The Face In The Window

I love this month's challenge and I hope you do too. It's a real bunny prodder.

   


"A long car ride with nothing to do but think. The face in the window."

You can make that a railway car, just make it a long ride, set it in their old age, the possibilities are endless and what can you do with a face at the window? Will they be looking in or looking out? I can't wait to find out!

GO!   

Does this mean the sentence has to be used verbatim in the challenge, or is it just for inspiration, from which we can draw elements?

Hi Remuda, it is inspiration for you to draw on, embroider, play with, or do anything which maximizes the creativity or fun.  Please feel free to take what works and run with it.   

I'm cheating again and falling back onto an excerpt from 'Twist Of Fate'.  Life is biting me this month so I'm not sure if I'll be writing an original for this challenge.  I will if I get the chance.  In the mean time, this one is just for old time's sake.  Enjoy.


The small group of men left the sheriff’s office and then headed across the street towards the train station.  Heyes had expected to see horses waiting for them outside, or at least a coach.  It had not occurred to him that they might be leaving town by train and in the middle of the night at that.  David was not going to be pleased.

 Morrison knew what he was about as they were not standing on the platform for much more than five minutes when the lantern for the train engine could be seen steadily making its way towards them.  It hissed and chugged its way up to the platform and carried on past the small group of men as it slowly came to a halt alongside the station.  There was no one else around and the steam coming up from the engine into the cool night air gave the platform an eerie almost ghostly atmosphere as the conductor approached the four men carrying his own shimmering lantern.

 “You Sheriff Morrison?”

 “That’s right.  Is everything arranged?”

 “Yup.  Just climb aboard this car right here.  Your seats are at the back of the car, left hand side.”  Then he gave Heyes a suspicious look. “You sure your prisoner’s secure?  We got families with children on board here.  Don’t really understand why you got to transport him by passenger train anyways.”

 “Because nobody would expect it, that’s why,”  grumbled Morrison.  “And don’t worry about him, he won’t be causing any trouble.  Will you Heyes?”

 Heyes smiled innocently.  “Not me, Sheriff.”

 “Well, okay.”   The conductor clearly wasn’t too happy with the situation, but he waved them on board anyways and went about his own business of managing the train.

 The small group stepped on board and entering the dimly lit passenger car slowly made their way down the isle towards the seats that had clearly been reserved just for them.  Mike went first, with Heyes then Morrison and finally Jack bringing up the rear.  Morrison kept his hand in the middle of Heyes’ back, partly to keep him moving, but mainly to constantly be re-enforcing the pecking order to ensure that Heyes never forgot who was in charge.

 After the cool night air outside, coming in to the confined space of the passenger car was like stepping into a warm encompassing blanket.  The after-shock and weariness that had begun to settle over Heyes once he had been left alone in his cell now doubled its intensity and he felt his knees wanting to give way beneath him.  He gave a quick glance at the sleeping passengers and his weary eyes lighted onto a young boy to his left who was snoozing in his father’s arms.  There was something familiar about him, as though Heyes were looking back into his own past and he was looking at himself.

 Heyes felt what?  Remorse?  Regret?  Or was it just plain self-pity at the sight of the youngster?  He couldn’t be any more than eight or ten years old.  Right around the same age he had been when his own life had started to go so wrong.  The lad was small, and so young, nestled there safe in his father’s arms. Heyes felt the years fall away so that once distant memories loomed before his mind's eye and caused his throat to tighten with forgotten emotions.  He wouldn’t have been much different from this boy when his own father had been so violently taken from him.  How could a small boy that age take on the weight of the world and not be damaged by it?  And yet Heyes could remember not thinking of himself as a small frightened boy, but as the man of the ‘house’ now. As the older cousin whom Jed could look up to and depend upon and young Hannibal thought he was doing right.

 Then the boy looked up and met Heyes’ eyes, bringing the outlaw back to the present.  What was that in the child’s eyes?  Fear or awe?  Or maybe a mixture of both.  Heyes wanted to put the lad at his ease, to let him know he had nothing to be afraid of.  He quietly smiled at the boy and did the best he could to give him a little wave with a shackled hand.  The boy ducked down, but couldn’t bring himself to look away.  Then Heyes was past him and the contact was broken.

 Heyes was directed into the middle set of seats and was actually grateful to be able to sit down and get settled in.  To his bruised and aching body the cushioned seats were like a warm well-padded woman’s soft embrace.

 Exhaustion threatened to take him over, yet he was afraid to close his eyes not wanting to yet again relive the nightmare of the previous day’s events.

