Officer Tryon peered down from his shotgun perch into the cage of the paddy wagon as they neared Grand Central Depot and pulled into a back loading entrance. He took an unholy glee in his arrest of the famous outlaw. "Good-bye, Heyes. Thanks for the fifteen thousand! Get hence to the place of your death, you filthy thief!"

Heyes ignored the angry outburst. He thought he understood what was behind it. He replied thoughtfully as the wagon inched along slowly in growing darkness inside the station. "No problem, Tryon. I was sorry to hear about your brother. Nothing to do with me, of course, but still I'm sorry something bad happened."

The kind words from Heyes merely served to stir up Officer Tryon. "Huh? How'd you know about my brother if you had nothing to do with it? You scum! If you did that . . ."

Heyes stayed very calm. "I heard a couple of your fellow officers mention it in Central Park one day, not long after you spotted me on Long Island."

"What!? How'd they dare? Where you could hear? What did they say?" Tryon was torn between being frantically furious at Heyes and at the officers he had heard gossiping.

Heyes shrugged nonchalantly. "They didn't say exactly, except that something bad to do with western outlaws had happened to him. I was just sitting on a rock. They didn't know who I was."

Tryon growled, "My brother was a sheriff in Nevada, and a good one. A bunch of outlaws got hold of him and . . . and tore him apart with wild horses!"

"My God!" exclaimed Heyes, genuinely appalled. "That's terrible! My condolences, Tryon. I can't blame you for being mad about that! I hope the murderers get brought to justice, if they haven't already."

"I, um, thanks, Heyes. I went out to do what I could for the law there, but we never did catch 'em." Tryon was a bit thrown to have the supposedly vicious outlaw he had arrested behave so decently toward him.

As the wagon stopped, deep inside the dim loading area of the station, a dozen heavily armed policemen surrounded the back of the vehicle. The marshals went in to the wagon's cage to take charge of Heyes. "Move it, Heyes!" said the man from Montana as he unhooked the handcuffs from the bars. Heyes, clumsy with his hands cuffed behind him, tried to stay upright as he jumped down from the end of the paddy wagon. But he stumbled and fell. Tryon, who stood by the gate, helped the reformed outlaw to his feet. "I'm sorry for what I said, Heyes," he whispered.

"Don't worry about it, Tryon," said Heyes, just as softly. "I understand. I went straight 'cause I never wanted to get stuck doing anything like that ever."

Tryon stayed with the paddy wagon. The tall young man stood and looked after Heyes with a surprised and puzzled look on his face as the marshals herded his prisoner roughly along a dark corridor.

Before they got to the public platform, the marshals stopped Heyes and fastened irons to his legs. "Don't you try anything!" said the Colorado marshal. "If the Kid or anybody tries to break you free, we have orders to shoot to kill. And that includes you. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sir," responded Heyes, keeping his voice absolutely steady without the least hint of anger or impatience. "I'm going quietly. I guess I can't blame you for not believing me, but I really have gone straight. Dr. Leutze or Professor Homer, whoever told you where I was, must have told you that. And they must have told you that it was at my request that they directed you to me. So please, let's just go to Montana for a fair trial and forget the rough stuff."

"Shut up and move along, Heyes!" snarled the Montana marshal. So Heyes moved along as fast as he could through the chill, dark tunnel.

The front marshal opened a locked door and the process issued onto a crowded railroad platform where a steam train stood waiting. The dozen blue-clad policemen stayed alongside Heyes as the marshals went before and after him. "Stand back, everyone!" shouted one policeman as they emerged into the light. "We have a dangerous prisoner here!" A woman screamed. A little boy stared with excitement up at Heyes, while his mother anxiously pulled him back. A man in a formal suit put himself protectively between his wife and the dangerous prisoner. Everyone stared at the man in irons who was surrounded by policemen and marshals.

Heyes neither slunk nor strutted. He simply walked along, trying to avoid tripping over his manacles and trying not to make eye contact with anyone. His worst nightmares seemed all determined to come true. But he kept remembering the advice of Beth and Marie and Senator Warren – he must never give up.

It was a struggle not to stumble in the heavy, awkward leg irons, without the use of his arms for balance. Heyes could feel a little blood tickling his arms as it trickled down from his cut wrists. A couple of policemen boosted Heyes awkwardly upon onto the train car where he would ride to Montana.

