A SHORT WHILE LATER - TOWN SQUARE

In the background, a sharp-eyed observer will spot Acting-Sheriff Harker Wilkins beside the Founder’s statue, frowningly making repeated attempts at recreating the exact pose.

In the foreground, any observer, sharp-eyed or not, will see our two boys striding across the square towards the saloon.

“...All I’m saying is THIS way, anyone else thinks Wheat and the boys seem familiar, we have the perfect explanation. They seem familiar ‘cos they’re TRYING to look like the outlaws who blew the safe. Kinda a – a double bluff. You can’t deny it’s creative, Kid.”

“Bein’ creative don’t stop it havin’ one big problem... No, make that six, big, dumb problems. All of ‘em hangin’ ‘round town.”

“Where’s your sense of – of loyalty? Huh? Dontcha wanna do your old friends a favour? ‘Specially ‘round this season of goodwill?”

“Goodwill was the week afore last, Heyes.”

“Kid!” Heyes halts to turn and face his partner with a reproachful look fit to wring pity from Herod. (Not that Herod was noted for celebrating the season of goodwill in the right spirit, huh?)

A sceptical stare from Kid Curry. Tone utterly belying the words, he says, “Y’know Heyes – you got a real big heart.”

“Y’know, Kid,” Heyes pushes back his hat and drops his hands to his hips, “...You’re losing your trustin’ nature.”

“Uh huh? An’ – how trustin’ d’ya think Lom’s gonna feel when he gets back and finds we set the Devil’s Hole Gang runnin’ loose in his town?”

Heyes’ reaction conveys that Kid has a dang good point there. Still, the silver-tongued one is never struck dumb for long. “Kid, you gotta have...”

Heyes breaks off. A twitch of the head. Kid Curry follows his partner’s eye line. Isa Livilan and Miss Porter are heading their way.

“Mister Smith! Mister Jones!” trills the familiar feminine voice. “Wait!”

“Something wrong, ma’am?” asks Kid.

“Not wrong exactly. More a question of – too much of a good thing.”

Quizzical expressions.

“It seems Mister Livilan here has also been thinking about security on the night of the show.”

The quizzical expressions turn to the slick Deputy Manager.

“Not being aware that Miss Porter had already made arrangements to hire men capable of subduing any – er – rowdy elements, I have also sought suitable candidates. Naturally, I told them that the final decision rests with Miss Porter, but...” A smile and shrug from Livilan. “...I guess I’d feel bad about raising the hopes of a couple of men looking for work, then letting them down. They were working over at the Two-Ewe place, but they’ve been letting hands go through the winter.”

He glances back at the bank. There in the distance stand two figures, saddlebags slung over their shoulders, bedrolls still strapped to the horses loosely fastened to a rail beside them. Their hats are pulled down and collars pulled up against the January cold. One fella lifts his hands, blows on them. A flicker of empathy crosses the faces of Heyes and Curry. That could be them. A mute conversation.

“’Course it’s up to you, Miss Porter,” says Heyes, “But, if the budget’ll stretch, I don’t think having eight fellas cover security and being up on stage making a convincing show of a robbery’ll be too many.”

“Good!” she beams. “That’s my opinion too, but, I thought I ought to check with you before saying ‘yes’.”

“Thank you, Mister Smith,” smooths Livilan. One well-manicured hand beckons. The two waiting fellas come over and...

Recognition – and dang unpleasant recognition at that – dawns in blue and deep-brown eyes belonging to a pair of ex-outlaws.

Simultaneously recognition – and sudden wariness – dawns in another set of blue and deep-brown eyes belonging to the approaching cowboys.

It is Shields and Kane! The walk-offs!

Livilan gives a sharp glance from one duo to another. “Do you fellas know each other?”

“We – we mighta met,” admits Shields.

Kane, the shorter guy, shuffles his feet.

Silence. Tense silence. Tense silence with Kid Curry giving Shields one of his best icy stares.

“Is there some kinda history between you fellas? Because...” Livilan levels a piercing stare at Shields. “...If you two have somehow offended Mister Smith and Mister Jones, this might be a good time to make your peace and apologise.” Pause. “You want to apologise, don’t you, Shields?”