 Morrison had taken another set of manacles from Jack and, kneeling down in front of Heyes’ seat, snapped the leg irons around the outlaws ankles, then taking the length of chain attached to the cuffs, wrapped it around the metal bar under the seat and then brought the loose end up and attached it to the leather belt that was cinched around Heyes’ waist.  He was most definitely secured.  He didn’t care; he was so tired.

 Mike settled in beside Heyes, and Jack slid into the seats behind them. Jack hadn’t had much chance to get much sleep, having taken the first watch with Curry.  Now, it seems it was finally his turn to catch a nap.  Mike made a point of keeping his rifle handy.  Morrison sat down in the window seat in front of Heyes and didn’t look like he was planning on sleeping any either.  Then, from over Morrison’s shoulder Heyes made contact again with the wide open brown eyes of that same youngster.  The outlaw was still being scrutinized.

 Heyes acknowledged the boy again and sent him another quiet smile.  Then the lad did something that to Heyes seemed very prophetic; he pulled out his little toy hand gun, took aim at the prisoner and pretended to be shooting at him.  Heyes’ smile deepened for an instant.  It wasn’t because he thought the boy’s actions were amusing, on the contrary, he found them tragic.  Tragic and symbolic of a life gone wrong.

 Heyes broke the contact this time and turned to look out the window as the train jerked slightly and began moving again. Once they got past the station, the night sky was so dark there really wasn’t anything to look at and Heyes found himself staring into the dark brown eyes of his own reflection.  Worried stared back at him.  Worry and sadness and…defeat?  No, not defeat.  Even in his state of exhaustion he was not willing to concede defeat. Acceptance maybe.  Jesse had been right again;  there were going to be difficult times ahead but maybe it was time to face up to them, maybe it was time to stop running.

  Heyes sighed.  Is this how it was going to end?  All those years of avoiding the law and now he was ironically on a train, being taken back to Wyoming to stand trial for…how many crimes?  Maybe Heyes needed to look at this from another point of view.  If this was the end of his life as a fugitive, didn’t that also mean that it could be the beginning of his life as a free man?  Turn a negative into a positive, isn’t that what he was supposed to be good at?  But Curry was right, Heyes was a cynic and he couldn’t block out the other possibility either; that it could also mean the beginning of his life as a convict.

 And so it begins—one way or another.

 The train was picking up speed and the clackity clack of the wheels along with the rhythmic rocking of the car was having a mollifying affect on Heyes and the exhausted eyes of the reflection gazing back at him began to glaze over.  He started to lean forward, to remove his hat but was again instantly halted by the sharp pain in his ribcage.  He asked Mike if he would be so kind as to remove the hat for him.  Mike obliged, but then gave the hat and hatband another quick inspection before plunking it onto Heyes’ lap.  Morrison had been quite adamant in his instructions.

 Heyes had never thought about putting a lock pick inside his hat.  Maybe because it was too obvious.  Still that might be a good idea for future reference, if only…..he could…utilize…that….

 Then just when Heyes wasn’t thinking about it, sleep snuck up from behind and put his troubled mind to rest.

Salt tears still hung round the impossibly long eye lashes.  The nose was crusty, but had thankfully stopped running and blowing bubbles.  The cheeks were cherry red, but cooling gently as he sucked on some candy cane, gazing trustfully up into clear, blue eyes.

Kid Curry had gently tried to prise the little hand from his index finger, but the toddler had an iron grip.  He would not be moved; not to Maggie who bustled around and who was built for maternity or to Heyes, who looked on with an expression of mirth, sympathy and interest.  The boy had taken to Kid and that was that.

“The Mom can’t be far.  I’ve sent Tobias out searching.”  Maggie sounded reassuring.  “Poor woman must be frantic by now.  You wormed a name outta the little pickin’s yet?”

Curry shook his head, looking down at the well-dressed toddler.  The thought crossed his mind how proud his mother must have been at how neat, shiny and clean he would have been this morning; but that was before his big adventure, and long before the lost child wandered crying into the cookhouse.
 
A tired and dusty Little Pickins stopped sucking the candy just long enough to take a swallow from the milk Maggie had placed before him, still keeping a rictus grip on Curry’s finger.  The Kid helped him manoeuvre the small cup to the rosebud, sticky mouth.  Watched him drink then placed it safely back on the table.

The thought of how natural his partner looked hit Heyes like a ton of bricks.  There were suddenly undreamt futures stretching out ahead of them.  Maggie meanwhile was watching the little scene from behind the cookhouse counter.  She arched an eyebrow, smiled a half smile, but she kept her thoughts, tinged with reflection and remorse to herself.

The gunman tried again.  “What’s your name?”

