"Dean, the way I see it, I can give your students a practical understanding of how to use math in their real lives. I know my use of math wasn't very legal or moral at first, but it has been for the past seven years." The young dean listened intently as Heyes was animatedly explaining his ideas for teaching. The dean's new western school needed a junior professor of mathematics and he thought he had found his man.
The dean nodded and smiled, "I see what you mean, Heyes. I think our students would find that very exciting. They would sure pay attention in class! And with your wife teaching . . ."
A bugle sounded shrilly in the pale light barely after dawn. Heyes jerked awake, striking his bare head violently on the ceiling of his cell. He stifled a curse, remembering with a start where he was.
"Heyes!" whispered his cell-mate, Smith, peering into the upper bunk. "Fold up your bedding - fast! Guards are coming!" Heyes stared stupidly at the man for a moment, blinking. Silver stars were still darting in front of his eyes from the blow he had taken. The transition from his dream to waking was a painfully one in more ways than one. It seemed as if only in dreams would he ever teach college mathematics or be married to Beth Warren. He had long feared that his plans for the future would prove fragile compared with the might of the law. But to actually have all of his and Beth's hopes crushed was still a shock from which he would be reeling for a long time.
Soon the guards came by to check the cells and take the prisoners to pick up their breakfasts. Heyes was glad that Smith had reminded him about folding up his bedding – he had only just finished in time for the inspecting guard to see that all was as it should be. Heyes snuck a nod of thanks to Smith. The guards marched Heyes and Smith and their cell block mates off to pick up their breakfast dishes filled with steaming potato hash.
As Heyes passed his fellow prisoners in the breakfast line, he looked again for the Kid, but saw no sign of him. He supposed that the men from the two cell blocks were kept separate for all meals. As Heyes studied his fellow prisoners, he speculated that they must include horse thieves, cattle rustlers, hold up men, gunmen, or less savory criminals even than that. But which man was guilty of which transgression, he would likely never know. Heyes had heard often enough from friends out of prison that there were two questions you didn't ask a man inside – what he had done to wind up there, or if he was really guilty. After all, one could hardly expect a rapist or child abuser to admit it to someone who had no authority over him. If you did ask him, he would just lie. And he might not be real pleased with the question.
Heyes was not sure that he was happy having anyone know who he was or what he had done, either. In the criminal world outside of prison, Heyes' status as a gang leader of bank and train robbers had accorded him considerable respect. In here, he didn't know what men would think of him or do about it. They might easily hate him for his fame and the big money he and the Kid had once brought in.
After breakfast the guards came around and got Heyes and his cell mate, and took them down the walkway. They went to the prison workshop that was between the two cell blocks. This was a room where prisoners were at work on various tasks needed to keep the place running. Heyes was shown how to crank a clothes washing machine. Right across from him was a smaller machine that was cranked by a skinny, lithe boy who looked hardly more than twelve. His baggy prison clothes, far too big for him, made him look even smaller. The pants were rolled up and the sleeves were cut off short to allow him to work safely. The boy looked curiously at the much older man opposite him, but said nothing as he dutifully got his machine prepared for work and loaded clothes into it. He had obviously done this work before. The boy showed Heyes how the machine worked, and how to put a quick hand inside if the clothes threatened to tangle and tear. As they began to crank, Heyes could tell that this would be monotonous work, but not heavy. Yet he supposed his arms would be sore by lunch time. It would take time for his muscles to harden to repetitive labor.
Once the guard watching the room had gone to look after other men who were using a mangle to wring out wet clothes, Heyes put out a hand to the boy. "I'm Heyes. You?"
The boy introduced himself, "Mosley." Mosley took Heyes' hand, a quick grin indicating how pleased he was to be addressed as an equal by so much older a man. The boy didn't show any signs of realizing the infamy or fame attached to his work partner, for which Heyes was grateful. Maybe the boy assumed the name was the sound-alike Hayes. Or maybe the youngster was too young to even know the more famous name.
Once they had met, the boy turned his attention to cranking efficiently. Heyes was distressed by how young the boy was. He hated to think what the youngster had done to be imprisoned so early in life and what the boy's future might be like. He himself had gone bad at fifteen. Hard as he and the Kid had tried to go straight, they had never escaped their evil fate. Now it seemed that they never would. He thought this boy might be even younger than he had been, although perhaps older than Jed had been. But they hadn't gone to prison as this lad had. It didn't bode well for Mosley.