The voice no longer seems to belong to a Deputy Manager of a small town bank. Heyes shoots a curious, calculating look at the man who has suddenly transformed into a fella with a steely confidence in his ability to command obedience by sheer force of will.

“That’s right. I’d like to apologise ‘bout that – that misunderstandin’,” says Shields. “I – I got a big mouth. Both of us...” he indicates Kane, “...We both apologise.”

Kane nods, eagerly.

The Kid is still returning an icy stare to Shields’ would-be ingratiating grin.

Kane pipes up, “You got the best of us anyhow, huh?”

“So,” Shields keeps up the smile, “...If’n you go holdin’ a grudge, after you already made us eat our words, that don’t hardly seem fair.”

Kid draws back his head, thinking. A tiny shrug indicates that Shields has a point there. “Grudges are for folks with bad stomachs,” he agrees.

The atmosphere eases.

“So,” checks Livilan, “...You fellas can get along?”

“Sure won’t find us starting nothing,” says Heyes.

“Us neither. No, sir!”

Sheesh. If Shields were any more obsequious he’d be licking the boys’ boots. Again, a flicker of curiosity crosses Heyes’ face as he glances from the two fawning cowboys to the smooth Isa Livilan - why?

“Good!” says the banker. “Come along, fellas. I’ll show you the layout of the Church Hall.”

He, Shields and Kane depart on this innocent-sounding errand.

“Good!” agrees Miss Porter, who has followed the back and forth of the preceding scene rather like a confused tennis spectator. “I’d better get to the bank.”

“By the way, ma’am,” Kid Curry has swept off his hat and is treating her to his most charming smile, “...I’d like to make amends for leavin’ you kinda sudden that last time I took you out to dinner. How’s about another try at you and me doing the town?”

Almost involuntarily Miss Porter steals a glance at Heyes. Is he jealous? Nope. Not a flicker. In fact, Heyes has pulled out a script from his pocket and is, frowningly, making notes.

“What do you say, Miss Porter? Do I get a second chance?”

With a tiny sigh, she turns back to the Kid. “Of course, Mister Jones. I’d love to.”

---oooOOOooo---

THE RESTAURANT

Same candlelight. Same circling violinist. But this time it is a blue-eyed ex-outlaw not doing too well at keeping the attention of the lady opposite.

“...This is a real nice tune, huh, ma’am?”

“Just as I began to think I understand him – I find I don’t,” says Miss Porter.

A forehead furrows under blond curls. “Who? The fiddle-player?”

“No, Joshu... I mean, Mister Smith.”

“Oh, him.” Pause. “You know, ma’am, I’m real happy to have a chance to make up for walkin’ off that last time...” His best smile. Wasted. Miss Porter is not even looking at him.

“He’s – he’s enigmatic,” she sighs.

Pause. Curry applies himself to his steak.

“Would you describe him as enigmatic?”

“Who, ma’am?”

“Mister Smith. Would you describe him as enigmatic?”

“I doubt I’d describe anyone as enigmatic, ma’am. I’ve never been one for fancy words.” Sudden inspiration, trying to get Miss Porter’s attention focussed back where it should be. “I’m – I’m more the strong, silent man of action...”

---oooOOOooo---

LATE EVENING

Laughing customers leave the town’s restaurant, the ladies adjusting their headgear. Last of the couples to emerge is Miss Porter followed by a spruced up Kid Curry. As she arranges her shawl, something across the street catches Kid’s eye. He narrows his eyes, moves forward to peer through the dimly lit darkness. His thumbs go into his vest pockets.

test page - ASJ Fan Fiction We follow his eye-line. He is watching two familiar figures sneaking around a building that proclaims itself to be the schoolhouse.

Miss Porter finishes fussing with her shawl and turns to Kid with a wide smile. Wiping the frown off his face, he smiles back.

“Miss Porter, I hate to do this to ya again, but, I’m kinda beat. Can you get home by yourself?”

“Well, you know I usually do, but...”

“Then, I’ll be saying goodnight.” He tips his hat. “...I’m sorry, ma’am.”

And – off he strides.

Miss Porter is left alone on the porch of the restaurant. “That’s it! I’m giving up on men and buying a cat!” she pouts.