There was a special car set aside for Heyes and his guards, although it was not altered in any way other than being emptied of regular passengers. Heyes was seated at the middle of the car, surrounded by at least two marshals and half a dozen policemen at all times. A scowling marshal unfastened his prisoner's handcuffs while his fellow marshals kept their pistols trained on Heyes. Then the handcuffs got reattached in front so Heyes could sit securely. It was the lone concession his captors made to his comfort.

The lawmen sat around Heyes as the train pulled out of the station, watching their prisoner relentlessly. "Bye-bye New York! Hope I'll be back soon!" said Heyes, trying in vain to provoke a smile or two. The marshal seated next to him frowned at him. The other lawmen simply sat in hostile silence. And they stayed that way, hour after hour. Eventually, a fresh shift of lawmen came in while the initial bunch went to take a break. "See you later, guys!" said Heyes. Again, he received no answer but unfriendly looks.

As the train chugged west and the sun went down, Heyes began to feel a physical as well as a psychological chill. He sneezed and his nose began to run. "Hey, marshal, you got a handkerchief? Could you give me a hand here, please?" Heyes asked as politely as he could in the oppressive silence. The man ignored him. Heyes finally just rubbed his nose on the shoulder of his good jacket. The marshal glared at him and Heyes returned a shrug and a "what else can I do?" look.

As night came on, Heyes began to get hungry and even more so, thirsty. The lawmen had evidently eaten before they changed shifts, but they had given their prisoner nothing. Heyes, perceiving that nothing was going to happen, asked, "Come on guys, don't I get anything to eat? Or maybe a glass of water?" There was no response, so Heyes went on, "I think starving me might just fall under cruel and unusual punishment. And that's not legal." He couldn't help letting a slight note of resentment creep into his voice. The marshal next to the prisoner sighed and gestured for a policeman to bring something.

The policeman brought Heyes a metal cup of water that clinked unpleasantly against his teeth as the man held the cup for him to drink. The prisoner couldn't help letting a few stray drops run down the front of his suit, which was clearly going to be in bad shape by the time they got to Montana. The dry biscuits and jerky that he got to eat added crumbs and grease to the unfortunate suit. Heyes was learning better than to complain.

Now and then, a single policeman would leave the car, always to be replaced by another man. There was no let up in the watchful guard. As it grew dark outside, the policemen lit lamps in the car so they could see their charge clearly. And they stared relentlessly. A couple of hours after Heyes had had his sparse supper, the policemen were starting to yawn and so was Heyes. But Heyes was feeling uncomfortable in another direction. "Uh, guys," he said softly, "I'm only human here. Can I get some help with . . . you know." There was only silence in answer. "Come on, it's going to get mighty nasty in here if there isn't a pot or something . . ."

The policemen allowed Heyes to have his hands free for just the minimal time and they did give him soap and water. But they kept their guns trained on him the whole time and they stared like they had never seen a man relieve himself before. Heyes was starting to feel like some kind of sleazy side show.

The lamps stayed lit all night. Heyes felt terribly restless and uncomfortable after hours of being unable to move more than a few inches. He could feel the eyes of the lawmen on him. It was impossible for him to relax and go to sleep. Heyes fidgeted restlessly as he got more and more tired. His wrists bled a little more and his ankles began to be sore as well as the leg irons wore at him. But worse by far was his worry and loneliness. What was going to happen to him, to Beth, to the Kid and Cat? At last he began to drop off, then he woke with a start from an anxious nightmare that was no worse than the waking reality around him.

Finally, after four eternally long days of being chained and watched and hungry and thirsty and embarrassed and feeling nothing but hostility around him, Heyes and his company of guards arrived in Montana. The prisoner was filthy and exhausted, worn out by tension and lack of sleep.

"Come on, Heyes! Move it!" growled a marshal as the train finally hissed to a stop at the station in Helena.

Heyes was beyond politeness by now. "Hold on a minute, can't you?" groused the prisoner, stumbling in his irons. "My leg is asleep. And so is my ass, if anybody cares, which they don't."

The police and the marshals gathered around Heyes as they dragged him out of the train and through the train station. Cordons of deputies kept back the noisy crowds that had gathered to see the infamous outlaw arrive. "We love you, Heyes!" Shouted someone. "Filthy outlaw!" shouted another voice. Heyes kept his head up, but he didn't smile or say a word. It was a fight not to look at the dozens of strangers. Heyes didn't dare appear to be working the crowd or enjoying the attention. That wouldn't impress any judge ever born.