When Heyes and Mosley each had a good routine going on his respective machine, the boy spoke to Heyes under cover of the few seconds on each turn of the crank when the machines made the loudest swishing sounds. Heyes followed the boy's lead. The oddly matched pair kept their words brief and paused during the quieter parts of their machines' work or when the guard came by and was watching and listening. This was the first chance Heyes had had since he arrived to have a real conservation with anyone. Despite the intense emotional stress of being put into prison, intellectually it was incredibly dull by comparison with grad school. It was nice to have a little human stimulation other than being ordered about, condescended to, threatened, and beaten.
"How long you been in?" asked the boy. Heyes' shaved head and his unfamiliarity with procedures like clothes washing gave away that the time wasn't long.
"One day," answered Heyes briefly.
The boy grinned. "Thought so." His own very short trimmed hair suggested that he was no great prison veteran himself.
"You?" asked Heyes.
"Week."
Heyes nodded. Judging from his knowledge of how to safely manage a conversation here, the boy learned fast. Maybe too fast – there were bad things taught here. Heyes asked, "How old are you, son?"
"Ain't your son," Mosley said resentfully.
"No offense."
"None taken . . . 15."
"Really?" Heyes was skeptical. Boys about that age were very apt to lie themselves into being older, especially in situations when they were thrown in with men. Heyes had done it himself when he and the Kid had first run away from the home for waywards and started to associate with outlaws.
"Well, almost. . . You?"
Heyes hid a smile at the innocent question. Not many people asked a grown man how old he was, especially in a place like this. He said, "38." To Mosley, it must seem a big number – far more than twice his own age.
"Wife? Kids?"
"No . . .Hard on the run." Even being asked the question hurt. Heyes had so wanted to marry Beth and have children with her.
"What you in for?"
"You know better!" Heyes darted a warning glance at young Mosley.
"Sorry. . . No offense."
"None taken."
They cranked in silence for a few minutes. The guard walked by and stared at Heyes and Mosley. They were all innocence and dutiful labor.
"Pick pocket," the boy volunteered, hoping to lure his neighbor into saying more about himself.
"Could've guessed. . . Quick hands." The boy reached into the tub deftly to stave off tangles. Heyes thought that those clever hand could have been used for so many better things – playing music – writing. The Heyes reached into his own machine and got his hand out in time to avoid injury.
"You, too . . . You play cards?"
"Sure. . . outside."
"How good?"
"Ha! . . . One answer – not very."
"That's a lie."
"It is." Heyes winked at the boy.
"Teach me?"
"Not in here."
"When we're out?"
"A hot time!" There was a bitter edge to Heyes' voice.
"Huh?"
"In Hell, boy."
"Oh - sorry." Mosley looked down and away, genuinely regretful to have reminded his new friend of his awful fate.
They worked in silence for a while. The guard came by again and again found two innocent, silently working prisoners. When the man was gone, the boy tried again, "Life?"
"Same as," said Heyes, looking at the floor.
There was a pause while they worked silently and the guard, who was starting to suspect where the soft whispering was coming from, came by and stared at them.
When he was gone Mosley pressed Heyes again, "What d'you mean?"
"20 years . . . who'd live that here? . . . if I did . . . there's 42 more . . ."
"42 years?"
"Charges."
"Wow! . . . What?"
"Boy!" Heyes pretended to be more annoyed than he really was.
"Sorry."
They worked steadily for a while. Then Heyes took pity on his curious work partner who insisted on asking the questions that no one should ask in prison.
"Armed robbery. . . for starters."
"What else?"
"Jail break . . . Etcetera."
"Et what?"
"Etcetera. . . Latin . . . 'and so on.'"
"You speak Latin?" The boy was impressed.
Heyes shrugged just slightly. "A little . . . picked it up . . . here and there."
"What kind'a robbery?"
"That again?"
"Yeah . . . Stagecoach?"
"No."
"Store?"
"No."
"Hold up?"
"No."
The boy seemed excited to finally get up the nerve to ask, "Bank?"
Heyes hated to answer, but he wouldn't lie to his young friend. There was no point. Heyes nodded.
"Wow! I kind of keep track of bank robberies, or I used to – outside." This long, enthusiastic speech wandered into the machines' quieter period and got a glare and a threatening gesture from a guard. But the man was one of the better ones; he took pity and didn't strike the boy.
When the guard was well past Mosley started in again. "What bank?"
Heyes sighed. The boy was as bad as Tom O'Keeffe. "Lots."
"Yeah but which?"
"You wouldn't know . . . Too long ago."
"You stopped?"
"Yeah."
"Try me! . . .Which one . . . got you here?"
"Blackfork - merchants."
The boy stared at him hard. "Near my town," he said. Then, after a long pause he asked, in a low, intense voice, "When?"
Heyes guessed that the boy would know every gang who had ever struck the bank or tried to. He said, reluctantly, "'83."
"No! . . . Devil's Hole?!"