A drowsy, sticky, little face tilted up and focussed intensely upon the questioning blue eyes.   “I’m Harry, Harold when I’ve been bad.”
 
The partners grinned.  “Have you been bad?” Heyes asked.

The child sniffed, sucking back a nasal drip.  “Yeah.  I got lost.  Momma’ll be mad at me. ” 

Harry’s head gently sunk into Curry’s chest; both of them breathing low and even until the exhausted boy slept.  Even in sleep, the child maintained the vice-like grip on the Kid’s hand, all the while accommodated in a strong circling arm.  Heyes looked from one face to another.  His cousin had hardly spoken and his gaze virtually never left the boy.  The tenderness was palpable.  Heyes shook himself, what was he feeling now?  Confusion, envy?

He was rocked from his thoughts by the face of woman appearing at the window, tear-stained and wide-eyed.  As her eyes adjusted to the light her hunting gaze fell on the infant.  Fear and desperation changed to disbelief, flipped into recognition, relief and finally elation.  “My baby!” 

The small tousled head awoke briefly; he smiled sleepily and finally let go of the gunman’s finger.  “Momma.”

“I was fit to burst,” the woman blinked back tears from glittering eyes, “mad with worry, almost hysterical.   I’ve been everywhere  and anywhere.  I just turned round for a minute and he had wandered off.”  She clutched her firstborn to her breast.  “I don’t know how he got here.  He’ll follow anyone and then go off looking at ponies or puppies or some such.  What am I going to do with you, Harry?”

“Not Harold, huh?” the Kid chuckled.

“Thank you so much for looking after him,” she bustled out, cuddling her tear-stained precious cargo.

Curry wiped away dribble and the flakes of candy cane with a sigh. 

“You alright?” Heyes asked, his voice low.

“Yeah, I figure I’m just gonna get some air and tend to the horses.”  Heavy blue eyes tossed a glance, but there was depth behind the nonchalance. 

Heyes frowned.  “Ya want some company?”

“Nah, I guess sometimes all you can change is the scene, huh?  Ya gotta work instead of thinkin’.”  The Kid shook his head.  “Maybe I need to tend the horses, or maybe they need me.  Who knows, but I guess we’ll work it out, huh?”



I took an 'executive decision' to only focus on the 'face in the window' bit, but just like the boys, I bend the rules on occasion...

Missing scene from "Wrong Train to Brimstone." A lot happened after the train left the station.

-----

“This better be good, Barnes.”

The young man swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, but he didn’t back down.

“It is, Deputy. You need to come and talk to these two.”

The imposing older man restrained a sigh. So much for dinner.

“Alright, boy. You better tell me”.

Fifteen minutes later, they entered the sheriff’s office. Two middle-aged men jumped up from their chairs.

“These are the two the janitor found tied up in the men’s necessary at the train station, sir.”

“I kind of figured that, Barnes,” he responded drily. He shook hands with both men.

“Gentlemen, I’m Deputy Wade Sawyer. I’m the Acting Sheriff here in Bramberg. Deputy Barnes already told me a bit on the way over here, but why don’t one of you give me your story.”

“Deputy, there ain’t time for a story. I’m Carl Grant, and this here is my partner Fred Gaines. We’re detectives with the George Bannerman Detective Agency. You got to get that telegraph office open again so we can send a telegram to Harry Briscoe in Brimstone. He’s running the Bannerman operation on the gold train. We got to tell him there’s two men pretending to be us on that train.”

“Slow down, Grant. I don’t got to do anything until you convince me you’re really Bannerman men.”

“Here’s our identification Deputy Sawyer,” Gaines said. “This proves we’re certified agents from the Fort Worth office. George Bannerman himself had us come here to Bramberg to help protect the gold train. If we can’t reach Mr. Briscoe when the train stops at Brimstone, the whole gold shipment could be in danger.”

“I know about the gold train,” Sawyer said, casually sitting down on one corner of his desk, giving the identifications cards only a quick look before returning them to Gaines and Grant. “Everybody seems to. Poor security, I’d say. That don’t sound like the way Bannerman operates.”

“It is in this case, Deputy,” Gaines insisted. “We made sure the word got out. Me and Grant here, along with other top agents, we set a trap for the Devil’s Hole Gang. We want them to attack the train. When they do, we’ll be ready.”

“The Devil’s Hole Gang,” Sawyer said, thoughtfully.

“No doubt you’re familiar with them, Deputy.”

“More than you know, Mr. Gaines.”  Sawyer held up one hand in a stop gesture when Grant started to talk again. “Give me a minute here, Mr. Grant.”

