Sheriff Lom Trevors makes a trip to Cheyenne to see the governor, while Heyes and Curry stay behind to help Miss Porter with arrangements for the Porterville Founders' Day Celebration. What could go wrong?



PROLOGUE – JANUARY 1st

Two figures, hunched against the biting, sleet-filled wind, ride past a rain-lashed – and kinda familiar - wooden sign, ‘Porterville, a lovely place to live’.

The fella in the brown hat, lifts his hands, blows on blue-tinged fingers and hunkers down further into a damp sheepskin coat.

“You do know this ain’t gonna do no good, Heyes?”

“Y’never know, Kid. This time tomorrow Lom could be sitting drinking the Governor’s best whiskey, listening to him say, ‘Hey, that Hannibal Heyes, he deserves his amnesty! He earned it. And, while my pen’s in the signing mood, I’ll throw one in for that other fella – whatshisname!’"

Half-hopeful tone from the Kid, “You really think so?” Pause. More pause. A sigh, “Me, neither.”


Collars pulled up, hats pulled down, eyes on the alert for any observers, our boys slink furtively around the back of the Sheriff’s office.

Kid Curry tries the door and... Locked.

A mute conversation. Heyes slides a knife from his boot, the deft fingers go to work and... Click. With a last wary glance around, the ex-outlaws ooze inside.

Lom Trevors, busy at his desk, hears a step on the stair behind him. He starts to his feet. His hand goes to his gun. A brace of familiar smiles meet his gaze.

“Howdy, Lom.”

“Howdy, Lom. Happy New Year.”

“How the Sam Hill did you two get in?”

“Lom, is that any way to greet old friends? Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year. How the Sam Hill did you two get in?”

“Be fair, Lom. Kid’s warned you before ‘bout locking that side door.”

“It WAS locke...” Lom meets the laughing brown eyes. Comprehension. “Heyes!”


LATER

Lom and the boys clutch steaming mugs of coffee. Heyes’ silver tongue is in full flow.

“...We’re still in the season of goodwill to all men. We thought, if you catch him in the right mood, the Governor might wanna – y’know – spread a little of that seasonal cheer around, tidy up a few loose ends, start the New Year with a few clean slates.”

“Clean slates?”

“Uh huh.”

“For you two?”

“Uh huh. It was the deal, Lom. We thought you could remind him.”

“You want me to go busting in on the Governor? Again!? ‘Fore he even gets back to the office after the holidays - hollering ‘bout your amnesty deal...”

“No, no, no, no, no!” deprecates Heyes. “No. No.” Pause. “But, there’d be no harm in simply – y’know - giving his memory a gentle nudge.”

“Friendly like,” chips in Kid.


“I dunno.” Lom’s earnest brow furrows. His dark eyes go from Kid to Heyes and back again. Two appealing smiles. Lom is torn. “Ten to one it won’t do no good.” Still with the smiles plus, puppy-dog eyes from Heyes. “I guess I could pay a visit. So long as you don’t go getting your hopes up.”

“Thanks, Lom.”

“Thanks, Lom.”

Lom is not exhilarated by their gratitude. His eyes continue to move from one ex-outlaw to the other. His shoulders droop. “Talk about starting off the New Year on the wrong foot.”

“Lom,” offended blink from Heyes, “...You’re gonna hafta work on your hospitality.”

“You’ll make us think we’re not welcome,” adds Kid.

“No offence.” Lom sighs. “Just, you two draw trouble the way horses draw horseflies. I kinda wish you’d go draw it someplace else.”

“Lom!” reassuring tone from Heyes. “We know how you feel ‘bout us being ‘round Porterville. Suppose you got our promise we won’t cause a mite of trouble ‘til you come back?”

“What kinda promise’d that be?”

“A solemn promise,” says Kid.

“Well, I guess if you lay low at my place, so no one even knew you were here...”

A tap at the main office door. A familiar, and exceedingly perky, figure enters the room.

“May I speak with you, Sheri...?” Miss Porter sees the boys, who have sprung to their feet and swept off their hats. Overjoyed recognition. “Mister Smith! Mister Jones! How wonderful to see you again!” Turning to Lom, “Lom, you know Mister Smith and Mister Jones are high on my list of preferred acquaintances...”