---oooOOOooo---

THE SCHOOL HOUSE

Kid Curry slinks around the side of the school house. A window is open – just a crack - a muddy boot print on the sill. A dim light can be seen inside. Our hero – well, one of ‘em – raises the window sash and oozes with the stealth of long (mal)practice inside.

He looks over at the source of the light. By the glow of a couple of oil lamps Shields and Kane are hunched over... Kid’s brow creases. What ARE they hunched over? He steps forward, less stealthily.

“Who’s that?” Shields squints through the dark room.

“Me.” Kid steps out of the shadows.

The two cowboys straighten up.

“What d’ya want?” asks Shields. Kane nudges him. A mute conversation. Much more ingratiating tone, “I mean – what d’ya want, Mister Jones, sir?”

Kid’s eyes go to their hands. Is that a hammer and nails Kane is clutching? And Shields – is that a paintbrush?

“Anythin’ we can do for ya, sir?” oils Kane.

“Yeah. You can tell me what the Sam Hill you’re doin’ here?”

“Well, it’s kinda this way – Mister Livilan asked if’n we could help out Mizz Perkins with the replica safe for the show...”

Curry examines the object over which the cowboys were hunched. Actually, yeah, if it was set the right way up that would kinda look like a flimsy model of a Brooker safe.

“And we got kinda tied up at the Church Hall earlier... And we didn’t wanna let Mizz Perkins down...”

“’S’true!” Kane is reacting to the disbelief etched on Kid’s face. “You ask Mizz Perkins in the mornin’!”

“Didn’t Mister Livilan say he was gonna help with the replica safe?” says Shields.

We watch first recollection, then doubt on the ex-outlaw’s face. Actually, yes, he did.

“Yeah, but, if’n you’re here official-like, why the Sam Hill d’ya climb in the back?”

“’Cos... ‘Cos...” Shields is searching.

“’Cos we forgot to go collect the key offen Mizz Perkins,” chips in Kane, eagerly.

Shields; “That’s right! We was s’posed to go get the key, but we kinda thought – hey, let’s get a beer first – and...”

Kane; “It got kinda late. Too late to be goin’ disturbin’ a lady...?”

Shields; “So, we thought, why not slip in through the window.”

Pause.

“Sounds kinda dumb, huh?” Another ingratiating smile from Kane.

“Kinda,” agrees Kid.

“Yeah, but, we ARE dumb!” triumphs Shields. “You said it yerself. Me an’ him – we’re walk-offs.”

Kid’s head goes back a tad at that. That IS a point.

“Besides,” an echo of Shield’s original cockiness returns, “...If’n you don’t think we’re helpin’ out on the props for the show – what DO you think we’re doing here with hammers an’ brushes an’ a pint o’nails an’ a quart o’ whitewash?”

“’T’ain’t like there’s nothin’ to steal nor nothin’,” chips in Kane.

Furrowing of a Curryesque brow. THAT is even more of a point. He goes a step or two nearer, takes a closer look. Nothing suspicious. Well, nothing except two lowlifes like Shields and Kane’s helping out with the props for a small town show.

“None of us want any trouble, do we - Jones?” says Shields.

Kid looks at him searchingly. It was not a threat. Maybe there was just a hint of Shields’ knowing ‘Jones’ is not real, but still – not a threat.

“Sure don’t,” agrees Kid, mildly enough.

“What we ALL want is a quiet few days and to pick up our pay at the end, huh?”

Musing from Kid. He’s still suspicious, but – yup.

“Won’t find me arguin’ with that,” he concedes.

Another scan at the work in progress. Nothing.

“Night, boys,” tipping his hat, he heads for the window.

“Night, Mister Jones.”
“Night.”

Kid slips back out into the alley, closing the window behind him. For a moment he stands and listens – nothing. Then – hammering. Shrugging and shaking his head in confusion, he heads back to the main street.

---oooOOOooo---

HOTEL ROOM

“That story they told ya – you reckon it was true?” asks Heyes, from his position on the bed.

“Dunno,” grunts Curry, who is in the chair, pulling off a recalcitrant boot. “I didn’t, but... If’n they’re lyin’ – what are they lyin’ for? I found ‘em in the school-house hammerin’ and paintin’. Not like I found ‘em – I dunno – in the backroom of the saloon with a coupla spades, diggin’ a tunnel, huh?”