Sawyer turned abruptly to the young man waiting nervously behind him. “Barnes. You’re so good at getting people over here. Find Homer Thatcher and Al Farrington and bring them here. Thatcher first. He’s probably bending his elbow at the saloon.” Barnes nodded and almost ran out the door, slamming it loudly behind him. Sawyer winced at the noise and turned his attention back to the two anxious men before him.

“Thatcher’s the railroad ticket agent. He’ll verify whether or not you were on the list Bannerman provided.”

“I appreciate your caution, Deputy,” Gaines said, “but we’re awful short on time. We need that telegram sent.”

“Farrington’s the telegraph office manager. If I believe your story, which I don’t yet, I’ll have him send the telegraph to Brimstone.”

“What don’t you believe, Deputy Sawyer?” Grant asked. “We gave you our identification.”

“Identification can be forged or stolen,” Sawyer replied. “Especially when the Devil’s Hole Gang may be involved. And frankly, the way you were found, all hog-tied nice and neat in the men’s necessary, isn’t exactly the way I normally meet Bannerman agents.”

Grant’s and Gaines’ expressions shifted between embarrassment and anger.

“I’ll admit that tonight’s not our finest moment as Bannerman agents,” Grant said. “We were completely surprised by those two.”

“Not completely,” Gaines argued. “I had my gun pointed at ‘em.”

“You were holding a gun on them?” Sawyer asked, his voice full of doubt. “And they still got the drop on you? Gentlemen, gentlemen. And you want me to believe that you’re not only Bannerman agents, but so good that George Bannerman wanted you special.” Sawyer shook his head, as if he were sad. A deep red flush grew on the faces of both agents.

“Not our best day for sure,” Gaines admitted. “But it doesn’t alter the facts, Deputy Sawyer. There’s two men on the gold train, pretending to be us.”

“How is that a problem? A train full of Bannerman detectives, two strangers will be spotted right away. Unless they look just like you.”

“They don’t look like us, but this job’s pulling agents from all the major offices. We’ve never met any of them.”

“So even if I let you send a telegram to Briscoe, he won’t be able to verify who you are, or who they are?”

The deep red flush on the agents’ faces got deeper. “Afraid so, Deputy.”

“You two are in a world of hurt, aren’t you?”

“Deputy Sawyer,” Grant said, “You’ve got to believe us. This is our best chance to get the Devil’s Hole Gang, and especially Heyes and Curry. Don’t you want them out of your hair, once and for all?”

“More than you know,” Sawyer told them. “I had a run-in with Heyes and Curry in Kingsburg not too long ago. My wife’s heard me go on so much about them two, she laughs at me and calls me their nemesis.” He noticed the confusion on the agents’ faces. “Nemesis was one of them old Greek gods. The agent of justice or vengeance. My wife’s a reader.”

“Now you  got me curious, Deputy,” Grant said. “Sounds like you know them well.”

“Too well. If I ever see them two again, I’ll put them in the ground myself.”

Both Gaines and Grant stood up a little straighter.

“You’d know them on sight, Deputy?” Gaines asked.

“Sure would. I’ve been as close to them as I am to you right now.” The agents exchanged glances.

“What?” Sawyer asked.

“I wish we’d known that beforehand. One of our agents, Jeremiah Daly, he found a girl who says she knows Heyes and Curry. She’s the ace up our sleeve.”

“You mean she’s on the train?” The two agents nodded.

“When the gang attacks, she’s supposed to point out Heyes and Curry, so we can be sure to aim the gatling gun direct at them.”

“This train’s got a gatling gun?” Sawyer was impressed in spite of himself.

“Sure does. The Bannerman organization’s going to put every one of the Devil’s Hole Gang down. Especially Heyes and Curry.”

Sawyer whistled a slow, long whistle. “Well. That’s something.” He looked at his reluctant guests with more respect. “I sure hope your story pans out, gentlemen. Because nothing’d please me more to see Heyes and Curry in pine boxes.”

The door burst open suddenly. A dishevelled man in a railroad conductor’s suit stumbled over the threshold. He was pushed into the room none too gently by Barnes.

“I found Homer at the saloon, Deputy, just like you said.”

“Good job, Barnes. Now go get Farrington. Homer, sit down before you fall down.” The railroad agent fell heavily into a chair. He wiped his face with a crumpled handkerchief. The other mens’ noses wrinkled at the strong smell of beer that emanated from Thatcher.

“How much you had to drink tonight, Homer?” Sawyer asked.

“What do you care? I’m off duty, and I paid for my own drinks.”

“In case you ain’t noticed, Homer, I got two guests here besides you.” Thatcher looked up reluctantly into two familiar faces.

