Kid Curry sat on his cot finishing up his breakfast when the sheriff stepped from his office into the jail area with a big smile on his face.

"Good news, Jones," Braxton said smiling.

"Shecky answered my telegram?" Curry asked hopefully, sitting up straight.

"Better'n that. Your accusers were just here. Appears they made a mistake. Seems they don't believe you're Kid Curry after all."

"Is that a fact?" asked Kid happily, a big grin on his face. Thank you, Heyes, you've done it again, he thought.

"So you're free to go."

Braxton took the ring of keys from his belt, searched for the correct one, and inserted it into the lock on Kid's cell.

"Thank you, sir!" said Curry politely, rising to his feet. He wanted nothing more that to dash out of the cell and keep running, but played it cool instead.

Sheriff Braxton held the cell door open for his prisoner. Curry grabbed his hat and stepped out, a free man. He and the sheriff walked back to the office area in the front of the building.

"They said ta give ya this." Braxton picked up a familiar gunbelt from his desk and handed it to the Kid.

It was like seeing an old friend. Curry unrolled his beloved rig and immediately buckled it around his hips, then leaned over to tie the leather thong around his thigh. Ahh, finally he was no longer nekked! he thought to himself with satisfaction. Straightening up, he pulled his Colt – deliberately slowly – from the holster and examined at it, cracked it open, then inspected the chamber. His frowning face clearly showed his disapproval.

"What's wrong?" asked Braxton, seeing his reaction. "Not your gun?"

"Naw, it's mine alright, but someone's been usin' it," Curry answered in disgust. "And they ain't cleaned it, either."

The lawman chuckled. "Be careful, son. You showin' that much love to your gun might make a fella suspect you was Kid Curry after all."

Curry looked up from his weapon sharply, but Braxton had turned away to retrieve several more items from his desk. "Got a couple more things for ya. Here's yer saddlebags and here's a poke with food sent over by Mrs. Batenhorst and another one sent by Mrs. Trent. Seems both those ladies have a soft spot for ya."

"Mrs. Batenhorst cooks?" Kid asked incredulously as he slung the saddlebags over one shoulder and took both sacks thankfully.

Braxton laughed. "Oh no, she had her cook fix it up for ya, but I'm sure she told her exactly what to do. Them fellas what brought you in said yer horse is tied up right out in front. They said yer partner was waitin' for ya in Lead Gulch," he added.

Kid grinned. Leave it to Heyes. He could guess what his partner had done – brokered a trade: himself for one or more of the gang members he would be holding in Lead Gulch.

"Thanks for everything, Sheriff," Curry said, reaching out to shake Braxton's hand.

"I just have one question," the sheriff said as they released their grip.

"Yes sir."

"I happen to know Harold Brock was on that stage when it got robbed, too. Why didn't ya telegraph him, 'specially when old Shecky didn't answer?"

"Well, sir…I got the impression Bridger didn't exactly take a shine to me," Curry prevaricated.

Sheriff Braxton looked at the young man without speaking for a long moment as if he were thinking about something. Then he grinned and said, "Well, I guess yer lucky I did take a shine to ya, Jones, cuz any other lawman'd wait 'til the authorities from Wyoming showed up, which should be in a day or two. They're gonna be mighty disappointed. Now you go on, git. And I suggest you don't show yer face in Granite Bluff."

Curry could take a hint. "Thank you, sir," he repeated, then turned and strode out to the door. Sure enough, there was his faithful mare, saddled up and raring to go. She swished her tail and tweaked one ear, looking at him with an expression that seemed to say, Well, it's about time you showed up.

As he tied the bags of food behind the cantle of his saddle, Braxton's voice followed him into the street, saying, "…at least not until you and yer partner get things, shall we say, 'squared away' with a certain prominent person in the Territory of Wyoming...?"

Curry's head spun around to look at Braxton, but the sheriff had already disappeared into his office. Shrugging, he untied his horse, hopped on her back, and headed out of town.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

This time when Heyes saw the approaching rider, he didn't even have to use the glass to know it was Kid. How could he have ever mistaken Walt for his partner, even for an instant, he thought. Just the way Kid sat his horse, he knew it was him.

Curry pulled up outside of town, just out of rifle range, warily assessing the lay of the land. Heyes could see him scanning the streets, the windows, the rooftops. When he looked his way, Heyes stood up and waved nonchalantly. Kid whooped and urged his horse into a trot. Heyes made for the trap door and descended the stairs rapidly. He was standing on the steps of the saloon, leaning against a pillar, when Kid reined up in front of it.

"What took you so long?" Heyes asked, smiling broadly.

"Had ta wait for my genius partner to devise another one of his brilliant plans to get me outta jail."

"Yeah, about that…" began Heyes. But the Kid interrupted him, asking,

"So I take it you have some of them "Wild Mountain Boys" trussed up somewhere?"

"In the mine. We better go let 'em out. They're probably mad as hell by now," Heyes said, bounding down the saloon's somewhat dilapidated steps.