The streets of the rough, frontier capital were teaming with people starring at the arriving celebrity. The overcast sky, dripping rain, discouraged no one among the lively, loud throngs. "Stay back there, this is a dangerous prisoner! Stay back!" shouted the deputies and marshals again and again.

"Everyone knows Heyes don't hurt nobody!" shouted a youngster, and many voiced agreement with him. Heyes still kept his face as blank as he could. But it was nice to know that people in the West still appreciated his peaceful reputation.

The crowd of lawmen, scowling at the crowd that seemed to be mostly on the side of the outlaw, hauled Heyes up the steps of the castle-like, turreted stone Lewis and Clark County jailhouse. After he had gone down a couple of halls to the center of the ever darker edifice, Heyes found himself in a bare single cell, locked away. An excited young, blonde deputy took the handcuffs off Heyes, but the leg irons remained. A pair of proudly upright, neatly dressed deputies stood guard in front of Heyes' cell with pistols at their hips and rifles in their hands. Heyes was still in his now very bedraggled good suit that he had originally worn to the dance in Central Park. It seemed another life now.

"Say, who are you?" asked a scruffy prisoner in the cell next door, looking up sleepily and taking in the crowd of departing lawmen and the deputies who remained standing at attention. "Some kind of celebrity?"

Heyes bowed his head and didn't answer, but one of the deputies said, with pride in his voice, "That's Hannibal Heyes!"

"Well, what do you know?" said the next door prisoner cheerfully. "Welcome, Heyes! Glad to have you as a neighbor. I'm Duffy Powell."

"Thanks," muttered Heyes wearily but trying to be mannerly. "Nice to meet you, Powell."

"Cheer up, Heyes!" said Powell. "It ain't so bad."

"It is if they hang you," said Heyes, sounding very depressed.

"They won't hang you for robbery," said Powell comfortingly.

"For murder they do," chimed in the young deputy.

Powell looked up in surprise. "Sorry, Heyes. I didn't know."

"No problem. It was self-defense, but I can't say any more till I can get a lawyer," said Heyes. "And God only knows how I'll ever do that."

All the next day, Heyes cooled his heels moodily in the jail cell. There was nothing he could do but wait and worry. He paced up and down rattling his chains like an unquiet spirit until even the naturally upbeat Powell begged him, "Just light someplace, Heyes!"

The jail might be fancier than the small town jails Heyes was used to, but the routine of boredom and bad food and no privacy was much the same. Only, he had never been in jail so long without the Kid before. He was just plain lonesome.

The next morning after the stale toast and water breakfast that was all Heyes got, a pair of smartly dressed deputies came to get him. "Come on, Heyes." They yanked his wrists behind him and roughly applied handcuffs, then dragged Heyes down a couple of long halls.

"What's this?" asked Heyes. "Are they gonna charge me, finally?" But he got no answer.

Finally, Heyes was pulled into a formal paneled office where he got to sit on the first padded chair he had felt since before he left New York. There were still two deputies in the room and Heyes was still in chains, but he appreciated any smidgeon of comfort where he could get it.

Before Heyes had time to enjoy his cushy chair, an elegantly suited young man entered the room, looking around expectantly. Heyes got clumsily to his feet. He figured that even if he was filthy and smelly and wrung out, he might as well be respectful. He had expected an old judge, but this neatly groomed man looked to be no older than his late twenties. He couldn't possibly be a state judge.

The young man in his natty dark grey suit put out his hand, uselessly, sense Heyes was in handcuffs and couldn't possibly shake hands. "Hello, Mr. Heyes. I'm glad to meet you. My name is Hardin Cole. I'm your lawyer."

Heyes stared in surprise at the young man. Cole was very light skinned and had hazel eyes, but he was clearly what society then classed as a Negro.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Cole. That's right nice," said Heyes, "except I don't recall hiring a lawyer. And I have a pretty fair memory."

"Don't worry about that, Mr. Heyes. A consortium of your friends in New York got together and hired me on your behalf."

Heyes, in an automatic gesture of self-defense, took on a less educated and sophisticated character than was truly his, now. "That's right neighborly of 'em, but I prefer to choose and pay my own lawyer. So Mr. Cole, you are discharged. Let me know what I owe you for any work you've done so far and I'll pay you."

