"Mick and them catch Heyes?" asked Skeet, from his seat by the window.
They were in a hotel room dominated by two lumpy beds with ornate brass headboards. Blake Mason lounged on one, propped up against several pillows, legs stretched out, hands folded behind his head. Rico sat on a chair in the corner, sharpening a wicked-looking knife.
"There's been…uh, complications," snarled Mason. "But you haven't told me why you two are back yet."
"We toldja, Blake. He wanted to surprise ya."
"Who?"
"You'll see in a minute."
As if on cue, there was a sharp rap on the door. Blake pulled his gun warily as Skeet bounded to the door and flung it open. "Surprise!" he chortled.
There in the doorway, a bottle of whiskey clutched in each hand, stood a tall man with dark hair and even darker eyes wreathed in fine lines. From his low-slung holster protruded a pearl-handled Colt.
"As I live and breathe. Frank Reed, you old son of a bitch! I heard you was dead!" Mason greeted him, bounding up from the bed.
"Blake Mason, I heard the same thing about you."
The old friends embraced in a bear hug. When they released their grip on one another, Reed presented Mason with one of the liquor bottles. Skeet was practically dancing with glee. The taciturn Rico looked up from his task and smiled, revealing one gleaming gold tooth.
"Quit actin' a fool and shut the door, Skeet," commanded Mason. As Skeet complied, Mason turned to the newest arrival, "What the hell are you doin' here and how did Skeet and Rico know you were comin'?"
Mason settled back on his bed and Reed flopped down on the other. They clinked bottles and each took a healthy swig.
"I met your boys on the road into town this mornin'," Reed said. "They told me they'd been waitin' all night for a fella name of Sheckerson. Notcher run-of-the-mill ordinary, everyday name, so's I figgered it must be the same Sheckerson what I happened to know is feelin' a mite poorly, laid up at the Stillwater Way Station with a sore head. So they told me how he got such a sore head. Where is Walt, anyways?" he asked, looking around.
"Never mind him for now. How do ya know Sheckerson?' asked Mason, taking another pull from his bottle.
"I don't. But I met up with another fella on the road earlier today. A real chatty fella, turns out. He was comin' from Bridgerton, where I had a most unpleasant experience recently. So you might say I was real interested."
"Keep talkin'."
"Bout a week ago, I was in a nice friendly poker game. And I was winnin', too. Thanks to my special lady," he added, with an ugly laugh.
"Oh, you're still pulling that old trick? Frank, ya gotta find a new scam before ya get yer head blowed clean off," scolded Blake. "Somebody caught ya, right?"
"Yeah, this little pipsqueak – real slick poker player, and a regular little smartass, too. I coulda handled him, but his partner turned out to be a stone cold shootist. Fastest draw I ever seen in my life."
"Ya mean he beat you?" asked Skeet from his place back at the window, dumbfounded. Rico and Blake also looked surprised at this news.
"Yeah, he beat me," admitted Reed angrily. "Little baby-faced panty-waste! Then the sheriff and his deputy rousted me outta town. I was plumb ticked off."
"That's understandable. What didja do?" asked his friend.
"I left," he shrugged. "I went up to that old trapper's cabin – you know, the one we wintered in three years ago. Went on a bender."
Blake nodded at his old friend sympathetically and took a hit from his bottle.
"But I run out of supplies. So I decided to move on, thinkin' maybe I'd go to Denver next. But comin' along the road I met up with a guy who'd been in Bridgerton for the big poker game. The game I'd been hopin' ta get in on. Man, that guy could talk yer ears off. But I learned a thing or two."
"Go on."
"Including that you and your boys robbed the Bridgerton stagecoach with the town's most important muckety-muck on board AND their new lady schoolteacher, AND that a**hole that outdrew me. He also happened to mention that one of the outlaws beaned the driver, Shecky or Shucky Something, what was it again?"
"Sheckerson."
"Whatever. Beaned him so good he was laid up at Stillwater and a different fella was drivin' stage for him."
"That's ma boy," bragged Mason smugly.
"And that's how me and Rico knew we didn't have to wait around for him no more," added Skeet.
"Yeah, well, what about the telegram, genius?" demanded Mason. "Somebody from that stage is gonna come when they read that!"
"Naw," answered Reed. "Fella I met said the whole damn town was closed down yesterday on accounta the big celebration to welcome the new teacher. Said it was a real fine shindig - free food, free booze, dancin' and everything. Entire population of Bridgerton was there. And like I said, every business shuttered up. So that means nobody was in that telegraph office to get that message!"
After much jubilant laughter all around, Reed continued, "And guess what else he said? That teacher told everyone the outlaws what robbed the stage claimed they was "Blake Mason and his Wild Mountain Boys." You're still usin' that stupid name?"
Blake shrugged. "Skeet likes it," he explained, almost apologetically. "Wait a minute. Back up. What was the name of the gunnie? The one that outdrew ya?"
"Jones. Thaddeus Jones. The same guy you supposedly... kidnapped…?" he let the question hang in the air, looking around the room as if Thaddeus Jones might be seated in a previously overlooked corner.
Blake was jubilant. "That proves he's Kid Curry!" he exclaimed.
