Jonathan Heller laid back on the bed in his cell and stared at the ceiling. The beds mattress was brown from age and very dirty. It was held up by four metal poles that were brown from rust. The cell was made of brick walls and very small. He has just enough room to stretch when he got up in the morning. There was a barred window where he could look out at the world beyond the cell he was in. During the day the window let too much heat in and at night it let too much cold in. The one, thin sheet he had did not keep him warm at all.
Jonathan Heller was a leader to one of the worst group of bandits in the West. He had been caught on their last bank robbery, which was in the town they were in. The others had gotten away with the money while he had been captured . . . quite willingly. It had been two weeks since he had been arrested.
The sheriff was asleep in his chair with his feet propped on his desk. On the desk was his revolver. Behind him was a gun case with three rifles and some boxes of ammo.
There were five other cells, all empty. On the wall behind the sheriff were numerous wanted posters, one happened to be his.
On the ceiling