Heyes soon got up off the dank mattress on the floor. He couldn't sleep and lying there was just nasty and dull. He didn't know how long he would be in the dark solitary cell, but he couldn't sleep through it all. He would have to be ready for what would come next. He was betting it would be far more demanding than cranking a washing machine.
So Heyes began to pace. He heard little in his dark hours except for his own soft, repetitive footfalls. He had taken off the heavy, ill-fitting shoes that had been giving him painful blisters. But it had taken some time to try to clear away the grit of former prisoners' crummy bread so we wouldn't have to crunch through it. It surprised him to find such dirt in this place that was otherwise kept admirably clean. He had no means of getting rid of the crumbs other than pushing them to the edge of the cell with his hands. There was a sill by the door, so he couldn't get rid of the crumbs no matter how much he tried.
When the crumbs were reasonably clear, and his mattress was rolled out of the way, he went back to pacing. He had to steel himself to ignore the scuttling of countless bugs that had gathered to feed on the crumbs. They were impossible to identify in the darkness. Heyes had dealt with vast numbers of bugs in the West as well as in New York, but usually only ones he could see, and not in bare feet. As he crossed and recrossed and recrossed the cell his feet crushed insects. Eventually, he just ignored the crackling little shells and the sticky blood. Like the whole experience, it wasn't nice, but he could deal with it.
As he walked back and forth, Heyes' ears strained to catch the subdued sounds of the prison day, muffled by the walls around him and the heavy wooden door. Early in his confinement, Heyes heard the men coming from their various tasks to get their dinner. Heyes, already very hungry, could smell the stew and freshly baked bread but not taste it. No one brought him anything. He could hear the soft metallic clatter of spoons on ceramic soup bowls. His stomach growled. Later, Heyes heard the men marched off in various directions to their tasks for the afternoon.
Then the place fell silent and stayed that way for hour upon hour upon hour. The only interruptions in the silence were two times when Heyes could just barely hear guards walking back and forth on errands.
Otherwise Heyes heard only the soft sounds of his own pacing and the tiny, distant twitter of the barn swallows swooping outside the windows. Heyes could picture the little blue and orange birds swooping effortlessly through the air to catch their insect meals. He wished he had some birds in his cell! Even if they couldn't catch earth-bound bugs, they would have been cheerful company.
Heyes hoped that he would be out the next day, but it hardly mattered. As he settled in to this place, one day would be very like the next. He wondered what his tasks would be when he did get out, and the day after that and the day after that, on into a future he did not really care to realistically imagine. Well, he had brought this on himself – both the stretch in solitary and the larger confinement were his own fault without a doubt.
Heyes silently berated himself. How could he have been such a fool as to rise to the bait of that brutal guard striking young Mosley!? His momentary interruption of the punishment would not make any ultimate difference to Mosley. He was sure that after the guards had dragged him away, the boy had been beaten just as much, if not more, than he would have been anyway. How stupid he was to have lost his temper! The Kid said his partner had no common sense. Heyes guessed he was right. The former safecracker wondered, for the thousandth time, how his partner was making it in prison and what he was doing. Heyes just hoped that his own foolishness would not be used against Curry, who might well have enough of his own troubles.
Heyes would have to do better in future when confronting the senseless brutality that would be a daily part of the rest of his life. It was ironic – as a thief he had fought against the violence of the West. Now he was supposed to be in a place that corrected violence – and instead it was more violent than anything that Heyes had ever permitted in the Devil's Hole Gang.
Heyes sighed and paced on. He would certainly have plenty of future opportunities to practice the discipline of being angry and yet doing nothing. Now there was a noble discipline for you! Paying more attention to what was inside his head than what was outside of his body, he inadvertently slammed into a cell wall. "Ow!" the outlaw cried involuntarily and rubbed his sore nose.
"Shut up in there, you filth! There're worse things than solitary, you know! You want to hang by your thumbs for a while?" yelled a guard who sounded close outside the cell.
Heyes thumbed his nose at the man in the darkness. Solitary confinement carried its own little privileges – including the freedom to make rude gestures and not be punished for them. Heyes smiled but was careful not to laugh. Goodness only knows what that would fetch him!
But as Heyes went back to his pacing, he began to look past the moment to moment problems of being imprisoned. What would it mean if he became the perfect square peg in a square hole? If he silently and thoughtlessly did as he was told and never complained or did anything dangerous day after day after day, what would it be like? What would it do to him? What would it do to or for the men around him? To Heyes, a future of knuckling under to cruelty and injustice seemed far, far worse than any conceivable punishment or even death. Heyes stopped and considered this carefully. He and the Kid had sacrificed a lot to go straight. To Heyes, going straight didn't mean just following the law and the various rules around him. It meant doing the right thing. Not the easy thing – the right thing.