Cole gave Heyes a slightly hostile stare of his own. "You don't want a Negro to represent you, is that it?"

Heyes was a little offended that Cole would make this assumption. "Not at all. I have nothing against Negroes. I wish you well and I hope you get justice one day. The Kid and I risked our lives for a guy once – actually a bunch of times - because he wasn't gettin' a fair shake on account of his skin color. And he was a bounty hunter who was determined to turn us in! But I just want to make my own choice and pay my own way."

Cole was not about to back down. "Fair enough. But I'm the best lawyer in Helena. Ask anyone."

Heyes nodded. "I will. And if that's so, I might hire you back on my own nickel. But I prefer to ask around myself."

"How can a jailed man ask around?" asked Cole skeptically. He went on, "And, for your information, you can't afford me."

Heyes drew himself up, affronted. "That's an arrogant assumption about what's in my pocket book!"

Cole snorted, "You're a penniless grad student with maybe a hundred in poker winnings stashed away. That isn't going to be enough."

Heyes scowled at the all too accurate estimate of his finances. Cole's eyebrows went up, "I'm right on the mark, aren't I?"

Heyes sighed and nodded. "Yeah. I don't have a penny of what we stole. Rode off and left it all behind when we went straight."

"I advise you to trust Dr. Homer and Matthias Peale and your other friends, who are free to research the situation, to make this choice. They have communicated with me extensively and I know they spoke with plenty of other men as well. Here, this might help you to see the situation in a different light." Cole handed Heyes a sealed envelope.

Heyes looked intently at Cole, who picked a letter opener from a glossy desk nearby and held the opened letter for Heyes to read. Heyes began reading silently.

The letter began, "Dear Heyes
Please accept Hardin Cole as your lawyer. Peale and I have looked into the question and chosen him as easily the finest lawyer in Helena. I know that it will hurt your pride to accept our help, but think of Beth and Cat and the Kid and all of the young men and women you can help if you can avoid getting hung. Please take on Mr. Cole's services and think about money later. Together we can afford to take on the bill without strain on our resources. Please forget your pride just this once. Grow a bit of sense – you do need it. And we do need you – free!
Sincerely,
Charles Homer, PhD, on behalf of Everett Carter, Neal George, Diana Hargrove, PhD, Paul Huxtable, Dr. Samuel Leutze, Mary Moore, Matthias Peale, James Smith, and Elizabeth Warren, MA." Each of the names was signed in the person's own handwriting. Heyes felt outvoted by his own friends.

"But it isn't just this once, Charlie, it's all the time! I'm in debt to the backers for my degrees and whoever paid for my treatment, and now you folks! And what are Diana and Polly doing on that list?" said Heyes softly to himself.

Heyes sighed wearily. "Alright Cole. Alright, I'll be a damned charity case one more time. If I manage to stay alive and out of prison, I'll be in debt for the rest of my sorry days. But I'll go with you."

"Good!" said Cole with a tooth-flashing grin, "'cause I'm gonna get you off, Mr. Heyes. And I'll earn an even better reputation than I already have."

"Or become a laughing stock," frowned Heyes. "Don't get cocky." He paused a moment and studied his new lawyer. "So, what do you already know about the case, and me, and what can I tell you?"

"Sit down, Heyes," said Cole. "This might take awhile. And drop the country boy act – I know full well that you're only a formality away from a mathematics MA from Columbia University, with honors."

Heyes grinned. It was nice to get some respect again. With Cole's tactful help, he sat back in the padded armchair. Cole asked for the guards to bring his client a glass of water. He asked for the handcuffs to be removed, but the deputies refused.

Cole sniffed delicately. "First thing, Heyes, we'll get you a bath and some clean clothes. You must be miserable in that filthy suit."

Heyes nodded. "Yeah, haven't been able to change in five days. Thanks for the help."

Cole smiled gently, with compassion in his eyes. "It's the least I can do. Now, let's see what we can do in a more substantial way to get you some justice. Please describe every detail of your previous trip to Montana, right from the beginning."

As he answered Cole's astute questions Heyes began to feel just a little better. Finally, there was someone who cared about him – even if he was paid to do so. The pair was soon deep in conversation. It quickly became apparent to Heyes that he was dealing with a very intelligent and imaginative man. And Cole began to think the same thing about his new client.