Moon

No bunnies twitching, but thought I'd start the month off with an oldie that fits the challenge.

Watching Midnight


Heyes looked at his watch – 10:51 – and sighed. He shivered and wrapped the blanket closely, trying to gain some warmth.  His cup of coffee was cold, beginning to frost over.    There was no moon tonight, and the brittle stars made sharp incisions in the sky, piercing the darkness, but shedding no light on the landscape.  He looked down but could spy no movement, no sign of life.  He looked at his watch again – 10:52.


He heard a slight noise behind him.  He glanced back, but nothing was there.  Must have been the Kid shifting in his sleep back deep in the cave where they could have a fire without it showing.  The fire was too far back to bring any warmth where he was though.  He looked back down.  Was there movement?  Was the posse still out there?  He saw no sign but couldn’t relax.   How often had they done this – taken turns keeping watch while the other slept, avoiding posses?  It was supposed to be better now.  They had gone straight, had kept their word, nearly three years.  Yet they were still dodging posses, still wanted, only now they didn’t have the gang to back them, didn’t have the Hole to call home.  Lord, how bad was that?  Calling that God-forsaken piece of real estate home? He looked at his watch – 10:59.


He took a sip of the icy coffee and grimaced.  He liked his coffee strong, and, though others might grumble, he thought he made a fine cup, but he had to admit when it was cold it was awful.  You could probably use it to clean guns.  This time he definitely heard the Kid grunting and moving.  Get your sleep, Kid; it’s been a hard few days.


They had been several hours out of Porterville, after one of their regular visits to see if there was word.  No word, just another Governor making promises he had no intention of keeping.  Lom had given them his usual pep talk and sent them on their way.  It was just their poor luck that as they passed by Harrow’s Glen someone recognized them and sent a posse after them.  It had taken nearly three days of hard riding, four changes of horses, to outrun them.  He thought they had finally gotten safe but wasn’t sure.  Good thing he and the Kid knew this part of Wyoming as well as they did.  They had taken refuge in this cave that they had used frequently with the gang.  It was about a fifteen hour ride from here to the Hole, but you could go through the cave and come out on the other side of the ridge and no posse would be the wiser.  The cave was well hidden too and on rocky terrain so they didn’t leave any tracks getting to it either.


He looked down, still clear.  Maybe they had finally gotten a break and lost the posse.  Maybe.  He looked at his watch – 11:04.  He looked up.  The stars mocked him -- clear and beautiful, and cruel.  It was clear like this that night, he remembered.  After they’d found them and buried them, they had hidden down by the banks of the stream, up in a tree.  He remembered holding the Kid, who was shivering as if he’d never be warm again, even though it was August and the sweat was pouring from the two of them.  He had looked up then and these same stars had laughed at him, taunting him, telling him, “You two shouldn’t be there.  Why weren’t you with them?”  He looked at his watch – 11:06.


He stood up and stretched his legs, then rewrapped the blanket and sat back down.  He listened for the Kid and heard soft snuffles behind him.  He drew a deep breath and remembered.  Remembered the years on their own, the struggles to survive.  They had tried hard, back-breaking work, but somehow it never suited them.   Then the gangs.  Boy had that suited them.  That, they excelled at.  So why did they quit?  What was he thinking?  Oh, he knew the Kid raised it first.  But really, he could have talked the Kid out of it if he’d wanted to.  Why hadn’t he?  What had he been thinking?  These last three years had been impossible.  Something had to give.


He reached into his pocket to pull out the watch again.  “Don’t Heyes.”  The Kid spoke quietly behind him.


“You’re supposed to be sleeping.  What are you doing up?”


“I can’t sleep.  You’re thinkin’ too loud.”


“That’s ridiculous.  Thinking don’t make a sound.”


“Heyes, I’ve known you my whole life.  I know when you’re thinkin’ too hard.  Trust me on this, you’re thinkin’ too loud.  It’s keepin’ me awake.”  The Kid reached over, took Heyes’ cup and tossed out the cold coffee, then poured in some warm from the pot he was holding.  He handed it back to Heyes, who swallowed it and sighed, before putting the cup back down.


“I’m sorry, Kid.  Guess I dragged you into yet another one of my schemes.  Maybe this amnesty is wrong.  The Governor’s never going to give it to us.  Found himself a great way to make us stop and not cost him anything.   Bet the railroads and bankers love him.”


“It was my idea, Heyes, remember?  I convinced you to try for it.  And you never dragged me into anything.  I’ve got a mind of my own, you know.  I liked the easy money and the excitement of the jobs, just as much as you did.”


“Kid, I wanted you by my side.  You gotta know that I can talk you into anything if I really want to.”


“Ya think that, do you?”


“Well, yeah.”


“I’ve got news for you.  You have never talked me into anythin’ I didn’t already want to do.  We split up because of that.  Remember?  You manipulate folks, Heyes; you’re good at it.  It’s saved our skins I can’t count how many times.  But you have never been able to manipulate me.  I know you.  I know all your tricks.  I can read you better’n you read yourself.  Your ma once told me that you liked me because I was the only one you couldn’t trick.  I go where I go because I want to be there.  I have no regrets about this life we’ve lived; don’t you go feelin’ bad about me.  I am alive because I know that you have my back; and I have yours.”


They both sat quietly, gazing up at the velvet sky, immersed in the silence.


A train whistle sounded far off.  Heyes looked at his watch again – 11:32.


Heyes thought back to that first train they hopped.  Two young boys running from the Home and the life they had been handed.  What had happened to all their dreams?  They were going to be rich.  Well they’d had plenty of money, but it all seemed to pass right through their hands.  Maybe there was one more big score out there.  Maybe.


“Why are we doing this, Kid?  Why did we decide to go straight?  Why did you want the amnesty?”


“It wasn’t the same anymore.  You n’ me both, we had fun, liked the challenge.  But it wasn’t as much fun anymore.  We grew up.  We couldn’t ignore what we were doin’; couldn’t say it was just the railroads and the banks’ faults anymore.  That they were askin’ for it.  Wheat was gettin’ restless; the posses were gettin’ bigger; the sheriff’s gettin’ smarter.  With the spread of the telegraph, it was only a matter of time -- either someone would get shot, or we’d get caught, or both.”


“Yeah.”  Heyes sighed.  “Bank and train robbing is a young man’s game.  Not many live to be as old as we have.  I guess you’re right.  Have you thought about what we’ll do when we get the amnesty, or what we’ll do if we don’t get it?”


“No, Heyes, I’ll leave the thinkin’ to you.  I just take it one day at a time.  As tirin’ and frustratin’ as our current situation is, I still like it better; like us better too.”


As they looked out at the silent landscape their attention was caught by a flash in the sky.   They looked up and saw first one, then two, then a cascade of shooting stars lighting the sky and the surrounding countryside.  They watched in awe until it ended.