Heyes stopped his feet and pushed his mind forward. He decided then and there, in the damp, buggy darkness, how he would conduct himself henceforth. He made up his mind that he would not go out of his way to court trouble. He would try to be sensible and not bring any unwarranted punishment down on himself and his fellow prisoners. But when he saw serious offences around him, he would not hesitate to point them out and do what he could about them. He didn't doubt that this would fetch him considerably worse punishment than solitary confinement. Being famous, and having at least some possibility of attention from powerful politicians, could give him some power. The other prisoners here were powerless pawns. If Hannibal Heyes wound up being badly and blatantly mistreated or even killed, the word might get out. And if it did, the abuses of this place might come to light. And that might make some improvement for the other prisoners here – maybe even including the Kid. There were worse things to die for than the improvement of the lives of his fellow men, even if they were his fellow criminals.
Heyes' mistreatment or death would hurt Beth very badly. Yet it seemed to Heyes that if Beth knew that he had given in and done the easy thing, that would really hurt her worse. She loved him – not some dull, senseless automaton. She would want him to do what he felt was right. For just a moment, Heyes almost felt as if Beth was with him there, putting her arms around him and saying that she loved him and believed in him. He blinked hard as he thought that this touch in imagination, and perhaps a rare brief letter subject to the Warden's scrutiny, might be the only contact he would ever have with his love ever again.
With that decision made, Heyes took a deep breath and went back to his pacing. He had been fighting every second in prison to figure out who he was now. He had been trying desperately to figure out how to think and be. Now he felt better – more like himself. Now he had a plan.
Heyes now turned to working complex mathematical equations in his head. He was not going to let his brain go to mush in this place. He would not let them reduce him that much – at least not without a fight.
"Heyes!"
The outlaw jumped at the voice that suddenly called into his dark and silent place. His head had been full of voices, but the air around him had been silent. A tiny bit of light stabbed into the dark cell as a tray was pushed in the small covered opening at the bottom of the door. Brief and dim as the light was, it hurt Heyes' eyes, which had become accustomed to total darkness. He reached to find out what had been shoved in. He could feel a pewter plate of dry, day-old bread and a heavy ceramic mug of tepid water. Heyes ate hungrily. He had to drink to choke down the stale bread. His throat was dry from hours with little to drink. There had been only a single mug of water for him to drink before this, and that he hadn't finished because he had found bugs at the bottom. He had been confined since just before noon and so had missed the largest meal of the day. The meager bread and water dinner was not nearly enough to satisfy him. But it was all he would get.
An hour later, a guard reached in the low opening to get the empty dishes and to empty the chamber pot. Heyes was glad to have the stink reduced as he tried to settle himself for the night. Would there be rats? There hadn't been yet, but he would be listening for them.
Heyes continued pacing for a while, steadily working mathematical equations. Growing frustrated with this, he turned to silently reciting scenes from some of his favorite plays. Hamlet came particularly to mind. Act II Scene II, when Rosencrantz and Guildenstern greeted the prince of Denmark was most appropriate in Heyes' mind. Hamlet asks his old friends for the news and when Rosencrantz said that the world had grown honest, Hamlet angrily replied that their news was not true and he asked them, "What have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune that she sends you to prison hither?"
Guildenstern (Heyes remembered the edition he knew abbreviated the name to Guild.) replied, "Prison, my Lord?" and Hamlet answered, "Denmark's a prison." Heyes smiled in the darkness – this prison was a veritable Denmark, and he wondered if murder would be done here as it had been in the bard's Denmark so repeatedly. Hamlet's reply – Heyes couldn't remember which of the two friends it was who spoke - when his friends denied Denmark's status as a prison was another speech that Heyes recalled thoughtfully. He wondered what use he could make of it here, "Why, then, 'tis none to you, for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison." Heyes wondered to what extent he could, by thinking, make this place not a prison. Perhaps the powers of his mind could free him for a few minutes or hours at a time – especially at night. That might enable him to keep his sanity and some sense of purpose.
But then Hamlet, told that Denmark seemed a prison because it was "too narrow for your mind," replied in a line that Heyes thought might haunt him far into the future. Especially it troubled him as he stood alone in the darkness, feeling worn out and knowing that he must sleep eventually. He recited it in his head and felt the force of the threat: "Oh God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space were it not that I have bad dreams." Wherever the outlaw grad student's mind could wander, so long as he remained sane, the truth would seek him out. He could not escape his punishment. He would always wind up back here, curled up on a thin mattress laid over cold stone among the bugs and the rats.
