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TERMS: Part Two - Alone
TERMS: Part Two – Alone
Kid Curry stood stoically in the near empty Cheyenne courtroom as the prison guards shackled his wrists and ankles. One guard ran a stout chain tightly around his waist attaching the wrist shackles and then down between his legs to attach the leg irons. He was mildly impressed at the number of guards covering him with assorted firearms and wondered what they thought he could do trussed up like he was.
The senior guard and the marshal completed the paperwork transferring custody of Jedediah Curry to the Wyoming Territorial Prison authorities at the nearby table for the prosecution. The guards stationed themselves around the Kid and the group moved to the courtroom door and down the broad steps to the waiting black enclosed prison wagon. Curry ignored the curious stares and whisperings from the quickly gathering crowd of onlookers as he concentrated on not falling down the stairs.
Someone pushed Curry’s head down as he was helped into the back of the stifling hot wagon and seated on the hard plank bench along the side. Kid was surprised to see two men, also shackled but not chained across from him on the opposite bench. The three men turned their heads to the iron barred door as it clanged shut. Someone unintentionally uttered a loud sigh.
“Have a nice trip,” the guard chuckled as he fastened the lock and affixed a horizontal iron bar across the back.
The men inside quietly shared a look of despair when the wagon started to slowly move down the road to Laramie. Kid laid his head back against the side of the wagon as overwhelming fatigue hit him like a freight train. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept more than an hour or two at a time much less had a good night’s sleep. He appreciated the fact that the law had complied with his request to arrive in Cheyenne in the middle of the night to avoid the crowd the arrest of Kid Curry was bound to gather but it also meant he had been awake for over forty-eight hours straight.
Curry waived his right to a trial by jury as the terms of Heyes’ amnesty dictated his guilty plea to all charges and a maximum sentence allowable by law. The closed courtroom appearance in the early morning hours suited Curry and the judge who both wanted the formal proceedings and sentencing to occur with maximum speed and minimum public attendance. The Kid knew the governor was planning to make the public announcement of his and Heyes’ fates once Kid was securely behind the prison walls.
The obligatory exchange of names, convicted crimes and sentences was over. Each man retreated to his own silent thoughts. Kid regarded his fellow convicts through half-closed lids. He was sharing the long bumpy ride to purgatory, or was it hell, with Henry Miller, nineteen, who tried to rob a mercantile. Miller was caught on his very first robbery attempt and was now spending a year as a guest of the Wyoming government. The other man, Bruce Tedmen, who said he was forty-five but looked older was a rustler sentenced to five years. Both men seemed awed by Kid Curry’s reputation and Miller had actually stuttered how honored he was to be serving time with the famous gunslinger, train and bank robber. Curry wondered what honour there was in being an imprisoned thief destined to spend the rest of his life behind bars.
Kid was startled when the judge pronounced the term as life imprisonment as he just assumed that he would get twenty years. It hit him suddenly that twenty years or life made no difference at all in grand scheme of things. He didn’t think he would last even a few years confined. With that somber thought Curry’s eyes finally slid shut and a restless sleep closed in upon him.
The three men in the back of the wagon dozed uncomfortably on and off throughout the ride to their destination. Conversation was minimal. They all wished to exit the cramped, hot, uncomfortable wagon, yearned to stretch their limbs and breathe fresh air, but knew the respite would be short-lived. The new convicts felt a mixture of dread and relief at the sight of the imposing stark brick building, tall surrounding stockade with the evenly spaced guard towers in a bleak landscape.
Jedediah Curry shuffled toward the arched heavy door of the Wyoming Territorial Prison just a few feet away and an uncontrollable sense of panic gripped him. He came to a hard stop and the sharp prod of a guard’s rifle in his lower back failed to get him moving again.
”Get moving Curry, you’re not going to get a special invite. So, move it, now,” growled the guard behind him. He shoved the Kid forward hard.
Kid stumbled, regained his balance before he fell and starting moving again. Thoughts of Heyes receiving the amnesty papers flashed in his mind and that was enough to enable him to cross the threshold with his dignity intact.
The newly arrived inmates were ushered into a reception area off the main foyer and up to a desk. More paperwork was completed, questions and answers recorded.
“Name? "
"Jedediah Curry. “
“Your designation is now L1314, so you don’t forget, L is because you’re serving a life term, 1 for the North wing, it would be 2 if you were in the newer South, but you’re not, 3 is for the third tier of cells and 14 is your cell number, so L1314. Repeat your designation.”
“L1314.”
“The correct response is L1314, Sir.”
“L1314, Sir.”
“Address?”
“None. Sir.”
“Next of kin for notification purposes?”
“Hannibal Heyes.” The guard glanced up from his papers and gave Kid a hard probing stare.
“Is this your idea of a joke, L1314?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, sir.”
“Address? Maybe we’ll send him a personal invitation to join you.”
“Care of Lom Trevors, Sheriff, Porterville, Wyoming.”
The guard stared at him again before he finished his questions. “Can you read and write?"
“Yes, Sir.”
“Here is a copy of the rules and regulations of the prison. You will be expected to follow them without exception. Read them thoroughly and sign the bottom. They will be reviewed with you shortly. This sheet is a list of some of the work presently done here at the prison. Circle any that you have any experience doing. Hand the sheets back to me when you are done. Be quick about it.”
A guard unlocked each man’s wrists while the others kept their weapons at the ready. The guard repeated the questions with Tedmen, and then with Miller.
Kid read the long list of rules and signed the bottom. He was expecting harsh and strict rules but was unprepared for the extreme severity regarding talking, or rather not talking. The thought that Heyes would go crazy not being able to converse came unbidden to his mind and he suppressed the thought quickly.
