Heyes guards helped him out of the crowded courtroom, pushing strangers aside and trying to keep the chains from tripping anyone. Heyes looked around for his friends. Beth, Charlie, and Jim were waiting in the hall near the courtroom door. Jim gave Heyes a thumbs up and shouted, "Hang in there, Heyes! We're with you all the way!" Heyes gave Jim a grin. He could see a reporter writing down the quote and looking around for more news on the hoof. Charlie Homer, his identity already given away, dared to give his most famous advisee and friend an encouraging smile and wave.
Beth gazed sadly at Heyes, unwilling to shout out to him across the surging crowds. Heyes longed to communicate with her in some way beyond a lingering look, but didn't want her in the newspaper as his girl. That could do her no good as she went on with her life after he was locked up for good. He felt hopeful about his current trial, but harbored no illusions about his chances when the inevitable armed robbery trials followed.
As Heyes made his way down the steps and across the street, flash powder went off over and over from the newspaper photographers who had gathered to document the trial. Soon his marshals were rushing Heyes across the street to the jail in his chains. A cordon of lawmen kept back the masses of people gathered to gawk and shout and sell popcorn. In addition to the people shouting and chanting Heyes' name, there were even people carrying signs by now. One in rough hand printed black letters proclaimed, "Wyoming for H. Heyes," as if he was a candidate for public office. Heyes shook his head in utter bewilderment. What on earth had he ever done to make anyone who'd never even met him care about him? But then again, there were always the sour people, like the old woman in black by the side of the road, telling Heyes that he was bound for a bad end and a worse eternity.
Heyes sighed to himself as he walked. He thought of all the years of care that he and the Kid had taken to keep their faces and their family relationship and so many other things secret. It was all shot now. Halftone images of Heyes would appear the next day in local papers around Helena. The next day and the days after and for days thereafter Heyes' face would ornament papers and magazines across the country as fast as photographs could be shipped and the photographic metal printing plates known as electrotypes could be exposed, processed, cast, inked, and printed. Heyes grimaced wryly as he thought that his face would never be obscure again. In the unlikely event that he actually did get to pursue an academic career, his true identity and infamous past would be crystal clear to every prospective employer. His chances to teach were probably finished. There were plenty of other things he could do – but only if he stayed out of prison and anyone could be found who would trust him with numbers.
The only person Heyes encountered who didn't already know every detail of the first day of the trial was the guy in the cell next to his. As Heyes' marshals returned him to his cell, Duffy Powell called out with his unfailing cheerfulness, "Well, Heyes, how'd it go?"
Heyes, relieved of his heavy chains, sat dejectedly on his bunk. He faced away from Powell so he could look down the hall and see any visitors coming from a long way off. "They ain't hung me yet, Powell. It's just second degree, so I won't swing, but they'll lock me up for a long time if my lawyer doesn't manage to get me off. Tomorrow I get to prove I can turn and fire faster than the guy I shot could fire standing – or at least as fast. Don't know who they'll get to play his part. I'm not looking forward to it. All those crowds staring at me gives me the willies. How's things with you?"
Powell shrugged, "Fair to middlin', Heyes. Thanks for askin'. With you around getting' all the publicity, nobody notices me and my little local murder trial. Just as well. They hang me at dawn tomorrow."
Heyes whirled around at least as fast as he hoped to do the next day. "What? Oh my God, Powell, I am sure am sorry to hear that! You've been awful nice to me! Is there anything I can do?"
"Nothing, Heyes, but it's good 'a you to ask. I just look forward to getting' it over with, to tell you the truth. Not even my mother came to see the trial. Wouldn't do her no good. Any of your kin here?"
"I'm sorry about the kin, Powell. I'm sure they're thinking and wondering and hoping. No, I've got no kin living. All killed long ago – except the Kid – he's my cousin," said Heyes, feeling even lower and lonelier than ever. He wondered who, if anyone, would take the cell next to him when Powell was gone. He would miss the man. He might be a murderer, but he seemed like a decent guy. "If you don't mind my asking, who'd you kill?"
For the first time, Powell sounded sorry and sad as he said, "My brother. And no, I don't want to talk about it none."
Heyes didn't know what to say to that. But no wonder the murderer's mother had not come to the trial!
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If Heyes could have seen the gathering in a Helena hotel suite that evening, he would have been touched. He would also have been furious.
