over the surrounding scrub for some distance, the loud pounding of hooves drowning out his cries for help. As it happened, he had no broken bones from the fall, only a sore right thigh where he had landed on his revolver and a back covered in bruises.
Instead of falling asleep he found himself day dreaming, imagining stepping out for supper at the Brown Palace Hotel in Denver clad in a dapper grey suit and matching homburg, the young woman on his arm elegantly dressed in a pale blue gown, her neck adorned with an exquisite diamond and sapphire necklace. His thoughts then drifted to the two of them riding his mare across a sunny, wildflower meadow, a picnic basket hooked over his saddle horn and her arms wound tightly around his waist. Curry smiled to himself. This time her hair was loose, cascading down her back like spun silk. They would find a shady spot by a stream where he would take her in his arms and...
Coming back to reality he began to wonder why a woman as pretty as that didn't take better care of herself; she could wipe off those smudges of dirt on her cheeks, for instance. Suddenly his smile faded and a frown creased his brow. Was it dirt? Or were they bruises? His frown deepened in disgust as he contemplated how she may have come by them. If there was one thing that was guaranteed to make him real mad, real quick, it was a man who raised his hand to a woman.
ooooo-OOO-ooooo
In the days that followed, Curry stood by the window for longer and longer periods hoping to see the young woman again.
He discovered that she lived in the rundown house and on the days when she ventured outside it was always at the same time, mid morning. She usually carried a wicker basket over her arm, returning less than an hour later, presumably with a few provisions. Her steps were always hurried, her expression anxious, giving him cause to speculate whether she had to get back for a specific reason, or if she was afraid to stay out for too long. Despite feeling pretty friendless right now, it was this apparent nervousness that prevented him from trying to speak to her.
Now that he had found something to occupy his thoughts, the daylight hours did not feel quite so long but Curry still found the hours after sundown difficult, and not just because of the unpalatable supper. He was not allowed a candle or a lantern. This was to prevent him purposely setting his bedding alight and trying to escape in the resulting panic to put out the fire. The only light reaching his cell, therefore, came from the single lamp on the sheriff's desk making it barely bright enough to see his own hand in front of his face let alone read anything. Neither the sheriff nor his deputies would engage in a game of cards or checkers, and without a moon the darkness outside prevented him from seeing anything of interest from the window.
One evening, as he lay on his cot brooding over his situation, he noticed a spot of light on the bars of the window. Stifling a whoop of joy he checked that the deputy was dozing before slowly and quietly getting to his feet to look outside. The thin sliver of a new moon at last lit up the alley.
Because of the lack of light inside his cell, his eyes adjusted quickly and for a while he amused himself by watching a group of raccoons fighting over what looked like a pile of chicken bones by the garbage heap. Once the noisy dispute was over and the creatures were at last eating peacefully he was about to turn away when a movement on the porch of the run down house caught his eye. It was the woman, wearing only her nightgown with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders against the chill of the night. In bare feet she tiptoed across the porch and sat down on the rickety steps.
Having expected her to simply sit and look at the stars Curry's curiosity was aroused still further when she surreptitiously glanced over her shoulder before leaning down and pulling a box, about the size of a cigar tin, from behind the steps. Intrigued he continued to watch as she carefully opened it and pulled out an object. Its smooth, metal finish caught the moonlight, revealing it to be a silver locket. After caressing it between her fingertips she flipped it open to gaze at whatever it contained.
Curry found himself speculating as to what that might be. The picture of a parent, a lover, a child? A lock of hair, perhaps?
Eventually she gently placed the locket in her lap and picked up a length of ribbon, its colour indiscernible in the moonlight, running its length through her fingers. This was followed by a single glove, a small book (not unlike the one Heyes would, from time to time, irritatingly quote poetry) and a small cut glass perfume bottle. The last item surprised the Kid. It was something he imagined a lady of some standing to own, not one who wore shabby clothes and lived in a ramshackle house in a backwoods mining town like Delarue.
Lastly, she took out a folded piece of paper. A letter, he concluded, because she sat staring at it for some time, as if she was reading. Then she began to cry.