“How come you two ain’t on the train?” Thatcher asked.

“There you go, Sheriff! That confirms our story,” Grant said.

“Homer. You recognize these two?”

“Sure do, Deputy.”

“Where’d you see ‘em last?”

“At the ticket office tonight. They had reservations for the special train. I gave them their tickets.”

“You see anybody else who didn’t have reservations?”

Thatcher shrugged dismissively and tried to rise. Sawyer leaned forward and put a firm hand on Thatcher’s shoulder, shoving him hard back into the chair.

“Be real clear, Homer. Leastways, clear as you can be when you get off-duty. Did anyone else try to buy tickets for the special train tonight?”

Thatcher looked resentfully at the firm hand pinning. “My memory ain’t so good when someone’s tryin’ to push me around.”

“You ever hear of obstruction of justice, Homer?” Sawyer asked. “That’s a criminal offense. That’s when an officer of the law, like me, is trying to do an investigation, and some damn fool, like you, tries to be a pain in the ass. That railroad you work for ain’t gonna be too happy when it finds out you didn’t do your closing rounds like you should have done anyway. ‘Cause if you had, you’d’ve found these two Bannerman detectives right quick.”

“I didn’t know they was Bannermans,” Thatcher whined.

“You weren’t supposed to,” Grant said. “Answer Deputy Sawyer’s question.”

“Yeah. There was two young fellers. They wanted real bad to buy tickets. I told ‘em, the train was full up. That’s when these two, Grant and Gaines, they come in, and I checked the reservation list. They was on the list, so I sold them tickets. Soon as they left, them other two came back, wanting to know why they got tickets. I said, ‘cause they had reservations. The dark-haired one, he was doing all the talking, he says, ‘fine, sell us a reservation.’ I told him, sorry, the train’s all sold out. I turned away just for a minute, and they was gone. I figured they left.”

“That’s better, Homer. Now tell me what these two looked like. You saw ‘em real close-up.”

“I sure did. Both maybe late 20’s. Clean-cut. Both of them maybe just under six foot tall.”

“Good, Homer,” Sawyer urged. He glanced over at the Bannerman agents and noticed both looked grim.

“This description sound familiar to you men?”

“Sure does.”

“Go on, Homer. Hair color. Eye color. What they wore. Were they heeled?”

“I’ll remember better if you unhand me, Deputy.” Sawyer released the man’s shoulder.

“The dark-haired one, brown hair, brown eyes. Black hat with silver studs on the hat band, brown corduroy jacket. The other one, he never said a word. Brown hat, leather jacket. Curly blonde hair, I think, but hard to say with his hat on. Blue eyes. And yeah, now that you mention it, both of them wore guns.”

“Gaines, Grant, you got any more questions for this man?”

“I do,” Gaines said. “What did you do after the train left the station?”

“I locked up and walked over to the saloon. That’s where I been since.”

“Alright, Homer, you can go now,” Sawyer told him.

“I can?”

“Yep. In fact, if you ain’t out of here in about 30 seconds, I might kick you out.”

“I’m goin.” He paused at the door. “Deputy, you ain’t gonna tell the railroad about me not checking the washroom before I left are you?”

“I’ll think about it. Now skedaddle.”

After the door closed, Sawyer turned to the unhappy agents.

“Boys, I’m starting to believe you.”

“All that man did was confirm we gave him names that were on the list,” Grant said. “How come you believe us now?”

“Because of that description.” Grant and Gaines looked puzzled. “You don’t get it, do you? It’d be funny if it weren’t so tragic. That description fits Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry a hundred percent.” Disbelief and shock showed on the agents’ faces.

“That’s the tragic part. Here you are, all fired-up to get on that gold train to catch Heyes and Curry, and you could’ve caught them in the washroom. Gaines, you even had them at gunpoint. Twenty thousand dollars in the washroom with you, and you never knew it.”

The door slammed open again. This time, Barnes escorted an elderly man, who stepped carefully over the threshold. Sawyer got up and shook his hand.

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Farrington, but it looks like I’m going need you to reopen the telegraph office right now and send an emergency message to Brimstone.”

“You know I’m always willing to help out, Deputy Sawyer. Least as much as these old bones let me.”
Sawyer opened a desk drawer and pulled out a pad of paper. “Mr. Farrington, one of these gentlemen is going to dictate a message for you to send to the railroad office in Brimstone. Why don’t you sit down in my chair so it’s easier for you to write?”

“I’ll dictate,” Grant said. He waited until the old man was settled in the chair, pen poised above the paper. “To Mr. Harry Briscoe. Men claiming to be Grant and Gaines are impostors. Arrest them immediately. And sign that Fred Gaines and Carl Grant, Bannerman Agency.” The old man wrote quickly and read the message back to make sure it was right.