“...So, they actually WERE working on the replica safe?”

“Uh huh.”

“It don’t make sense,” frowns Heyes. “No more’n Livilan practically makin’ ‘em lick your boots today...”

“You reckon he’s got some hold over ‘em?”

“Yup.”

Kid Curry mulls on that. “Me too.” More mulling. “You any ideas ‘bout how come.”

Heyes’ turn with the mulling. “Nope,” he finally admits, “but, I’m working on it.”

---oooOOOooo---

JANUARY 4th - MORNING

Heyes and Curry stand in the doorway of the bank. Following their eye-line we see Shields and Kane, one carrying a hammer and paintbrush, the other carrying the books and lunch-pail of a woman with ‘schoolmarm’ written all over her. As she unlocks the schoolhouse the two cowboys smilingly touch their hats to the watching ex-outlaws. Heyes and Curry return the gesture. Shields and Kane follow the schoolmarm inside.

Heyes turns, flicks his eyes to direct Curry’s gaze to what he has noticed. From the bank window Isa Livilan is also watching his hirelings enter the schoolhouse. An approving smile lifts one corner of Livilan’s mouth. He moves away from the window.

“You figured this out yet, Heyes?”

“Nope.”

The Kid claps him on the back, “Keep thinkin’, Heyes. That’s what you’re good at.”

---oooOOOooo---

THE BANK

The clock on the wall shows ten minutes before twelve. Heyes, from his position at the counter, watches Mister Pincus in the back office meticulously stacking layer after layer of fake money bundles stacked in a large packing case. Heyes glances over at Isa Livilan. The Deputy Manager is also watching the fussy old clerk, that same smile playing around his lips. The lid of the case is tacked down.

“Thank you, Mister Pincus. Mister Smith,” Isa Livilan’s tone is perfectly civil, “...Would you give me a hand to carry this into the manager’s office, please? I don’t want it getting in your or Mister Pincus’ way back here all afternoon.”

A pause. Busy brain at work behind the brown eyes. Nothing.

“Sure,” sighs Heyes.

---oooOOOooo---

Mister Pincus checks the clock. Twelve-thirty. He screws the cap on his pen, lays it tidily on his ledger, moves over to collect his hat. Almost in unison Miss Porter emerges from the manager’s office, tying her bonnet strings and adjusting her shawl. “I’ll take first lunch with Mister Pincus if that is alright with you, Mister Livilan?”

“Certainly, Miss Porter.”

She leaves, Mister Pincus politely holding the door, then following her out.

Heyes and Curry watch. From their expressions we gather this is normal routine.

Isa Livilan hardly raised his eyes to answer Miss Porter; he is busy scribbling away at a ledger behind the counter. Heyes, after eyeing him for a moment, goes back to his own calculations.

The clock ticks. Then tocks. And ticks again. The tension is – well, practically non-existent.

An elderly customer comes in. Curry tips his hat as she bustles past. Heyes greets her, civilly, and watches, patiently, as she begins to count out small bills from her reticule.

Livilan makes a pleased sound indicative of a satisfactorily balanced account. He closes the ledger with a snap, steps out from behind the counter and strides into the manager’s office, closing the door behind him. A minute or two later, he emerges, without the ledger.

“Let me get the door for you,” he says to Heyes’ customer who has now completed her business. He opens the main door, bowing politely, “If this weather holds, we’ll have a fine, crisp day for the Founder’s Show, won’t we, ma’am?”

Kid Curry raises a questioning eyebrow.

Shoulders drooping, Heyes shrugs and shakes his head.

---oooOOOooo---

The clock now stands at twenty after two. Heyes and Curry are both at the bank window. Outside, under supervision of the schoolmarm, Shields is carrying a completed replica safe – which looks like exactly what it is, a school project made from packing cases, cardboard and silver paper – over to the Church Hall. Kane follows with an equally unconvincing – though perfectly adequate for purpose – replica of the bank doors. Behind them trot schoolchildren carrying chairs.

Under Kid’s breath, “Heyes, you...?”

“Nope.”

---oooOOOooo---

Four o’clock.