Kid kicked one foot out of the stirrup, reached down to grasp his partner's arm, and hauled him up behind him.

"Good to have you back, Kid," said Heyes.

"Good to be back, Heyes," agreed Curry.

When they reached the boarded up mine shaft, it took the two men some concerted effort to make an opening large enough for Mick and Walt to squeeze through. Even though there were two men prying off the boards now, they only had the one hammer between them, and Heyes had put in a LOT of nails.

"Joshua, your carpentry skills are improving," Curry praised, admiring the generous complement of nails peppering the board he had just wrested free.

"Why thank you, Thaddeus. And I only hit my thumb once," Heyes boasted proudly.

When at last Mick and Walt were standing in front of the pile of old boards, dirty and rumpled, grumpily blinking in the bright sunlight, Heyes addressed them congenially, "Howdy boys, have a nice time?"

A guttural snarl erupted from Mick's throat as he made a move as if to clobber the smiling, dimpled man acting as if he were welcoming him home from a pleasant vacation.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came a familiar voice behind him. He turned his head to find himself looking straight down the barrel of one fully-loaded Colt .45 in the hands of none other than… Kid Curry.

Mick gulped, letting his meaty arms fall to his sides.

"Okay boys, now that we have your attention," said Heyes, "we left your horses and your weapons, along with some food and water, about a mile out of town on the road to Granite Bluff. I suggest you hurry, cuz we didn't tie 'em up too tight." He grinned mischievously at the final comment.

Mick scowled and said, "If it's as bad as the so-called food you left in the mine for us, then thanks, but no thanks."

"Well, that's gratitude for ya," replied Heyes, sounding wounded. Then his tone turned serious. "I bet that hardtack, jerky, and canned goods were a sight better than the food my partner's been eatin' the past couple days – in JAIL."

"And that reminds me," Curry growled, "which one of you was usin' my gun?"

Both Walt and Mick looked at each other with guilty expressions and began to stammer.

Heyes sighed, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "Better just leave before he shoots ya" he advised.

When the two robbers started running, both partners dissolved into laughter. Kid couldn't resist letting off two shots into the dirt near the outlaws' feet, which served to improve their speed significantly. He twirled his gun in an extra-elaborate backwards-then-forwards triple loop before sliding it into its holster.

"Come on, Kid, let's get outta here, too," said Heyes, slapping his partner on the back.

"Not 'til I clean my gun," insisted Curry stubbornly. He walked over to the tree where his horse was tethered next to Heyes's, the two animals getting reacquainted over some tender grass, and rummaged for the cleaning supplies in his saddlebags. He removed his gun oil, cloth, and cleaning tools and spread them out on one of the discarded boards.

"You're actually gonna do that right here, right now?" Heyes asked incredulously.

"Yeah, why not?"

"I don't know about you, but I'm pretty hungry... Hey, aren't you usually the one saying that?"

Kid returned to his horse and pulled the cloth bag from behind the saddle. "I ate a little on the ride here. And truth be told, the food was pretty good in that jail," he smirked. "Here, try one of these roast beef sandwiches from Mrs. Batenhorst. And Mrs. Trent's sugar cookies'll melt in your mouth." He tossed the bags to his partner.

Soon it was a picture of domestic tranquility: Kid Curry sat happily on a rock in front of the old mineshaft, the various pieces of his gun spread out on a splintered, nail-encrusted board. Hannibal Heyes was lounging in the grass, contentedly munching on a sandwich. The sky was blue, the sun was warm on their shoulders, and they were as free as the proverbial bird.

"So Heyes," asked Curry absently, "how'd you make out in that poker game?"

"Well, Kid, it's like this. I've got some good news and I've some got bad news…"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Later that night and many miles away, Blake Mason and his five Wild Mountain Boys, plus one Frank Reed, were sitting around a small campfire passing a bottle from mad to man, evidently celebrating.

"Here's to ten thousand dollars! We're rich!" chortled Skeet, before taking a slug from the bottle.

"Yeah, but now we know he really was Kid Curry," grumbled Mick. "Otherwise, his partner would of just waited until the authorities from Wyoming showed up and said he wasn't the Kid."

"I told you he was Kid Curry," insisted Jude. "And that was sure enough Hannibal Heyes, too. He made sure I never saw his face, but it sure as hell sounded like his voice."

"We never would've caught him," scoffed Mason dismissively. "He had Walt and Mick and I wasn't willin' to risk 'em. And who knows how long 'til a witness to our stage hold up would of shown up in Granite Bluff and put the finger on us? Nope, it was too big of a gamble. We couldn't afford ta stay until them Wyoming boys showed up. We did the only thing we could have done. AND we got ten thousand to split between us! You know the old saying about birds and bushes."

"Huh?" asked Skeet blankly.

"Ten thousand dollars in yer hand beats twenty thousand in the bush!"

All of the gang members laughed raucously, except Skeet, whose face was a picture of befuddlement.