Delightfully dimpled deprecating murmur from Heyes. Simper of smiling appreciation from the Kid. Both clearly find her quite as attractive as they did that first summer.

“...Why didn’t you tell me they were expected?”

Lom, brow furrowing again at this immediate failure of his ‘no one need even know they’re here’ plan, searches for a response.

“Don’t blame Lom,” says Heyes, “...Thaddeus and me, we had a – a sudden sociable impulse.”

“Whatchya call an unplanned visit,” clarifies Kid.

“He could hardly believe his eyes when we walked in. Could ya, Lom?”

“Sure couldn’t,” he confirms.

“Well! Wasn’t that a wonderful surprise, Sheriff?” gushes Miss Porter.

“Wonderful,” glooms Lom. “Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

“Oh yes. I came to ask if we could meet up tomorrow – about arrangements for the special Founder’s Day celebrations?”

“Founder’s Day?” dimples Heyes.

“Yes, Mister Smith. On January 5th it will be forty years to the day since my dear Grandpa Porter officially established our town – Porterville. On my father’s behalf, I am organising the anniversary celebrations and...” Dazzling smile. “...Lom is helping.”

“I’m real sorry, ma’am,” says Lom, “something unexpected’s come up.” A look is flashed at the boys. “Tomorrow I hafta take the 7:15 train to Cheyenne.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Hard to say, ma’am. Maybe a day or two.”

“Oh!” Disappointed consternation. Sudden idea. “Lom, do you think we can prevail on Mister Smith and Mister Jones to help? After all – they are so skilled in so many ways. I’m sure the arrangements would be in good hands.”

“I reckon Mister Smith and Mister Jones have urgent business calling ‘em...” begins Lom.

“Well, ma’am, anything Thaddeus and me can do to help a friend of Lom’s, and - a lady...!” overlays Heyes.

“Perhaps you could call on me at the bank in the morning and we could discuss it further?” suggests Miss Porter.

“Our pleasure, ma’am,” smoothes Heyes, ignoring Lom’s frown.

“Till tomorrow then.” With a final smile, she leaves.

A pause. Heyes, still clutching his hat to his chest, reacts to the look on Lom’s face. “What?”

In answer, a deep breath is exhaled through Lom’s nostrils.


NEXT MORNING – JANUARY 2nd

Heyes and Curry escort Lom to the train which has just chugged in to the small railway station.

“So long, Lom.” A tan leather glove claps the Sheriff on one shoulder.

“We’ll be waiting right here.” A dark brown leather glove claps the other shoulder.

“So long, Smith. So long, Jones. Now – stay outta any trouble till I get back.”

“Sure will, Lom.”

“Just like last time.”

Lom’s shoulders droop. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”


THE BANK

Slim fingers caress the silver lettering spelling out ‘Brooker 606’ on a gleaming new safe. Heyesian eyes glitter.

“The very latest model!”enthuses an unfamiliar voice.

The boys turn to see a smart-looking young man, hair very neatly parted, silk necktie perfectly arranged.

“This is Mister Isa Livilan,” introduces Miss Porter. “Our new Deputy Manager. Mister Livilan, this is Mister Smith and Mister Jones. You will have heard me speak of them.”

“Oh, yes, Miss Porter. I’ve certainly heard that. Many times.” He continues before the full import of that registers. “The Brooker 606. The finest safe this side of the Mississippi. Not much chance of anyone breaking into that!”

“Not much,” echoes Heyes, wistfully.

Kid Curry clears his throat, meaningfully.

Miss Porter smiles, “Now, if you’ve seen enough to satisfy you Mister Smith, perhaps we can discuss Founder’s Day?”

Heyes is still gazing at the safe. His hand lingers on the dial.

“Mister Smith?”

“Huh?” No movement of the brown eyes.

“Joshua!” snaps Kid.

“Huh?” Heyes snaps out of it. “Oh yeah. Tell us ‘bout Founder’s Day, ma’am.”

“Well, yesterday evening all I thought was – maybe you would stand in for Sheriff Trevors, organising everything to run smoothly, making sure no rough elements cause any trouble...”

“Uh huh?”

In unison, “Go on, ma’am.”

“But last night, as I lay in bed thinking about you...”

