LONG ROAD TO BUTTE
For two days, Heyes and Curry had managed to keep a half a day's ride between them and the relentlessly ensuing posse. They were bone tired. Their horses were bone tired. And they were hungry. But most of all...they were tired.
"What do we do, Heyes?" Kid asked when they stopped at a stream to fill their canteens and water their horses."
Heyes sighed. "I wish I knew, Kid."
"Maybe we should split up," Kid suggested.
Heyes nodded. "That improves the odds of at least one of us getting away."
"Where should we meet up?" Kid asked
"I think we are almost to Montana. Let's meet in Butte in three days. I'll head due north. You ride west for half a day before turning north."
"What if only one of us shows up in Butte?" Kid asked.
"Then that one will go looking for the one that didn't show up."
Kid nodded in agreement and mounted his horse. Heyes put his foot in his stirrup and climbed onto his horse.
They both rode into the water and stopped midstream. They gave each other a parting glance before Heyes urged his horse across the stream and galloped northward.
Kid watched him until he was out of sight. Then he pulled his reins to the left and, keeping his horse in the stream for another mile, he lead the horse to higher ground and headed westward toward the Tetons.
By late afternoon, with the Tetons now in view, Kid turned northwest and headed through the area of Indian country called the Yellowstone and headed toward Jackson where he planned to spend the night in a warm bed. In the morning he would turn northeast toward Butte.
Kid arrived in Jackson shortly before nightfall. He rode his horse to the livery stable and then walked down the street to the hotel where he ordered a bath and a room. He paid in advance for he planned to leave very early in the morning.
Having bathed and changed clothes, Kid ate a steak in the hotel dining room and then walked over to the saloon for a beer.
Heyes rode his horse as fast as he dared strain the tired animal. Occasionally he would stop to rest the horse and let him graze on some wild grasses, before moving on. He waited until dark to make camp and was grateful for the fact it was midsummer. The nights were chilly at that elevation, but this night was not so cold that he needed a fire. He hobbled his horse and set about gathering leaves to soften the ground. He spread his bedroll on the leaves and slept till dawn.
Kid stood at the far end of the bar drinking his beer. The saloon was crowded so he figured it must be Friday or Saturday night. There were several card games being played but he was too tired to concentrate on poker. A pretty saloon girl sashayed up to him and he was cordial but again, too tired to engage in any pleasurable activity and she soon lost interest and moved on. He ordered a second beer and kept to himself.
A man playing poker had happened to look up just as Kid had entered the saloon. The man studied Kid, knowing he looked somehow familiar, but not being able to place him. He turned his attention back to the poker game, but for some reason, found himself intrigued with who the stranger at the bar was, and kept asking himself why it was so important to place him.
"Anybody recognize that blonde fella at the bar?" he quietly asked his six poker companions. Each person took a glance but none recalled ever seeing the blonde before.
"I've seen him somewhere," the man said.
"So what, you've seen him. Big deal?" one of the friends said.
And then it hit him. "Can you all hear me?" he asked in a low voice. They all nodded. "That's Kid Curry."
All six friends turned to look.
"Don't stare," the man cautioned. He'll know we recognize him."
"There's a price on his head," one of the men whispered.
"Then let's collect it," the first man said. "Here's what we'll do."
Ten minutes later, the group had scattered and were positioned about the room. The man who had recognized Kid slowly approached the bar and stood beside Kid and ordered a beer. Kid paid no attention to the man. Instead he took the last gulp of his beer, set the mug on the bar, and pushed himself away from the bar to leave.
"I wouldn't take another step if I was you Mr. Curry," the man said. "You see there are six guns pointed right at your back right now. And another eight waiting outside," he lied.
Kid froze in his tracks. He didn't dare turn to see if the man was telling the truth. He glanced at the man for a badge but didn't see one.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"That don't matter. Now kindly place your gun on the bar," the man instructed.
Kid did as he was instructed. "What's this all about, friend?" Kid asked.
