It was late afternoon when Hannibal Heyes rode into the deserted main street of Lead Gulch, a once-thriving boom town that died a swift and unequivocal death after the lead mine it relied upon was tapped out. He looked around at the empty buildings, paint now faded and peeling, weeds growing up through the cracks in the boardwalk, a loose shutter on rusty hinges somewhere banging rhythmically in the wind. It always fascinated him how quickly Nature could reclaim her territory when Man stopped fighting back. He entered the abandoned hotel and climbed the stairs. Once on the top floor, he poked his head into each room. Not surprisingly, most of them were empty, but there were a few miscellaneous pieces of furniture and various forgotten items, all buried by a thick coating of dust. He gathered up what he needed, then made his way about town, collecting random pieces of rope, wooden boards, etc. - the flotsam and jetsam left behind by the people that once called Lead Gulch home. Entering the mercantile, he was gratified to see the mostly bare shelves still held a modest supply of canned goods, albeit covered with a layer of wind-blown dust. Once he'd assembled his materials, Heyes got to work. After about an hour of industrious labor, he returned to the hotel and this time ascended all the way up to the flat roof, accessing it through a trapdoor at the top of a set of stairs behind the last door in the long corridor of the highest floor of the saloon.
Heyes dragged a couple of crates near the building's false front, an architectural ploy the builders of the saloon had used to make it appear taller and more majestic than it actually was. It was highest in the center, then stepped symmetrically on each side, the lower portions reaching Heyes's waist when he stood. He used one crate as a seat and the other for a table, from which he calmly ate the rest of the provisions he'd brought along from Bridgerton, frequently glancing over the building's facade. From this height he couldn't miss anyone entering the town from any direction.
About sunset, a puff of dust on the horizon caught Heyes' attention. He picked up his field glasses and peered through them. Riders. Three of them riding abreast, approaching from the north, on the road from Granite Hill. As they drew closer and he could see them more clearly, he made up names in his head to keep track of them. Blondie sat tall in the saddle. He was clean-shaven and youthful-looking. His hat hung down his back by the stampede strings so that the rays of the setting sun glinted off his shoulder length, wavy blonde hair – hence the name. "Moose" was even taller than Blondie and twice as wide. He was a mountain of a man, almost as big as William Jackson, Heyes's blacksmith poker buddy from Bridgerton, but about six times as ornery-looking.
"Damnit," said Heyes aloud when he trained his glass on the third rider. He didn't need a nickname for this one. Damn if it wasn't Hank's nephew Jude! He must've been the one to recognize the Kid. And no doubt he'd remember Heyes, too, once he got a good look at him.
"Just have to make sure he doesn't," Heyes said to himself. As he observed the trio, they reined in their horses and conferred. Moose, the eldest and apparently the senior member of the group, seemed to be directing the two younger men, pointing as he spoke. From Heyes's vantage point, it was easy to see what the big man was planning. He would ride in on the main thoroughfare while Blondie would circle around and come in from the west. Jude would enter the town from the east. The south side of Lead Gulch backed up to the rocky bluffs where the mine was located – to which the cunning former outlaw leader had already laid a very blatant false trail. He'd left his horse tied up there, too, just outside the boarded-up entrance to the abandoned lead mine. Well, it had been boarded up. Heyes had removed enough boards that a full-grown man could step inside. Of course, Moose would have to duck...
Moose sat his horse in the middle of the road waiting as the other two men rode off in opposite directions. Looked like he was going to give the other two a head start. Heyes, familiar with all three routes and their entry points, knew that the man taking the western approach would arrive soonest.
"Okay, Blondie, you'll be my first dance," he said, pocketing the field glasses. He crept down the steps and ghosted through the streets to take his place behind a long-empty horse trough and took hold of the edge of a piece of string stretching across the road. Just when the outlaw's horse was even with the trough, Heyes yanked on the string. A cluster of empty cans and glass bottles tied to the other end juddered violently across the road like a living machine, causing a deafening clatter that seemed all the louder for occurring in the midst of such desolate silence. Shafts of sunlight reflected off the glass and several strips of spangled fabric – the remainder of a long-gone saloon girl's costume that Heyes had tied here and there onto the noisy contraption. Blondie's horse, in a panic, reared on both hind legs, sending his rider crashing to the ground, then bolted down the deserted street, desperate to get away from the terrifying thing.