A fleeting mute conversation at that image. Two almost imperceptible finger gestures indicate:
“Me?”
“Or – me?”

“I had the most wonderful idea.” Miss Porter’s hands clasp together in excitement. “You know – well, you don’t know, but I’m about to tell you – for the Founder’s Day celebration I’m directing a series of tableaux in the Church Hall...”

“Tableaux, ma’am?”

“...Short scenes to pay tribute to significant Porterville events over the last forty years. And, until now I’ve not been able to come up with a truly satisfactory finale. But your arrival has solved my dilemma!” Her face shines with eagerness.

A wary glance is exchanged.

“Our finale can be your wonderful heroism in saving the Porterville bank! It has drama! It has action! We can even work in an explosion...”

“Huh?” Kid Curry does not like the sound of that!

“Well, maybe just a tiny one – kind of a firework display! And you two gentlemen can play yourselves!” Deep breath, “Mister Smith, Mister Jones – I could certainly use you! In the show.”

“You mean – up on the stage? In front of folk?” Kid likes the sound of that even less than the explosion.

“Yes! Of course.” Businesslike voice, “How’s this; during the day you take on your old jobs in the bank, and, outside bank hours I pay you overtime to recreate your roles as my...” A blush. “I mean, as the town’s heroes! Isn’t that a good idea, Mister Livilan?”

“Ye.e.e.s,” he replies, slowly, with a thoughtful look. “I think that could be an excellent idea, ma’am. It has all kinds of possibilities.”

Kid Curry throws him a curious, considering look.

“You will agree?” asks Miss Porter, eagerly. “You’ll be the town’s heroes all over again?”

A delighted, dimpled grin. Unlike his partner, Heyes does like the sound of that. “We accept.”

“Now, hold on...” demurs Kid.

“Why not? I’m sure not too proud to help Miss Porter – and the town – out.”

A Curryesque hand rests, restrainingly, on Heyes’ shoulder. “Ma’am excuse us – we’re really gonna hafta talk this over... Between the two of us, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’m only thrilled you’ll consider helping me out – again. Could I possibly hope for an answer by lunchtime?”

“Oh, of course, ma’am. One way or another.” Kid pulls a reluctant Heyes away.


MAIN STREET

Our boys walk and talk.

“We told Lom we’d stay outta trouble.”

“Kid, we’re gonna be in the Church Hall, prob’ly surrounded by school-kids reciting verse and the Ladies Society serving lemonade. How much further outta trouble could we be?”

“That’s outside bank hours. What about durin’ the day.”

“Kid, if this bank gets MORE trouble after the double dose it already had, all I can say is, the laws o’ probability can’t apply ‘round here.”

Acknowledging shrug from Kid. There is a lotta truth in there.

“And, we’d be getting paid. Real paid. Not the usual wages that never show up kinda paid. Always a plus.”

Kid’s face concedes there’s truth there too.

“And, you heard Miss Porter.” Heyes stops walking, his hand sketches out a non-existent vista of glory for his partner. “We’ll be up there as - heroes! After the show... No, scrub that. After every rehearsal, men’ll wanna be us! Women’ll wanna be with us!”

Kid blinks. That did sound good. Temptation flickers across his face. But...

“Yeah, but – but since when was us standing up in full view of crowds of gawping folk a good idea? Seems to me, fellas with prices on their heads oughta be a touch more bashful.”

Heyes turn to signal a mute concession that Kid has a point.

“And that Livilan fella, what’s making HIM so all-fired keen for us to say yes? What’s in it for him?”

Musing. A shrug from Heyes.

“Then, there’d be the constant temptation in the day job...”

“Kid! We’ve gone straight all this time. I reckon we can be in a bank without succumbing.”

“I wasn’t thinkin’ of the bank. I was thinking of you an’ Miss Porter.” Double-take from Heyes. Grin from Kid Curry. “I’m not sure you got the strength to resist.”

Heyes muses. Tiny – and adorable – movements of head and mouth indicate the weighing of pros and cons.

“Okay, Kid. We’ll tell Miss Porter – thanks but no thanks.”

Kid Curry stares. “Y’mean – I persuaded ya?”

“Uh huh.”

“I...” (Heavy emphasis on ‘I’) “...persuaded YOU?” (Even heavier emphasis on ‘you.’)

“Uh huh.”