The list of jobs contained few that he had done even with the variety Heyes and him had found themselves doing while pursuing amnesty. There were no saloon managers, drovers, bank guards, deputies or finders of stolen property on the list. Instead, the list contained things like cigar maker, broom factory worker, furniture maker, tailor, shoemaker, ice cutter, cook, laundry worker and farmer. Did living on a farm until you were ten count as farmer Kid wondered as he circled the word.
Curry handed the papers back to the guard and received a framed slate with his prison numbers slotted into it. He was told to stand on the line against the wall with a large vertical ruler painted on it.
A guard from behind a camera barked orders. “Face the camera, stand straight, hold your number across your chest.” The camera snapped and flashed.
“Turn to the right. Hold your number by your shoulder.” After a pause the camera snapped and flashed again.
“Turn to the left. Hold your number by your shoulder.” Another pause then the guard took the third picture.
Kid wished these pictures were safely locked up in a safe deposit box in Denver although he supposed it didn’t really matter; it wasn’t as if he was on the run anymore.
The guards then moved the convicts into an adjoining room, which appeared to be a store/supply room of sorts. Posted in big black letters on two large boards, mounted on the wall were the rules for convicts. The guards removed the remaining restraints from the men’s legs and told them to strip and to leave their clothes in a box along the wall. Each box was labeled with each man’s name and prison number.
They were marched down the short hall into a stone-floored cool shower room. Two old barber chairs were along the far wall. Two guards directed Miller and Tedmen to sit in the chairs. They strapped the men’s limbs to the arms and leg rests of the chair with the attached leather restraints.
A middle aged solidly built guard strode to the center of the room. “I am captain of the prison guards, Captain Munch. So there is no question about the rules you will live under, I am going to review them aloud now…”
He continued “You will have a till Sunday, that is a four day probationary period in which further instruction may be allowed without severe penalty.”
“Hygiene is important. In addition to your daily hygiene regulations the North wing showers on the first and third Sundays. The South wing showers on the second and fourth Sundays. Your head will be shaved once every six weeks according to cellblock. Facial shaving privileges are granted by the warden for extenuating circumstances.”
“Following the rules will earn you ticket privileges. You will start out with two. The tickets are kept hanging on a rack outside your cell.” The guard took painted thin wooden rectangles roughly the size of playing cards out of his pocket and held them up for prisoners to see. “These privileges can be revoked at any time for any infraction of the rules at a guard’s discretion. Pay attention. The red ticket is for one visit on the fourth Sunday of the month. The blue ticket is to write one letter on the first Sunday of the month and receive letters on the third Sunday of the month.”
Kid stood and watched as the guards first hacked off Miller’s and Tedmen’s hair as close to the head as possible, applied lather and proceeded to shave the prisoner’s heads bald. When it was Kid’s turn in the chair, he watched his blond curls fall around him with a disturbing sense of loss. The baldness bothered him even more than the humiliation of being naked.
“Line up along the far wall and stand facing the pump,” barked out Munch.
One of the younger guards passed around small bars of strong soap. A blast of icy water stung their skin as Curry, Miller and Tedmen or rather L1314, 11107 and 51109 soaped their reddening skin.
The three new inmates stood on the cold stone floor, damp, covered in goose bumps holding their issued black and white striped clothing in front of them. The heavy wooden door opened and in walked a short, well-dressed thin man.
“Welcome to the Wyoming Territorial Prison, I am Warden Hardston. I trust that the rules and regulations of this institution have been adequately explained to you. Use your time wisely here and reflect on your past wrongdoings, work hard, obey the rules and you will find me a just man. Deviations from your path to redemption and rehabilitation will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. The guards have the power and leeway to discipline with varying physical forces or remove privileges. I oversee serious discipline issues and take care of misguided repeat offenders. Behave and your stay in this institution will be productive to yourself and society. ”
Warden Hardston stood straight in his fine black suit, smoothed his slicked back black hair with his hand, then stroked his thick mustache consciously highlighting his different circumstance to the naked and shorn men in front of him. The warden’s cold gray eyes appraised each new prisoner in turn. At the far left a young man, whose arms shook, stared at the floor and would not meet his eyes.
“He’s of no consequence - easily cowed,” thought the warden.
The older, fortyish, now bald hirsute prisoner straightened his back, puffed out his chest and met the gray eyes in defiance. The man dropped his pose after only a few seconds and slumped in resignation. Warden Hardston dismissed him as easily broken as well.
The last man on the right stood impassive, eyes focused in front, hands steady, feet shoulder width apart and in spite of his circumstance managed to exude an air of confidence. “I finally meet Kid Curry,” thought the warden as the Kid’s unreadable blue eyes, belying none of the emotions that were roiling just below the surface, steadily met the warden’s gray ones. The two men stared at each other, taking the measure of the man opposite, each conscious of what was at stake. The tension increased noticeably in the room as the silence and minutes dragged on. The warden blinked, coughed and turned to the guard beside him.
“Carry on.” As Warden Hardston strode importantly out the door, he vowed in silent annoyance, “We shall see who the stronger man is, Curry. You cannot win. I have you for life, how long your life is remains to be seen.”
The heavyset older guard, Riggs, barked out the order to get dressed. The new inmates wasted little time donning the ill-fitting coarse clothing. During that time, one of the younger guards went over to a small closet off the main prisoner supply room and retrieved a set of leg irons.
Kid could hear the guard come up from behind him as a curt, “Stand still prisoner L1314,” was shouted. Iron shackles connected by a heavy strong eighteen inch chain were locked around Kid’s ankles.