The outer bank door opens. A deprecating throat clearance. “Erm...Er-hem.” Shields and Kane stand on the threshold. Touching their hats to Miss Porter, “We’ve come to collect the fake money for the show, ma’am.”

“Certainly. It’s in Father’s office. Mister Smith, Mister Jones – could you?”

Heyes and Curry go into the Manager’s office. Normal office. Imposing desk. Wooden floor, a rug covering the centre. Impressive leather trunk used as a table and covered in ledgers. More stacks of ledgers on shelves covering one wall. Slap in the middle of the rug, the packing case previously filled by Mister Pincus.

Our boys heft the packing case out of the office, to the outer door. Shields and Kane take it.

“Whew,” Kane gives a cheery whistle. “Feel the weight o’ that!”

A glower from Shields immediately replaced with the ingratiating smile. “Surprisin’ how heavy just paper can be, huh?”

“I guess,” says Kid Curry.

The walk-offs – true to their billing – walk off.

From the steps outside the bank, Heyes and Curry watch them go. Kid Curry glances at his partner. The same frustrated puzzlement as earlier. Then, a familiar glint lights the brown eyes. Smug waves radiate from the dimpled one.

“Heyes?”

“Uh huh?”

“You just worked out what they’re up to, didn’t ya?”

“Uh huh.” Frown. “Leastways – maybe. We need to check it out.”

---oooOOOooo---

THAT NIGHT

An oil lamp lights the scene. In tight close up we see Heyes, ear pressed against a metallic surface. Beside the profile of that tip-tilted nose, gleaming silver lettering spells out ‘Brooker 606.’ Heyes’ fingers caress a dial.

Switch to a close-up on Curry, seated in classic lookout pose, watching his partner.

Back to Heyes. “Takes you back to the old days, huh, Kid?” he breathes, face segueing into safegasm mode. “Whaddya think Lom’d say if he could see me now?”

“Dunno. Maybe – ‘Why the Sam Hill is Heyes actin’ the goat with a packin’ crate?’”

The focus pulls back, revealing that Heyes is, indeed, NOT in the bank cracking the real Brooker 606. He is in the Church Hall getting up close and personal with the replica.

“You gonna open that thing? Or...” Kid grins, “...D’you want me to step outside? Give the two of ya a little private time?”

“You got no sense of occasion, Kid. You know that?” Heyes stands and flips open the hinged doors of the replica safe. Kid Curry moves to stand beside him. They look inside. Nothing but the very obviously fake money.

Curry frowns. “Maybe you were wrong, Heyes?”

“Nah.” Heyes inhales deeply. His eyes close in bliss. “Smell it, Kid.” He plunges a hand deep into the replica safe and pulls up a fistful of... “Under that front layer it’s all hundreds and fifties,” he breathes, in an awed tone. “There must be thousands here. Thousands and...”

“Heyes,” Kid sees his partner’s larcenous streak showing through, “...You do remember we went straight?”

---oooOOOooo---

SAME SCENE – ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER

Our boys sit side by side on the edge of the stage. Two sets of shoulders droop. They are not happy.

“Heyes,” puzzles Kid, “if this Livilan fella wants to rob the bank, why don’t he just rob it? Why all the – the...?” he searches.

“The plot complications?” hazards Heyes.

“Uh huh.”

“Well, be fair, Kid. Breaking into banks isn’t that easy, huh? I mean, even we were starting to find it kinda a strain – and we were the best.”

“Livilan don’t hafta break in though. He walks in every mornin’.”

“Walks IN, sure. He can’t exactly walk OUT carryin’ a stack of money near on four foot square, can he? This way, a quick swap with a stash he’d already hidden in that trunk in the office and he can hire two fellas to heft a fortune down the street right in front of our noses.”

Acknowledging shrug from Kid Curry. That is a point.

“And,” continues Heyes, “...This is one quick hit. If he cooks the books the slow way, he risks Pincus’ finding the safe light by a few thousand at one of his regular audits. If the safe’s light and the bank hasn’t been busted into, who’s gonna be top of Lom’s suspect list?”

Mulling from Kid Curry. “Us.”

Heyes blinks at that. “I was gonna say – the bank staff.”