Disbelief in two blue eyes. Then, those same eyes spot something across the town square. A jerk of the head instructs Heyes to look, too. Recognition. Wariness.

A very familiar tall, fair-haired deputy sits on the base of the Founder’s statue, gun drawn and resting – deceptively casually – across his knee.

“Thaddeus, how many times d’you reckon we walked past that without realising it was old Grandpa Porter up there with the rifle?”

The ‘look’ from Kid Curry.

“You’re thinking I oughta be more concerned ‘bout the fella parked in front with the six-gun?”

“Uh huh.”

“Howdy, boys,” calls the genial Deputy... Apologies!! Rewind that!

“Howdy, boys,” calls the genial Acting-Sheriff Harker Wilkins.

Heyes and Curry touch their hats to him, in resignation.


SHERIFF’S OFFICE

The boys stand, hands on hips, facing Harker Wilkins in frustrated disbelief.

“...You’re telling us the Temporary Transients Act was never repealed?” fumes Heyes.

“Nope.”

“And Lom came and gave you a fresh list o’ transients late last night?” checks Kid.

“Yup. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a fresh list. Same list, same two names.”

A mute conversation.

“Ever get the feeling Lom still don’t exactly trust us?” mutters Heyes, sotto voce.

Harker hooks his thumbs in his belt. “On official orders from elected Sheriff Lom Trevors, according to article one of the Temporary Trans-ee-ants Act, and working from list of known trans-ee-ants placed in my jurisdiction to be enacted upon in his absence, you are directed to give me your...”

“Yeah, we remember the drill,” sighs Heyes. He unbuckles and hands over his gun belt.

“Thank you, kindly.” Wilkins holds out his hand to Kid Curry. “Your turn.”

“Ah, but...” Kid Curry pushes back his hat. “Way I figure it, the act don’t apply!”

Questioning look from Heyes and Harker Wilkins.

“Me and Joshua – we’re not transients. Not half an hour past we took back our old jobs at the bank, huh, Joshua?”

Heyes’ reaction of surprise is gone in a flash. “’S’right, Thaddeus. And, you agreed, Deputy, once a transient takes a job, he isn’t a transient no more.”

“Well...”

Kid Curry sees the lawman still wavering and steps in. “AND, we’re taking part in the Founder’s Day celebrations.” He gestures to Heyes, indicating he should pick up and run with this particular ball.

“That sound like transients to you?” weighs in the silver-tongued one. “If’n Miss Porter’s got us playing in her history of Porterville tableaux – don’t that mean we kinda belong? If the Porter family can’t say who is and who isn’t part of this town – who can, huh?”

Musing. “I guess,” accepts Wilkins. He hands Heyes’ gun belt back. “Did ya know Miss Porter’s got me roped into these tab-lee-ows? I’m...” He adopts a pose reminiscent of the Founder’s statue.

“You’re playing Grandpa Porter?” deduces Heyes. Flattering tone, “The noble pioneer!”

The Deputy gives what in a smaller, less craggy, man would be a sheepish simper. “’Course, for the real thing I’ll have me the cap and the rifle.”

Heyes shakes his head, ruefully. “We’re gonna have our work cut out, Thaddeus, following that.”


THE BANK

Heyes watches the elderly Mister Pincus rapidly count and then fasten with the traditional bank paper circlets pile after pile of dollar bills. Isa Livilan surveys the scene coolly.

“This pile contains a hundred REAL notes...” The tip of a Heyesian finger touches it, reverently. “Mister Smith, are you quite well?”

“Huh? Oh sure.”

“And THIS pile, contains one hundred fake notes. You see they have exactly the same dimensions and colour.”

“Miss Porter had the local newspaper office run them off for the show,” says Isa Livilan.

“Counterfeiting, huh?” teases Heyes. “Did you have them run a few hundred extra for you, Mister Pincus?”

The deeply respectable Mister Pincus is not amused. “As you will see, Mister Smith, while these notes would fool anyone from a distance, there is no risk of them being misused in the way you suggest.” He holds one up. Indeed, although an impressive pattern of greenback green etching has been achieved, the lettering clearly spells out ‘Founder’s Day Fake.’ This is ‘honest’ pretend money. “Nor, Mister Smith, do I find banking irregularities a fitting subject for levity.”