"Quiet, boy!" Heyes looked warily around to make sure that none of the other working prisoners had heard Mosley say that. Everyone seemed to know that Hannibal Heyes was there, but since he had been hidden in his cell when the word got out, they might not have linked up the name and the face. He wasn't eager for that to happen. Inevitably it would, but Heyes wanted the day delayed as long as possible.
They just washed clothes for a while. The guard left and a different one came in.
Heyes stopped and loaded in a new bunch of clothing, copying the way he had seen young Mosley do it.
"What did you do?"
"Told you – robbery!"
"But what part? . . . Guns? . . . Get away?"
Heyes exhaled in resignation. Telling this would be telling his name plainly to this boy, who sure wouldn't keep it to himself. But everyone would know soon enough anyway, despite the enforced silence in most aspects of this place. Confined men talked. Heyes knew that from the many jails he had been in and out of. "Planning. . . .Discipline. . . Box work . . . you know?" Mosley shook his head. "Safes."
During this recitation the boy's eyes got bigger and bigger and his swift hands slowed for a moment, forcing Heyes' hands to slow as well. "No! . . . You ain't him!"
"Told you . . . my name." Heyes looked away from the boy, ashamed at his past.
"Golly! . . . Shake hands . . . Mr. Heyes?"
"Short memory . . . already did."
"I didn't know . . . then. . . The Kid in?"
"Yeah. . . Other block."
"Too bad."
"Yeah."
"How'd they get you?"
"You got nerve," Heyes, but without rancor. The boy needed to learn to be careful about such questions if was to live long in such a place, or at least avoid coming to blows. But Heyes couldn't manage to really be mad at him. He was just so young.
"Sorry," said Mosley.
Heyes thought back bitterly to those recent days and their disappointing results. "Jed spoke . . . at my trial . . . murder . . . nabbed us . . . end of it."
"Murder?!"
"Self-defense."
The boy nodded. Everyone knew that Hannibal Heyes would never murder anyone. "How'd they . . . get you . . . into court?"
Heyes shook his head. "Complicated."
"I got time."
"Not for that. . ." Heyes gave Mosley a warning look.
"Aw, come on, Heyes, tell me . . ." The boy was starved for stories.
A guard had been listening to the conversation and he finally took action. Before Heyes could warn the lad , the guard came along behind the boy and struck him hard across the back. The boy fell and only Heyes' quick hands kept his head from striking the floor. Mosley, embarrassed, stood up again quickly and waved off his new friend's help.
The red-headed guard growled, "Don't interfere, Heyes!" He went to hit the boy again, this time with a long wooden switch that was kept on a high peg on the wall for just this purpose. Heyes grabbed at it and stopped the blow. After all that the outlaw had been through from cruel people in authority in the past week, when he saw a large grown man abusing a helpless boy, something just snapped in him. He angrily pulled the switch from the guard's hand and threw it to the floor. He stood ready for what would come to him for this, his eyes ablaze.
Two other guards ran up, yelling at Heyes in frantic fury. Heyes gave in suddenly. He wasn't a big enough fool to resist. He stood still as they grabbed his arms while the red-head clapped irons onto his wrists and ankles. Then they led Heyes away rapidly, forcing him to stumble and trip. They hauled the fallen man along the floor bruisingly as he scrambled, unable to regain his feet. They man-handled Heyes back to his own cell block. But they put him in a different cell. This cell had no bars on the front – only a solid wooden door. No light got through.
Heyes was in solitary confinement. How long it would last, he had no idea. He also had no way of knowing what other punishment might come his way. It was hot and the stinking air was horribly still. He lay down on the thin, foul mattress on the floor and tried to go to sleep. He might as well – he sure couldn't read or teach or do any other worthwhile thing. A bug scuttled over his cheek. Heyes swatted it away and sat up against the wall with a shiver. He hadn't been able to tell what it was – something just nasty, or something that might sting.
Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
"Curry!" came a whisper from the next man bent over weeding the prison yard.
"Yeah?" the Kid answered in just as low a whisper. Hard as it was to communicate here, he was already starting to be part of the cautious network of whispered intelligence that ran from cell to cell or from man to man when they worked outside. The man who was weeding nearest to Curry, Crum, was also the lone occupant of the cell next door to his. Crum seemed to know everything that happened at the Pen. Curry suspected that he had friends among the guards. Crum had been here for a long time and learned how to survive.
"New man in solitary in the other block. Just got here, same day you did, and fool's already behind the door," said Crum. Somehow, the man got away with talking more than any man Curry had seen here, but he never got punished.
"Oh?" said the Kid neutrally. He didn't want anyone to think he cared too much. It would leave him vulnerable. But he knew the man in solitary had to be Heyes. He was the only man he knew of who had arrived on the same day that the Kid had. And who else would be in trouble that fast, other than Curry himself? "What'd he do?"