In addition to the visitors from New York that Heyes knew about because he had seen them in court, Beth Warren, Charlie Homer, and Jim Smith, the room was filled with an uneasy crowd of Heyes' friends including Matthias Peale, Neal George, Everett Carter, Polly Moore, and Paul Huxtable. Beth was glad to have a fellow woman along to comfort her. It was terrible for her not to be able to communicate with Heyes at all.
Diana Hargrove and Dr. Leutze had remained in New York to handle communications, finances, and damage control there. Dr. Hargrove had already reported that concerned deans seemed to be figuring out who their brilliant student with the bland alias really was. Between newspaper reports and campus rumors, they had plenty of information to work with. When the reports of that day's testimony arrived in New York, Heyes' cover would be finally and utterly blown.
As Jim and Charlie finished filling in the others on the day's testimony, there was an unexpected knock on the hotel room door. All fell silent. Charlie Homer went to answer the door. He had a gun in his hand as he asked cautiously, "Who is it?"
"I'm Karen Horn from Columbia!" came the answer with a decided Texas twang. Everyone looked at one another – what was the young woman math student doing there? She was just a student of Heyes'. She was an enthusiastic student with a pretty obvious crush on her handsome teaching assistant, and she had seen the arrest because she had been Huxtable's date at the park dance. But she wasn't supposed to know who Heyes really was. As when Diana Hargrove had shown up at the last meeting of this group, they seemed to have an unexpected new ally. Would she be as helpful as Diana was being?
Beth spoke up, "Please let her in, Charlie! She might be able to do more for our friend than all the rest of us put together. Remember when we met at your apartment after the arrest and I said there might be something I could do about the amnesty? Well, she's it! So she already knows who he is. But then, half the country does by now."
So Homer holstered the gun and opened the door. "Please come in, Miss Horn. I am sorry for the delay, but I think you must understand why we have to be careful. There isn't anyone else in the hall, is there?"
"No, sir. There was someone from the press hanging around earlier, so I left and waited until he was gone before I came back," whispered the strawberry blonde beauty as she entered, with a careful glance behind her. She looked around the over-filled hotel suite curiously. She had met everyone except Polly from the Leutze Clinic before, so the two were quickly introduced.
Beth explained in a low voice that they hoped could not be overheard through the door, "Miss Horn is trying to help Heyes. She's from Austin, Texas, and she knows Governor Hogg. I asked her to send a telegram to the governor telling him what a good professor Heyes has been and how much he's helped her to deal with the trouble other male professors have given her."
"Thank you, Miss!" said Jim. "We all sure appreciate anything you can do!"
"I don't know if my little telegram could have any impact, but I can only try," said the young Texan. "I'll admit, I was mighty taken aback when Miss Warren told me who Joshua Smith really is and what kind of trouble he's in. But I know he's a good man and I'll do whatever I can to help."
"Pardon me, Miss Horn," said Charlie, "but will you also do what you can to help Heyes' partner?"
Miss Horn refused to look scared despite Kid Curry's dangerous reputation. "I've never met Mr. Curry, but since he and Mr. Heyes are so close, I'm glad to do what I can to help him. He isn't here, is he?"
The room fell silent. "Yes," said Charlie Homer very quietly, "he is. I mean, not here in this suite. I don't know where he's staying, but he was in court today and I guess he will be tomorrow, too. He's in disguise, but it won't protect his identity from anyone who really knows him. I think all we can ask at this point is that you not give him away."
"Of course I wouldn't!" said Karen.
"Good!" said Ev Carter. "Would you like some fried chicken?" Karen nodded and began to dig into the wonderfully fragrant picnic basket that Carter passed her way along with a napkin and a fork.
"And biscuits and lemonade and collard greens! We've got all kinds of good stuff here!" said Peale. "We don't dare eat together out in public, so everybody brought something for dinner. If you haven't eaten, you're welcome to join us. Just don't spill on the professor's bed clothes, please! And everybody keep your voices down – we don't want it to be too obvious that we're here."
"Yeah," said Neal George. "We don't want to be in court where we could upset Heyes. He doesn't want us here where we could get charged with aiding and abetting. But if he needs a character witness or two – or three – or nine – he's covered."
The room filled with soft, companionable laughter.
As evening fell, the newsboys swarmed in the streets of Helena, Montana. The piping voices cried, "Hannibal Heyes on trial for murder! Read all about it!"
Jim Smith slipped out of the pro-Heyes' conspirators' room to buy a handful of local newspapers filled with news of Heyes' sensational trial. He laughed as he handed them out, saying, "We're famous, Charlie!" The fuzzy grey pictures reproduced on the front page included a blurry picture of Heyes outside the courtroom in his glasses and a picture of Charlie and Jim standing together. The caption of that one reversed the men's identities, much their amusement.