The man reached over and confiscated the gun from the bar. "Now, put your hands in the air, not so high as to draw attention, while we walk across the street and over to the jail. If you're hands come down, the bullets of six guns will fly. After all, the money is the same dead or alive."
Kid slowly raised his hands. As he turned he glanced around and saw that there were in fact six guns pointed directly at him. "You've got the wrong man," he told the stranger.
The man smiled. "I wouldn't expect you to tell me you're the right man, but I've seen you before, you and your partner. I was a passenger on a train you and your gang robbed. It's a shame by the way that Hannibal Heyes is not here with you."
"Yeah, a real pity," Kid said.
The six men lead Kid across the street to the jail
Just a few more miles and I would have been out of Wyoming, Kid thought.
When Kid and seven other men all pointing a gun at Kid walked into the jail, Sheriff Miles Booker was sitting at his desk nursing a cup of coffee, his feet propped on the corner of the desk. He dropped his legs from the desk, his boots making a "thud" sound as they hit the floor.
"Who have we got here, Tom?" Sheriff Booker asked the man who had spoken to Kid in the saloon.
"Can I put my hands down now?" Kid asked.
Booker nodded to Kid who dropped his hands to his sides.
"This is Kid Curry," Tom announced.
"Kid Curry!" Booker exclaimed.
"Sheriff, these men have mistaken me for the outlaw. My name is Thaddeus Jones," Kid said.
"I'll get your side of the story after I hear from Tom," Booker said.
Kid sighed and shook his head.
"I know he's Kid Curry," Tom explained. "I was on a train he held up near Cheyenne three years ago. "I'd know Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes anywhere."
"You got any proof you are who you say you are, son?" Booker asked Kid
"No, but I can prove it."
"How?" Booker asked.
"Send a telegram to Sheriff Lom Trevor in Porterville. Ask him if Thaddeus Jones has ever been mistaken for Kid Curry. He'll tell you it's actually a fairly common mistake. I have never understood why it happens as I have always heard that Kid Curry is the next thing to a genius and not very good looking."
"I've never heard either one of those things about Curry," Booker replied. "But I'll send that telegram in the morning. In the mean time, I'm locking you up. Because if you are Kid Curry, these fellas will be sharing a ten thousand dollar reward. It says so right there," Booker said, pointing to the posters on the wall. "Now, take off your coat your boots, and your gun belt so I can frisk you."
Kid shook his head and slowly removed each item. "I'm telling you, your making a big mistake," Kid said as Booker frisked him.
"Now, just walk into that first cell," Booker instructed
Kid did as instructed and Booker shut and locked the cell door.
"Alright, you can all put your guns away now," Booker told the men who had escorted Kid to the jail.
"So, what happens now?" Tom asked.
"Well, I gotta confirm who he is. If he is Kid Curry, I'll notify State, and probably Federal Authorities. Then I'll call you back in here to complete the forms to collect the reward," Booker explained.
Kid sat down on the hard cot and thought about the soft, warm, empty bed he had paid for at the hotel.
Heyes was up before dawn and on his way toward Butte as soon as the sun began to rise. He knew if he rode hard, he could be in Butte by tomorrow afternoon. He was hungry. He hadn't eaten anything for three days. He wondered how Kid was doing. He knew Kid would arrive in Butte at least a day later than he would and he knew he would feel better once they were both safely in Butte, Montana and well out of Wyoming.
"Did you get a telegram back from Lom," Kid asked when Booker returned to the jail late the next morning.
"Yep," Booker replied as he poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at his desk.
"Well? What did Lom say?" Kid asked anxiously
"He said there is a fella called Thaddeus Jones that is often mistaken for Kid Curry,"
Kid smiled and walked over to the cell bars. "Then you'll let me go?" Kid asked.
"He also said he couldn't be sure if you was Jones without seeing you."
"Lom Trevors said that?" Kid asked with obvious disappointment
"Yep," Booker replied.
"Did he say he was coming?" Kid asked.
"Nope," Booker replied.