Witnessing her misery made Curry feel uncomfortable. He turned away from the window.
ooooo-OOO-ooooo
A couple of evenings later, after a rare supper of tasty vegetable soup and a chunk of slightly stale bread, he had settled down on his cot a little earlier than usual. There was nothing of interest going on in the alley worth staying up for and besides, he guessed his stomach must be shrinking because he had found the small meal strangely satisfying and this, in turn, had made him sleepy.
He was in the middle of a weird dream in which Heyes appeared to be planting sticks of dynamite in rows, like a vegetable plot, down the middle of the alley as part of an elaborate scheme to break him out of jail, when he woke with a start. His hand reached for the Colt which usually hung on the bedstead next to his head, its continued absence prompting a growl of disappointment.
A quick glance toward the sheriff's desk confirmed his suspicions that the sound had not come from there. Sheriff Tapley was sleeping soundly. It was then that he heard a man's voice, gruff and threatening, followed by the shrill notes of a woman, obviously frightened.
Curry jumped to his feet and peered outside. Illuminated by moonlight the sight that met his eyes both riled and sickened him.
On the porch of the run down house was the woman, but this time she was not alone. Instead, she was backing away from a heavily-built, grungy-looking man who continued to move toward her. With a hand the size of a ham hock, he grabbed her wrist and twisted it cruelly. The woman yelped in pain and fear and tried to wrestle herself free, but there was no escaping his grip. Pulling her around to face him his other hand flew through the air, landing a blow to her face which Curry was surprised did not knock her unconscious.
Initially, the shock of the attack had him lost for words, but while the woman crawled to the corner of the porch and cowered beside the railings, he found himself shouting "Get away from her! Leave her alone!" through the bars of the small window.
The sound of a voice made the man stop what he was doing and look around to see where the cry had come from, but all he could see was an empty alley. He continued unbuckling his belt. Having pulled it clear of the loops he raised the thick length of leather aloft and used it to rain blows across the woman's back and shoulders. Her thin arms took the brunt of the assault as she tried desperately to protect her head.
Kid Curry had never felt so impotent. He gripped the bars of his cell and shook them urgently.
"Sheriff! Hey, Sheriff!"
Sheriff Tapley tried not to wake up too much. "Pipe down, Curry."
"He's hittin' her!"
"Mmmmm."
Desperately trying to keep his own temper in check, Kid Curry took a deep breath. "I said, he's hittin' her."
The sleepy lawman yawned. "Who's hittin' who?"
"A big fella, in the old house. He's hittin' a girl. You've gotta do somethin'!"
When there was still no movement the Kid grabbed his half-full tin cup from the floor by his cot and rattled the bars of the cell with it, scattering water all over the floor.
The sheriff peered briefly from under the brim of his hat. "I don't have to do nuthin'. An' if ya keeps up that racket I'm gonna move ya so's ya can't look outta the damn winder no more."
"But that filthy 'walkoff' is gonna hurt her real bad."
"What filthy 'walkoff'?"
"I just told ya." Curry flung a finger toward the window. "The one in the house over there!."
"You talkin' about Dwight 'n' Ellie Reed's place?"
"I don't know, I ain't from round here."
"Well, it ain't none o' my business what folks get up ter in private," Tapley replied. "And I sure ain't comin' between a man and his woman."
"But, he could kill her!"
Sheriff Tapley turned his head the other way and tilted his hat back over his eyes.
Not being able to do anything about the violence taking place only yards away from where he stood Curry threw himself down on his bunk and wrapped his arms around his head in frustration. Dammit! This Dwight Reed needed to be taught a lesson; one that Kid Curry would be only too happy to provide. If he ever got out of here.
ooooo-OOO-ooooo
One week later...
A fully loaded Schofield revolver held firmly in his hand, Hannibal Heyes pushed open the door, which had very obligingly been left unbolted, and stepped into the sheriff's office making the two startled, checker-playing deputies' hands move toward their holsters.