Heyes looked at his watch again.  It was midnight.  They sat together, each caught up in his own thoughts.  


Finally, the Kid turned to Heyes.  “Go get some sleep.  It’s my turn to keep watch.  I’ll be here at your back, so sleep, Heyes.”


“Kid.”


“Just get some sleep.  I’ll wake you in four hours.  Then you can watch till daylight – but I’ll make the coffee then.”


Heyes laughed.  “Alright.  Wake me in four hours.  Then I’ll figure out where we go next.”

Here's a short contribution from me. It's not a story I chose to write, but a story that forced me to write it.


“So long, boys.  Guess it’ll take a while getting’ used ta not seein’ you around.  Not that we did see much of ya’ since ya’ started all this nonsense.  Unless you needed our help, of course.”


The burly man snorted through his bristling mustache.  Brown eyes blinked rapidly, even though nobody could see it with the moon hidden behind the clouds.  He had left his companions a small distance back to say his goodbyes.


“And just look who it was had to come save your bacon agin, huh?  Not that there was much left worth savin’.  But anyway.”


He squirmed, a little embarrassed.


“Well, we got it for ya’, your blasted amnesty.  Amnesty.  Huh.  Was it really worth it?”


A glare pierced the darkness stretching across the plain.  A chin jutted out defiantly.


“And don’t go thinkin’ we did it all just for you!  Understand?  We just so happened to have decided ta do somethin’ about that blasted, reward-snatchin’, lyin’ guv’nor.  And his friend the warden.  See, the prison’s been a thorn in our side a good while already, you know.  What with first Big Jim, and then later some others and – er hhmph.  So, when I said to the boys, I got me a plan – they were all ready ta go.  And turns out, it was a smart plan.  We pulled it off, just like that.  Made a nice haul too.  You should’a stayed with us.”


After having blustered himself up, the big man seemed to deflate on those last words and shook his head.


“I really didn’t believe ya’ when ya’ first told me, in that Porterville bank.  Kept wonderin’ what angle you were workin’.  But after that shit you pulled with the hangin’ – man, you gave us a fright there.  And they didn’t even have the Kid.  Nobody in the business would come up with something this stupid tryin’ ta work a job.  Not even you!  Well, after that, I started ta think that maybe there really wasn’t an angle.”


“Then the business with the cattle baron’s poker game.  You cheated me outta lot a’ money there.  But at least I ended up getting yours.  Ha.  Not many people ‘round can say they robbed you blind.  And got away with it.  Had you even come and hand the money over.”


A smirk quickly crossed the rough features.


“Yup, really got one over on you that time.  And you never even tried ta get even.  Guess that really did it.”


The man was still for some time, his eyes no longer looking ahead, but instead seeing pictures of days past.  When they had been younger.  When they had all still been together.  The posturing and nagging, the bickering, the jibes, the cursing and fights, the incredible things they had pulled off.  Together.  Good times.


A sudden gust of wind brought him back to the present, blowing the images away like autumn leaves.  He shook his head and blinked his eyes a few times.  But this time, the blinking didn’t help to hold back what was glistening in them.  He took a deep steadying breath.


“Well, I guess it’s all over now.  Reckon we owed it to ya’.  You can rest easy now, boys.”


Two fingers to the brim of his hat gave a farewell salute.  One last look towards the distant lights that marked the location of the Wyoming State Penitentiary near Laramie and he turned his horse back to his waiting companions.  Together, they disappeared into the night.



More gusts of wind swept over the plain.  They would wipe out the hoof prints of the riders by morning.  Some bit of paper was driven along on their trail, snatched up somewhere in town.  The wind broke apart the clouds hiding the moon.  In its light, the headline of the fluttering newspaper proclaimed “Governor accused over unjust imprisonment. Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry given amnesty ” before the paper continued on its tumbling way.  But nobody was there to read.

Real life, work and teenagers have kept me busy for a while now.   I thought I'd post this old one just to let you know that I'm still around and still interested.  It's just that life takes over sometimes.  It loosely fits the prompt because it has moonlight in it.  


“Get after them!  They just robbed the bank!”


The sheriff gave the portly bank manager a look of derision.  “Well, duh!  I’d never have thought of that.  It’s a real good job you’re here to keep me right, ain’t it?”

All eyes glanced anxiously down the street at the two youths; one blond the other dark, galloping furiously down the main street, raising a cloud of cocking dust.  

“What are you waitin’ for?  They’re skedaddlin’, and your standin’ around like an old maid at a weddin’.”

“I got it in hand.  I saw them two greenhorns hanging around the bank for the last week.  The fair haired one kept playin’ with that gun of his.  Now, either they’d developed a keen interest in fiduciary matters...,” He grinned.  “I read that in a book.  It’s a good word ain’t it?  I like sayin’ it -   fiduciary...  That new library sure is great.”

“They’re gettin’ away!”

“As I was sayin’ – either they’d developed a keen interest in fiduciary matters, or they were plannin’ on robbin’ it.”  The lawman hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat, a broad smile spreading over his face.  “There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” his eyes clouded over.  “Not that I ever did skin a cat – seems kinda cruel to me.  It ain’t like we eat them or anythin’, but I read that in parts of China...”

The banker started to go purple in the face.  “What in the name of all that’s holy are you witterin’ on about man!  This ain’t the time for one of your shaggy dog stories.  They’re gettin’ away.”

“It wasn’t quite time.  I guess it is now.”  The sheriff gave a curt nod before placing stubby fingers into the corners of his mouth, letting loose an ear-splitting, ringing whistle.  The signal was picked up by a couple of young men on the sidewalk on either side of the main street, who hoisted the rope, strung between, them as high as they could, before wrapping it around the posts and hanging on to the ends for all they were worth.

The horsemen careened into it, their chests slamming against the rope as though it was an iron bar, before thwacking backwards onto the earth, where outraged citizens swarmed over them and dragged them to their feet. 

The sheriff gave a cackle.  “I read about that in the new library too.  There’s a village in England where a ghost from their civil war still rides in the moonlight.  He was killed by a rope strung across the road.”

“You could have killed them?” demanded a woman.  “They can’t be more than sixteen.”

“Nah, I paid two lads to hoist it.  From the sidewalk they’d be lucky to get it higher than the horses’ heads.  You can learn a lot from books.  I’m real glad we got that new library.”

ooo000ooo
The two youths cleared away the rope from the street, the fair haired one giving a surreptitious smile to his dark haired companion.  “How’d you know, Heyes?  That could have been us.  We talked about holdin’ up that bank.”

The dark lad took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.  “I know, but we’d never done it like them.  I wanted I’d do some research, so I went to the library.”

“You and your damned books.”