Heyes gives a suitably contrite murmur. Mister Pincus relaxes his frown in acceptance of the implied apology.

“I’ll be fastening enough of these fake piles to fill a safe. And, I will be setting aside enough spare bills to be suspended above the stage...”

“Miss Porter wants to recreate that moment when thousands of dollars fluttered down from the skies,” chips in Livilan. “Obviously it can’t be done with real money...”

Pause for agreement.

“Oh, obviously,” contributes Heyes, still surreptitiously stroking the genuine dollar pile.

“So the replica safe...”

Heyes looks around. Only one safe here and it looks pretty dang real.

“Miss Perkins, the schoolmarm, has some of her older pupils fixing up the replica safe.”

“Ah!”

“I am offering her my advice to make it look realistic. Anything I can do to help Miss Porter’s Founders’ Day celebrations be really memorable.” Livilan radiates good citizenship.

“Ah?” Heyes adopts a suitably approving expression.

“Well, gentlemen, I’d better put THIS,” Mister Pincus reaches for the real money, “back in the genuine safe.”

He tries to lift the bundle.

“Mister Smith?” Heyes’ caressing fingers hold fast. A gentle tug. “Mister Smith?”

“Huh?” Heyes realises what he is doing. “Oh, yeah.” He lets go.

Wistful brown eyes follow the money as the – real – safe clangs shut.


THE CHURCH HALL

“Thaddeus, you’re blocking me.”

“Blockin’ ya?”

“It means you’re standing in the way of all the folks having a clear view.”

“A clear view of you?”

“That’s right.” A pause while an incredulous Kid Curry stares at Heyes’ smoothing his eyebrows into an even more perfect arch with a licked finger. Heyes realises his partner has not shifted. “So, to STOP blocking me, could ya...?” He gestures away with one hand. “...Hup-up-up.”

“Huh?”

“Move downstage.”

“If I move much further downstage, I’m gonna fall off!”

More Heyesian hand gestures, accompanied by more of the “Hup-up-up,” noises more commonly used on ornery cattle. Reluctantly, Kid Curry moves.

Heyes throws out an arm and declaims, dramatically, “Whatever the risks, when danger rears its ugly head...” Noble expression. Other hand clapped to his heart. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do!”

Applause from Miss Porter, clutching her ‘Director’s notes’ at the back of the hall. She runs forward.

“That was wonderful, Mister Smith!”

A modest simper from Heyes.

“It was so kind of you to draft a script for us! You’re SO right! Tableaux don’t have to be silent.”

Another modest simper from the helpful one. Eye roll from Kid Curry.

“Thank you, ma’am. Er... If you’re free tonight, maybe you and I could get together for dinner?”

She hesitates.

“...To discuss the show,” Heyes hastens to add.

She casts a half-hopeful glance at Kid Curry. Is she hoping for an alternative invitation? If so, she is hoping in vain.

“That would be delightful, Mister Smith,” she accepts.


THAT EVENING – THE RESTAURANT

Candlelight casts a gentle glow. A violinist circles playing soft mood music. A brown-eyed ex-outlaw radiates dimpled charm to the very best of his – considerable – ability. Despite all this, Miss Porter does not display the demeanour of a woman being successfully romanced. The best word to describe her might be – pre-occupied.

“...Pretty place, this.” Heyes nods, appreciatively at the violinist. “Got a real nice atmosphere, huh?”

“I feel he must have led such an interesting life,” says Miss Porter, dreamily.

“Who? The fiddle-player?”

“No, Thadd... I mean, Mister Jones.”

“Oh, him.”

“The sudden and strange way he ended our evening together, last time you were in Porterville...” Her brow furrows, “He’s – enigmatic – isn’t he?”

“I guess enigmatic would be one word,” dismisses Heyes. “Let’s talk ‘bout something more interesting.” Best dimpled smile, “You, for instance. What I can’t figure, ma’am, is why a lady so very lovely, isn’t spoken for. Seems to me the fellas in Porterville must be kinda slow off the mark.”

“My father says my trouble is, once I know for sure a man is – well, paying me attention – I lose all interest.” A considering frown, “...I think he’s right. I only find myself – romantically inclined - towards a man if HE is NOT pursuing me. Once he turns into what my father calls an assiduous suitor...” She shrugs, takes a sip of her wine, “...Nothing!”