Kid paced the cell several times, wracking his brain for an idea. He wished Heyes was there with his brainstorm ideas and silver tongue. Then he reconsidered, realizing if Heyes was there, they would likely both be in jail.
"Sheriff, would you send another telegram for me?" Kid asked
"Who do you want to contact now?" Booker asked.
"Joshua Smith, in Butte. He'll be able to come here and identify me."
"I'll send it. But that's the last one," Booker warned.
Kid nodded his understanding. "Thank you," he said.
Booker pulled the Kid Curry wanted poster off the wall and laid it in front of him on the desk. He read the description of Kid Curry and glanced over at Kid several times to see if the description matched the actual features of the man in the cell. Kid sat down on the cot with his profile facing the Sheriff so as to make the comparisons a little more difficult. The sheriff noted that the man in the cell was a bit stockier than the poster described but knew from experience that a man's weight can fluctuate. They were of similar height, same color of curly hair, but the poster offered nothing else in the way of physical features.
Booker finished his coffee and walked over to the door. "I'll go send your telegram," he said.
Kid just nodded and laid down on the cot and sighed.
Heyes arrived in Butte mid afternoon the following day. He stopped first at the hotel to book a room and though he knew Kid was not yet there, Heyes inquired about the arrival of Thaddeus Jones and was told there was no one by that name.
The hotel clerk looked at the signature Heyes had written on the register. "Mr. Smith, I believe there is a telegram waiting for you at the telegraph office." the clerk said.
"For me?" Heyes asked with some alarm in his voice. "Where is the Telegraph Office," he asked
Heyes dropped his things in his room and headed straight for the telegraph office. He turned from the desk and unfolded the paper, reading every word. "Joshua Smith. Stop. Thaddeus Jones in jail in Jackson. Stop. Need identity verification. Stop. Sheriff Miles Booker. Stop
Heyes sighed heavily and rubbed his chin with his fingers. Jackson was another three days ride. He would have a good supper, get a good night's sleep, hopefully come up with an idea to help Kid, and head out in the morning. He returned to the desk. "I need to send a reply," he told the clerk
"Well, you got a reply," Booker said to Kid the following morning.
Kid jumped from the cot and walked over the the cell bars. "Well?" he asked.
"Says Mr. Smith is on his way. It's a three days ride from Butte so he should be here day after tomorrow."
"Day after tomorrow!" Kid shouted "Look, Sheriff, that's a long time to keep an innocent man in jail, especially since I've already been in jail for two full days. Let me out and I promise I will stay in town. I just want a nice, soft bed to sleep in."
Booker shook his head. "The problem with that is that Kid Curry is worth ten thousand dollars. If you are Kid Curry, that's a lot of money for Tom and the other men that brought you in here. If you are Kid Curry, I know better than to think you would keep your word about staying in town. I can't risk losing that money for them."
Kid rolled his eyes. "There ain't no ten thousand dollar reward because I ain't Kid Curry! Think about it. Would Kid Curry let himself get captured without a fight. He's supposed to be the fastest gun in the west!"
"That may be true, but when a smart man has six guns pointed at him, he ain't gonna make much of a protest. You said yourself that Kid Curry is a genius. If that's true, he ain't gonna try to shoot his way out of situation like that."
Kid started to protest but realized he really didn't have a good argument. Not even a stupid man would try to shoot his way out of that situation. In frustration he hit the cell bar hard with the palm of his hand
"Look, Kid Curry or not, I feel for you, son. But there's not a thing I can do. Maybe your friend, Mr. Smith will be able to get this all straightened out."
Kid sighed, bit his lip, and slowly nodded in defeat.
That evening Kid sat on the cot with his back leaning against the wall and his hands folded behind his head. He sang to break the monotony.
I'm just an old cowboy, from high Colorado
Too old to ride anymore, too blind to see
I live in the city now, away from my mountains
Away from the cabin I used to call home.
"Don't think I've ever heard that one," Booker said
Kid didn't reply. He didn't feel like conversation. He felt caged and he felt lonesome. And he knew he might very well feel that way for the next twenty years. He slowly sang the song a second time.