"Howdy," said Hannibal Heyes pleasantly, as he stepped out from behind the trough with his Schofield in hand to stand towering over the man sprawled in the dust beneath him.
"Go ahead and sit up, nice and easy-like. I'm gonna have to ask you to hand over your gun – nice and steady. That's right. Okay, now I need you to remove your bandana and tie it around your mouth. Nice and tight. Say, you've done this before, haven't you? Good man. And if you could please just turn around and place your hands behind your back. Now hold real still, because I have to hold my gun in my left hand while I tie you up. Never could learn how to tie properly with my left hand. But I can do it real good and tight with the right. It's just that I'm not so steady with the left, so if you make any sudden moves, I might accidentally pull the trigger."
As he said all this, he was swiftly tying the still-stunned Walt's wrists together with both hands, having silently holstered his pistol. "Now if you don't mind waiting here, I have a date with your friend." Heyes grinned devilishly, tipped his hat, and disappeared from sight.
Heyes reached the livery stable on the east side of town in only a few minutes. He swiftly climbed the rickety ladder to the loft where he'd rigged his next booby trap. He had tied the heavy wooden piano stool from the saloon to the pulley rope that was once used to hoist hay bales up into the second story loft. He untied the other end and held tightly against the weight as he watched for Jude approaching the outskirts of town. The kid had his gun drawn and his head was swiveling around from side to side. He looked nervous. As well you should be, thought Heyes. And to think I tried to save you from a life of crime, he tsked to himself. Ah well, Karma is a bitch, innit?
He waited until the exact right moment, then let go of the rope. Jude never knew what hit him, but his horse was none too pleased when the small piece of furniture dropped from the sky. The rider hit the dirt as the horse rocketed away. Jude seemed to be out cold, but Heyes wasn't taking any chances. He skinned down the ladder, straddling it so his feet slid down the outside rails, not bothering to use the rungs, and crept stealthily to the prone figure. Kicking the gun away from the boy's outstretched hand, Heyes said, "Don't bother to get up," and knelt down with his knee on Jude's back. The only response was a groan. Heyes quickly pulled the boys' hands behind his back and tied them tightly. He used Jude's bandana for a gag and his own as a blindfold, just to be on the safe side. Then he dragged the trussed-up figure by the ankles into the livery stable. Once inside, he pulled him into an empty stall and tied his ankles together as well.
Heyes heard hoofbeats approaching. It was 'Moose,' entering Lead Gulch via the main road. Heyes cut through the alley and went into the back door of the saloon. He crossed the floor and peered through a crack in the closed shutter as the big outlaw rode by. Perfect! Moose was following Heyes' tracks straight through the town and toward the old mine.
The last sliver of sun was just disappearing as Heyes reached his destination. There were now two horses tied up at the entrance to the boarded-up shaft, his own chestnut and the large bay ridden by the outlaw he'd been calling Moose. Moose himself had entered the man-sized opening in the boards.
"Come on, Heyes, I know you're in here," called the big man from somewhere inside the mineshaft.
I wouldn't be so sure about that, thought Heyes to himself, smirking.
"There's no way out," shouted Moose, his voice much fainter, indicating he had traveled a fair distance down the shaft, no doubt following the light of the lantern Heyes had left burning deep inside, next to a neatly folded horse blanket, three filled canteens, a neat stack of canned goods, and a rusty can-opener
"Ya got that right," Heyes chuckled to himself. He picked up a board from the stack of old wood next to the partially open mineshaft and the hammer and nails he'd brought along with him from Bridgerton and got to work.
"Hey! Who's out there? Walt, is that you? Jude?"
"Guess again," called Heyes merrily, continuing to hammer more and more nails into the boards that occluded the entrance to the mineshaft.