“But I met the sheriff.  He wondered if I had a friend and if we wanted to make a few bucks because he’d figured out that a pair were casing the bank.  They were real amateurish about it –practically had their noses pressed up against the windows.  There was really only one way they could leave town from the bank because of the river, so he’d figured out a plan.”

Kid gave a low whistle.  “But why us?”

“He was real clear about that – he said that any young man who spent his evenings hanging about in the library must be a fine, upstanding individual.  He trusted me.”

“Upstandin’?  You were in there researchin’ the best ways to rob the bank!”

Heyes’ face dimpled into a smile.  “I was actually studying Roman defensive strategies.”

“That ain’t what helped here.  Don’t try to make yourself out to be some kind of genius, Heyes.  This was nothin’ but blind luck.  That could’ve been us.”

Heyes gave a light chuckle.  “Yeah but luck comes from piecing together everything you know.  I remembered your great pearl of wisdom too, and I think that’s the best defensive strategy there is.”

“What ‘pearl of wisdom?’”

“Do you remember what you said when we were at school and Miss Thompson asked you about George Washington?”
Kid groaned.  “School?  You know I don’t remember school...  In  fact, I work hard to forget most of it.” 

“She asked why his father didn’t punish him when he admitted to chopping down his father’s cherry tree – and you replied, ‘Because George still had the axe in his hand...?’  It took her nearly ten minutes to get control of the class again.  It sure stuck in my mind, Kid.  The best defence of all is to make sure you’re always the one holding the axe.”    
    
 

By Moonlight


The smoke from the engine drifted aimlessly in night air and strung itself through a lacework of wispy clouds as the train rattled off through the October night.  The countryside was lit by the lambent silver moon hanging in black velvet sky pricked by twinkling points of light.  The fair-haired man shifted on the seat and stretched a leg out into the aisle.  The hat over his face wasn’t doing it.  It might be midnight, but sleep simply wasn’t coming despite the soporific lightness of the clicketty-clack from the rocking railway car.  He pushed the hat back with a long forefinger and blinked in the darkness of the railway car.  His partner was sitting fixated on something in the aisle; sitting upright and tense in the seat opposite.

“Are you alright?” the Kid whispered.

“Yeah,” came the muted reply.  “Just thinking, is all.”

“Thinkin’?”  The gunman frowned.  “A body can do too much of that, especially your body.”

The shadows flooded in to fill the dimples framing the wry smile.  “Yeah, I guess I just had trouble sleeping.”

“What were you thinkin’ about?”

“Me?  Life, youth, Valparaiso...”

A fair brow arched.  “You don’t talk of Valparaiso much.  Not since you shook me awake that night and told me we had to get outta there.  A whole lotta water has passed under the bridge since then, huh?”

Heyes nodded.  “It sure has.  It keeps flowing too.  Sometimes it’s white water, other times its deep and silent as the grave.”

The Kid felt a shudder run down his spine.  “A grave?  Someone just walked over mine.”

The dark eyes became intense.  “What made you say that?”

“It’s just a sayin’,” he stared at his cousin, drinking in the stiff shoulders and grim set of the jaw.  “What’s got into you?  I catch you starin’ into the dark like a lone wolf.  What did you see?”

“Nothing.  Not one thing?” came the stark reply.

“Just your mood.  You get like this sometimes.  What’s up?”

Heyes sighed deeply.  “Like I said, just thinking.”

“Is it because it was a night like this when we left Valparaiso?”

“Maybe.”

The Kid leaned back on his seat.  “That was real dumb of us to leave in October.  We should’ve waited until spring when we would’ve stood a much better chance.”

“No, we shouldn’t.”  The sharpness of Heyes’ words caught his cousin by surprise.  “We had to go.  We had to go right then.”

The Kid leaned forward, keeping his voice low.  “Why?”

“We just did.  It’s a long story and I’m tired.”

He stared into the intense brown eyes.  “No, you ain’t and neither am I.  I’ve asked you this question for years.  We just up and lit outta there in the dead of night and you never told me why.  I was too young to question it.  The subject came up again, so how about you tell me now?  We got time on this journey; far too much of it for my taste. ”

Disquiet played in the dark eyes.  “I suppose.  Do you remember Charlie moon?”

“That weird, sickly, pale kid?  Yeah.  I remember.  He died, didn’t he...?”


oooOOOooo



Valparaiso twenty years earlier...


“Heyes!”  The shrill voice of the matron echoed around the stone walls of the institution.  “You were warned.  Sit up straight and eat your breakfast.”

The boy dragged up a weary head and blinked heavy eyes.  “I’m not hungry, Miss.”

The bow of the linen cap tied under the woman’s chin waggled as she spoke.  “Not hungry!  There are children starving in the streets and you refuse good healthy food?  This is unacceptable.  Report to Mr. Wayne immediately.”
The dark eyes widened in angst at the required extra exertion.  “Now, Miss?”

The hard lips pursed in a scowl which would brook no opposition.  “Now.”

The little boy propped his hands on the table to drag a leaden leg over the bench but he lacked the energy for even this small operation.  His foot caught and he tumbled face-first onto the stone floor.  The other inmates looked on in silence, too afraid to speak and risk punishment from the authoritarian regime, but one wily boy took the chance and swapped his empty plate for Heyes’ uneaten portions.  No point in letting it go to waste, was there?   

“Get up,” she bellowed.

“Miss, I don’t think he can...,” came a little voice.

“What do you mean?”  She strode between the rows of uniformed boys sitting in place at the long trestle tables.  “Get up.”  She prodded at the boy with her toe.  “Heyes, get up.”

“I think he’s sick, Miss,” ventured a larger boy.

“I suspect you may be right,” she stepped back and called to a couple of trustees.  “Schwartz and Cramond, get this boy to the infirmary.”  She held her hand up to the blond-haired boy who started to stand.  “No, Curry.  You may not go with him.  You are not ill.  Stop crying!  Stop that right now...”

oooOOOooo

The hazy mess gradually morphed into a face framed with grey mutton-chops.  The man looked over a pair of round spectacles and gave a grim smile.  “Welcome back, young man.  You’re finally awake.”  The picture became clearer.  The walls were painted in two shades of carbolic green, with an imaginary dado line being the demarcation point between the two.  Unoccupied brass beds lined the walls and bible quotes were etched on the walls at each end of the room.  “You’re in the infirmary.  I’m Doctor Green.  You’ve had a fever for a day or so.  It seems to have broken, but an ague like that leaves you weak.  You’re to stay in here for the next week at least.”  He cast his hand around the ward.  “You and Moon are the only ones here, so you’ll have some company.”  He scribbled something on the notes he carried on a clipboard.  “Moon is new here.  He lost his parents too.  You two have something in common.”