"When did you get to be a professor, Jim?" asked Ev Carter with a chuckle, as he nibbled on a drum stick.
Beth began to read a column on the trial. She tut-tutted over the poor syntax of the sentences and the over-wrought description of the man she knew so well:
"One has heard so much about how charming and handsome Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes are, and how they have induced the common folk of Wyoming and surrounding states and territories to love them, that a hard-bitten reporter who has had such fairy tales disproven too often expects the real men to be as crude, coarse and ugly as any common cowboys who have been exposed to the harsh western conditions for too many years. [Failing grade for that winding sentence, thought Beth.] The recent novel published on the pair of heroic outlaws, in addition to the several times they have appeared in the news in recent years, have maintained their celebrity despite their having left outlawry behind some years ago. And yet since no photographs of Hannibal Heyes have ever previously been published and the descriptions of him on wanted posters across the west have been varied and vague and scarcely evocative, despite his fame one was very unsure of what to expect from the real man when seen in person. From the wanted posters we could know only that he would have dark eyes, dark hair, and be about 38 years old and about five feet eleven inches tall.
It was therefore with fascination that I beheld the defendant brought before the court. I can report that while the above description is technically correct, it does nothing to evoke the magnetic and impressive person of Hannibal Heyes. Any description is bound to fall short, but I will attempt one. He is, as was to be expected, a man of just above medium height. He is slender and of surprising grace for someone burdened with manacles, leg irons, and heavy chains. He has keen brown eyes, fair coloring, and long, straight chestnut brown hair beginning to show a trace of grey at the temples. He appeared clean shaven and well groomed, with his hair neatly brushed back. Having lately come from not his native Wyoming but rather New York City, he was dressed in a fine black suit in the latest fashion of that city. He was sporting, to the surprise of all, a pair of gold wire rimmed spectacles that made him appear quite scholarly. This turned out to be a very correct impression, as I will describe. His voice is a light baritone and he speaks excellently educated English though with a western accent. The dominant impression that he gave throughout the proceedings was of a man of intense feelings, great sensitivity, and impressive intelligence. No one should be surprised that no sheriff was ever able to catch this formidable outlaw until he gave himself up willingly to the marshals in New York last week.
To the many ladies in court, Mr. Heyes was a sight of great interest, thought it is true that the men watched him just as intently. One young lady seated behind this reporter was heard to exclaim that it was a great shame that his former profession had kept Mr. Heyes so much away from the public gaze. His handsome, dimpled looks were so striking that he would seem to have been made for the stage. Mr. Heyes remained very serious and respectful for almost the entire proceedings. But on the rare occasion that the defendant smiled – as he did in speaking of his partner's birth - every female within a mile could be heard to sigh. Well, the reporter exaggerates slightly – it was only every female in the actual courtroom. If any ladies outside the courtroom sighed, they were beyond my range of hearing."
Beth gagged at this and stopped reading. She only hoped that Heyes would never read any of this drivel! There was certainly no news value in the piece and one of its few facts – Heyes' state of origin – was wrong. Charlie Homer called Beth's attention to another column that gave a slightly more factual account of the trial, although it messed up both the statistics about the speed of the flight of a bullet that Heyes had given and the identification of Heyes' own academic specialty. It also called Heyes a graduate student at New York University. "NYU!" exclaimed Huxtable in sputtering fury, "This idiot writer wouldn't know Harvard from Yale!"
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Heyes was woken before dawn by the guards arriving to take Duffy Powell out to hang. "God bless you, Powell!" said Heyes sadly.
"Thanks, Heyes. That'd be nice," said Powell with a mocking grin. "I doubt it, but it'd be nice. Good luck with your trial." Then the personable murderer went whistling down the jail hall to meet his fate. Heyes gazed after him in wonder and admiration at the man's spirit.
Heyes, who might also been seen as a personable murderer, of course could not get back to sleep after that awful moment. He finally gave up trying. He called his guards so he could relieve himself, clean up, eat, and dress. Knowing what he would need to do that morning, Beth had made sure that Heyes would be provided with appropriately comfortable and informal clothing. In fact, although she could not have known it, what she had sent was precisely what Heyes had worn on the day in question, from the golden brown boots and pale brown pants and the navy blue shirt to the battered black hat. Even the underwear was right.