Heyes muses on that. Disgruntled, he sends a forkful of chicken south.


HOTEL ROOM

Kid Curry, dressed in long johns and woolly winter socks, lies on the bed reading what looks suspiciously like a script. Not surprising, it IS a script. In one hand Kid holds a pencil with which he makes, scowl-accompanied, tally marks.

A sound outside. Warily, Kid Curry reaches toward the gun belt hanging from the bedpost. The door opens – only Heyes. Kid relaxes. Kid’s scowl – does not.

“Learning your lines?” Heyes nods at the script.

“Wouldn’t take me long, huh?”

Heyes walks over, looks at the pencil marks. “Kid! You’re not – counting?! It don’t matter who gets to say most, y’know!”

“Fine. If’n it don’t matter, we’ll swap.”

“But...” Heyes searches, then adopts the tone of sweet reason. “What you hafta realise is – you get the plum role. The strong, silent man. The man of action, not mere words...”

Kid interrupts him. “Plum role? THIS?” An accusing finger stabs the page.

Heyes reads: “Wait for my signal, Thaddeus, my loyal and trusty sidekick...”

Heyes breaks off, meets Kid’s eyes. Ah.

“You’re loyal and trusty, Kid. It’s a compliment.”

“I’m a dang sidekick!”

“It’s dramatic license...”

“Heyes! You call me a sidekick up on that stage, I’ll flatten ya! With or without a license! That be dramatic enough for ya?”

Pause.

“I guess I could do a few minor edits,” decides Heyes.

“I guess you could, too.”

Heyes pulls off his boots and stretches out beside Kid. More pause. Then...

“While you’re editin’, Heyes, y’know what this tableau really needs?”

“For the last time, Kid, I am NOT working in that dang walk-off story!”

Two ex-outlaws fume, mutely. Their eyes meet. Each looks pointedly away. Two expressions slowly register an internal realisation that this is kinda dumb. Two self-conscious wriggles.

Kid breaks the silence.

“You have a good evening?”

“I guess,” says Heyes. He lowers his eyes to hide a sudden calculating glint. “But, I think Miss Porter’s more interested in you, Kid.”

“Uh huh?” Kid is endearingly pleased. Doubt flickers. “Nah.”

“Sure! She talked ‘bout you all evening. I reckon she’s only paying any attention to me ‘cos she’s still kinda sore ‘bout that time you left her to walk herself home.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! If I were you, Kid. I’d try and make amends. Show her how sorry y’are. Y’know – be really attentive. What’s the word – assiduous? An assiduous suitor. That’s what the ladies want, huh?

“You reckon?”

Innocent brown eyes. “Trust me!”


JANUARY 3rd - VERY EARLY –STILL HALF-LIGHT

Six cold-looking figures ride into town and rein up. From under six damp hats, six pairs of eyes squint from six grimy and hirsute faces. The eyes move from the bank, to the adjacent Sheriff’s office, and back.

The shortest and grimiest of the sextet wriggles in the saddle and shifts a wad of chewing tobacco into one be-furred cheek. “I still don’t like it!”


THE BANK

The start of the working day. Heyes is removing his jacket, pulling on his teller’s sleeve-protectors. Miss Porter gives him a friendly smile as she comes over. She receives a cool nod in return.

“Mister Smith, I’d like to thank you again for a very pleasant din...”

“Excuse me, ma’am. I need to consult Thaddeus about bank security.”

Off he strides, without a backward glance. His expression is... Yup! That is definitely Heyes’ best enigmatic face!

Puzzled and a touch chagrined, Miss Porter watches the retreating back.


LATER

The bank is deserted apart from two ex-outlaws. Kid is propping up the far wall, apparently resting his eyelids. Heyes is behind his bank-teller’s counter, busily checking rows of figures, when...

“Don’t move an’ don’t holler – ‘cos this is a stick up.”

Eyes up and double-take from Heyes.

As there is no response, Wheat looks up and almost starts out of his skin. “Heyes???!!! What the Sam Hill are you doin’ here? AGIN?”

“One thing I STILL ain’t doing is getting robbed! Put that gun away!”