A guard patrolled across the grounds and the prisoners fell silent. Curry, with the guidance of his cell block mates, was starting to get a feel for which guards were decent and which weren't. This one – a tall, dark haired young man called Horton – wasn't brutal; but he wasn't indulgent, either.
When the guard had passed, Crum answered, "Tried to stop a guard from hitting the youngest boy here. Sound like Heyes?"
"Maybe." The Kid scratched his shaven head under the itchy wood cap. At least it kept the beating sun off of his pale, newly exposed scalp.
"Dark stubble, dark eyes, big scar on the left side of his head. Already got a cut on his face from sassing the guards."
"Yeah, that's Heyes," snorted Curry. Outside, Curry had been the more likely one to help someone even at the risk of his own safety. But here, he was more cautious.
"That kind'a foolishness won't impress Johnson!" scoffed Crum.
"Johnson?" The Kid hadn't heard the name before.
"Cell block warden across the way. Our guy Harrison – no pushover. You get what you deserve with him. But Johnson?" Crum stopped while the guard passed by again, pausing to listen to the two men. They clamped their lips shut. This kind of talk was particularly dangerous. Curry waited until the guard was good and far away before he asked Crum for more information about Johnson. "What about him?"
Crum looked around cautiously before he spoke in the lowest possible whisper. "Guys die over there. I know. Used to be there."
The two men fell silent again while the guard passed and passed again. The Kid was in agony of worry about his partner. He knew all too well that he could do nothing to help Heyes. But he had to know what Crum was talking about.
"Ain't murder illegal here, too?" Curry asked at last, trying to keep his whisper casual.
Even at the level of a whisper, the Kid could hear the dread in Crum's voice. "Yeah, but they ain't murdered."
"Huh?"
"Mr. J. likes the whip, but not bad enough to kill, not never."
"So what happens?" asked the Kid, after checking yet again that no one could overhear them.
Crum waited a long time, looking up at the rifle toting guards in the towers that stood over the high wooden fence of the yard as if he suspected they could hear him, though that was impossible. Finally he whispered again, "Guys just die. Don't wake up one morning. Or choke on something. Or go to hospital hurt or sick and go out in a pine box. Or they go out to the rail yard and don't come back. But just the guys Johnson don't like."
The guard passed again. Curry was sweating in fear for his partner.
Curry asked anxiously, "The warden don't stop it?"
Crum shook his head. "He's new. Ain't figured it out yet."
"Any way to get word to man in solitary?"
"No."
"How d'you know he's in?" The Kid wondered if the rumors were really accurate.
"Guy down the way heard from a man was in the workshop when it happened. Saw Heyes grab the switch, and then saw 'em drag him off. That's a solitary offense."
"How long?"
Crum shrugged. "First offense, one day, maybe? But when Heyes gets out, he'd better be damned careful."
The guards seemed to suspect that something was going on between Curry and Crum, because they hovered around near the two men after that. So no more information was passed between them. They just crawled across the dirt and pulled weeds and put them in bags. The men sweated in the hot sun in their heavy striped uniforms. And the Kid worried. But nothing seemed to bother Crum.
As they went back to the cell block to get supper, Crum was last in line. He lagged a bit behind the other men. A guard came close alongside him. He whispered something to the burly old prisoner. Something got passed from the guard to Crum, and quickly hidden inside his baggy uniform. Curry, up ahead, didn't see his friend nod his thanks and then shuffle away from the guard.
Finally, they went to get super, and then to bed in their cells. Some smoked or chewed. Some read. A few whispers were heard here and there. Curry wondered what Heyes was going through in the dark all alone. For himself, the Kid felt that he was making it alright. He wasn't stupid enough to stick his neck out and get into trouble. He had never dreamed as big as Heyes had.
Yet, that night, lying on his thin bunk in the dark with his cell mate on the lower bunk chewing tobacco and spitting, the Kid felt awful lonely. He was missing Cat so bad and worrying about the coming baby. It was hard on Curry. It was terribly hard. When would he get a letter from Cat? It was bad, not being able to communicate with the woman he loved. It was agonizing to be cut off from everyone he cared about in the world – including his partner.
The Kid wished he could tell Heyes that his partner was alright. And he wished he could tell Heyes to be more careful. His partner should know that, but sometimes, as the Kid had told him before, his older cousin didn't have the sense that God gave geese.
Late that night, while Curry snored fitfully, Crum was awake all alone in the cell next door. He sucked greedily on a flask of whiskey. He lifted the flask up in a nearly silent toast, "To kindly Mr. J. Good man to work for, bad man to cross." He was lying down and in the darkness, he smiled.