More mulling from Kid Curry. “If’n we weren’t here – sure. As it is, I’m stickin’ with us.”

“Surely Lom wouldn’t think that we’d...” Seeing Kid’s cynical expression, Heyes breaks off. “I reckon we can’t blame him,” he admits.

“Seeing how we DID try and rob the bank last time we were here, I reckon we can’t,” agrees Kid.

“Even if Lom didn’t suspect US, there’d be a lot of law sniffing around after a big robbery,” glooms Heyes. “If we aren’t here – won’t take them long to be sniffing after Smith and Jones.”

“An’ if we stay...” Kid trails off.

A mute conversation. They will not be staying while the law sniffs around.

“The way I see it, we got five options,” says Heyes.

“Honest options?” checks Kid.

A pause.

“The way I see it, we got three options,” restarts Heyes. “One, we go tell Harker Wilkins what we know. Now, the downside is...”

“He won’t believe a single dang word.”

“Aside from that, Shields knows who you are. I’m figuring that means there’s a chance Livilan knows who you are too. Now, if I’m right, they’re saying nothing partly ‘cos Shields don’t want to go up against Kid Curry and partly ‘cos Livilan is thinking a $10,000 reward is small change next to what he’s planning on getting away with, AND...” Frowning. “Maybe he’s figuring when the theft gets discovered – THEN ‘ud be the time to have someone recognise you. IF we go to the law...”

“He’s got no reason to keep quiet.”

“Uh huh.”

“What’s option two?”

“Option two is - we break into the bank and put back the real ...”

“We break into the bank?”

“Uh huh.”

“Tonight?”

“Uh huh. I figure we could...”

“What’s option three?”

“No, listen.” The brown eyes sparkle. “I’ve been thinking ‘bout how we could get through...”

“Heyes, bustin’ into the bank and gettin’ caught with a stack of stolen money isn’t an option.”

“We don’t get caught! Besides, we’d be putting it back, not taking it out...”

“Heyes, even your silver tongue won’t sell that!”

“But...” Heyes’ shoulders droop. “Okay, option three – I hafta come up with some way of catching Livilan red-handed. With witnesses.”

Musing. A slow nod. “I like that, Heyes. What’s the plan?”

A look... No. Make that THE ‘look’ is thrown Curry-wards.

“Which bit of – ‘I hafta come up with it’ – are you having trouble with?”

“Keep thinkin’, Heyes. That’s what you’re good at.”

Silence. Heyes searches the skies – or, since they are inside, the ceiling – for inspiration. His eyes fix on something above his head. A twinkle. A dimple.

Kid Curry sees the smug look. “You got an idea, don’t ya?”

A smug smile. The Kid’s eyes follow the direction of Heyes’ gaze.

“This idea, Heyes. I ain’t gonna like it – am I?”

---oooOOOooo---

AND ANOTHER TEN MINUTES LATER

Heyes is again crouched before the fake safe. Then...

The eyes of both ex-outlaws flick to the door. What was that? A mute conversation. Quick as quick Heyes flips shut the safe doors as Curry extinguishes the lamp. Darkness.

“Is someone there?” calls a deep voice. Deputy Harker Wilkins enters, holding aloft a lantern of his own. “If’n I catch any o’ you young fellas messin’ with the props, there’s gonna be trouble!” He stares into the shadows – nothing. Stepping over to the wall he turns up the nearest gas lamp lighting – although still dimly - the room. He looks towards the corner of the makeshift stage where stands the replica safe. His eyes narrow, suspiciously, peering closer. One hand cautiously on the butt of his gun, over he goes, up the steps onto the stage. Still nothing. Or, is there? He tenses. With an impressively swift movement for a man no longer in the first flush of youth, the Deputy darts across the stage and twitches aside the heavy calico curtain concealing the wings. Zilch. Zip. “Hmmm?” A burly hand pushes back his hat and scratches the grizzled head. “Maybe I’m hearing things?” A thought strikes him. Another glance around – this time sheepish rather than suspicious. He steps centre stage and strikes the pose of the Founder’s statue. “I name this place – Porterville!” he booms out, impressively, with his very best stern frown. A shake of the head. Another try. “I name this place – Porterville.” He holds the pose – and holds it – and... “Hmmm!” A satisfied smile creases the Deputy’s genial face.