The marshals came for their prisoner. One tall young blonde smiled as he saw how Heyes was dressed, rather than in the formal suits they had seen so far. "So that's how you used to look out West, Heyes?" he asked as he unlocked the cell.
"Yeah, Marshal," said Heyes. "Somehow I never could manage to find another hat I liked this much, even after a bullet went through it one time." He put his finger through the hole and wiggled it.
"Where's the range, Marshals? Nearby? Or a wagon ride away?" asked Heyes as he walked down the jail hall in his chains. He was starting to develop calluses where the manacles and leg irons rubbed.
"Wagon ride, Heyes," said an older marshal. "Here it is, with the press waiting to ride alongside in their own rigs. Get on in. You need help?"
Heyes nodded. "Please, boys." He pointed at the heavy chains, indicating that he needed help with them. "Must be coming on to rain," said Heyes. "My hip aches where I got shot a while back. I'm gettin' to be as old and creaky as any grandpa." He rubbed his sore hip for comic emphasis as he climbed stiffly into the wagon, then helped his guards up beside him. The marshals laughed at their charge. As they got used to each other day by day, both lawmen and prisoner relaxed and were less hostile if not downright friendly with each other. But when Hardin Cole arrived, no one helped him up into the wagon except Heyes, who reached down a hand.
The day was warm and overcast. As they rode along out of town, the road dust rose around the wagon and settled on the passengers. They could use the promised rain. A few minutes outside of town the wagon came to the shooting range where the judge had arranged the demonstration. There was no mistaking it – there was a crowd of hundreds gathering out in the otherwise empty hills like it was a country fair. More riders and more wagons kept coming in.
"Whatever made you so darned popular, Heyes?" asked a marshal in fun.
Heyes shook his head. "I couldn't tell you, Marshal. I've avoided crowds for over twenty years and done it pretty well – until this week. It's just when I'm with you that they come around. So I think it ain't me attracting 'em – it's you!" Heyes winked good naturedly. Everybody laughed, including Heyes and the guys in the press wagon next door. A couple of marshals got down from the wagon first, and then they helped Heyes down. He grimaced as he landed on the hard ground. His hip really was bothering him. The former outlaw just hoped his old wound wouldn't slow his moves when it counted. Again, no one but Heyes helped Cole.
Heyes and his guards and his lawyer went to the heart of the crowd where the judge stood in a suit. His robes would have been badly out of place here. There was a gathering of chairs in the dusty field for the judge, the court clerks, the respective lawyers, and the jury. The gallery stood all around. Heyes carefully did not look at the jury – he didn't want to be seen trying to be friendly with them. The judge said, "Good morning, Mr. Heyes. You look dressed for the occasion. Please regard yourself as being still sworn in. Are you ready?"
"Once somebody gives me my gun belt, gun, and blanks, and helps me off with these chains, I will be you, your honor," said Heyes.
The judge nodded to a clerk who came forward with the very articles that Heyes had requested. The marshal had to help him off with his manacles, leg irons, and chains before he could put on his gun belt. There was such a cordon of lawmen around the perimeter of the emptied field around Heyes that it was clear that any attempt at escape would be suicidal. The young blonde marshal, as he withdrew with a rattling armload of chains, whispered, "Good luck, Heyes!"
Heyes smiled but did not reply, lest he give away the kindly lawman's tiny infraction.
The gun and gun belt handed to Heyes were his own and his knew them about as well as his own skin, but it felt very odd to him to have a stranger hand them to him. The gun, of course, was unloaded, and the gun belt emptied of its usual load of ammunition. Once Heyes had buckled his old gun belt and tied down the holster, he checked his pistol. He spun the chambers and sighted down the barrel. He nodded his satisfaction with the weapon's condition. He had left it in his apartment clean and well oiled and it was still in that condition, so someone must have cleaned and oiled it for him in the mean time. Then the clerk handed him a box of blanks. "I'm sure you are aware, Mr. Heyes, that blanks cannot be fired safely at close range. So we will position you a good distance from the jury and other principles. Marshals, if you could please move back the crowd to a safe distance of at least fifty feet. And our man firing in place of Mr. Gunther will stay much farther from you than he really was – can't have you hurting each other!"
The marshals had a hard time moving the crowds back. Large groups of people are hard to back, and no one wanted to give up a good vantage point. While the lawmen were at work, Heyes looked around seemingly at random. Sure enough, Charlie and Jim and Beth were among the crowd, trying not to be near the front row. And there, very far back, was an ordinary looking blonde man with a rough, short beard. The Kid's gaze briefly crossed Heyes' for the first time since the trial had begun. He looked anxious, but so did everyone there. Heyes hastily looked away and his eyes did not stray in that direction again.