Captain of the guard Munch took pleasure in announcing, “Prisoner L1314, you are subject to maximum security measures.”
Munch came to stand right in the Kid’s face, leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Get used to them Curry, you’re going to be a broken, useless creature before you’ll go around unchained.” With that Munch stepped back and roared, “Line up.”
With considerable prodding with the three guard’s sturdy wooden handles of the small but fearsome leather lash they carried the new inmates of the Wyoming Territorial Prison formed a line, right hand on the man in front’s shoulder, heads down. Upon the command to “move out”, they started to walk in awkward lock-step out the now unlocked iron barred gate opposite the wooden door from which they entered.
The little procession made their way slowly through a dingy whitewashed corridor in silence except for the clinking and scraping of Kid’s leg irons. They stopped before another heavy iron barred gate. Riggs used a key from the ring chained to his belt to unlock the gate, and they entered a small enclosed space. He turned and relocked it.
One of the younger guards rang a bell on the wall summoning a guard from the hallway directly in front of them. The iron portal to the first floor North cellblock was opened. Miller and Tedmen were separated from Kid and escorted by two of the guards along with the cellblock guard down the long dim hall of the North Wing.
The remaining guard, Riggs, pushed Kid to follow Munch through the now opened gate to the North stairs. The three ascended two flights of stairs to the third floor, with Kid stumbling over the chains once or twice, until they reached the uppermost prison cell block floor. A waiting guard opened the portal gate and shoved the Kid into and down the long iron walkway.
Curry looked neither right nor left. He didn’t want to see his immediate future through the small square openings in iron cell doors or glimpse lost freedom through the narrow windows. The thud of heavy footsteps and the clinking of chains on the iron walkway seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet of the cellblock. The last cell door stood open, number 314; Kid’s eyes focused on the iron grill and knew his destination was imminent. A hard push inside caused him to stager momentarily as the heavy door shut with a resounding clang. It echoed endlessly in the silence of his mind as he took in his immediate surroundings. Kid actively controlled his breathing, tried to slow and steady it, in an effort to halt the rising bile up into his throat and calm the sense of anxiety overtaking him.
“Home sweet home, “thought Kid sarcastically as anger replaced fear when his eyes surveyed the small space.
The cell was superficially clean, small and narrow about seven feet by four feet, with an arched ceiling. A checkerboard pattern of light and shadow spread across the floor echoing the pattern of the cell door. A narrow metal cot covered by a thin straw mattress was against the wall. Piled on the cot was folded gray linens consisting of one threadbare towel, one small washcloth, two sheets, one pillowcase, one thin wool blanket and one lumpy pillow. Kid picked up the pillow, held it close to his nose briefly and confirmed to his dismay that the pillow was the source of the undesirable strong smell of lye mixing with lingering vomit that pervaded the space adding to the general malodor characteristic of all jails and prisons.
A small wooden stand in the corner held a small wooden bucket of water, a dented tin basin and the bottom shelf of the stand held a chipped enamel chamber pot with an ill-fitting lid. He hung the towel and washcloth from two pegs on the side of the stand. Curry made up the “bed” then sank slowly down on it. Sitting with elbows on his knees, his fingers sought to rake through his curls and instead felt unfamiliar smoothness as his head dropped into his hands. Kid Curry willed himself into numbness as the shadows crept deeper into the now occupied cell.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Two - Unwelcome Shift in Plan
August 1883
Hannibal Heyes was sitting in a nice comfortable train club car feeling very pleased with himself. Life was good. The wound in his side had healed and he felt good as new. There hadn’t been a whiff of recognition anywhere from anyone. He had money in his pocket, food in stomach, good whiskey in his hand and in a short while he would join what he anticipated would be a profitable poker game. He couldn’t wait to be reunited with his partner to share the good fortune and perhaps a little teasing.
The ride from Denver ensuring safe delivery of valuable porcelains to a wealthy rancher in Texas couldn’t have gone smoother. With $500 in pay burning a hole in Heyes’ pocket the ex-outlaw decided to take up his employer’s offer to round out a poker game. He wound up at staying an extra two days before heading back to Wyoming. The diversion proved profitable adding about $2,500 in poker winnings to the till. Heyes smiled, dimples in evidence, at the thought he didn’t even need the coin toss to avoid the long dusty days in the saddle moving a herd of horses. The dimples disappeared as the smile melted away to be replaced by a frown of concern. Heyes just realized he didn’t send a telegram to the Kid who was probably worrying about the delay. With the way his partner’s mood has been lately that could be a problem.
Heyes stared out the window at the passing monotonous landscape in contemplation of the puzzle of Kid Curry. His partner’s morose mood concerned Heyes. He understood the guilt Kid felt, despite Heyes’ protestations of the contrary, about the bullet wound in Heyes’ side. He also knew Kid didn’t take life, regardless of the circumstance, without it weighing heavily on Curry’s soul, though Kid tried to deny the emotional toll. His normally laconic but active partner had become uncharacteristically introspective, still and uncommunicative for far too long.
The incident at Impasse Mountain needed to be put firmly in the past, once and for all. What was needed was a Hannibal Heyes Plan to restore Kid Curry’s normal amiable disposition. Perhaps a trip to San Francisco and a visit to Soapy or Silky would do the trick. They had the money to enjoy the delights of the city for a short while; delights that would take the Kid’s mind off his troubles, women, good food, low stakes enjoyable poker for Kid and high stakes profitable poker for Heyes. After all, he did the thinking in this partnership, not the Kid! Heyes felt a sudden urgent need to return to Porterville.
