Winter's Refuge
Chapter Four
LOM
In our next meeting, I convinced the governor to have Matthew McWinters transferred to the Utah Territorial Prison. He was not a leader; he was a follower. He was not a planner; he executed the robberies his brother Mark planned. He was not a killer; he had stopped Mark from killing whenever he could. He was in prison because his brother had betrayed him.
Early on, while Curry and Heyes were still on trial, it was decided that they would serve their time separately from any other Devil's Hole Gang members, if possible. Their influence as charismatic leaders was thought to be great and disruptive in prison. Little did I know when this was being discussed that this also meant they would be separated from each other. Now that I knew Matt McWinters had ridden with them, I only had to point out that he had been a part of the gang to get the governor to agree to the transfer. Utah was thought to be an 'easier' place to serve time and Matt was scheduled for parole in less than a year, five more months with good behavior.
The governor listened patiently while I described my report of how Heyes was a model prisoner and the Kid had recovered from his head injury and was no longer labeled as a convict with bad behavior. While he listened politely, I got the same response. "Not yet, Trevors. Not saying I won't give them pardons but now's not the time. Encourage them to keep up the good behavior."
Little changed for the next eight months. I visited the Kid in prison once a month. While his behavior had improved and his temper was usually under control, every new alpha prisoner felt they had to challenge Kid Curry. Talking to the prison guards, they said Curry tried to avoid the fights, he did not want to be one of the leaders in prison. Still, a few persisted and, although the Kid was not the instigator, he was always the winner, a winner that ended up whipped and back in solitary. He was thankful for the sweets and cookies I sent but more looked forward to the books each month. The governor had questioned me intensely about the type of books the boys requested. The Kid enjoyed adventure novels. Heyes read anything. And they both like the novels of Mark Twain.
It was at my visits when they had been incarcerated for almost nine months that I noticed the changes in them.
When Heyes was escorted into the visiting room, he was pulling back on the shackles restraining his hands. Where his expression had always been outward submissive, now it was insolent, making the guard more aggressive. He was slammed into the chair and the guard stood in front of him for a minute before moving off to the corner.
"Heyes, how're you doing?" I asked. Catching his eyes, I let him know I had seen what had happened and was not happy. I saw him change his expression to his poker face before he spoke.
"Same as always, Lom. This is prison, ain't nothing good about it. Getting real good at making brooms." His sarcastic tone was something I had not heard in my past visits. I wanted to ask what had changed, but with a flick of his eyes toward the guard, he warned me away from my question.
"Brought another book for you, the latest Mark Twain, and some cookies. There's also a sweater that you asked for last time." I looked at the guard. "I assume they'll be on his bed when he goes back there?" I avoided using the word cell. Something inside me hurt to think of either of the boys confined to a cell for the next twenty years.
"After they pass inspection, they will be given to the convict."
"How's the Kid? I wrote him but he hasn't wrote back."
"Yeah, he says he hasn't gotten any of your letters. Maybe they don't pass inspection." I answered knowing that the real reason was the judge had decided the two cousins should have no contact with each other. If I had known that to start with, I would have discouraged Heyes from writing. So far only his letters to Clementine Hale were allowed to go through and she answered each one faithfully.
"Just let me know if there's something you want me to tell him, and I'll pass it on next week when I visit him."
"He stop fighting?"
"Yeah, he's trying to be like his cousin, a model prisoner the governor can pardon."
Heyes eyes searched my face at that. I wasn't sure if his defiance was a protective reaction to the prison environment or the loss of hope of ever leaving the Wyoming Territorial Prison. I'd think about it on the way home.
He didn't have much to say; didn't mention the governor or the Kid again. The silence was awkward. I talked about events in Porterville and the state and even the nation, but he showed no interest, no response. His world had narrowed to the prison.
"Keep up the good behavior, Heyes. The governor is watching, and I make sure he hasn't forgotten. He pointed out to me that he is running for reelection in six months and, if elected, will be more inclined to issue pardons."
Heyes studied me again as I said that but only responded, "Won't hold my breath waiting."
Remembering the governor's question, I asked, "Any special kind of books you want next?"
He was thoughtful for a moment. "Any and all books, although I'm partial to Mark Twain." He hesitated before continuing, "Every month would be good if you can afford it, Lom." I thought I heard the old Heyes thanking me in his tone. Then he confessed, "Lost my library privileges here so I'm building my own collection."
I'm sure he caught the stunned look I tried to hide. Despite his insolent attitude today, I had heard no negative reports on him from my contacts.
"Fighting," he added. "Not my fault but not everybody saw it that way."
"Aw, Heyes."
"Well, it's done and I can't undo it. But I need to build my own library now. And socks. I could use a warm pair of socks." I knew he was forcing the conversation to change.
"Okay, socks."
The guard's quiet cough alerted us the visit was ending. "Heyes, the Kid has turned things around. Please stay out of trouble," I pleaded with him.
"I'll try, Lom." Then a small, real smile appeared. "Thanks for making the trip here. I really do appreciate your visits. They are like a lifeline. Something to look forward to in this place."
"You're welcome, Heyes. Take care," I said as this time he was led out while I sat in my chair and watched his body language go from defiant to defeated as he exited the room.