---oooOOOooo---

Two ex-outlaws slip, with cat-like stealth, down the passageway beside the Church Hall. They melt into the walls as the burly shadow of Deputy Harker Wilkins exits and passes them.

“That plan of yours,” breaths the Kid.

“Uh huh?”

“Told ya I wouldn’t like it.”

---oooOOOooo---

JANUARY 5th

A crisp day – around noon. Bunting and banners proclaiming ‘Porterville 40th Anniversary’ and ‘Founder’s Day Celebrations’ flutter around the church hall. Respectable citizens, well-wrapped up in their winter Sunday best are gathering, greeting each other and making their way inside.

In the foreground our boys stand with Wheat. The Devil’s Hole Gang is lined up behind them, perched on a handy rail.

“This is what we want ya to do...” begins Heyes.

Five pairs of outlaw eyes swivel right, fasten on Heyes. A crooked-toothed mouth drops open, because... Well, because Kyle listens better that way.

A wagon rumbles past, obscuring our view and drowning out the rest of Heyes’ speech.

The same five pairs of outlaw eyes swivel left, to Wheat.

Wheat puts on his best ‘I’m-not-gonna-be-bossed-by-Heyes’ face and hooks thumbs into his belt with a swagger. “An’, ya think me an’ the boys are gonna do what YOU say - because...?”

Eyes right.

Heyes and Curry exchange a glance.

“...’Cos you’re gettin’ paid,” Curry reminds Wheat.

Eyes left.

A chagrined flicker crosses Wheat’s face. That’s right. They are.

Deputy Wilkins strides past towards the Church Hall. “Mornin’ Mister Hotchkiss. Mornin’ – er – ha! - outlaws,” he says, with a cheery laugh at his little joke.

Eyes riveted on the star on his chest. Wheat and the others touch their hats. Their Adam’s apples bob, nervously.

“Smith, Jones – isn’t it ‘bout time you made your way over?”

“Sure,” says Heyes. “So – just like we rehearsed, Hotchkiss.”

Obsequious nods from Wheat and the gang, their attention still fixed on the Deputy’s badge.

Heyes and Curry follow Harker Wilkins to the Church Hall.

Wheat turns back to the gang. “Right. You know what we hafta do. Until our part of the show, we’re just gonna mingle with the crowd. So, we’re all gonna walk in there looking innocent and normal...” His gaze moves from one grimy unshaven face to next. Chewing. Squinting. Villainous. Vacant... “Well anyway we’re all gonna walk in – and I’m gonna go first...”

---oooOOOooo---

The Devil’s Hole Gang enters the Church Hall with careful civility, making way for older folk, hats clutched to their chests, ingratiating smiles to the ladies.

“After you, Mister Gaines,” says Merkle, stepping aside for Lobo.

“I’m Grant, you’re Gaines!”

---oooOOOooo---

The show is well underway. Heyes is in the wings, concealed from the audience by the calico curtain. On stage a cute, freckle-faced tyke is winding up his scene.

“Figurin’ he’d put the brains in later...”

Heyes glances over to the other wing. Kid Curry and Miss Porter stand there. She has her hands clasped together, happily, as she watches. He, a broad smile on his face, is mouthing along.

“...And they upped an’ walked off!”

Warm applause from the audience. Warmer applause from Miss Porter. Appreciative boot-stomping and whistle from a blond ex-outlaw. Heyes rolls his eyes.

---oooOOOooo---

“My evil tunnellin’ plan is workin’!” triumphs Wheat, twirling his moustache and favouring the audience with an arch-villain’s stare. “Muhahah!” he ad libs.

In the wings Heyes blinks. Hey! He has competition. What a ham!

“We’re gonna blow that sky safe-high!” fluffs Kyle.

Visibly tugged by strings the front of the replica safe opens. In unison, a set of firecrackers explodes, noisily, over the stage.

Applause.

At the back of the Church Hall a tall figure enters, quietly, so as not to disturb the show. Lom. He flinches at the sudden explosions. He stares at the stage – Wheat Carlson, Kyle... A frown of suspicious confusion. Or maybe, confused suspicion. Harker Wilkins, in Grandpa Porter gear, spots the Sheriff, catches his eye and touches his cap. Lom manages only a blink in reply.