“You satisfied, gentlemen? Barnes,” Sawyer said, “you escort Mr. Farrington to the telegraph office. Make sure you wait for a reply. Then bring it back here right away.”

“Will do, Deputy. This way, if you please, Mr. Farrington.” Barnes offered his arm to Farrington, who gratefully took it to pull himself out of the chair.

“Don’t worry, Deputy,” Farrington said. “I know the operator in Bramberg. He’s a good man. He’ll make sure the conductor on that train gets the telegram.”

“Good. Do it.” No one spoke until the two left.

“Why didn’t you mention Heyes or Curry in that message?” Sawyer asked.

“Not necessary,” Grant replied. “All that matters now is that they’re taken into custody.”

“Besides,” Gaines added, “all hell might break loose if a lot of people knew $20,000 was walking around in front of them. Even that responsible telegrapher in Bramberg could decide to take it upon himself to arrest them and claim the money for himself. No, it’s safer for everyone if they don’t know they’re facing Heyes and Curry.”

“I see your point, but I don’t agree with you. Those two are smart and dangerous. Better to have everyone alerted. Else they’ll get the jump on folks the same way they did on you.”

“No, they won’t, Deputy. They had the advantage of surprise. They won’t get that again.”

Sawyer only grunted. “Have it your way.” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Shouldn’t be too long a wait. You might as well sit down and get comfortable. I’ll make us some coffee.”

The minutes passed slowly. Gaines and Grant sat tensely in their chairs, sipping the bitter coffee and checking their pocket watches almost minute to minute. Rather than watch the clock, Sawyer decided to do a little paperwork. He was thumbing through a file drawer when some sixth sense made him look up. Barnes was outside, looking at him through the window. Sawyer’s mouth opened to say something, but Barnes shook his head. Sawyer pushed the file drawer closed carefully.

The two agents were staring off into space, ignoring him. Slowly, Sawyer reached for his gun. He unhooked the safety on his holster and patted the gun for reassurance. Looking at Barnes again, Sawyer flicked his eyes towards the agents and pointed to his own gun. He mouthed silently “come in.”

Barnes came in quietly. Grant and Gaines almost jumped out of their seats. Standing behind them, Sawyer drew his gun and pointed it at their backs.

“Did you get a reply, boy?” Gaines asked. Barnes’ eyes drifted past him towards Sawyer.

“Easy now, Grant, Gaines. If those are your names.” Their jaws dropped comically when they saw Sawyer’s Colt pointed steadily at them.

“Take your guns out, gentlemen. Slow, one finger, and put them careful-like on my desk.”

“Deputy Sawyer, what are you doing?” Grant demanded. “I thought you said you were starting to believe us.”

“Starting to,” Sawyer replied, “but not there yet. Guns on the desk, then you sit down again. Hands on the arms of your chairs, where I can see them.” The men complied, reluctantly.

“Now what?” Gaines said. Sawyer crossed over to his desk, his Colt steady in  his hand.

“I believe we do have a reply, gentlemen. Why don’t you read it, Barnes?” There was no sound in the room except the crinkling of paper as Barnes unfolded the telegram. He read out loud:

Men claiming to be Grant and Gaines are fugitives. Hold for my return. All my best, Harry Briscoe.

“That settles it. You’re going to be my guests here until Mr. Briscoe gets back.”

“There’s got to be a mistake,” Grant insisted. He was almost sputtering.

“No mistake,” Sawyer said. “Unless it was yours, trying to pass yourselves off as Bannermans. Barnes, you take one of their guns. We’re going to escort these two into the first cell, where they can settle in. You’ll stay here tonight with them, and I’ll relieve you in the morning.” The two demoralized agents wearily entered the first cell, shoulders sagging. They looked utterly defeated.

“Bannerman men. Huh. Nice try, fellas.” He tipped his hat to them and left quickly. If he got home soon, maybe Maggie would heat up some dinner for him.

The Face in The Window

She wore her weariness like a shroud of bible black.  The harshness of her existence had gnawed into her soul until her eyelids drooped and her thin shoulders hunched in defeat over the water boiling on the range.  This was her lot; the daily grind which quashed her spirit and crushed all hope until the only light at the end of the tunnel came from the candles on the alter; not that she could afford to light a candle herself, they cost a penny for six.  Sure, the Father dressed it up as a donation to make it sound all voluntary-like, but Mary had heard him grumbling about having to subsidize his flock when she was scrubbing one of the many floors which stood between her and total penury.  Hadn’t they ever heard the saying ‘poor as a church mouse?’  She had seen those mice as they played and scuttled off into the safety corners and crannies while she had to carry on working.  She envied them.