Finally, he slept. And the bad dreams pursued him.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Heyes heard the bugle sounding out in the world of the prison. The sun must be rising - for those who could see it. Not long afterward, the opening at the bottom the cell's door rattled. Heyes covered his eyes in preparation for having it open and let in a painful beam of light. Once perfect darkness had returned, the confined man felt beneath his fingers a breakfast precisely similar to his dinner of stale, dry bread and water.
Soon after Heyes had finished eating, he heard a shout outside. "Heyes! Step back!" He took the advice, and covered his eyes. He was right – they were opening his door.
"Come out here!" shouted a guard. Heyes stumbled blindly to his feet. One of his legs had fallen asleep on the hard floor. He blinked in the dim but painful light. The guards fastened manacles and leg irons onto him. "You're coming out to do a job of work, boy. No more light stuff in the workshop."
Heyes was chained to make one of a line of men – a chain gang. Guards marched them out to the prison yard, surrounded by the brick of the prison building and a high wooden fence. Then the massive, iron-bound wooden gate opened. Heyes and the other men looked out, excited to see something beyond the walls that normally bounded their world. Surrounded by guards on foot and on horseback, the chain gang walked out across the neighboring hills with shuffling steps restricted by their leg irons and chains. They could see the main part of Laramie across the river not too far away. Soon there were curious locals standing around on more distant hills, watching them. For once, Heyes was glad of the anonymous black and white striped uniform.
For a man who had been confined to a very tight space for the last twenty hours, it seemed a long way to where they were going. No one, of course, thought to tell the prisoners what was planned for them. Heyes thought that his fellow prisoners were a bit uneasy about the outing. Their body language and sour grunts told him that they weren't looking forward to whatever the work would be. They had done it before, although they couldn't tell Heyes what it was. It was great to be able to see some sights outside the walls and to feel a fresh breeze on his face. Yet Heyes felt paranoid about the adventure. Normally, getting to go outside of prison walls was, he had heard from his jailbird friends, a special privilege. Heyes had not earned any privileges. Something was sure to be awaiting him that would offset the gift of getting to set foot outside.
Soon, they came over a hill and crossed a bridge over the Laramie River toward the city of Laramie. Surely they weren't going into town? Of course, it was not so. Instead, they went to work on the extensive rail yard.
Most of the men were set to carrying things - the heavy steel rails and massive ties, whether old shattered ones to be replaced, or the new ones to replace them. There were guards everywhere on foot and one horseback, with rifles trained on the prisoners. Few regular rail road employees were allowed anywhere near the prisoners.
But for Heyes there was different work. A snarling red-headed guard led Heyes to where the rails and ties were being assembled at the end of the line being renovated. They secured Heyes' leg irons to chains so his arms were free but he could not escape. Another guard handed him an enormous hammer. He would be driving the large iron spikes that went through iron plates to bind rails to ties. Heyes had seen men doing this often in the west as railroads expanded. This was some of the heaviest work on a railroad. It was usually done by men who exceeded six feet and were well over two hundred pounds. To ask Heyes, who was a bit less than six feet and, after the stresses of the recent weeks, had been reduced to less than 150 pounds, to wield this hammer was stupidly impractical. He would have complained if he had dared. Obviously, efficient work was not the idea. Punishment was.
A regular spike driver who was not a prisoner came and demonstrated how Heyes should wield the heavy, yard-long hammer. The bare-chested man was powerfully built – well suited for this work. He bent over and set a spike into the hole in an iron plate, tapping it a bit with a short stroke or two of the hammer to set it firmly. Then his massive chest and arm muscles ripped and shone with sweat as he swung the hammer over his head in a graceful arc. He struck the spike so it rang like a bell. The powerful man had driven it halfway home in a single blow. One more blow and it was all the way in. Heyes watched in awe. This man was both about twice his size and so graceful at his heavy work that it was almost frightening. Heyes couldn't see how he himself could possibly do this heavy work all day, or even for an hour or two, with his lax grad-student muscles. He had no choice but to try.
"Try some shorter strokes first, or you'll miss it, man," said the professional spike driver. "You'll miss sometimes anyway – new guys all do. So just go easy at first."
"Do it right, Heyes!" said the guard hostilely. "Do it right. And do it fast. Not a bunch of little blows. We got to get this done so we can get you guys back inside. Don't forget. If you miss and hit your foot, you'll never walk again. If you hit a guard - you'll never breathe again. You got that?"
Heyes nodded. He got it.