More firecrackers. And more.

“Sheesh, Kyle,” hisses Kid Curry from the corner of his mouth, as he steps, gingerly, onto the exploding stage, gun twirling, to do his heroics, “...How many dang firecrackers did ya use?”

“All of ‘em.”

“All of ‘em?!”

“Ah ha!” yells Heyes, leaping in his turn upon the stage, two – count ‘em, two – guns twirling, “Your fiendish plot is foiled, foul felons!”

Applause.

“There’ll be no robbery in THIS town. Not while Joshua Smith and his trusty sideki... His trusty partner, Thaddeus Jones are here to stop it!”

Wild applause.

“Curses!” howls Wheat, battling it out with Heyes for who can get furthest upstage while avoiding firecrackers. “I am undone!”

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!” declaims Heyes.

Backstage, Miss Porter and Miss Perkins tug on strings... Green paper flutters from the rafters.

Applause.

At the back, Lom watches the cascade, still frowning.

In the wings, Miss Porter prinks her hair, ready to step onto the stage.

“Any man that touches that Porterville money’ll have to get past Joshua Smith first!” swaggers Heyes.

Applause.

“And Thaddeus Jones!” adds the Kid.

Applause.

“Our heroes!” declaims Miss Porter, entering stage left. “You have saved the...”

“Hey!” A sudden exclamation from a red-headed youth in the second row. “This money is real!”

Lom’s brows snap together at he hears that.

Other folk are catching the flying money. Excited murmurs. Miss Porter catches a floating note – her face dissolves into confusion.

“What the...?” Fury on his face, Shields has sprung from his seat and is reaching for his gun.

“Hold it right there, fella,” Lobo Riggs and Whatshisname (alias Balfour #1), who were on mingling duty, has him covered.

“You too, friend,” Merkle and TheotherBalfourFella are covering Kane.

“And – boys,” warns Heyes, mildly, from the stage.

Sheepishly the mingling Devils’ Hole Gang open their clenched fists, allowing grasped dollars to fall to the floor.

“Wha...?!” An incensed Isa Livilan has leapt to his feet in the front row. He stares from the fake safe to the ceiling where the cascading money bundles were fastened and back again. Then, his eyes go the exceedingly smug dark-haired ex-outlaw standing centre stage. “You! You changed the money in the safe for the money in the rafters!”

A pause. Miss Porter absorbs this. Lom Trevors absorbs this. On both faces - confusion, but also the first glimmers of comprehension.

“And, how exactly do you know there was real money in this safe, Mister Livilan?” asks Heyes, with the utmost friendly civility.

More pause. A foiled thief searches for something to say – and fails.

“I may not know what’s been going on here over the last few days, but, THAT,” decides Lom, striding forward, “is a very good question, Mister Livilan.”

---oooOOOooo---

LATER – THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE

“They were wonderful!” gushes Miss Porter. “They saved the bank again! Just like it was their very own money!”

“Uh huh,” acknowledges Lom, scanning the two ‘butter-wouldn’t-melt’ expressions facing him.

“Guess doing the right thing is becoming a habit, Lom,” says Heyes.

“I guess so.”

“And – doing the right thing, wouldn’t you say that deserves some kinda reward?”

“Oh, I’m sure my father will want me to reward you! And Mister Hotchkiss and – er – the rest,” beams Miss Porter.

But the boys have another kind of reward in mind. Both Heyes and Kid stare questioningly –and hopefully – at Lom.

His expression is apologetic. “You know what they say about rewards? Like all good things – they come to those who wait.”

Two sets of broad shoulders droop.

“Wait, huh?” checks Kid Curry.

“Just a while longer,” confirms Lom.

“And – that’s a good deal?” shrugs Hannibal Heyes.

---oooOOOooo---

EPILOGUE

Our boys ride out of town.

“So, Kid, this new year, the West’s two most wanted men are gonna continue to lead model lives of temperance, moderation, tranquili...”

“Heyes!”

“Uh huh?”

“You’re not on stage now, so – quit the narrator act.”

---oooOOOooo---

THE END – AND, HAPPY ANNIVERSARY



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