Finally, all was in readiness. A court clerk crouched in the dirt to act as the Kid. Another court official stood nearby with his own gun loaded with blanks at the ready. The judge shouted for order, but of course could not add in the court, since they were far from any court.
Heyes stood there, yards from anyone except the clerk who was being the Kid. "I feel kinda' foolish, your honor," said Heyes loudly so his voice would carry to the judge and jury as well as the crowds. "All this fuss being made. This won't take long, you know – so long as we all do what we're supposed to do."
"I know Mr. Heyes," said the Judge, projecting his voice to the crowd, "You see the line in the dirt that represents the walls of the shed. Is it accurate?"
"It is, your honor, or as close as it needs to be" answered Heyes. "The place was a little smaller, really."
"And is our "Curry" correctly positioned?"
"Yes, your honor, so long as he crawls toward me some as I go in, as Mr. Curry in fact did." the defendant answered.
"We may have to do this a few times to get the timing correct. We are talking about tiny fractions of seconds. If it happens wrong, you will please correct us, Mr. Heyes," said the judge. Heyes nodded. "Our man enacting Mr. Gunther will draw but wait until you have completed your turn to fire and then fire as quickly as possible as you have indicated that Mr. Gunther did. You will fire at that moment, as you say that you did, Mr. Heyes. After his first shot, our marshal will adjust his aim and then fire again as fast as he can so that we can understand the time that would have been necessary for those actions.
Our man has been chosen as a pretty fast shot, Mr. Heyes. He is, in fact, a federal marshal who has won awards for his marksmanship and speed. However, jury, you must remember that our marshal is not identical to Mr. Gunther. He may be faster or slower than the slain man was. He is most likely to be a bit faster on the draw. We cannot know – he will give you only a fair estimate of what is possible. We will repeat this procedure until we get it right or as close as is practicable. Don't hesitate to give us directions to correct any errors, Mr. Heyes. Are you ready, Mr. Heyes, clerk, and marshal with the gun?" All three men nodded. "Are you satisfied with the preparations, prosecuting attorney?"
The mousy Mr. Horace, in a dusty but very proper suit that was singularly out of place in this setting, said, "Yes, your honor. I hope that this demonstration will be taken in the proper spirit, as an exploration of what could possibly have happened rather than a necessarily accurate recreation."
"Yes, Mr. Horace. I believe that I have already instructed the jury to that effect," said the judge with irritation, "Very well, you may proceed, gentlemen."
Heyes knelt at the spot in the dust outline that stood for the shed door. He made a gesture symbolic of picking the lock. Then he lunged into the outline that stood for the shed, moving toward the pretend, "Kid," who inched toward Heyes as he had been instructed. Heyes leaned forward and gestured to the man's mouth as if removing a gag. Then Heyes spun around like lightning, drawing and cocking his gun with perfect coordination as he rose from his crouch. This impressive display drew a virtual storm of gasps from the crowd and even the jury and a smattering of applause. The marshal with the gun was so stunned by the speed of Heyes' turn and draw that he did not fire until Heyes had been fully turned and standing upright for at least two seconds. Heyes never fired at all, carefully uncocking his gun before returning it safely to his holster.
"Well, you know that's not right," said Heyes clearly, trying not to sound too annoyed.
"Sorry!" said the marshal. "You caught me by surprise, Mr. Heyes! You're fast as any rattler!"
"The marshal will please refrain from expressing such opinions!" said the judge in annoyance. "Let's do it again, gentlemen."
Cole shouted, "One moment, your honor! I want to point out something that is now clear. The moment of Mr. Heyes' draw is not, it seems, of overriding importance here. Rather it is the moment that he chose to fire. Clearly, he is capable of drawing and cocking without firing should he see at the very last instant that it is not necessary to actually fire. In this case it had to do with the accuracy of this demonstration. In the shed where Mr. Gunther was shot, Mr. Heyes could have held up if he decided that the man behind him was not firing at him, if we are to believe his testimony. Whether Mr. Gunter did something similar, waiting until he could identify who Mr. Heyes was, we can never know. He might have thought, in the darkness of the storm, that he had surprised one of his own fellow conspirators who had simply carelessly left the shed door opened."