The pleasant diversion of the poker game on the train failed to distract Heyes’ thoughts for long. As the train rolled on, Heyes felt irrationally anxious. Worry was in full flower when the train stopped at a little town on the Wyoming border for a two-hour layover. He needed to see the Kid. Heyes waited impatiently for the train to come to a stop before jumping off. He wanted to send a telegram to Thaddeus Jones, he should have sent one earlier when he knew he would be returning later than planned.
The train platform was unnaturally crowded with a large amount of people who all seemed to talking or shouting at once. Most of the commotion was concentrated in the center of the waiting area. As Heyes walked over to cautiously investigate he saw a newsboy holding aloft a paper; the remainder rapidly disappearing at his feet.
“EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT. HANNIBAL HEYES GETS AMNESTY, KID CURRY GETS LIFE IN PRISON!”
The brown-haired ex-outlaw stopped dead in his tracks his heart hammering in his chest. “What, amnesty, prison, I couldn’t have heard that right,” he whispered to himself. Heyes became aware of snippets of conversation around him.
“I always heard that Hannibal Heyes was a charming man.”
“An intelligent man like Heyes deserves a second chance.”
“Curry’s a killer, life imprisonment is too good for him; a rope is what he needs.”
“Once a thief, always a thief.”
“Who got the reward on the Kid?”
“Some guy named Joshua Smith. The reporter couldn’t locate him for an interview. Probably out spending all that money.”
“I guess the rumors were true, they have been going straight.”
“I read Curry killed two outlaws just like him not too long ago. He couldn’t have been going too straight.”
Heyes forced himself to move. To approach the newsboy and buy a paper. He forced himself to look down at the headline. Sounds faded around Heyes. He stood immobile clutching the paper tightly in two hands. Eyes focused on the large black and white headline. He struggled to read the words. People jostled him, pushed him away from the newsboy. Color drained from his face as comprehension set in. His knees felt weak. He needed to sit down. Heyes turned, walked shakily to a bench and dropped down.
“Kid, Kid, what in the hell happened? How come I’m a free man and you’re...” Heyes couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.
Hannibal Heyes sat on the railroad station bench stunned. He looked around and spied the telegraph desk. Jumping up, paper still held tightly in one hand, Heyes walked quickly over to send a telegram.
To: Sheriff Trevors, Porterville Wyoming. Stop. TJ. Stop. How, What, When? Stop. JS
The reply came even before Heyes could establish a good pacing pattern round the station floor.
To: JS. Stop Urgent. Stop. Return to Porterville immediately. Stop. Do not do anything. Stop. Lom
Heyes wished that horses with wings really existed.
“LOM, what is going on?” The door to the sheriff’s office swung open and hit the wall with a bang. Brown intense eyes searched his friend’s face for reassurance that the situation was some horrible misunderstanding, that the papers got the story wrong. This was not the way it was supposed to be. Not the way Heyes envisioned amnesty to occur. Not by himself. Not alone.
“Not here Heyes. I’ll lock up and we’ll go to my house. “Lom gripped Heyes by the arm to steer him back out the door.
It was dark by the time Lom and Heyes arrived in Lom’s yard. Lom refused to talk during the ride there. As they came up to the barn, Heyes noted a familiar dark chestnut gelding in the corral. Hope against hope surged in former outlaw’s chest that Kid would be inside drinking coffee, making himself a sandwich; hope that died as soon as it was born. The two friends mounted the porch steps in silence. Lom opened the door, lit the lamp on the entry wall and crossed into the living room to pour two generous glasses of his best whiskey. He handed one to Heyes.
“Congratulations Heyes on the amnesty you have worked so hard and for so long to achieve,” Lom quietly said as he held up his glass to toast Heyes. Heyes automatically brought the glass to his lips but his eyes fixed on the items neatly arranged on and along the sideboard in the adjoining room. Floppy brown hat with silver conches banded around it, stained packed leather saddle bags, envelopes, the number couldn’t be seen exactly, sheepskin coat perched on top of a bedroll standing on its side and, most disturbingly, a well worn brown leather gun belt and perfectly balanced impeccably clean Colt 45.
“Lom, start talking. Kid…” Heyes started in his leader of the gang voice.
“Heyes, sit down and listen, let me finish before you flatten me,” replied Lom in his no nonsense sheriff’s voice.
Lom talked and Heyes listened. Whiskey was poured repeatedly. Heyes paced, sat, and paced again. What should have been a joyous occasion held all the somberness of a funeral. Lom finished his tale and Heyes asked his questions. Lom handed Heyes three envelopes from the sideboard and left the room. Heyes opened the first and barely glanced at the amnesty papers. He threw the bounty money on the table in disgust and anger. The final envelope held several sheets of paper covered with Kid’s scrawl. Heyes’ hands shook as he held the sheets up to the light.
“Han. I don’t have your silver tongue and your way with words but I need to tell you things that never get said. I need you to understand…”
Hannibal Heyes stood staring out the window at nothing. For the first time since he was twelve years old silent tears flowed freely down his face, unstoppable. He hadn’t felt this loved since another lifetime as the enormity of his partner’s sacrifice sank in. However, he never felt this lost and alone before in his entire life. His gazed refocused from the dark night to the reflection in the glass. How many times, Heyes wondered, had he stood looking out a window or in a mirror and had seen his partner’s image? Talked to the reflected image before turning around and sharing a thought, a worry or a plan? No longer would Kid’s comforting steady presence be behind him. Hannibal Heyes wanted nothing more than to turn time back.