“My parents ain’t dead, Dr. Green,” murmured the boy in the next bed. 
Hannibal turned his head and gaped at the ivory-colored boy.  He’d never seem anyone like him, he looked like he’d been frosted.  The doctor cut in abruptly.  “They are, Charlie.  They’re gone.  You need to accept that.”  He turned back to the dark-haired patient.  “He’s an albino, Hannibal.  They got no color anywhere.  Even us white folks got some color.  He’s got none.  That’s why his hair and skin are so white, and his eyes are that color.  He was born that way.  Be nice to him, huh?  Lots of them here bully him, but he can’t help the way he was born.”

Hannibal stared wordlessly at boy who sat up in his bed, as pale as his linen shirt.  The eyes were unearthly; an unblinking violet gaze.  The thin boy smiled.  “Hi, I’m Charlie.  What’s your name?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but no more than a croak came out. 

“He’s too sick to talk, Charlie.  Let him sleep,” Doctor Green clipped the chart on the end of the bed.  “The nurse will be in to check you in the night.  I’ll see you in the morning.  Glad to see you with us again, Hannibal.  Get some more sleep.”

oooOOOooo              

He had fallen back into a deep insensibility, with the help of the draught given to him by the night nurse, and he wasn’t quite sure what had wakened him, but he opened his eyes to find a figure at the window dragging on the stiff metal latches.  Charlie Moon turned, fixing him with his hauntingly beautiful eyes.  “Ssshhh!  Go back to sleep.  I’m goin’ to see my folks.”

Hannibal still couldn’t be sure if he’d answered him.  All he knew was that he was soon seized by slumber and was insensible once again.  By the next morning he had been convinced it was all a dream.

oooOOOooo

The next morning dawned bright and cheerful, with buoyant birds swooping and lunging at the buzzing insects fussing around the flowers and trees.  Charlie slunk into the shadows, avoiding the sunbeams.  His alabaster skin burnt easily and he couldn’t take the risk.  Hannibal had done the opposite, seeking out the life-affirming energy.  He was still very weak, but he felt very much better than he had in some time.  He was allowed to sit up, covered by a blanket, and had even been permitted the luxury of a book.  The Home for Waywards was a tough regime and work filled every waking moment, so he was determined to savor the respite, and was in no hurry to get back to the mindless tasks of rope-making and agricultural work which were intended to ward evil influences away from idle hands. 

“Have you had the fever too, Charlie?” Hannibal asked.

The boy shook his head.  “The doc says I need to be kept separate.  Between you and me I think he’s studyin’ me.  I don’t think he’s seen the likes of me afore.”  He grinned.  “Suits me.  I seen what you lot have to do every day.  I get to sleep.”

“Sleep?  Sure a nap here and there, but don’t you get bored?” 

“Bored?  Na.  I gotta catch up on my sleep anyways.  I’m busy at night.”

Hannibal frowned.  “Busy doin’ what?”

“I goes and sees my folks.  The doc says they’re dead and gone, but he don’t know the half of it.”

“No?”  Hannibal curiosity was aroused.  “They’re hidin’?”

“Hidin’ in plain sight,” Charlie laughed uproariously at his own joke.  “Men like the doc think they knows it all, but my ma says she’s forgotten more than he’ll ever know.  She’s real clever my ma.”

“Why ain’t you with your folks if they’re still alive, Charlie?”

“Ma says the medical folks want to study us.  She’s in hidin’.”

Hannibal’s brows furrowed.  “She’s like you?  Why ain’t you hidin’ with them?”

“I will be, but Ma says I gotta do somethin’ first.  Once the Doc has had a look at me he’ll get bored and leave us alone.”

“That makes no sense, Charlie.  She should just tell him to git.”

Charlie shook his white head, the hair like strands of flax.  “You’re normal.  You don’t know how it is.  I’ve just got to wait a day or so and then we’re going away.  Ma’s found a place for us, where our type can be happy.  I won’t be here much longer.”  The boy paused, wondering if he had said too much.  “Ya ain’t gonna tell on me are ya?”

Hannibal shook his head.  “Go where you like.  It makes no difference to me.  I don’t get why they think your folks are dead though.”

“Ma let them think that.  She hid.  If’n they hadn’t they’d have never give up.  It ain’t no fun bein’ different.  Folks want ta hurt ya.”

“We ain’t different and they hurt us,” Hannibal replied.  “My folks were killed; all of ‘em.  Even the baby.”  His bottom lip started to tremble; he was surprised that he still held so much pain close.  “They’s gone forever and I don’t even know why.  Seems to me that some folks just hurt because they can.”

The violet eyes widened.  “That’s real sad.  Ya can come with us if’n ya want.  Ma likes normals.  She says we need normal blood to keep the family strong.  I gotta find a normal gal and bring her along, she says.”

“There ain’t no girls here,” Heyes backhanded away the tears stinging at his eyes.  “This is a boy’s place.”

“Yeah, but I got someone I can bring.  That’s why Ma’s happy for me to stay here for now.  In any case I sleeps most of the day.”

“Your Ma sounds weird,” snorted Hannibal.

The little white knuckles tightened and the violet eyes flashed with sudden fire.  “Don’t you dare say that about her.  You ain’t even met her.  Ya know nuthin’ about my ma!  I’ll kill ya!”
        
“How are you doing today?”  The doctor strode into the small ward.  “Charlie, you know what I’ve told about getting angry.  What was it?”

Sullen white brows formed a shelf above the fulgent eyes.  “Count to twenty.”

Doctor Green placed his hands on his hips.  “Did you do it?”

“Not yet.”

“Then start.  There’s no point in doing it afterwards, is there?  Nurse Broadmere, can you take Charlie out to calm down?”  The doctor watched a fair-haired, young woman usher the pale boy into the corridor before he turned to his other patient.  “Don’t provoke him, Hannibal.  He has a short temper and can turn quickly.  He has a sickness in his head.  That’s why he’s here.  Just keep to yourself and read until you are fit enough to go back to the dormitory.”

“I can see why he gets angry if he lost his folks,” Hannibal frowned, “but he says they’re alive.”

The medical man shook his head.  “They’re in the graveyard in town.  They’re gone; dead and buried.  I examined them myself.  Poor Charlie just has a hard time accepting that.  I’m hoping that I can sort him out with a bit of time and care.”  He paused, his eyes narrowing.  “You get angry too?”

The boy nodded, his lashes forming perfect crescents against his skin as he lowered his eyes.  “Sometimes.  It don’t do no good though.  Ya gotta think first and feel later.  Eventually you realize you ain’t got time to feel.”

“You’re twelve?”  The doctor nodded, knowingly.  “Some men could never learn that if they lived to be a hundred.  You’ll go far if you straighten up and live a good life.”

“I never did nothin’ wrong, sir.  They put me here ‘cos there was nowhere else.”