"Son, it sounds like you need some cheering," Booker said. "How about some poker?"
"Why not," Kid sighed. He pulled the cot over near the cell bars so he would have a place to sit.
Booker pulled a small table up to the bars and grabbed a straight chair for himself. Then he pulled a deck of cards from a desk drawer and plopped them on the table. "You want to deal first?" Booker asked.
Kid reached both harms through the bars and shuffled the deck and dealt them each five cards. "What do we use for money?" Kid asked flatly
"Oh, I'm the Sheriff. We can't bet money. That could be misconstrued for bribery." He went back to his desk and got a box of matches and spread them out on the table. He made two piles and slid one pile across the table to Kid who then slid one match to the center of the table to ante in. Booker did the same. They played poker for the better part of two hours and when they finished, Kid was feeling a little better. He had also managed to hide three or four matches in his pocket. He figured as a last resort he could set the cot on fire and they would have to let him out to put the fire out before it spread to the wooden floor. That would give him an opportunity to escape. He knew it wasn't a good plan but he felt better just having any plan. He shoved the cot back against the wall and laid down and closed his eyes. He heard the deputy come in for his night shift. He rolled over onto his side so he was facing the wall and fell asleep dreaming about his great getaway.
The next two days passed slowly, with time measured by meals served. But on the evening of the second day a man with dark hair and wearing a brown suite and carrying a small folder tucked under one arm, walked into the Sheriff's Office.
Kid had been anxiously anticipating Heyes' arrival and when he finally arrived, Kid leaped from the cot and and reached the cell bars in two steps. "Joshua, you finally got here," Kid exclaimed.
Heyes stopped and looked at Kid. "Thaddeus, not again," Heyes said sadly.
Kid shrugged. "Afraid so," he replied.
"Excuse me," the sheriff said as he stood up from his desk.
Heyes quickly approached the desk. "Sheriff Booker?," Heyes asked.
Booker nodded. "You must be Mr. Smith?"
Heyes extended his right hand and shook Booker's hand vigorously. "Please, call me Joshua," he said with a smile.
"Joshua," Booker repeated. "So how do you know the Kid?" he asked, giving a nod toward the jail cell.
Heyes looked exaggeratedly startled. "By 'Kid,' I assume you are referring to Kid Curry. I can assure you that I do not know Kid Curry. I have not so much as even met Kid Curry. However, Mr. Jones, the man you have locked in that cell over there, I know quite well. Mr. Jones there, is my business partner."
"What kind of business?" Booker asked.
"Land development. Mr. Jones is a surveyor. Surely you have heard of 'Smith and Jones Land Development, Inc?"
"I can't say that I have," Booker replied.
Heyes smiled charmingly. "Well, I'm sure you soon will. Our business is growing in leaps and bounds. You see, we had been located in Porterville, but we're moving the business to Butte. That area appears much more lucrative in terms of land development."
"Mr. Smith, I hate to interrupt," Kid said from his cell, but perhaps you could focus on getting me out of here?"
Heyes looked at Kid and smiled. "Thaddeus, we both know this takes a little time," Heyes cautioned.
Kid shrugged and turned around and leaned his back against the bars of the cell.
Heyes turned his attention back to Booker. "Now, where were we?" Oh, yes, as I've said, I have never met the outlaw known as Kid Curry, but apparently Mr. Jones bears some resemblance, enough so that some people do mistake him for the outlaw."
"Is that a fact?"
Heyes chuckled. "This is the fourth time in two years that Mr. Jones has been misidentified as that unscrupulous outlaw."
"And I suppose that you brought proof that this fella isn't Kid Curry?"
Heyes smiled and pulled the folder out from under his arm. "Sheriff, may we sit?" Heyes asked.
Booker nodded and Heyes pulled a chair up in front of the desk and sat down. Booker sat in the chair behind his desk. Kid turned around and rested an elbow on a crossbar and rested his chin in the palm of that hand., his fingers resting just above his top lip.