"And don't hit the guy who holds the spikes!" added the guard. "Murder ain't a good thing."
The spike driver said, "He don't need a guy to hold spikes if you let him set 'em himself! He'll need the breather between full power strokes on the spikes anyhow."
But the guards weren't willing to change what they had been told to do. They brought over another prisoner to crouch at Heyes' feet and do the dangerous work of placing each railroad spike into the hole in the metal plate that bound each rail to each tie. This man would hold the spike so Heyes could start to drive it home. One slip by Heyes on that first blow and this man would be horribly injured or killed. Heyes looked down at the man who would be his partner in this work. The man looked up at him with clear, surprised blue eyes. It was the Kid.
The two stared at each other, lips parted in silent shock. Both knew that they could not dare to speak to each other, much as they longed to communicate.
This was no accident. If Heyes was being punished, it was as much by the threat to his partner as by the physical challenge he himself faced. The Kid stared up at him and gave a tiny nod and smile. He knew his partner could do it. He just wanted Heyes to know that he knew it so his own doubts would not stand in his way.
"Get to it, Heyes!" yelled the red-headed guard, brandishing his switch. Did the man know what was happening here? There was no way to ask and no time to even think about it.
Heyes lifted the heavy hammer. The Kid placed the spike. Heyes could feel his partner cringing as the hammer swung close by his head, but only with a short blow to set it into the wood. Even with the short starting strokes it was frightening. After all the times that Curry had teased Heyes about driving nails, this was a bitter way to test out whether he was right about his partner's coordination. The Kid pulled back a couple of feet, now that the spike was deep enough into the wood to balance. Heyes swung the hammer over his head and down. For a wonder, he struck the spike squarely on the first try. The spike rang, but not nearly as loudly as when the real spike driver had done it.
The free man laughed. "You can't be so timid, what's your name? Did he say Hayes? Put your back into it, Hayes!"
Heyes swung the hammer again, harder - as hard as he could over his head. This time the spike rang loudly and was driven farther in. The spike driver watched critically and nodded. "Better!" he said, and slapped Heyes companionably on the back.
Heyes half missed the spike with the next blow, but his feet were safe. He took another two blows to finish driving that first spike in. The spike driver nodded. "Not bad for a little guy starting out." Heyes gave him a flash of a brilliant smile. Then his face was impassive again as he prepared to go on with work.
The enormous free worker stopped and studied the convict before him. Something about the man struck him and he asked, "Say, is that Heyes with an A or two Es?"
The guards laughed, surprised that the man was literate. One said, scornfully, "Two Es."
The spike driver pointed to Heyes and asked the guards, in disbelief, "You mean that's Hannibal Heyes the bank robber? Gonna drive spikes with me on this line?"
"None of your business!" yelled the guard, but Heyes nodded shame-facedly. He didn't dare to point out who the spike holder was.
The spike driver whistled on seeing the nod. "Well, now I don't have to ask what you done wrong so's they got you doin' this. Good luck, Heyes!"
The Kid held the next spike, tensing in anticipation of the deadly hammer that would be swinging right past his head. Heyes took a cautious first short swing. He missed the spike at the same moment that the Kid pulled back in fear. "Get it right, you clumsy bastards!" shouted the guard.
They set it up again. Again, Heyes used a cautious short stroke. He hit the spike squarely and then the Kid could safely pull back. Heyes swung the massive hammer over his head and the spike rang. Three more blows and the spike was in. That was five total blows and it would turn out to be Heyes' average. The professional across the way took only two or three, but he was a good hundred pounds heavier than Heyes. The two men drove spikes across the ties from one another for a half hour. Heyes' muscles were already starting to complain. The guards just stood around and watched this hard labor.
The spike driver stopped and wiped his brow. He called over a boy who was carrying a jug of water with a metal dipper. The big man filled the dipper a few times and drank. She he motioned the boy to give Heyes some water. Heyes was grateful for it. He made sure that the Kid got water, too.
The spike driver shook his head and laughed. "Welcome to real work, Heyes!" The convict grinned at him. "Say, Heyes, don't you talk none?" asked the rail road man. Heyes shook his head.
A guard answered for him. "They ain't allowed to talk. Just contemplate their wrong doings. That's the rules."
The spike driver looked started. "Really? So I don't get to hear that famous silver tongue. That's hard time! Sorry Heyes." The outlaw shrugged. He would have to learn to cope.
Then they went back to driving spikes. They stopped after 45 minutes, and then after 30 minutes or so to rest Heyes' protesting muscles and get some water. As Heyes grew more tired, he had to be more and more careful with the hammer, not to hurt himself or the Kid. Every time they stopped, Heyes could hear the Kid exhale in relief. It was the hardest work Heyes had ever done, harder even than cattle herding or gold mining. And he was painstaking about getting it right and not hurting the Kid.