“And you were doing so well.  You can’t solve a problem if you don’t admit it exists, Hannibal.  I have to go.”  Doctor Green stood, shakin his head.  “Remember to keep Charlie calm.  Humor him if you have to.  There’s a nurse here twenty four hours a day if you need help.”

“But...”

“No ‘buts’,” the doctor cut him off as he left the ward.  “I hate excuses.  You’re in a home for waywards.  You’re mind is a garden.  It will become overgrown with weeds unless you cultivate it.  Go out and be the best at something.”

oooOOOooo

A chill wind gusted through the open window and prickled at the slumbering child’s neck, but it was the sound of the sash window being slid further open which brought him back to the here and now.  He turned and snuggled into the blankets, but the dropping temperature nipped at his face and nose until a heavy eye reluctantly opened.  The room was drenched in moonbeams, illuminating the fluttering curtains and the sheets dragged back on the empty bed next to him.

He sat up.  Should he close the window?  That would prevent Charlie from getting back in.  The boy’s words floated through his mind.  “I goes and sees my folks... he don’t know the half of it.”

What did he mean by that?  Curiosity had nibbled at him since those words had been spoken.  It was no use.  He was feeling much better and he had to know what was goin on.  He pulled back the blankets and opened the locker beside his bed where his clothes were kept and pulled on the institution overalls and jacket over his nightshirt.  The boots were slightly too large, but he jammed them on anyway and made for the window.

Charlie didn’t appear to feel the cold, despite being so sensitive to the sun.  He was visible in the moonlight, the lustrous beams which picked up the white shirt also silvered the snowy hair.  He merely looked unusual during the day, but he commanded the night.  He strode through the landscape unafraid and assured until he reached the large wooden gates.  At that point he slunk into the shadows, disappearing completely as the luster seemed to drop from him at will. 

The gates weren’t locked, this was a home, not a prison, and they proved no barrier to a determined boy.  He slunk through and was quickly out on the open road, headed for the town.

Hannibal followed at a distance.  The Home for Waywards lay on the edge of town, with the church lying in the dip between.  The boys were marched to it every Sunday, so he was completely familiar with the spired timber building.  The tracking continued with the darkness enveloping the young inmate but strangely emphasizing the stark paleness of his mark.  Young Hannibal’s heart sunk as he watched Charlie enter the churchyard.  This was not a place a boy preferred to hang about after dark, but he swallowed down the apprehension forming in his gullet and pressed on.  The white figure seemed to float in the distance until it came to a stop by a grave marked only by a wooden stake.  Charlie sat and started to talk.  From his vantage point behind a gravestone Hannibal couldn’t hear the words, only the music of the conversation drifting in the night air, carried by the breeze. 
         
Hannibal froze.  Were his eyes playing tricks on him or was there movement in the darkness?  He stared harder, but the more he looked, the less sure he became.   The shadows seemed to morph and meld before his very eyes; distorting and mutating with a swirling eddy, until the very blackness itself seemed to churn and roll around the albino boy, who appeared to be radiant and shining in the midst of a maelstrom of night.  Hannibal blinked and rubbed his eyes.  Were the shadows moving, or was the night playing tricks with eyes which stared too intently? 

The hairs on the back of his neck started to prickle.  It took a few moments for him to realize why, but then his senses caught up with his instincts and he heard it.  Along with Charlie’s descant tones, there was a definite lower rumble.  No, there was a bass resonating with a slightly higher contralto, or was there?  Was Charlie talking to someone, to others?  The white figure lay down on the earth, but the sounds continued, or did they?  They seemed to exist at the very edge of perception, just like the undulating, curling gloom.  

Hannibal’s heart leaped into his mouth at the hand dropping onto his shoulder.  “There you are.  I know you came this way.”  It was Nurse Broadmere, and she was furious, but Charlie’s words suddenly came unbidden to his mind, ‘I gotta find a normal gal and bring her along...’ 

Had Charlie wanted to be followed?  Even worse, had he wanted the nurse to come here in the dead of night for god only knew what purpose?  Panic gripped him.   
“We gotta run!” Hannibal yelled, seizing her hand and tugging her back in the direction of Valpairso.  “Come on.” 

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him along the path, but the woman held back, moving no more than a few steps before stopping.  Hannibal turned to face her, but the swarming whorl of drab mist behind her caused him to let out an involuntary wail.  It was moving.  It was headed straight for them.  “We’ve gotta get back, Miss.  We just gotta...”

He grabbed her hand as tightly as he could and dragged her, stumbling through the night, back towards the home.   The blood pumped loudly in his ears and all he could hear was his heart beating furiously over the metallic scrunch of the tackets on the sole of his boots hitting the an occasional stone as he ran.  Every time he looked back his fear spiraled at the teeming darkness behind them, an empty, hungry, venal blackness flowing towards them in a malignant murmuration of obscurity.  “We’ve got to run!” howled Hannibal.  “You can’t be out here.”

“Hannibal, stop!  Where’s Charlie?” the Nurse demanded.  She turned and looked behind before giving a little cry.  The mounting panic became contagious and he felt her hand tighten round his.  It wasn’t long before her pace gathered and she overtook the panting boy, dragging him along in his out-sized boots against the wind.    

They reached the gate, which Hannibal flung open, his heart beating  fit to burst.  He yanked her through, and slammed it behind them.  “Help!  Help us,” he shouted at the top of his voice.  Lights appeared at the windows of the stark building.  His breath came in great gasps of panic as he sank to his knees.  They were safe, or rather the nurse was safe.  He was convinced the poisonous wave was directed against her.  The shadows retreated against the warm glow of the lanterns and the calls of the men coming to investigate.  They had made it back to Valparaiso.

oooOOOooo

The twitching of a pert nose and the scrunching of the eyelids heralded Hannibal coming to.  “He’s waking up,” a male voice murmured.  “That was quite the fright you gave us all.  It was touch and go for a while there.  I think you’re past the worst of the fever.  How are you?  Can you talk?”  He watched the mouth futilely open and close.  “No?  Just relax.  Nurse Hodge will look after you.”

The boy’s dark eyes scanned the ward, but found all the beds empty and made up with military precision.   “Charl...”  The voice croaked off to nothing. 

Doctor Green shook his head.  “He’s gone, Hannibal.  Don’t worry about him.  Just concentrate on getting well.  You’ve been a very sick boy, but you’re going to be just fine...”

OooOOOooo


Twenty years later

Heyes looked down at his feet.  “It took about a month before they let me go back to work.  The doc was a good man and protected sick boys as much as he could.  I spent the time reading and studying things I’d never have had the chance to learn.  I never saw Charlie again.”