Heyes opened the folder and lifted the first of several sheets of paper from the folder. "This is Mr. Jones' Surveyor license," he said as he handed the paper to Booker to inspect.
Heyes quickly worked through the first several sheets of paper, explaining each one and handing them to Booker. The papers included a payroll sheet, a partnership contract, a contract identifying the incorporation of the Smith and Jones Land Development Company, and a contract selling ten percent of the company to Lom Trevors of Porterville, Wyoming.
Brooker recognized Lom's name on the contract. "Your friend had me send a telegram to Lom Trevors. He said the same thing you're saying about the physical resemblance to Kid Curry."
"So you have two people, one of whom is a fellow Sheriff, who corroborate Mr. Jones explanation of this unfortunate misunderstanding," Heyes replied as he gathered the papers and returned them to the folder.
Booker contemplated the situation.
"So I can go?" Kid asked eagerly.
Booker looked at Kid and then looked at Heyes. "I hate to disappoint Tom and his friends. On the other hand, I can't keep a man locked up for mistaken identity. Tom says he has actually seen Kid Curry and he is certain this is Kid Curry..."
"Three other people have been just as certain in the past two years, and they were all equally mistaken," Heyes interjected.
"Tom says he was on a train that was robbed by Kid Curry..."
Heyes gave Kid a quick, nervous glance. "Did this Tom fellow also see Hannibal Heyes?" Heyes asked.
Booker shook his head. "He never mentioned seeing Hannibal Heyes to me."
"Aren't Heyes and Curry members of the same gang?" Heyes asked.
Booker nodded, "The Devil's Hole gang."
"Has Hannibal Heyes, or any other member of this Devil's Hole gang tried to free Mr. Jones while he has been a guest in your jail?"
"No one has tried to bust him out of jail. No one has even stopped in to visit." Booker said.
Heyes sat back and smiled. "I've always heard members of outlaw gangs are pretty loyal to each other and make every effort to do such things when one of their own is arrested and jailed, especially when that jail... excuse my saying... is not of particularly high security."
"That's true, too, Mr. Smith...". Booker contemplated the papers he had just seen and weighed the statements Mr. Smith had made. "Alright, I'm convinced,"
Kid clapped his hands together and smiled broadly. "Then you'll let me out?"
Booker pulled the cell keys from his desk drawer and walked over and opened the cell door. Kid scrambled out of the cell. "Thank you, Mr. Smith!"
Heyes smiled. "Mr. Jones, I've said it before and I'll say it again... dye your hair black, or shave it off... anything to make yourself not look so much like that good-for-nothing outlaw."
Booker reached into another desk drawer and withdrew Kid's gun and holster, and boots. He handed the things to Kid who quickly secured the gun belt around his waist and tied the holster tie around his right thigh before pulling on the boots. Heyes stood up and extended his hand to Booker and the two men shook hands once again.
Come along. Mr. Jones, I'll buy you supper. We have to be heading back to Butte first thing in the morning."
Kid nodded his head and extended his hand to the Sheriff. "I must say everyone has been most cordial during my internment."
"You might want to take your partner's advice about changing your appearance a might, son." Brooker replied.
Kid smiled. "I'll give it some thought."
Heyes and Curry left the Sheriff's office quickly. Heyes had two fresh horses waiting outside. Kid's gear was packed on his horse.
"You picked up may gear?"
"Thought you might need it. Now let's get out of here fast, Heyes replied and they quickly mounted their horses.
"Where are we going?" Kid asked.
"Anywhere but Butte," Heyes replied and headed south out of town with Kid right behind him.
They rode hard and fast four the couple of hours remaining in the day and made camp at a high elevation facing north so they would be able to detect any posse that might pursue them.
"Heyes, where did you get those papers?" Kid asked
"Stopped at a printers and had them made up before I left Butte."
Kid smiled. "Heyes, you're a genius, and that silver tongue of yours is amazing."
Heyes smiled proudly. "Go to sleep, Kid."
END
The song Kid sang in jail is not a song of that period, but rather a more contemporary song by John Denver. Just thought is sounded appropriate for this story.