By noon, Heyes' arms and back were aching, the muscles trembling into spasms. It now usually took him six or seven strokes or even more to drive in a spike. He had rarely been so grateful in his life to sit down as he was at lunch that day. He was surprised that the Kid got to sit down next to him and no guards were close enough to overhear any whispered conversation between them.
Heyes shoveled the stew into his mouth greedily, still hungry from his day on bread and water. The Kid did the same, but between bites he whispered to Heyes. "You alright Heyes? They said you got solitary."
"Yeah. Not so bad," answered Heyes between slurps of stew. "How're you?"
"No problems. But watch out for that cell block warden on your side, Johnson! They say men die under him – not murder – more subtle than that."
"Oh?" said Heyes, trying to hide how appalled he was. But there was no more conversation. A guard came too close and struck Heyes across the cheek with his switch. The cut on Heyes' cheek began to bleed again. The guards forced the men to sit several yards apart after that.
But behind their backs, a guard nodded to a guard. They sent another guard riding back to the prison.
The professional spike driver came over with his own plate of stew to sit near Heyes, although the guards scowled at him for it. "You're a little guy for this, Heyes, but by God you can work! I've seen a lot of guys your size or bigger get started on drivin' spikes and not make it an hour. But you won't make it through the afternoon. You've got to work your way up to that. I'll talk to the guards. I'll get 'em to stop this. You've had enough."
Heyes nodded his head gratefully, but he wasn't assuming that any such reasonable argument would be heard. He had taken off his prison shirt to help him make it through this heavy work. The twitching, painful spasms in his chest muscles were easily visible beneath the skin that was slick with sweat. Heyes' pale skin was starting to burn in the May sunshine. He had dropped some of his stew on the ground when his hands twitched involuntarily, cramping from the heavy exertion.
"Come on guys, Heyes won't make it like this. You're gonna' hurt the guy bad!" the spike driver was pleading with Heyes' guards.
But the guards would hear none of it. The particularly vicious guard with red hair said, "He don't stop 'till the block warden says stop. And he ain't said stop yet. So Heyes keeps drivin' spikes until he drops. He ain't in prison to be coddled. He and that gang of his robbed 43 banks and trains! Takes a bit to make up for that."
"I guess," said the spike driver, "but if it ain't a death sentence, you got to sit him down soon."
"We do what his block warden, Mr. Johnson, says," said the guard. He sounded frightened himself.
So when they had spent a scant half hour resting and eating and drinking, Heyes and the spike driver were back to facing each other across the ties. Heyes hoisted the long hammer again and cried out as his cramping muscles protested. He nearly dropped the hammer on the Kid holding the spike. "Sorry!" gasped Heyes to his partner.
A guard came and struck Heyes across his bare back with a switch, "Shut up! No talking! And get back to work, slacker."
Heyes stood for a moment and gaped at the man. Slacker? That was unjust! But so was all of this prison life. Heyes hoisted the hammer again and grunted as it drove home. Then he hoisted it again. He didn't know how long he would make it, but he had no choice but to give it all he had. Every swing hurt. He was painting hard as the afternoon went on. Each full swing made him moan. The spike driver across the way slowed down to keep a concerned eye on Heyes, although his much faster work had him far down the line.
Heyes didn't think he could make it for one more stroke, but he did. And then another. And another. He was close to passing out. He didn't see how he could possibly manage not to hurt the Kid, or worse.
A guard came riding from the prison. He rode right up to Heyes. "Stop it! That's enough for this man! Orders of Mr. Johnson. I'll bring him in."
Heyes gratefully lowered the hammer and wiped his brow with a rag his fellow spike driver had given him. A guard unfastened Heyes' leg irons from the chain that had secured him in place. He stepped back from the rails and fell to his knees, with his back muscles jerking spasmodically. He didn't know if he could make it for the walk back to the prison. A guard came over and attached a handcuff to just his right hand. The professional spike driver had a water boy go over to Heyes, who spilled as much water as he drank as his arms trembled.
"Heyes!" shouted the man on the horse. "Can you get up with me? Ride double?"
Heyes struggled to his feet. He didn't nod that he could manage to get up behind the saddle – he wasn't sure that he could. He could hardly stand steadily. But he reached up a hand for the guard to help him up. The guard reached down and took his hand. It was hard for Heyes' trembling muscles to haul him up behind the saddle, but he made it. The guard handcuffed Heyes to his own belt. Another guard rode near the double mounted pair, his pistol trained on Heyes the whole way. Heyes and the Kid shared a quick look as Heyes was taken away. Neither man had a clue what was coming next, but they knew that they were in over their heads.