“He died, didn’t he?” the Kid replied.
“I only found out later he was found on his family’s grave.  He slit his wrists and bled to death,” a grim-faced Heyes leaned back in his chair.  “I don’t know if that’s how my fevered brain interpreted what I half-saw in the dark, or if I was even there at all.  Maybe I heard the staff talking about it when I was delirious?  I was too far gone to make sense of it.  I guess poor Charlie never got over losing his folks.  I think he was right about Doc Green studying him.  Maybe he should’ve been in an asylum instead of a home?  We’ll never know now.”

The fair head nodded slowly, watching his cousin intently.  “And dark nights make you think of that time.  Why have you never told me this before?”

The intense, dark eyes fixed on the gunman.  “I never saw Nurse Broadmere again.  She left too.  No notice, she left the very same night.  That made me think it was odd.”  He paused, glancing out the window uncertainly.  “When I was released from the infirmary I went back to the dormitory after a day of picking oakum,” he gave a snort of derision.  “That was considered light duty for the weak.  I crawled into my own bed and felt something under my pillow.  It was a note.  As soon as I read that I knew I had to get out of there and that you had to do the same.  That’s why we left.  I couldn’t stay there a moment longer.  I still don’t know if it was a sick joke by the other boys, or if it was meant for someone else, but every now and again it comes flooding back to me and I feel like that little boy again.  Occasionally the shadows seem to live and move, just like they did that night, and I can’t settle.”

The fair brows met in curiosity.  “Huh?  A note?”

He nodded.  “It simply said, ‘I know you were there.’”

I found the time to cobble together a short story after all.    


Moonflowers

“I won’t tell you again, Jed Curry.  Those are not your apples,” Mrs. Moon held the wriggling boy’s ear between her forefinger and thumb.  “You’ve been warned, now I’m telling your mother.”

She knocked briskly at the door.  “Mrs. Curry.  He’s been at it again.  I swear to you this boy needs to be in a reformatory.  He’s been at my apples again.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” apologetic blue eyes drifted over to her son.  “I’ll ensure that he is punished as soon as his father gets home.  I don’t know where gets it from.”

“Don’t you?” the woman sniffed.  “He’s no better than that father of his.  I’ve never seen him in church, and he is quick with a smart comment.  The last time I asked him if he thought it was disrespectful to go without a collar and tie on the Lord’s Day he gave me quite the mouthful.  I remember the days when men were respectful to a lady.”

“I’m sure he was just angry, Mrs. Moon.  He works very hard and Sunday is the only day he has to relax.”

“With tobacco and liquor?  I swear the man was intoxicated.  As I walked away I clearly heard him shout out, ‘Look out, boys.  It’s a grizzly.’”  Mrs. Moon tipped her nose in the air.  “He quite ruined that fur coat for me.  I haven’t worn it since.”

Mrs. Curry silently blinked away the amusement and composed herself before replying.  “I’m sure that Joseph didn’t mean you.  Nobody could mistake you for a bear, not ever.  You’re more like a cat.”

“What do you mean by that?”

The Irishwoman grinned.  “Figure it out for yourself.  Thanks for bringing my son home.  I’d deal with him now.”

Jed wriggled free from Mrs. Moon’s grasp and “I didn’t do nuthin’, Ma.  It was just the windfall.  The birds and worms got more than me.”  

Mrs. Curry rolled her eyes.  “Windfall?  Is this true?”
    
“So what?  It’s still theft.”  The matron pursed her lips.  “You’re not going to punish him?”

The Irishwoman folder her arms, her shoulders rising.  “Mrs. Moon.  Let’s get one thing straight.  When I say that I’m going to punish Jed, I mean it.  If you think I’m gonna give him a whoopin’ in front of you to satisfy some kind of perverted grudge you’ve got another thing comin’.”

The ice in the mother’s glare gave the busybody pause.  “I’m not asking you to do anything other than give me assurances.  I don’t want him getting off scott free.”

“Mrs. Moon.  My family is my business.  If you care to see my temper first-hand you are welcome to stick around,” Mrs. Curry gave a wry smile, “but I’m bettin’ you ain’t gonna like what happens if you do.”

The woman turned away from the door unable to hold the harsh glower of the angry mother.  “I must get going.  It’s clear to me that the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree in this family.  That’s all I’ll say on the matter.”  She stomped off down the path, turning to deliver a parting shot and making a lie of her last statement.  “He’s going to be no better than his father, I can tell.  It’s because of rough men like him I daren’t come out of my door after dark!”  

“Yeah, well we just need a way to keep you in durin’ the day too!  I wouldn’t worry about the rough men.  They sure ain’t interested in you.  Not in the least,” barked Mrs. Curry.  She pointed at her son.  “You.  Get in here and stop laughing.  This isn’t funny.”

“I promise it were only windfall, Ma.  It was just gonna rot.”

She looked deeply into her son’s eyes.  “Yes.  I believe you.  I can always tell when you’re lying.  You have to understand that she is just plain mean.  She wouldn’t give anythin’ to the kids.  She’d rather see it wither on the ground than see a child have it.”

“I promise it was, Ma.  We was only eatin’ the good bits.”

“Dear Lord,” she rolled her eyes.  “Here we go again.  You’ll have the runs something terrible.  What have I told you about eatin’ stuff off the ground?”  Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.  “Where was Hannibal during all this?  He’s always around where there’s mischief to be had.”

“He ran,” pouted the boy, his tousled curls catching the light.  “He’s bigger’n me.”

“Yes...” mused his mother.  “That’s what you should have done.  Just because someone shouts at you with authority doesn’t mean they’re right.  What would have become of us in the old country if we’d stopped at every English voice?  I taught you better than that, Jed.  Sometimes it’s not about who’s right on paper, it’s more about who is right in the eyes of God.  As long as you were takin’ no more than the worms or the squirrels I can’t worry about it.”  Her eyes gleamed with serious intent, “but if you were takin’ them from the trees, that’s a whole other matter.”

“Worms and squirrels, definitely worms and squirrels, Ma,” squeaked the lad, desperate to avoid the sharper edge of his mother’s tongue.

“Fine.  I’ll go and see Hannibal and his mother.  I can’t see why you should be the only one to be punished.”

oooOOOooo

“Ma’am.”  Mrs. Moon looked down at little Hannibal Heyes and Jedidiah Curry standing on her doorstep, clutching their squashed hats to their chests in respect.  Jed nudged his cousin urging him to continue with his rehearsed speech.  “Our folks are very sorry about what we did and we’ve been sent to do some chores for you.  Ma says we’ve to tidy up your yard, sweep up all the leaves and make the place real tidy to say sorry.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.  “Mrs. Curry knows about this?”

Jed nodded solemnly.   “It was her idea, Ma’am.  She said we caused mischief in your garden, so we need to put it right by goin’ back to the scene of the crime.  We’s here to do right and clean up all windfall, and we promise to give every single one to you.  We’ll sweep up the leaves too.”