The next Sunday, I visited the Kid. His injuries had healed, leaving only a scar over his left eye. Our visits had been pleasant and had fallen into a routine. I'd ask how he was. He'd thank me for the book and ask about Heyes and the governor. Though the questions hadn't changed, the Kid had. He walked away from challenges and had been on his best behavior for over six months. He even bragged at our last meeting that he had his privileges restored.
I knew something had changed when he walked into the visitor room for this visit. The Kid always managed to walk, not shuffle with the leg shackles. It must have been painful lifting his feet with the heavy metal bonds, but he did it consistently. Sitting down in the chair, he leaned forward towards me and started the usual conversation.
"Thanks for the book, Lom. Mark Twain is my favorite, makes me think of Heyes. How is he?"
Already a question I didn't want to answer. He sensed my resistance immediately. "He in trouble?"
"Fighting."
"Well, we are the outlaws Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry. Lot of men see that as a challenge."
I nodded, studying him. Something had changed with him and he wanted to tell me something, but Heyes came first. "Punished?"
"Lashes, although he wouldn't tell me that. Had to find it out through a friend," I told him. He hadn't told me of his punishments, either. But I had connections in both prisons.
He looked at the wall beyond me. "Solitary? They have a dark cell there?" His worry was in his eyes and his tone, but he kept his voice calm.
"Not this time, just seven lashes and a loss of privileges." I watched him process this information.
"A lot of lashes for a first offense. So, I get my privileges back and he loses his. We do keep you worryin', don't we Lom."
"You boys are family," I told him truthfully. Except for my sister, I had no other family.
"You see the governor and give him our best?" he asked, his sarcasm was teasing more than bitter.
"I do. Make him tolerate me twice a month without fail. No change in his position. I'm sure he would send you his best if he thought about it." I returned his sarcasm.
"Speaking of family, Lom. I've made some decisions and some changes. As much as I would like it, you won't be able to visit me every month no more."
"Kid, what happened? You in trouble?"
His words were thoughtful, well planned and confident. "No, Lom. Passed the six-month mark with good behavior. Gonna let myself be lent out."
His words alarmed me. Convicts that were lent out to private contractors had a higher injury rate and shorter lifespans. Here in Arizona, most prisoners worked in theprison quarry and building new construction for the prison under the watchful eyes of trained prison guards. When they were slaved out for labor, it was less controlled, the guards not trained and trigger dependent as a way to control the men.
"Kid, no."
"Thought hard about this. Set a goal for myself when I get out of here. I'm goin' get strong. So strong no one's ever goin' hurt anyone I call family again." I saw the conviction in his blue eyes mirrored in his body. But I could tell he wanted, no needed, me to understand and just maybe condone. Perhaps I had the power to get him to change his decision. I said nothing and let him continue.
"First thing I gotta do is learn a profession. Don't want to live our lives doing odd jobs. All I learned here is how to quarry rock. I'm going to apprentice to a blacksmith for the railroad."
"A blacksmith? Mighty hard on the back, Kid." He never minded hard work as long as it wasn't hard on the back. "That's not like you."
He paused before answering. "Guess I've changed. After working in the quarry, I don't mind it as much. Ain't much legal call for a gunfighter or a train robber. Blacksmithin' is a good job. A job someone might hire an ex-convict, ex-outlaw to do if he's good enough. And I aim to be the best."
He was firm in his decision, but I wondered how resolute he would be after spending scorching Arizona days working over a forge.
"And it will make me strong. I want to be so strong no one can ever hurt me or mine again." That sounded like the protective Kid I knew and the 'mine' often extended to needy strangers. He always had an innocence about him. Was I watching that innocence die? I'd have to think about it.
"So, this is a certainty?"
"I leave in two weeks. They already come and talked to me; don't mind takin' on Kid Curry and the problems that may bring."
"So, no more visits? Or are visitors allowed at your worksite?"
"No visitors, but I'll write. I give you my word," he said seriously. "Please keep sendin' the books. Send them here and they will forward them to me. If you let me know in your letters when they are comin', I'll look out for them." He smiled wryly. "You sendin' Heyes books too, Lom? All your pay goin' for books for convicts?"
"Nothing I can't handle, Kid. And I'll keep you in paper, pen and ink, too. Any idea when I can visit again?"
"Eighteen months. Signed their contract for eighteen months. Even get paid a little something. Course they hold that for me until I'm released, but at least I won't be broke when that pardon comes through."
"Anything else you need?"
"Letters from you. Need to know how Heyes is doing. Figured when we get out, blacksmithin' will be a safer way to make money than playin' poker – no cheaters or gunplay."
He still could read people and saw I didn't agree with his choice, although I understood his reasoning. He made one last attempt to convince me. He looked at me with those naive clear blue eyes reflecting the smile on his face. "I am makin' this choice, Lom; nobody's forcin' me. I'm gonna be ready when the governor finally tells you he's lettin' us go."
I understood then it wasn't naivety I saw in his eyes but guarded hope. "Okay, I'll give you an accounting of each meeting."
"Oh, and Lom, sent food, cookies, cake, even cheese. One of the men got some cheese and shared it. Sure tasted like home."
Okay, Kid," I said standing. Even shackled, he stood gracefully. I hoped this decision wasn't going to quench that hope I saw in him. "I'll write, too, and send what you asked."
In the silence, he caught my eyes and said his thanks. I had to convince myself to believe he was going to be okay. "See you in eighteen months and two weeks," he said as the guard motioned for him to leave.
I didn't see him again for almost two years.
ASJ*****ASJ