Heyes arrived back at the Penitentiary still panting and exhausted. It was hard to put the heavy wool shirt back on over his sweating torso, but he couldn't go back into the prison only half clad. Two guards came out the front door and took charge of the convict. They fastened his arms behind him with handcuffs and marched him up stairs to a door that he had not seen before.
One of the guards knocked and called with a voice that sounded a little shaky, "We got Heyes like Mr. Johnson asked. He want to see him now?"
"Bring him in!" answered a loud voice. The guards took Heyes inside the room, which was an ordinary office. Heyes fought pain and exhaustion to keep his feet. A burly, bearded man behind a desk looked at Heyes a bit angrily. "He's filthy, but he'll do." The man stood up and knocked on an inner door. "Mr. Johnson? You want to see Heyes now?"
A much softer voice than Heyes had expected called back with what the prisoner recognized as an educated eastern accent, "Yes, Westerman, bring him in. Just you. We don't need the guards. Not with Mr. Heyes. Not now."
The two guards rushed out the door. If Mr. Johnson didn't want them, they were glad to go and be farther from him. The man from the office, Westerman, took hold of Heyes' handcuffs and pushed him through the inner door. Inside, Heyes saw a neatly appointed room that included a built-in book shelf half filled with expensive leather bound volumes. Behind a polished desk sat a slender blonde man in an elegantly tailored pale grey suit. Mr. Johnson gestured for Heyes to come closer, then held up a hand to stop him a yard away. Mr. Johnson's blue eyes looked calmly at the miserable and resentful prisoner before him, trembling with exhaustion. He looked Heyes up and down as he might inspect a prize Thoroughbred horse he was considering purchasing. He looked displeased with what he saw.
Johnson looked to Heyes to be quite young for a Warden who had established so much power. He looked probably not much more than 30. He was certainly much younger than Heyes himself. The slender, elegant Mr. Johnson caressed his own immaculately shaved cheek with one finger as he said in a refined tenor voice, "Well, well, well, Mr. Heyes. You do not look very comfortable. I understand that it has been a trying day for you. Would you like to take a bath and change clothes?"
Heyes was taken off balance by this civilized offer. Johnson was not the brute he had expected. Rather, this was a perceptive man from whom honest emotions and thoughts needed to be hidden, or he would take advantage of them. So Heyes stayed impassive and merely nodded. He was in no mood to be struck again for speaking out of turn.
"Mr. Heyes, you have permission to speak, here," said Johnson in cultivated tones. "However, I would advise you to choose your words carefully. I will listen to every syllable that you say. So allow me to repeat my offer. How would you like to take a nice bath and get into some more civilized clothes?"
Heyes kept his voice and choice of words just as cultivated as Johnson did. He now saw this little confrontation as one con man to another. But one of them held all the power while the other had only his wits. "I would like that very much, sir. Thank you. Would I sound ungrateful were I to ask to what I owe this consideration?" Heyes was not about to be outdone in surface politeness. His opponent was had terrific ambition and deadly force behind him. It could be a very bad combination.
Johnson smiled. "I want something from you, of course, Mr. Heyes. You can be considering what that might be while you bathe. The wardens' bathroom is through the door to the left. Please don't leave those filthy prison clothes on the floor. I will see you again shortly."
Heyes glanced over his shoulder and gently rattled his handcuffs. Johnson laughed softly and said in a mockingly gentle voice, "Oh, how thoughtless of me, Mr. Heyes. Mr. Westerman, would you please remove Mr. Heyes' handcuffs? I'm sure we can trust him while he is here with me, despite his . . . um . . . reputation. And, Mr. Heyes," Johnson lifted his pale eyebrows and looked at Heyes with gentle warning, "I would advise you not to attempt to climb out the window. It has iron bars over it, and besides, it leads into the prison yard."
Heyes had known that about the window, as Johnson must have known that he did. The words had been said only in order to show who was in charge and had the most knowledge of the situation.
Once into the bathroom, Heyes took Johnson at his word, and carefully hung his clothing on a high brass hook on the wall. He took his heavy, sweat-soaked wool garments off with distaste. He enjoyed a soaking bath with a refined lavender soap that couldn't have been more different from the cheap brown soft lye soap he had washed with when he arrived at the Penitentiary. The hot water was a real comfort on his aching muscles that only gradually stopped cramping and trembling. When Heyes was done washing his body and hair, he dried off with a soft, fluffy white cotton towel that felt wonderful on his sore body.