"Evenin', gentlemen! Oh, I wouldn't go touching those guns. I got company," the outlaw leader warned as Wheat Carlson and Preacher followed him inside. Lobo Riggs remained on guard on the other side of the door, ready to raise the alarm should the sheriff return unexpectedly.
At the sound of his partner's voice Kid Curry sat up on his cot and grinned. "Am I glad to see you!"
Heyes grinned back. "Had a feeling you might be."
While Wheat and Preacher gagged the hapless deputies and used the saddle strings they had stashed in their pockets to tie their hands, Heyes inclined his head toward a metal box in the corner of the room. "I suppose the keys are in this little ol' safe?"
"Yeah," confirmed Curry, "but I don't know how good you'll be able to hear the tumblers. The last time the sheriff opened it, the hinges made a terrible noise. I figure it don't get much use." Despite the rusty mechanism Curry knew his talented partner would find a way to open it, so he grabbed his hat and jacket and stood in readiness by the cell door.
Heyes knelt beside the small vault and turned the dial back and forth a couple of times. He tutted disapprovingly. "Your boss should take better care of public property," he told the deputies. "This needs oiling, regular. He's lucky the dial works at all." Then, on the off chance one of them might be stupid enough to tell him, he asked, "You wouldn't happen to know the combination would you?" Both men shook their heads. "Worth a try." Heyes shrugged before placing his ear to the door.
The three correct numbers weren't quite so easy to determine as they should have been due to the additional noise provided by the rust, but Heyes still had the door open in under five minutes and took out the keys together with the Kid's gun belt.
"You sure took your time gettin' here," grumbled Curry as Heyes unlocked the cell door. Stepping into the passage he nodded an acknowledgement to Wheat and Preacher before they pushed the two deputies past him into the now vacant cage.
Shaking his head at what he felt was an uncalled for rebuke, Heyes followed his partner back to the office. As leader of the Devil's Hole Gang he didn't see the need to justify his actions to anyone, but the Kid was his partner after all, so he would make an exception.
"You must have realized we couldn't just come strolling in here," he said. "We had to watch the place a while before we could make our move. Then it was real simple. Y' see, those two lunkheads are left in charge every Thursday night at around eleven, which is when their boss sneaks off for his regular rendezvous with the lovely Lydia over at the saloon. Ain't you ever noticed that big fat grin on his face when he gets back?"
"Can't say as I have," mumbled Curry, busily buckling on his rig. He pulled out the Colt. It felt good to be out of that cage, but better still was the feel of the revolver in his hand. Having checked that it was fully loaded he flashily spun the Colt back into its holster, then he began rummaging in the drawers of the sheriff's desk.
Heyes watched him in dismay. "What are you doing? We gotta go."
"I'm lookin' for a pencil and paper."
"What the devil for? You don't have to leave the sheriff a thank-you note!"
"Help me look, will ya!"
Heyes pulled open a drawer and with a supercilious smile held up a pencil. He then flipped open a ledger and tore a large section from a blank page. "There! Make it quick."
Curry hurriedly scribbled a few lines before asking, "You carryin' any greenbacks?"
"What do you need money for?"
"Just answer the question."
"Yeah, a little, I guess."
"What's a little?"
Heyes' eyes narrowed with suspicion. "'Bout a hundred. Why?"
Curry held out his hand. "Let me have it," he demanded.
"Excuse me?"
"C'mon, Heyes, hand it over." Seeing his partner's hesitation Curry sighed, "Don't worry, you'll get it back."
Loudly huffing out an exasperated sigh Heyes reached into the deep pockets of his grey coat and produced a wad of folded bills. "Will this do?"
Without a word Kid Curry snatched at the money, wrapped the note around it, and shoved it into his own jacket pocket.
"All set?" queried Heyes as Wheat and Preacher emerged from the cell block.
"Yep. Them fellas is tied up real tight." Wheat jangled the ring of keys with a chuckle. "We locked 'em in too."
"Good. Lose those keys out back, will you. That way they'll be too busy trying to set those boys free rather than chase after us. Let's go."
All four men drew their guns in readiness and Hannibal Heyes slowly opened the street door.
"Clear?" he asked.
"Quiet as the grave, Heyes," confirmed Lobo.