Heyes finally shuddered and made an effort to pull himself together. He needed a plan, a Hannibal Heyes Plan. Tomorrow he would start to plan for the rest of his life. The rest of his life included sharing it with his lifelong best friend, cousin and partner, Jedediah Curry. Heyes turned from the window and went in search of Lom.
Chapter One -From Life to Existence
August 1883 Kid Curry stood stoically in the near empty Cheyenne courtroom as the prison guards shackled his wrists and ankles. One guard ran a stout chain tightly around his waist attaching the wrist shackles and then down between his legs to attach the leg irons. He was mildly impressed at the number of guards covering him with assorted firearms and wondered what they thought he could do trussed up like he was.
The senior guard and the marshal completed the paperwork transferring custody of Jedediah Curry to the Wyoming Territorial Prison authorities at the nearby table for the prosecution. The guards stationed themselves around the Kid and the group moved to the courtroom door and down the broad steps to the waiting black enclosed prison wagon. Curry ignored the curious stares and whisperings from the quickly gathering crowd of onlookers as he concentrated on not falling down the stairs.
Someone pushed Curry’s head down as he was helped into the back of the stifling hot wagon and seated on the hard plank bench along the side. Kid was surprised to see two men, also shackled but not chained across from him on the opposite bench. The three men turned their heads to the iron barred door as it clanged shut. Someone unintentionally uttered a loud sigh.
“Have a nice trip,” the guard chuckled as he fastened the lock and affixed a horizontal iron bar across the back.
The men inside quietly shared a look of despair when the wagon started to slowly move down the road to Laramie. Kid laid his head back against the side of the wagon as overwhelming fatigue hit him like a freight train. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept more than an hour or two at a time much less had a good night’s sleep. He appreciated the fact that the law had complied with his request to arrive in Cheyenne in the middle of the night to avoid the crowd the arrest of Kid Curry was bound to gather but it also meant he had been awake for over forty-eight hours straight.
Curry waived his right to a trial by jury as the terms of Heyes’ amnesty dictated his guilty plea to all charges and a maximum sentence allowable by law. The closed courtroom appearance in the early morning hours suited Curry and the judge who both wanted the formal proceedings and sentencing to occur with maximum speed and minimum public attendance. The Kid knew the governor was planning to make the public announcement of his and Heyes’ fates once Kid was securely behind the prison walls.
The obligatory exchange of names, convicted crimes and sentences was over. Each man retreated to his own silent thoughts. Kid regarded his fellow convicts through half-closed lids. He was sharing the long bumpy ride to purgatory, or was it hell, with Henry Miller, nineteen, who tried to rob a mercantile. Miller was caught on his very first robbery attempt and was now spending a year as a guest of the Wyoming government. The other man, Bruce Tedmen, who said he was forty-five but looked older was a rustler sentenced to five years. Both men seemed awed by Kid Curry’s reputation and Miller had actually stuttered how honored he was to be serving time with the famous gunslinger, train and bank robber. Curry wondered what honour there was in being an imprisoned thief destined to spend the rest of his life behind bars.
Kid was startled when the judge pronounced the term as life imprisonment as he just assumed that he would get twenty years. It hit him suddenly that twenty years or life made no difference at all in grand scheme of things. He didn’t think he would last even a few years confined. With that somber thought Curry’s eyes finally slid shut and a restless sleep closed in upon him.
The three men in the back of the wagon dozed uncomfortably on and off throughout the ride to their destination. Conversation was minimal. They all wished to exit the cramped, hot, uncomfortable wagon, yearned to stretch their limbs and breathe fresh air, but knew the respite would be short-lived. The new convicts felt a mixture of dread and relief at the sight of the imposing stark brick building, tall surrounding stockade with the evenly spaced guard towers in a bleak landscape.
Jedediah Curry shuffled toward the arched heavy door of the Wyoming Territorial Prison just a few feet away and an uncontrollable sense of panic gripped him. He came to a hard stop and the sharp prod of a guard’s rifle in his lower back failed to get him moving again.
”Get moving Curry, you’re not going to get a special invite. So, move it, now,” growled the guard behind him. He shoved the Kid forward hard.
Kid stumbled, regained his balance before he fell and starting moving again. Thoughts of Heyes receiving the amnesty papers flashed in his mind and that was enough to enable him to cross the threshold with his dignity intact.
The newly arrived inmates were ushered into a reception area off the main foyer and up to a desk. More paperwork was completed, questions and answers recorded.
“Name? "
"Jedediah Curry. “
“Your designation is now L1314, so you don’t forget, L is because you’re serving a life term, 1 for the North wing, it would be 2 if you were in the newer South, but you’re not, 3 is for the third tier of cells and 14 is your cell number, so L1314. Repeat your designation.”
“L1314.”
“The correct response is L1314, Sir.”
“L1314, Sir.”
“Address?”
“None. Sir.”
“Next of kin for notification purposes?”
“Hannibal Heyes.” The guard glanced up from his papers and gave Kid a hard probing stare.
“Is this your idea of a joke, L1314?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, sir.”
“Address? Maybe we’ll send him a personal invitation to join you.”
“Care of Lom Trevors, Sheriff, Porterville, Wyoming.”
The guard stared at him again before he finished his questions. “Can you read and write?"
“Yes, Sir.”
“Here is a copy of the rules and regulations of the prison. You will be expected to follow them without exception. Read them thoroughly and sign the bottom. They will be reviewed with you shortly. This sheet is a list of some of the work presently done here at the prison. Circle any that you have any experience doing. Hand the sheets back to me when you are done. Be quick about it.”