Heyes shaved with a beautifully sharp razor. Looking in a mirror for the first time in days, he was distressed to see how bad the cut on his face looked. It had been opened and reopened so many times - there was no avoiding it – he would be scared for life. It didn't matter here, but if he ever got back out into the world, it would bother Beth. If she still cared about Heyes or even remembered him by then. Looking at his naked scarred body, Heyes wondered when he would be with a woman again. Probably never.
Now that he was clean, dry, and shaved, Heyes found a freshly cleaned dark grey suit and a freshly washed and ironed white shirt waiting for him on a chair with a clean set of cotton underwear, socks, and a nice pair of polished leather shoes. He was sure that everything would fit – the clothes were his own. It was a sensual delight to be clean and dressed in clean clothing, although his muscles were still aching all over.
But now Heyes needed to go and talk with Mr. Johnson. He wasn't looking forward to it. He knew that the man was going to try to talk him into something, that it would something bad, and that Johnson held all the cards. Heyes was tired and aching, but he tried to be as alert as he could. Heyes gathered himself and tried to look self-possessed, but he was scared as he walked into the office next door. He knew that whatever happened could be life or death not only for him, but for Jed Curry as well. This was like being tried for his life all over again, except this time the authority trying him had, apparently, no regard for the law. The punishments he meted out included death – that was certainly not legal. What else might go on here beyond the strictures of the law, past what Heyes already knew about?
Heyes walked into Mr. Johnson's office. The slender blonde warden gestured for the dark convict sit in a leather upholstered chair across the desk for him. To Heyes this padded seat felt so comfortable that it seemed wrong to him that he could feel this way while so many miserable men were all around him. A bottle of wine and two delicate glasses sat on Johnson's polished desk. "Wine, Mr. Heyes?" Johnson offered. Heyes hesitated. "It's good wine. It isn't drugged – I'll join you."
Heyes smiled and nodded. He took it, hoping it wasn't the first step on the way to a new Hell. But he really needed that wine, right now. He knew this moment wouldn't last. He would be back in the cells and with the prisoners in no time. And what might happen to him then would be determined by what he said now. He seriously doubted that anything he was going to say would make his life outside of this room any better. And his words might make it much, much worse.
Johnson looked at Heyes with interest. Then he spoke smoothly in words that Heyes guessed he must have practiced a few times, "You must be wondering, Mr. Heyes, what it is that a prisoner could possibly offer a warden. I have researched you. I was surprised to discover that we have, in you, not the usual brutal, ignorant criminal that we are accustomed to here. We have an educated, sophisticated man. A scholar. A master's degree from New York University- lacking only the diploma. With undoubtedly high honors. An aspiring college professor. In addition to your other undoubted talents for shall we say, less honest endeavors. The word that invariably comes up, I don't need to tell you, is brilliant." Johnson paused. "Well, Mr. Heyes, would you call that an accurate estimate of your gifts?"
Heyes smiled slowly. "Yes."
Behind his smiling mask, Heyes was thinking, with some relief, that Johnson was not much of a researcher. He must have gotten his facts from a bad newspaper rather than the transcript of the trial. He had Heyes' school wrong and presumably other facts as well.
Johnson nodded. "But you hardly get to use your better gifts, here. Nor will you, ever, for the rest of your life."
"No." It was a hoarse gasp of pain. Heyes could act his way through nearly any other conceivable thing that Johnson could say. But his pain in leaving behind all that he and Beth had worked so hard for – that he could not hide.
"That is, unless you decide to listen to what I have to tell you today, Mr. Heyes." Johnson expected to have Heyes' attention. And he did.
But Heyes was back in control of himself, though hardly because he held out any hope that this conversation would bring anything but pain and betrayal. He spoke lightly, hiding his deep distrust and fear, "So, what is that, Mr. Johnson? What do you have to say to me?"
Johnson smiled briefly. Then he wiped all emotion from his face. "Before I tell you that, Mr. Heyes, allow me to point out a few things. I can be a very good man to please, and a very bad man to displease. You have already found out some of the things that I can do, although you may not have appreciated the fact that I was behind them. Nothing you have experienced has been by chance. Everything you have experienced here has been my doing, Mr. Heyes. Everything. From the deaf man with whom you share your cell, who therefore induced you to speak out of turn and be punished; to the long conversation you were able to have with Mr. Mosley and the punishment that followed it for you both; to your hours driving railroad spikes with your partner's head inches from the path of the hammer – all of it was my doing. All of that and much more was put into place to prepare you for this meeting."