The judge nodded. "I agree, Mr. Cole, that the jury ought at least to consider that possibility. I apologize for my previous insistence on the important of beginning the draw. The jury may well decide that I was wrong and the pulling of the trigger is of far great importance than the draw. We will leave that to the jury members to decide for themselves." Horace frowned at this. The backbone of his case was in clear danger now.
The judge said, "Gentlemen, are you prepared to repeat the demonstration?"
Heyes nodded and so did the marshal. The false "Kid" moved back to his starting position. The marshal with the gun nodded that he was ready. Heyes went back into his play acting, and again his lightning fast turn elicited gasps. This time the anxious marshal fired too soon, before Heyes had completed his turn. However, Heyes also drew, cocked, and fired in response to the marshal's shot, the bang of his gun following so quickly after the marshal's blank shot that it was hard to tell when the one ended and the other began. Heyes' reactions had been incredibly fast. The crowd erupted in exclamations of surprise and admiration. The jury was giving this demonstration their riveted attention. They were clearly impressed.
The judge's eyes opened wide and Mr. Horace's even wider. That Heyes was a very fast draw was already evident. Horace looked increasingly nervous. His case was going down in flames.
"Alright, gentlemen, again," said the judge, "if our respective attorneys agree." Both men nodded.
Heyes again did his play acting of lock picking, gag removing, and he spun and drew, cocked and fired with identically lightning speed to his last go around. Now the timing was perfect. The marshal fired his blank just as Heyes' face came around to look toward him and Heyes' shot came after it just as rapidly as before, the two bangs almost blending into one. The marshal's second shot came slightly but noticeably after Heyes had fired, although he had fired as rapidly as he could. Cole could not help grinning at Heyes as the crowd burst into spontaneous applause. The judge, without his gavel to hand, merely shouted "Settle down! This is not a play on the stage!"
An old coot in a moth-eaten cowboy hat responded, "But it's as good as one!" The crowd laughed and so did the judge.
"Good work, clerk and marshal," said the judge as he regained his composure. "Are you satisfied, Mr. Cole, Mr. Horace, Mr. Heyes, and jury foreman?"
"I am, your honor," said Cole. "I believe that my client has clearly demonstrated his ability to separate draw from fire, and his impressive speed on the draw – and the accuracy of his description of events."
Horace answered stiffly, "I am satisfied with the demonstration, so long as it is not taken for a perfect recreation."
Heyes nodded, "That's just the way it happened, your honor, as close as I could ask. Any difference in relative timing was too tiny for me to detect or describe. Your marshal has done his job admirably. That timing wasn't easy." Cole smiled. It obviously had been easy – for Heyes. His performance had been precisely perfect every time, except for his not bothering to fire on the first try. The consistency of Heyes' movements would tell heavily with the jury. He had obviously done this before –and they knew just when and where and to what effect.
The jury foreman, a dignified little round man in a dark suit, stood up and spoke in a disconcerting bass voice, "We have seen what we came to see, your honor. What Mr. Horace had said was impossible is, in fact, possible. Mr. Heyes could choose to fire only when he knew that he was being fired upon and yet fire so rapidly that no one I have ever seen shoot could possibly have returned fire. And I have seen some fine shooting in my day, gentlemen. We cannot prove that Mr. Heyes has told us the exact truth about what actually happened, but it is certainly possible that he did."
"I could not sum it up better myself, Mr. Foreman," said the judge. "We will meet back in the court room at 1:30 PM this afternoon to resume the trial. That should give us all time for lunch. My thanks to all for your work on this unusual but very important demonstration."
As Heyes, Cole, and the marshals rode back into town in their wagon, Heyes looked out the tailgate down the road. Men from the crowd came riding behind him, many of them calling back and forth to friends as they went. They recognized the man in the black hat and waved at him. Heyes smiled and waved at the men. The locals, delighted by the attention from such a celebrity, waved their hats and whooped and rode by the wagon shouting raucous greetings like "Fancy shooting, Heyes!" They weren't jurors, so Heyes could afford to be friendly. One of the riding men came particularly close and smiled at Heyes and at Cole and waved, shouting "Good going, Heyes!" Heyes smiled and waved back to the blonde, bearded cowboy, who rode off with the raucous crowd. None of the marshals paid any more attention to the blonde rider than to any of the others. But Cole turned and looked at Heyes, his eyebrows raised in question. Heyes gave him a sly wink. So Cole knew that he had just met Kid Curry. He could see the bold move as stupid, but he had to admire the man's guts and style. Partners were partners, after all.