A guard unlocked each man’s wrists while the others kept their weapons at the ready. The guard repeated the questions with Tedmen, and then with Miller.
Kid read the long list of rules and signed the bottom. He was expecting harsh and strict rules but was unprepared for the extreme severity regarding talking, or rather not talking. The thought that Heyes would go crazy not being able to converse came unbidden to his mind and he suppressed the thought quickly.
The list of jobs contained few that he had done even with the variety Heyes and him had found themselves doing while pursuing amnesty. There were no saloon managers, drovers, bank guards, deputies or finders of stolen property on the list. Instead, the list contained things like cigar maker, broom factory worker, furniture maker, tailor, shoemaker, ice cutter, cook, laundry worker and farmer. Did living on a farm until you were ten count as farmer Kid wondered as he circled the word.
Curry handed the papers back to the guard and received a framed slate with his prison numbers slotted into it. He was told to stand on the line against the wall with a large vertical ruler painted on it.
A guard from behind a camera barked orders. “Face the camera, stand straight, hold your number across your chest.” The camera snapped and flashed.
“Turn to the right. Hold your number by your shoulder.” After a pause the camera snapped and flashed again.
“Turn to the left. Hold your number by your shoulder.” Another pause then the guard took the third picture.
Kid wished these pictures were safely locked up in a safe deposit box in Denver although he supposed it didn’t really matter; it wasn’t as if he was on the run anymore.
The guards then moved the convicts into an adjoining room, which appeared to be a store/supply room of sorts. Posted in big black letters on two large boards, mounted on the wall were the rules for convicts. The guards removed the remaining restraints from the men’s legs and told them to strip and to leave their clothes in a box along the wall. Each box was labeled with each man’s name and prison number.
They were marched down the short hall into a stone-floored cool shower room. Two old barber chairs were along the far wall. Two guards directed Miller and Tedmen to sit in the chairs. They strapped the men’s limbs to the arms and leg rests of the chair with the attached leather restraints.
A middle aged solidly built guard strode to the center of the room. “I am captain of the prison guards, Captain Munch. So there is no question about the rules you will live under, I am going to review them aloud now…”
He continued “You will have a till Sunday, that is a four day probationary period in which further instruction may be allowed without severe penalty.”
“Hygiene is important. In addition to your daily hygiene regulations the North wing showers on the first and third Sundays. The South wing showers on the second and fourth Sundays. Your head will be shaved once every six weeks according to cellblock. Facial shaving privileges are granted by the warden for extenuating circumstances.”
“Following the rules will earn you ticket privileges. You will start out with two. The tickets are kept hanging on a rack outside your cell.” The guard took painted thin wooden rectangles roughly the size of playing cards out of his pocket and held them up for prisoners to see. “These privileges can be revoked at any time for any infraction of the rules at a guard’s discretion. Pay attention. The red ticket is for one visit on the fourth Sunday of the month. The blue ticket is to write one letter on the first Sunday of the month and receive letters on the third Sunday of the month.”
Kid stood and watched as the guards first hacked off Miller’s and Tedmen’s hair as close to the head as possible, applied lather and proceeded to shave the prisoner’s heads bald. When it was Kid’s turn in the chair, he watched his blond curls fall around him with a disturbing sense of loss. The baldness bothered him even more than the humiliation of being naked.
“Line up along the far wall and stand facing the pump,” barked out Munch.
One of the younger guards passed around small bars of strong soap. A blast of icy water stung their skin as Curry, Miller and Tedmen or rather L1314, 11107 and 51109 soaped their reddening skin.
The three new inmates stood on the cold stone floor, damp, covered in goose bumps holding their issued black and white striped clothing in front of them. The heavy wooden door opened and in walked a short, well-dressed thin man.
“Welcome to the Wyoming Territorial Prison, I am Warden Hardston. I trust that the rules and regulations of this institution have been adequately explained to you. Use your time wisely here and reflect on your past wrongdoings, work hard, obey the rules and you will find me a just man. Deviations from your path to redemption and rehabilitation will be dealt with swiftly and harshly. The guards have the power and leeway to discipline with varying physical forces or remove privileges. I oversee serious discipline issues and take care of misguided repeat offenders. Behave and your stay in this institution will be productive to yourself and society. ”
Warden Hardston stood straight in his fine black suit, smoothed his slicked back black hair with his hand, then stroked his thick mustache consciously highlighting his different circumstance to the naked and shorn men in front of him. The warden’s cold gray eyes appraised each new prisoner in turn. At the far left a young man, whose arms shook, stared at the floor and would not meet his eyes.
“He’s of no consequence - easily cowed,” thought the warden.
The older, fortyish, now bald hirsute prisoner straightened his back, puffed out his chest and met the gray eyes in defiance. The man dropped his pose after only a few seconds and slumped in resignation. Warden Hardston dismissed him as easily broken as well.
The last man on the right stood impassive, eyes focused in front, hands steady, feet shoulder width apart and in spite of his circumstance managed to exude an air of confidence. “I finally meet Kid Curry,” thought the warden as the Kid’s unreadable blue eyes, belying none of the emotions that were roiling just below the surface, steadily met the warden’s gray ones. The two men stared at each other, taking the measure of the man opposite, each conscious of what was at stake. The tension increased noticeably in the room as the silence and minutes dragged on. The warden blinked, coughed and turned to the guard beside him.
“Carry on.” As Warden Hardston strode importantly out the door, he vowed in silent annoyance, “We shall see who the stronger man is, Curry. You cannot win. I have you for life, how long your life is remains to be seen.”