"Kid Curry? That guy didn't say nothin' about Kid Curry," retorted Reed.
"Yeah, Jude recognized him. He spent some time in Devil's Hole a few years back," put in Skeet.
"Well, now I don't feel so bad. Gettin' outdrawn by Kid Curry ain't nothin' to be ashamed of," Reed said thoughtfully.
"Damn straight," agreed Mason. "Funny, he weren't wearin' his gun when we met up with him. Instead he pretended to be the schoolteacher's farm boy kid brother. He was pretty convincing, too. We let 'im go, then thought better of it and went back and fetched him here."
A knock sounded on the door. This time Rico answered it, brandishing his knife. When he opened it, there was Walt, carrying an armload of supplies and looking a bit rough around the edges.
The blonde outlaw burst into the room carrying several cloth bags and slammed the door shut behind him. "Reed! Where'd you come from?" he asked, as soon as he saw the big man on the bed.
"Bridgerton, sorta," answered Reed, sniggering. He was starting to slur his words, having worked his way through the better part of his bottle.
"Skeet, Rico. Ya stop Sheckerson?" asked Walt.
"Didn't have to," replied Skeet. Reed told us he ain't comin' on account of how you bashed him so good on the head. Where's Jude and Mick?"
Walt looked questioningly at his leader. Blake scowled and answered for him, "Walt got back in the middle of the night. I sent 'im out to get us some grub. The others are still in Lead Gulch. Heyes's got 'em. He wants ta trade."
"You mean Joshua Smith," Walt said, with an air of someone who had been futilely arguing this point. He set his bags down on the bureau and turned to Skeet and Rico to explain, "He said he ain't Hannibal Heyes. And his partner ain't Kid Curry. And he'll let Mick and Jude go when Jones rides into Lead Gulch – alone. He was very clear about the alone part."
"Wait a minute," interrupted Reed. "Smith? As in Joshua Smith?"
"What, you know him?" asked Walt.
"He was the little pipsqueak hangin' out with the fella you say is Kid Curry – the one who caught me cheatin'."
"See. That proves he's Hannibal Heyes," Mason said. "They're Curry and Heyes, plain as the nose on your face!"
"I ain't so sure," mused Reed thoughtfully. "This guy did not seem to me like he could be the leader of the Devil's Hole Gang. I mean, he was skinny. And, I don't know... clean. And polite. Talked a little fancy, too, like a banker or somethin'. And he was playin' cards and rubbin' elbows with all the fine, upstandin' citizens of Bridgerton. AND, I heard from my chatterbox friend that he won the big poker game last Saturday night. Walked away with twelve THOUSAND dollars!"
"Hannibal Heyes is known to be an unbeatable poker player," argued Mason.
"But wait'll you hear this! My travelin' companion said Smith turned around and donated a thousand bucks to the school! Now, I ask you, would Hannibal Heyes do something like that?"
Walt spoke up, "Well, all's I know is he caught all three of us before we even knew what was goin' on. And if we want to get Mick and Jude back, we need to give him Jones."
"Ya mean Curry," spat Mason.
"I don't know, this guy Smith was pretty convincing," Walt ventured.
Mason scoffed. "Hannibal Heyes is also known to have a silver tongue. Ya wouldn't be the first to fall for his line of B.S." He paused, thinking, then said, "The only way the sheriff'd let 'im go is if we tell 'im we made a mistake. And then, adios, ten grand…"
Skeet, Walt, and Rico all bristled.
"You mean we will not save our compadres?" demanded Rico angrily, breaking his silence.
"I ain't sayin' that," snapped Blake. "There's gotta be a way to get our boys back AND the ten grand."
"What about the reward for Heyes? If he is Heyes," asked Reed.
"Jude can identify Heyes," offered Skeet. "He says he met 'em both when he was in the Hole."
"Heyes has GOT Jude," scoffed Mason. He was silent for some few moments, thinking. Finally he said, "Naw, we can't be 100% sure it's him. We don't even know for sure Jones is Curry. And Sheriff says we don't get the reward 'til someone from Wyoming comes to verify his identity. And that could take a week or more. Meanwhile, more telegrams'll get sent. Eventually, somebody from that stage is gonna find out we're here and wanna get some justice."
"But Skeet said this kid Jude was in Devil's Hole," said Reed.
"Yeah, for about a minute. Five years ago. When he wasn't even shavin' yet."
"Ya know, it's common knowledge Heyes ain't never killed nobody. He's just bluffin' about yer boys," Reed speculated.
"If he IS Heyes. How do we know Joshua Smith ain't never killed nobody? Hell, even Heyes might kill if something happens to his partner…" said Walt. "He did seem to be very concerned about his partner."
There was another long pause. Mason drained the last of his bottle. Then he sat up straight in the bed and asked, "How much did you say Joshua Smith won in that poker game, Frank?"
"Twelve grand," replied Reed. "But he gave away some of it. Probably spent some too."
A cunning grin spread slowly across Blake Mason's handsome face. "I figured out what we're gonna do. Walt, better get a good night's sleep tonight. You're goin' back to Lead Gulch tomorrow mornin' to present Hannibal Heyes or Joshua Smith or whoever the hell he is with our counter-offer."