Mrs. Smart tilted her nose a little higher.  “Mrs. Curry surprises me.  I suppose there can be some nobility in a woman of her class after all.”  She nodded, curtly.  “You may go ahead, and I hope this is a lesson to you all.”

“Yes’m,” the darker boy grinned.  “That’s what Mrs. Curry said.  ‘Everyone needs a lesson in manners and humility.’  Them were her very words.”    

“I believe my conversation with her had the effect I desired.  Tell her I said thank you.”

“We’ll tell her everything you said, Ma’am,” replied Hannibal.  “Every single word.”

oooOOOooo

The light was dimming and the rising moon was sailing towards the clouds by the time Mary Curry arrived in the family wagon to pick the boys up.  Her clear blue eyes scanned the trees, the carefully piled leaves, and the sack of windfall fruit propped up against the wall of Mrs. Smart’s little timber home.  She gave a nod of satisfaction.  “Looks good,” she announced.  “Did you tell her that I told you what to do?”

The boys nodded in unison.

“Great.  And did you do everything I told you to do?”

More nodding.

“Exactly as I told you to do it?”

“Yes, Ma.”  Jed grin grew wider.  “We did.  We planted them.  Hannibal made sure it was spelled right.”

Mrs. Curry started to chuckle, the mirth rolling around her petite frame, filling her pretty face with devilment.  “Good.  Maybe she’ll think twice before she insults this family again when the words ‘selfish witch’ come up, written in spring flowers.  I wonder how long it’ll take before anyone even tells her.”

“Won’t she see them for herself, Auntie Mary?” asked little Hannibal.

“She says she doesn’t go out after dark,” Mary Curry shrugged.  “You planted moonflowers, so they blossom in the moonbeams.  There won’t be much to see during the day.  She’ll only know if she has any friends.”  She watched the boys climb in the vehicle before giving the reins a shake to bid the horse into motion.  “I hope it’s there good and long before she finds out.  That’ll teach her to argue with an Irish woman.  Nobody blackens the name of my husband and child and walks away.  Nobody!”

Evening settled in upon Santa Marta, so Hannibal and Miranda sat outside on their veranda, enjoying an after dinner drink while watching the sun go down.


“Why did the waiter ask if you wanted a worm in your bottle of tequila?” Miranda asked, as they sat together, holding hands.


Heyes smiled.


“It's tradition,” he informed her. “In the tavernas in town, they wouldn't even ask. To serve tequila, without a live worm in the bottle, would be an insult.”


“Argh!” Miranda grimaced. “I suppose it's a matter of male pride as to who gets to swallow the thing?”


“Of course.”


Miranda rolled her eyes. Men were such strange creatures.


“Well,” Miranda settled into her chair with a contented smile and took a sip of her white wine. “Junior and I are quite happy to do without the worm.”


Heyes squeezed her hand.


“Me too.”


They sat that way for some time, looking out over the ocean, and watching the changing colors gradually take it over. Miranda had never felt so contented. The sun sank, its bright reflection leaking out over the waves as the sky went from bright blues, to oranges and reds and then to purples. They didn't even notice the higher sky darkening as evening overtook the seascape, and before long, stars started to twinkle and the ocean air took on a slight chill.


“It's so beautiful,” Miranda murmured. “So peaceful on the surface. Who would think there was so much drama going on under the waves? What an incredible experience that was. William never wanted to do things like that.” She squeezed Hannibal's hand, and gave it a gentle shake until he glanced over at her. “Thank you.”


“You're welcome,” he returned. “And I thank you as well.”


“For what?” she asked.


“Oh...well, let's see...for taking the hand of a man who was a broken wretch, who was lost and beyond hope. And for smiling at him. For loving me, and yet still being willing to be my friend. For backing off and giving me room to find myself. For accepting me. For marrying me. For tolerating my previous lovers. For accepting my children, Sally and Anya. For accepting my seed, and nurturing our child. Thank you for being my wife.”


Miranda's throat tightened on her, and for a few moments, she couldn't answer. She turned away and watched the bright stars twinkle and become brighter as the night sky darkened. Tears formed in her eye, which she tried to hide, because she never did go for that mushy, sentimental nonsense. She sniffed, and Hannibal smiled over at her through the darkness, and it was his turn to squeeze her hand.


“I love you,” he said.


Miranda nodded and took a deep breath to get control of her emotions.


“I love you too,” she told him. “You're the best thing that ever happened to me. And look; as a monument to our happiness, here comes the moon.”


They both looked out to the hidden horizon, and sure enough, a bright full moon was on the rise, taking its turn to spread its luminous reflection upon the gentle waves. The sound of those waves, gently washing up upon the soft sand, combined with the ambiance of the ocean air, added to this surreal evening of Hannibal and Miranda Heyes, sitting on a beach in Santa Marta, Mexico, having a drink.

This scene was originally written in slightly different form for my story Two Sheepskins and a Star, but I could never quite resolve it or fit it into the overall narrative until this lovely challenge prompt came along.
 
When Mrs. Elizabeth Heyes got home from her job as a tutor at the Leutze Clinic for Aspasia Patients, she wasn’t surprised to see her husband bent over his little roll top desk. He was scribbling long mathematical equations on a pad of paper.


“Oh, Heyes,” said Beth in dismay. “Did you get any rest today at all? You’ve been on the road so much interviewing, I know you’re exhausted. Did you come straight from bookkeeping all day at the Levy factory and start right back to work on job applications and trigonometry?”

Heyes got stiffly to his feet and kissed his wife. He tried to smile, but his worry carried through. “Yeah, but I was just writing out an idea. A good one with explosives, I think. I hope. So how was your day?”

Beth lovingly brushed a lock of hair back from her husband’s brown eyes. “It was ordinary, until now. I brought us a deli dinner. Then we’re both going to wash up and dress up.” She announced. “We’re going out.”

Heyes asked, mystified, “Out? Where?”

“Out to the theater.” Beth was already digging through her jewelry box in search of something suitable for the occasion. She found a silver and carnelian Indian necklace and put it aside.

“The theatre?!” exclaimed the impoverished former outlaw. “I’d love it, but you know perfectly well we can’t afford to go to a play.”

Beth calmly insisted. “And I say you need to get out and have some fun or you’re going to blow to bits from the pressure of all these interviews with colleges.”

Heyes paced up and down in agitation. “You have a point, and I’m sure you could use a break yourself. But darling, we have no money. Less than none – we’re in debt up past our eyebrows. I don’t have to recite to you the list of loans folks have given me for medicine after I got shot, room and board, and every other kind of expense from when I was getting my math degrees. Thank goodness I had scholarships, but you know as well as I do that living in New York City costs serious money, even down here in the slums. I can’t get a full time job no matter what I do. Amnesty or no amnesty, people don’t trust Hannibal Heyes and that’s all there is to it.”