The heavyset older guard, Riggs, barked out the order to get dressed. The new inmates wasted little time donning the ill-fitting coarse clothing. During that time, one of the younger guards went over to a small closet off the main prisoner supply room and retrieved a set of leg irons.
Kid could hear the guard come up from behind him as a curt, “Stand still prisoner L1314,” was shouted. Iron shackles connected by a heavy strong eighteen inch chain were locked around Kid’s ankles.
Captain of the guard Munch took pleasure in announcing, “Prisoner L1314, you are subject to maximum security measures.”
Munch came to stand right in the Kid’s face, leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Get used to them Curry, you’re going to be a broken, useless creature before you’ll go around unchained.” With that Munch stepped back and roared, “Line up.”
With considerable prodding with the three guard’s sturdy wooden handles of the small but fearsome leather lash they carried the new inmates of the Wyoming Territorial Prison formed a line, right hand on the man in front’s shoulder, heads down. Upon the command to “move out”, they started to walk in awkward lock-step out the now unlocked iron barred gate opposite the wooden door from which they entered.
The little procession made their way slowly through a dingy whitewashed corridor in silence except for the clinking and scraping of Kid’s leg irons. They stopped before another heavy iron barred gate. Riggs used a key from the ring chained to his belt to unlock the gate, and they entered a small enclosed space. He turned and relocked it.
One of the younger guards rang a bell on the wall summoning a guard from the hallway directly in front of them. The iron portal to the first floor North cellblock was opened. Miller and Tedmen were separated from Kid and escorted by two of the guards along with the cellblock guard down the long dim hall of the North Wing.
The remaining guard, Riggs, pushed Kid to follow Munch through the now opened gate to the North stairs. The three ascended two flights of stairs to the third floor, with Kid stumbling over the chains once or twice, until they reached the uppermost prison cell block floor. A waiting guard opened the portal gate and shoved the Kid into and down the long iron walkway.
Curry looked neither right nor left. He didn’t want to see his immediate future through the small square openings in iron cell doors or glimpse lost freedom through the narrow windows. The thud of heavy footsteps and the clinking of chains on the iron walkway seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet of the cellblock. The last cell door stood open, number 314; Kid’s eyes focused on the iron grill and knew his destination was imminent. A hard push inside caused him to stager momentarily as the heavy door shut with a resounding clang. It echoed endlessly in the silence of his mind as he took in his immediate surroundings. Kid actively controlled his breathing, tried to slow and steady it, in an effort to halt the rising bile up into his throat and calm the sense of anxiety overtaking him.
“Home sweet home, “thought Kid sarcastically as anger replaced fear when his eyes surveyed the small space.
The cell was superficially clean, small and narrow about seven feet by four feet, with an arched ceiling. A checkerboard pattern of light and shadow spread across the floor echoing the pattern of the cell door. A narrow metal cot covered by a thin straw mattress was against the wall. Piled on the cot was folded gray linens consisting of one threadbare towel, one small washcloth, two sheets, one pillowcase, one thin wool blanket and one lumpy pillow. Kid picked up the pillow, held it close to his nose briefly and confirmed to his dismay that the pillow was the source of the undesirable strong smell of lye mixing with lingering vomit that pervaded the space adding to the general malodor characteristic of all jails and prisons.
A small wooden stand in the corner held a small wooden bucket of water, a dented tin basin and the bottom shelf of the stand held a chipped enamel chamber pot with an ill-fitting lid. He hung the towel and washcloth from two pegs on the side of the stand. Curry made up the “bed” then sank slowly down on it. Sitting with elbows on his knees, his fingers sought to rake through his curls and instead felt unfamiliar smoothness as his head dropped into his hands. Kid Curry willed himself into numbness as the shadows crept deeper into the now occupied cell.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Chapter Two - Unwelcome Shift in Plan
August 1883
Hannibal Heyes was sitting in a nice comfortable train club car feeling very pleased with himself. Life was good. The wound in his side had healed and he felt good as new. There hadn’t been a whiff of recognition anywhere from anyone. He had money in his pocket, food in stomach, good whiskey in his hand and in a short while he would join what he anticipated would be a profitable poker game. He couldn’t wait to be reunited with his partner to share the good fortune and perhaps a little teasing.
The ride from Denver ensuring safe delivery of valuable porcelains to a wealthy rancher in Texas couldn’t have gone smoother. With $500 in pay burning a hole in Heyes’ pocket the ex-outlaw decided to take up his employer’s offer to round out a poker game. He wound up at staying an extra two days before heading back to Wyoming. The diversion proved profitable adding about $2,500 in poker winnings to the till. Heyes smiled, dimples in evidence, at the thought he didn’t even need the coin toss to avoid the long dusty days in the saddle moving a herd of horses. The dimples disappeared as the smile melted away to be replaced by a frown of concern. Heyes just realized he didn’t send a telegram to the Kid who was probably worrying about the delay. With the way his partner’s mood has been lately that could be a problem.
Heyes stared out the window at the passing monotonous landscape in contemplation of the puzzle of Kid Curry. His partner’s morose mood concerned Heyes. He understood the guilt Kid felt, despite Heyes’ protestations of the contrary, about the bullet wound in Heyes’ side. He also knew Kid didn’t take life, regardless of the circumstance, without it weighing heavily on Curry’s soul, though Kid tried to deny the emotional toll. His normally laconic but active partner had become uncharacteristically introspective, still and uncommunicative for far too long.