Heyes stared at him, playing up how shocked and impressed he was. He really wasn't that surprised, but he was impressed. The warden had, indeed, manipulated the famous outlaw masterfully. Seeing the intelligence behind it, Heyes considered himself to have a worthy opponent. And one he could not allow to win.
Heyes said, with an appraising gaze, "Hmn. The bugs in solitary – those were yours?"
"Yes, of course, Mr. Heyes," Johnson was smiling again. "This is a very clean prison, unless that does not suit my purposes."
"Ah," said Heyes with a wicked smile, "a man after my own heart. A detail man! It's the details that make a con come across."
"So you think of me as a fellow confidence artist? That may have some truth to it," said Johnson with a thoughtful nod. "But," Johnson continued, "you must not think of me as being your equal in any other way. My power is far beyond anything that you will ever have again. As you are now discovering, I can not only cause bad things to happen to you if I am displeased. Should you please me, I can also bring you comfort and perhaps even satisfaction. I cannot have you released from this institution, but I can do nearly anything for you while you are here. I can make you miserable, or I can make you comfortable. I can keep your partner safe, or have him killed. I can put the two of you together or insure that you never see him again. I can get you good food or swill. I can put you in the dark forever, or get you access to the finest books on earth."
Johnson stopped and studied Heyes' face. Heyes grinned wickedly at the man, beginning to craft a character for him to believe in. He took the chance of making that character strong, rather than cringing with deference. "I notice the new complete Shakespeare on your shelf, Mr. Johnson. I saw it in the Astor Library in New York. I chose to read other editions – the type in that one is too small to be practical. You should be willing to pay more and to give more space to books if you want to be taken for an educated man."
Johnson's eyes flashed. The jab had struck home. So had Heyes' bold move been foolish, or had it worked? Johnson gave a brief, soft laugh, "That, Mr. Heyes, is just the kind of knowledge that could make you so very useful to me. I value a man who will speak honestly with me – up to a point. The main word that I want to hear from you, now, is yes."
Heyes looked hard at the warden. Now they would get to the point of this whole elaborate little play, "Yes to what, Mr. Johnson?"
"Yes to working for me. Would you consider that?" Johnson looked hard at Heyes to gauge his reaction. Heyes thought he could see the faintest bit of sweat break out on the young Warden's upper lip. The answer to this mattered to him. It mattered a lot. And that gave Heyes power where he had been certain that he would have none.
Heyes nodded and spoke with oily restraint, still playing his bold, and evil, character. "I would consider it. But I need to know more. Much more. What kind of work?"
"Any and all kinds," said Johnson with purposeful mystery. "I would reserve the right to ask anything whatsoever of you."
"In a prison? You have a whole corps of guards and, I gather, some prisoners, working for you. You have things the way you want them already. I'm not a practiced murderer. What do you need with me?" Heyes was honestly curious.
"You have knowledge, skills, and intelligence that can be very useful to my . . . larger plans," said Johnson.
"Plans? What kind of plans?" asked Heyes cautiously.
Johnson gloried in his power over his famous prisoner, "Do you really expect me to reveal that to you – a mere prisoner who has promised me nothing? Let it suffice that my . . . activities . . . do not stop at the walls of this little institution. Nor need your opportunities, if you are obedient and loyal. So, Heyes, yes or no?"
Heyes stayed externally cautious, as inwardly he recoiled, "I would like some time to think about that, Mr. Johnson, and additional information would be very helpful."
Johnson began to lose hold of his suave persona and to grow a little angry, "Do you really think, Hannibal Heyes, that you can play me? That you can make a comfortable time for yourself . . . and for your heinous, murdering partner . . . while you give me nothing in return as you pretend to consider? I have told you what I can do to you and to him – or for you both if you decide to work with me. Yes or no!?"
Heyes was now forced to be honest. "Then, Mr. Johnson, the answer is no."
Johnson's eyes showed his anger, but he quickly got himself at least mostly back under control. "Do you really think that you can hold out against all the many forms of persuasion that I have at my command, Heyes? You should reconsider. Indeed, you must reconsider."
"No," said Heyes in a restrained voice.
"Well, then, we will see what we will see." said Johnson mildly, looking Heyes in the eyes.
The young warden shouted to the man in the next office, "Westerman! Bring guards! Heyes has threatened me! Have them put him back into his uniform. Then take him to his cell and hang him by his thumbs. And let the prisoners parade by him and do as they please when they come into dinner. Leave him until I tell you to let him down." Now his voice fell to a vile, crisply articulated whisper, "If, Heyes, I ever do happen to remember to have them take you down. I have many other things on my mind. Many, many other things."