"Where you got the horses?" whispered Curry.
"Kyle's waiting with them in the side alley."
"Good. I got a stop to make before we leave town."
"A stop? We're breaking you outta jail and you've got to make a stop?"
"I'll tell you the whole story later, Heyes, but there's somethin' I gotta do."
Curry's tone was resolute and, from past experience, Heyes knew it would be a waste of his breath trying to argue with him so he rolled his eyes and griped, "Fine."
ooooo-OOO-ooooo
Two nights after the jailbreak had stirred up the town, possibly even more than the bank robbery itself, Ellie Reed slowly swung her legs out of bed. After glancing anxiously over her shoulder at her snoring husband she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and, still bare footed, picked her way carefully across the floor. She had memorized the location of every squeaky board so there was no chance of waking Dwight. As she stepped outside onto the back porch the night air felt cool as it touched her skin through the thin cotton fabric of her nightdress. Some of this contact was actually welcome, soothing the sting of a set of new bruises forming on her face and arms.
It had been little more than an hour since Dwight had staggered home from the saloon and, as was his custom, began beating on her for no reason other than the fact that she happened to be there. Saturday was payday at the mine. It was also the day he squandered most of his wages at the saloon on bad bets at the poker table and whiskey — lots of whiskey. Ellie sighed. Ahead of her stretched another long week of struggling to make ends meet, of struggling even with the will to stay alive.
Desperate to once again fill her troubled mind with thoughts of better times she felt under the splintering boards of the porch and pulled out her precious box of keepsakes. Pausing for a moment, she listened. Satisfied that Dwight was still snoring she placed the box in her lap and opened the lid. Usually, the first thing she picked up was the silver locket which had belonged to her late mother and contained a picture of the father she had sadly never known. It was imperative that she kept this object hidden — if Dwight ever found it, he would sell it, then drink the proceeds. It was also a safe bet that he would beat her, maybe even kill her for having dared to keep it a secret.
Tonight however, there was something unfamiliar in the box. Resting on top of her treasured objects was a ragged piece of paper. Puzzled, Ellie picked it up only to realize that it was in fact a note wrapped around a wad of banknotes. She quickly counted the money. One hundred and twenty-two dollars. It was a long time since she had seen so much money. Without thinking she gasped in surprise, then she froze, fearing the sound of unsteady footsteps and her imminent discovery.
When all remained quiet she looked more closely at the scrap of paper. The moon was waning but there was still enough light by which to read the hasty scrawl. It simply said:
Leave him. Get as far from here as this money will take you. Jed.
Jed? Who was Jed? She didn't know anyone by that name and how did he know about her keepsake box? Had he been watching her? Whoever he was, he couldn't be from around here. Nobody from this town would give her money and tell her to leave. In truth, they were all a little afraid of Dwight. He was a big man with big fists and a violent temper. It was common knowledge here in Delarue that he beat her. Sure, she received sympathetic looks from both men and women, but nothing was ever said, or done, to help her.
With a frown she slipped both the note and the money back into the box and returned it to its hiding place. Leaning her head against the porch railings Ellie began to ponder where she could go and, more importantly, what she would do when she got there. There was no family left to go back to which meant she needed to find a way to make a living. Whoring was not an option. She would rather starve than demean herself any further than she already had. Could she do it? Could she pack up her paltry belongings and buy a train ticket to... well, anywhere? She had to try.
Dawn was breaking by the time she had worked out a plan.
ooooo-OOO-ooooo
Several days later, Dwight Reed returned home from the mine to a dark, cold, and apparently empty house.
"Ellie!" he hollered, slamming the door shut.
Silence.
Annoyed, he overturned a chair on his way across the kitchen to inspect the unlit stove and empty coffee pot.
"Ellie, you goddam whore! Where the hell are ya?"
Out of the darkness came a reply — one he was not expecting.
It was the sound of a revolver being cocked.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Part of this story was prompted by something Kid Curry says in the season 2 episode, How To Rob a Bank In One Hard Lesson.
"Lorry, I know a lot of husbands who deserve to get shot."