The incident at Impasse Mountain needed to be put firmly in the past, once and for all. What was needed was a Hannibal Heyes Plan to restore Kid Curry’s normal amiable disposition. Perhaps a trip to San Francisco and a visit to Soapy or Silky would do the trick. They had the money to enjoy the delights of the city for a short while; delights that would take the Kid’s mind off his troubles, women, good food, low stakes enjoyable poker for Kid and high stakes profitable poker for Heyes. After all, he did the thinking in this partnership, not the Kid! Heyes felt a sudden urgent need to return to Porterville.
The pleasant diversion of the poker game on the train failed to distract Heyes’ thoughts for long. As the train rolled on, Heyes felt irrationally anxious. Worry was in full flower when the train stopped at a little town on the Wyoming border for a two-hour layover. He needed to see the Kid. Heyes waited impatiently for the train to come to a stop before jumping off. He wanted to send a telegram to Thaddeus Jones, he should have sent one earlier when he knew he would be returning later than planned.
The train platform was unnaturally crowded with a large amount of people who all seemed to talking or shouting at once. Most of the commotion was concentrated in the center of the waiting area. As Heyes walked over to cautiously investigate he saw a newsboy holding aloft a paper; the remainder rapidly disappearing at his feet.
“EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT. HANNIBAL HEYES GETS AMNESTY, KID CURRY GETS LIFE IN PRISON!”
The brown-haired ex-outlaw stopped dead in his tracks his heart hammering in his chest. “What, amnesty, prison, I couldn’t have heard that right,” he whispered to himself. Heyes became aware of snippets of conversation around him.
“I always heard that Hannibal Heyes was a charming man.”
“An intelligent man like Heyes deserves a second chance.”
“Curry’s a killer, life imprisonment is too good for him; a rope is what he needs.”
“Once a thief, always a thief.”
“Who got the reward on the Kid?”
“Some guy named Joshua Smith. The reporter couldn’t locate him for an interview. Probably out spending all that money.”
“I guess the rumors were true, they have been going straight.”
“I read Curry killed two outlaws just like him not too long ago. He couldn’t have been going too straight.”
Heyes forced himself to move. To approach the newsboy and buy a paper. He forced himself to look down at the headline. Sounds faded around Heyes. He stood immobile clutching the paper tightly in two hands. Eyes focused on the large black and white headline. He struggled to read the words. People jostled him, pushed him away from the newsboy. Color drained from his face as comprehension set in. His knees felt weak. He needed to sit down. Heyes turned, walked shakily to a bench and dropped down.
“Kid, Kid, what in the hell happened? How come I’m a free man and you’re...” Heyes couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.
Hannibal Heyes sat on the railroad station bench stunned. He looked around and spied the telegraph desk. Jumping up, paper still held tightly in one hand, Heyes walked quickly over to send a telegram.
To: Sheriff Trevors, Porterville Wyoming. Stop. TJ. Stop. How, What, When? Stop. JS
The reply came even before Heyes could establish a good pacing pattern round the station floor.
To: JS. Stop Urgent. Stop. Return to Porterville immediately. Stop. Do not do anything. Stop. Lom
Heyes wished that horses with wings really existed.
_______________________________________________________________________
“Congratulations Heyes on the amnesty you have worked so hard and for so long to achieve,” Lom quietly said as he held up his glass to toast Heyes. Heyes automatically brought the glass to his lips but his eyes fixed on the items neatly arranged on and along the sideboard in the adjoining room. Floppy brown hat with silver conches banded around it, stained packed leather saddle bags, envelopes, the number couldn’t be seen exactly, sheepskin coat perched on top of a bedroll standing on its side and, most disturbingly, a well worn brown leather gun belt and perfectly balanced impeccably clean Colt 45.
“Lom, start talking. Kid…” Heyes started in his leader of the gang voice.
“Heyes, sit down and listen, let me finish before you flatten me,” replied Lom in his no nonsense sheriff’s voice.
Lom talked and Heyes listened. Whiskey was poured repeatedly. Heyes paced, sat, and paced again. What should have been a joyous occasion held all the somberness of a funeral. Lom finished his tale and Heyes asked his questions. Lom handed Heyes three envelopes from the sideboard and left the room. Heyes opened the first and barely glanced at the amnesty papers. He threw the bounty money on the table in disgust and anger. The final envelope held several sheets of paper covered with Kid’s scrawl. Heyes’ hands shook as he held the sheets up to the light.
“Han. I don’t have your silver tongue and your way with words but I need to tell you things that never get said. I need you to understand…”
Hannibal Heyes stood staring out the window at nothing. For the first time since he was twelve years old silent tears flowed freely down his face, unstoppable. He hadn’t felt this loved since another lifetime as the enormity of his partner’s sacrifice sank in. However, he never felt this lost and alone before in his entire life. His gazed refocused from the dark night to the reflection in the glass. How many times, Heyes wondered, had he stood looking out a window or in a mirror and had seen his partner’s image? Talked to the reflected image before turning around and sharing a thought, a worry or a plan? No longer would Kid’s comforting steady presence be behind him. Hannibal Heyes wanted nothing more than to turn time back.
Heyes finally shuddered and made an effort to pull himself together. He needed a plan, a Hannibal Heyes Plan. Tomorrow he would start to plan for the rest of his life. The rest of his life included sharing it with his lifelong best friend, cousin and partner, Jedediah Curry. Heyes turned from the window and went in search of Lom.
nm131 |
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| Penski | Comments for TERMS: Part Two - Alone | 1 | Sep 3 2009, 5:26 PM EDT by missyblu | ||
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Thread started: Sep 2 2009, 1:19 AM EDT
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Oh Nell (wiping away the tears), your story was so full of angst and emotions! Poor Kid...poor Heyes! I hope you can get them together again. Dang it, Kid! This is why Heyes does the thinkin' and not you!
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