“For Pete’s sake! Can’t a fella walk into a dang bank without findin’ you sittin’ there??!!” Sudden thought. “I’m bettin’ if’n we turn ‘round, we’re gonna find Kid Curry watchin’ us – AGIN - ain’t we?”

Confirmatory eyebrow twitch from Heyes.

Six outlaws turn. Kid Curry, indeed, leans against the wall, bank security badge on his chest, gun in hand. He touches his hat, “Howdy, boys.”


Wheat’s shoulders droop. He turns back.

“Heyes, what’s that fancy word when ya get the feelin’ everythin’s happ’nin’ all over agin?”

“Déjà vu,” supplies Heyes. “Me and the Kid have been kinda wading through it ever since New Year’s.” Heyes leans forward. “Wheat, what the Sam Hill are you all doin’?”

“Robbin’ the bank,” says Wheat. “On account of this bein’ where the money’s kept.”

“I mean,” Heyes hangs onto his patience, “...What are you doing in THIS bank? Didn’t we have some kinda agreement ‘bout staying outta Porterville? You’re gonna get spotted. The folk ‘round here SAW ya last time. They’ll remember.”

“It bein’ kinda a mem’rable occasion,” agrees Kid.

“Yeah, but, we done got us a disguise,” says Kyle. Grinning, he tugs at his copious facial hair, dislodging what looks like a scrap of breakfast bacon. “Our winter beards!” Kyle treats Heyes to a crooked smile.

“Wheat, you really think those are gonna be enough?” Heyes scans the group. His face wavers. Actually, it IS kinda hard to work out who’s behind all that fur and food debris.

Wheat’s turn to lean in. “Look Heyes, I know comin’ to Porterville ain’t exactly... But, I’m gonna level with ya, we’re kinda desperate. We were hurrahin’ over in Salt River and... Well...” He is searching for the right words.

“Some other gang took us for ev’rythin’ we had,” finishes Kyle. “We’re busted.”

Wheat glares at him. He turns back to Heyes. “This is ‘bout the only place we could reach. Our horses are pretty near stove in. We weren’t meanin’ to clear out the bank. Not with it bein’ Lom’s town and all. We figured we’d get hold of a day or two’s takin’s. Just enough to get us supplies. Enough to get back to the Hole...”

“Uh huh?” Heyes is not exactly unsympathetic. He is not exactly falling for another of Wheat’s hard luck stories either.

Mute conversation between Heyes and Curry.

Kid Curry speaks up. “Boys, I suggest you all wait outside while Heyes and I talk to Wheat there...”

Before this can go any further, Miss Porter comes into the bank.

“Mister Smith, Mister Jones...” Miss Porter breaks off as she sees the motley crew making her nice, clean bank all untidy. She stares at Wheat’s carefully averted profile, then at Kyle’s dopey ‘it’s-a-gal’ grin. Her brows draw together. “...Could I have a private word?”

The threesome retires to the far corner behind the counter.

“Those men – what do they want?”

“Just looking for work, ma’am,” says Heyes.

She tilts her head on one side, studying one outlaw after another. “Something about them seems very familiar...”

The ‘look’ is exchanged.

Wheat and the boys, seeing Miss Porter still staring, shuffle, nervously. Wheat’s hand hovers near his gun, he catches Heyes’ eye, moves it.

“You think those men look familiar, ma’am?” Heyes suppresses a gulp and moves into silver-tongue mode. “You think you recognise them, ma’am?” This is said good and loud so Wheat and the boys can hear. Consternation. “I’m real happy to hear you say that...”

Double-take from Kid Curry. Huh?

“...Real happy. Come, let me introduce you.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Miss Porter is led over to where the Devil’s Hole Gang have clustered. They, some of the fellas’ needing a nudge from a more civil neighbour, remove their hats and mutter variations on, “Howdy, ma’am.” Simultaneously they turn aside, make shuffling efforts to sink lower into their collars, cover their faces with hands scratching at noses and ears and attempt to melt, unobtrusively, into the walls.

Heyes indicates Wheat, “This is – er – Mister Hotchkiss. And this here...” His finger moves to Kyle. “Is Mister Rembecker. And these others are Grant, Gaines, Balfour and...” He has run out.

“Another Balfour,” improvises Kid. “Cousins.”