Mary straightened up, her reddened hands in the crook of her back as she stretched her out thin frame and stared at the dawn light creeping into through the cheap glass of the scullery window.  She froze.  Two men were leading horses out of the stable building at the back of the saloon looking around like hunted animals; not just any two men – they were Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry.  Her breath juddered to a halt.  Had they seen her?


Mary stepped back into the shadows.  For once the owner’s meanness had paid off and the lack of a lamp meant there was nothing to alert the outlaws to her presence; besides who would expect anyone to be cleaning latrines and floors in a saloon only a few hours after the drunks and gamblers corkscrewed their way home?  She sidled nervously over to the door and slid over the latch as quietly as her trembling fingers would allow.  What would they do if they knew the woman who had turned them in was no more than a few feet away?  They knew who she was; they had seen her at the sheriff’s office when she had desperately sought an advance on the reward money.


Seven Hours Earlier:


“It’s Mary Gifford ta see ya, sheriff.”


“Who?”


“That old drudge from the shack at the edge of town.”  The deputy looked her up and down.  “The one who always wonders why her husband up and left.”


“Yeah,” the burly man behind the desk guffawed heartily.  “She says he got so ding-swizzled he fell asleep in a freight car and ended up god knows where.   I never believed that.  He had to be stone-cold sober to walk out on her – only a man snake-bitten by the bottle’d go back to that hovel to a pinch-faced grunt and her snot-nosed fetch.”


Mary tugged at her worn shawl and tucked an unruly tendril of grey hair behind her ear.  “Sir,” she darted a nervous glance at the outlaws glaring at her through the bars.  “I wondered...” her voice dropped to an unintelligible whisper.


“Speak up!” the sheriff bellowed.  “I ain’t got all night.”


Mary swallowed hard.  “I ain’t been paid this week and things’ve been real hard.  I wondered if you could see your way clear to givin’ me an advance on the reward.”


The lawman’s belly rumbled with laughter as he sat back and propped his hells on the desk.  “An advance on what?”


“The reward, sir?  It was me who told you about them, who they was.  I was on a train they robbed.  I was lookin’ for my Jim.  Someone said he was in Grangeton and we was held up not three weeks ago on my way back ...”


“Reewaard,” the burly lawman rolled the word around in his mouth for comic effect.  “Did you see anythin’ that gave Musty Mary a call on that reward money, John?”

The deputy placed his hands on his hips.  “Nope.  In fact this is the first I saw of her all day.”


Mary’s eyes widened in outrage.  “You were right here.  Both of ya.  I came in and told ya they were in the hotel.  I saw them when I was collectin’ the laundry to take home.”


The sheriff’s lips narrowed to an unsavoury smirk.  “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Mary.  Now get outta here before I lock you up for disorderly conduct.”


“Disorderly conduct?”  Mary shook her head desperately.  “I never done nothin’.  All I did was tell ya they were in town.  I dun it because I needed the money.  I was desperate.”


“You’re on your last warnin’, Mary.  Now git!”


She tugged desperately against the deputy’s grasp as he manoeuvred her towards the door.   “You’re nuthin’ but cheats and liars.  All I want is a few dollars for some food.”


“Ya want food, Mary?” The sheriff stood, the legs of his chair scraping against the wooden floorboards, “there’s a pig bin at the back of the hotel.  Stop wastin’ your money lookin’ for that husband o’ yourn.  He’s gone.  He ain’t comin’ back.  I won’t warn ya again, git outta here, slut,” the sheriff snarled.  


“I ain’t a slut,” sniffed Mary.  “If’n I was I’d make more money than I do now.”


“Ya think?” the deputy laughed.  “Ya’d have to pay me, Mary.  You’re better off cleaning floors.”


“For cryin’ out loud, the woman’s clearly desperate,” all eyes turned to the blue eyes blazing through the bars.  “Come here, I got just over a dollar, you can have it.”


“Don’t take as much as one step towards him,” the deputy threw out an arm to block her way.


The sheriff shook his head in disbelief.  “Ya want to give money to the woman who turned you in?”    


“Well, it’s no use to us in here.  Is it?” growled Heyes.


“Ya got that right,” the sheriff stepped forward and pointed to the floor.  “Toss it over here.  This could be a trick to get me over to the bars.”

             
The Kid rolled his eyes and thrust his hand through the bars before dropping the coins on the floor with a clatter.  “There, and make sure she gets it.  You got enough comin’ to you.”