"Hannibal Heyes!" cried the big man, now quite close to the opening, which had swiftly shrunk to a diameter much too small to enable his passage.
"Wrong again," said Heyes. "Name's Joshua Smith. What's yours?"
"I'll shoot through this barricade!" hollered the enraged man from the other side of the boards.
"Not a smart idea," advised Heyes affably. "Could ricochet and shoot yourself."
"I'll tear it down with my bare hands and then I'll tear your head off of your scrawny little neck!" threatened the man, howling with rage.
"Well, you will be able to get out of there eventually, I expect," he of the scrawny little neck replied, unruffled. "But if you just wait calmly, I'll be happy to let you out - as soon as I get my partner back. I've left some food and water for you in there. Enough for a coupla days."
"My partners will get me out," insisted the captive outlaw stubbornly.
"I don't advise you to hold your breath waitin' for that to happen," called Heyes, before turning and strolling back into town, whistling a jaunty tune.
He went straight to where he'd left Walt. His loyal horse had recovered from his panic and returned to his master's side. He was loitering next to the hapless young man, who remained lying in the road, tied up quite securely.
"How ya doin', Walt? Seems we weren't properly introduced before. My name is Joshua Smith. I've got a little proposition for you. I'm going to remove your gag. You can go ahead and holler if you want, but your friends won't be able to help you. I've already got Jude and – what's the big fellow's name?" he asked politely as he untied the bandana.
"Mick," replied the blonde outlaw.
"Ahh, I thought he looked a bit Irish," commented Heyes. "So, anyway. Mick and Jude can't help you. But you can help them. You see, I'm going to let you go. But not them."
"You wanna trade."
"Very astute. So you're the brains of this outfit. Shoulda put you in charge instead of Mick, huh?" Heyes flattered him. "Good, you already know what I want: My partner. You ride back to Granite Bluff and tell your boss I want you to send Jones back here – unharmed. He rides into town, ALONE, and I release your pals. It's that simple. Whaddaya say?"
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Sheriff Braxton reached through the bars and gently touched the sleeping prisoner on the shoulder. The man accused of being Kid Curry sat up with a jolt.
"Ya get an answer?" he asked.
"Sorry son. Not yet. But there's someone here wants to see ya."
Braxton stepped aside to reveal the man standing behind him. It was the elderly Mr. Trent with whom he had shared the stage from Red Hill. Trent smiled at the young man, who ran his fingers through his messy curls and rose from his cot.
"Mr. Trent."
"Mr. Jones. How are you holding up?"
"Oh, I'm just fine sir. Thank you for coming."
"My wife sent you something," he said, offering the prisoner a basket of cookies, still warm from the oven. "And Timmy made you this." He held out a piece of paper with a crayon drawing of a man with yellow curly hair and a big toothy grin riding on top of what must have been meant to be a stagecoach.
"Thank you, sir," Curry said, reaching through the bars and taking the basket and picture. "Please give Mrs. Trent and little Timmy my gratitude."
"Now son, I may be an old codger, but in my younger days I was a lawyer, and that might count for something. I just gave my statement to Sheriff Braxton out there. I told him what a fine young man you are. How you risked your neck to stop that runaway team. And the way you looked after Miss Grady and kept that rascal Nielson away from her. Yes, I noticed that. And how polite and mannerly you are. I've met my share of outlaws in my practice, and I cannot believe for a minute that you could be Kid Curry."
"Thank you, sir."
"Mrs. Batenhorst and her son made statements as well – they wrote them down and I delivered them. Mrs. B. didn't feel it "appropriate" for them to come in here. Wouldn't be ladylike," he added, chuckling. "Which reminds me, how did our lovely little schoolteacher make out? Did you deliver Miss Grady safely to her new post?"
Kid looked abashed. "I'm sorry to say I did not, sir. I was taken prisoner before I could finish the job. But I'm confident that I left her in good hands."
"You did everything you could have, my boy. Now you just have to have faith."
"Huh," Kid chuckled. "You sound like my partner."
"Then he must be a very wise man," replied the old gentleman.
"Oh, he is," answered Curry. "At least that's what he's always telling me."