“Good afternoon,” says Miss Porter, still clearly wary of the disreputable looking crew. “I’m afraid it’ll take me a while to remember which name goes with which – er – gentleman.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am,” says Kid. “These fellas won’t mind a speck if’n you mix up their names, huh, boys?”

Deprecating murmurs indicating – no, they won’t mind.

“Sheesh, ma’am. I’m guessin’ you cain’t mix ‘em up more’n we’re gonna,” puts in Kyle, with his best smile. “Ow!” He rubs his ankle as if someone next to him had delivered a discreet kick.

“Wha...?”

Heyes continues before Miss Porter can express her confusion at Kyle’s remark. “Hotchkiss, Rembecker and the rest of the boys are old acquaintances of Thaddeus and mine, isn’t that right, Thaddeus?”

Very warily Kid nods. Where is Heyes going with this?

“This morning, they rode into Porterville, looking for work... That’s right, isn’t it, Mister Hotchkiss? You’d like a little extra money? Just enough to tide you over for a few weeks?”

“Me?” mouths Wheat, silently.

A nod from Heyes.

“Er...That’s right, ma’am.”

“And, first I thought – maybe a coupla these fellas could help out with security, y’know, manning the door on the night of the show – keeping an eye on the saloon in case any young bucks have a little too much to drink and think it’d be fun to pull any stunts...”

Miss Porter takes another look at the six sorry figures. Her expression is not keen.

“But, THEN – I had me a better idea. Take a real close look at Hotchkiss, here.”

She does. Wheat runs a finger ‘round his collar. A bead of sweat tracks through the dirt on his forehead.

“Don’t he remind you of someone? Don’t he have a look of one of them lawless outlaws that dynamited your safe?”

Kid Curry’s face is frozen. Heyes!!!

Wheat double-takes and scowls fit to stop a clock.

“See! See how mean he can look when he tries! Keep scowling, Mister Hotchkiss. Now, ma’am, imagine him without the beard. Don’t he favour the fella who robbed your bank?”

“Yes!” Delighted agreement from Miss Porter. “You all do! THAT’S why you seemed so familiar.”

“That’s what I thought!” exclaims Heyes. “So, I told these boys to go make themselves look as much like outlaws as they could. Y’know, mess up their clothes, rub on a little dirt...”

“So, these outfits are – costuming? Ah!” Relief warms Miss Porter’s smile. “They are wonderful! I could really believe you’d crawled from some human cesspit swarming with lowlifes!” She sniffs. “Even the aroma is convincing!”

Chagrin on Wheat’s face. None on Kyle’s. Maybe both ‘cesspit’ and ‘aroma’ cleared his head by a safe margin, huh?

“I see you’re thinking what I thought, ma’am!” smugs Heyes. “Why not ask Hotchkiss if he would be our First Bandit? And see if we can prevail on a few of his friends to be his henchmen?”

Comprehension floods Miss Porter’s face. “Oh, Mister Hotchkiss! You would be a wonderful First Bandit...” Qualm. “...That wouldn’t make you nervous would it?”

“Nervous? Who’s nervous?” A tic works at the eyelid of a sweating and thoroughly confused outlaw leader. “I ain’t nervous!”

“No, ma’am,” chips in Kyle, supportively. “He’s done bin First Bandit afore. Ow!” Kyle steps a kick-length away from Wheat.

“You’ve been on the stage, Mister Hotchkiss?” A delighted Miss Porter asks Wheat.

“Er...” Of course, Wheat still has no idea what this is all about. “I ain’t bin on a stage for – must be nigh on two years, ma’am.”

“Even so!” She clasps her hands together, happily.

Heyes cuts in, “Boys, I suggest you all wait for Thaddeus and me in the saloon while we talk over arrangements with Miss Porter.”

“I’m sure we can agree on suitable remuneration...” smiles Miss Porter.

Blank expressions. Kyle’s face falls. “Re-mune-er-ay-shun... That sounds like a hangin’ oh-fence!”

“No, no. It just means – pay,” reassures Miss Porter.

The blank expressions light up.

“Okay.” Wheat is still wary, but relieved this is all over. “We’ll just be waitin’ over in the saloon.”

The Devil’s Hole Gang leave, favouring Miss Porter with civil – if dentally challenged – smiles.