The sheriff paused.  “Is that a threat?  I ain’t scared of no Devil’s Hole Gang.”


“No?  We know she really turned us in but you’re doing the dirty on her, so I guess you get to take all the credit.  Remember that if you ever meet any of them.”  Mean dark eyes glowered at both lawmen over a cold smile.  “And you’re supposed to be the law, better than us?  Don’t make me laugh.”


“So you admit that you’re Heyes and Curry,” demanded the sheriff.


“I never admit anything, it makes things more interesting,” Heyes purred.  He gestured towards the money on the floor.  “Give it to her.”


“I ain’t scrabblin’ around on the floor, that’s her place,” came the snorted reply.  “Mary, get it if ya want it.  These idiots are payin’ ya for puttin’ them behind bars.”


She edged forward nervously before her calloused hand darted up to grab the prize.  She raised quizzical eyes towards the incarcerated men.  “Why?”


“Why?  Any man who treats a woman badly has forgotten where he came from,” the Kid gestured towards the lawmen, “either that or they grew right outta the dirt.”  He smiled weakly.  “Just go, ma’am.  We know what happened and we ain’t got hard feelin’s.  We understand.”

She dropped the coins into her saggy bosom, the metallic clanking giving away how much of the flesh had withered through years of want.  “I’m sorry.”


“We know,” the smile dimpled reassuringly.  “Just get outta here, huh?”


Back at the saloon : Dawn.


The gentle tap at the door made her heart judder.  A voice of dark velvet drifted through to her.  “Ma’am, we know you’re in there.  We saw you.  We need your word that you won’t do anything stupid."


“Just look down, Mary.”  She did as bid and followed the sound of scrabbling at the floor beneath her feet.  Cash; note after note appeared under the door.  “Don’t ask where it came from and spend it carefully.  Ya don’t want the Devil’s Hole Gang on your tail as well as the local law, do ya?”


The words tumbled from her lips through fear.  “No...Please.  I have a son.  I’m sorry.”


“Good, stay there and come out when it’s fully light.  You’ll find some more cash over by the horse trough.  Take some good advice and don’t flash it around.  Some of the local lawmen might be missin’ it.”


Mary, stood silently and watched the horses disappear from the yard before she shook herself back to reality and looked down at the cash in her hands.  Eleven dollars; not enough for her to risk her job; she lifted the pan from the range and poured it over the caustic soda in the galvanised bucket.  She had a floor to wash.


oooOOOooo


The saloon floor had been sluiced of all unnecessary and unmentionable waste; it was brushed, washed and fresh sawdust had been scattered for another day of indulgence before Mary made her way out to the brightening day.  Most of her floors needed to be done at the end of the day, but the saloon needed to be dealt with at its quietest time, which left her the day free to take in laundry.


Birds darted through the freshness of the new morning, celebrating life and fruitfulness as Mary made her way over to the horse trough.  A bandana sat exactly where she had been told to look, along with the large heavy ring bearing keys.  They looked suspiciously like the set that hung on the hook on the wall in sheriff’s office.


Her fingers peeled back the bandana as she glanced around the yard nervously.  Fifty dollars; a life changing amount, if she was careful; but it was obviously stolen.  She thought about handing it back as she turned the keys in her hands.

A long-dead light flared in her eyes.  This cash had probably come from the very lawmen who had tried to cheat her.  Oh, he was as clever as she’d heard, that Hannibal Heyes.  They had bought her compliance for about a dollar fifty of their own money.  It wasn’t loyalty, there had still been an underlying threat, but given a choice between the Devil’s  Hole Gang and the law; the outlaws had at least given her the chance of being treated with some modicum of respect.  


She dangled the key ring from her fingers; she had heard the sheriff boasting about how strong his cells were and it looked like he was about to test that first-hand .  Nobody could bust out of that jail and if the keys were lost the locksmith would have come from the next town to get the doors open.  How long would they be in there if she didn’t raise the alarm?  Twelve hours, a day or maybe more?  The shadow of an unfamiliar smile twitched at her lips; it had been a very long time since she’d had any kind of buffer against life’s vicissitudes and fifty dollars would go far if she kept working hard.


The risk of alerting anyone to the outlaws’ escape had been made clear.  The choice was easy.  Mary strode over to the well and tossed the keys into the inky blackness below.  She raised her face to feel the warmth of the morning sun and brushed back a tendril of grey hair.  What was it her mother used to say?  If there was enough blue in the sky to make a Dutchman a pair of trousers it would be a good drying day.  Yes, today she could make some money.                              
     



             



This one I will put in for polling, folks.  It's been ages since I played properly.