Beth stood toe to toe with her formidable spouse and proclaimed. “Well, I say we’re going out. And what I say goes, Mr. Heyes. Who makes the most money in this household, anyhow?”

Heyes sighed and sank onto the bed. “You do. So spend it as you will. You will, no matter what I say, so why should I complain? I assume you believe that I will enjoy this evening.”

Beth, who had taken off her work dress, leaned down to kiss her husband. “You will. Assuredly you will, lover mine.” Heyes got up and began to prepare for an evening out.

“What’s the play?” Heyes spoke over his shoulder as he began searching for a suitable tie to wear.

Beth shouted back down the hall as she headed toward the kitchen. “I’m keeping that a secret. But I solemnly promise, or smilingly anyhow, that you will walk out of that theater feeling considerably cheered. You may even find the strength to go on with this hard fight for our future. So that’s worth any money to me.”

Heyes, who was hungry, followed her toward the food she had brought. “That, my dear, is quite the promise. I will hold you to it. So let’s eat and get washed up. I want to find out what you’ve got planned, since we can afford to go out only once in a blue moon.” Heyes began to feel eager in spite of his monetary worries.

When the two Heyes were fed, dressed, and ready, they went down the steps of their brownstone apartment. The sun was setting as Beth hailed a cab for them. Heyes listened to the address of the theater, which was a well known one, but it told him nothing about what they were to see. When the pair arrived and Heyes helped his wife down from the cab, he saw a line extending out the theater door. He also saw the named emblazoned on the marquee over the entrance – Mark Twain.

Heyes hugged his wife joyfully. “Mark Twain! Oh, Beth, I’ve always wanted to hear Samuel Clements speak. But how can we possibly afford it?”

Beth squeezed her husband’s hand and whispered. “We don’t have to pay – one of my former students is the stage manager. He got us free tickets. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. No one but us may know it, but there will be two famous liars in that theater tonight.”

Heyes pretended to frown at his wife, but he didn’t really take that as an insult. They picked up two tickets from the will call window. Beth was not surprised that her former criminal husband was actually glad to sit near the back of the theater where few people would see them and a quick exit was possible, just in case. She understood that such feelings were still instinctive for a man who had been wanted dead or alive for twenty years and had had amnesty for only three months.

Heyes and Beth spent much of the night in uproarious laughter, along with the rest of the audience. Mark Twain came on stage in his famous white suit. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in his creaky voice, “I want to thank you for attending the services tonight.” This parallel to church services fetched a timid laugh. “I nearly missed them myself. I came by railroad. It was one of those trains that gets tired every seven minutes and has to stop and rest for three quarters of an hour. One of the passengers advised the conductor to take the cow catcher off the front end and put it on the rear, because, at the rate we were going, we were not going to catch any cows, but there there wasn't anything to prevent them from climbing aboard at the rear.” Heyes was among those howling with laughter at that – he had way too much experience of slow trains, including when fleeing for his life.

Mark Twain continued exercising his dry wit in delivering often cynical ideas that had his public in stitches. Slavery, religion, race, war, politics, violence – everything was fair game to Samuel Clemens. The cheeky author looked just like his pictures, with a thick mane of curly brown hair and bushy eyebrows that he used to hilarious effect in setting off his punchlines. Twain smoked a cigar the whole evening. In fact, after intermission, the famed author announced his return to the stage with a puff of smoke that preceded him and fetched as much laughter and applause as any story he told.

When the last of many curtain calls was over, Beth got up happily, arm in arm with her husband. Heyes stood and hesitated a minute. Then he turned to his wife. “I hope you don’t mind, honey, but I really do want to try to speak to the man. I have something to thank him for – and not just for making me feel so much better this evening.”

Beth went with Heyes to stand in the long line of public waiting backstage to shake the hand of Samuel Clemens. She noticed that her husband dithered for long enough that he wound up at the back of the line and he even let the second to last visitors get yards away before he approached the famed raconteur. Beth assumed that this was on purpose; her notorious spouse wanted privacy for this conversation.

Mr. Clements was tired and out of sorts by the time the last two people got to him. He was still smoking his cigar. He stood to greet his public but leaned wearily on a chair. “Well, what have you come to complain about?” he snapped, tapping his ash into a brass tray on the chair’s seat that was already brimming with ashes. His sharp country-accented voice was creakier than ever.

Heyes was not put off in the least. He spoke seriously. “Mr. Clemens, I came to thank you for something special you did for me years ago.”

“Oh? Did my inspiring novels save you from a misspent youth, or what?” Clemens’ mockingly cliched words were drenched in sarcasm. He closed his eyes and leaned on the chair back, making it very clear that he wanted his last fans to leave quickly so he could rest.

“No sir, I’m afraid no one quite managed that. But you saved a man’s life,” stated Heyes.

This seemed to chirk up the great writer some. He smelled a story.  “I did? And how, pray tell, did I accomplish that?”

Heyes casually told his story, leaning against the back wall of the theater as he spoke. “Chapter 31 of Life on the Mississippi. The story about the thumb prints. I drew upon that to make a murderer think I had finger print evidence on him. This got him him to expose his crime to a sheriff. Unfortunately, he wound up being shot to death before he could come to trial, but it did allow an innocent man to be let off being tried for the murder.”

Now this stranger had Samuel Clemens’ undivided attention. “Huh? I’ve heard that story before. Or read it.” Mark Twain's waved his cigar to emphasize his point. “And you had better be careful of how you lie to me or steal from the man you stole that story from. He’s a formidable fellow, by all accounts. I read that story, in the newspaper coverage of the murder trial of Hannibal Heyes. Heyes told that story himself as testimony. He got let out of prison and is a free man, living here in this very city from what I understand. No, I don’t advise you to trifle with me or to steal from Hannibal Heyes.”

Heyes laughed hard and unashamedly at that.

Clemens snapped at him. “What’s so funny, Mister? Are you lacking in respect for the very dangerous Hannibal Heyes? He’s a liar to beat me, by all accounts. But he can also handle a gun quite well, as was proven clearly at his trial.”

Heyes gave a least chuckle and said, smilingly, “I have to thank you, Mr. Clemens, on several counts. I haven’t heard such complements since my trial. I assure you, I’m not dangerous any longer. Or not to honest men, anyhow. And I use my lies more judiciously than I used to.”

Clemens’ eyes widened. “What? You are Hannibal Heyes?”

“I am, sir.” Heyes bowed theatrically. “And this good lady is my wife, Elizabeth Warren Heyes. And if you think I’m lying to you right now, I might point out the scar from where a bounty hunter shot me in the head, and the scar from where the guards at the Wyoming State Penitentiary beat me for speaking to my own partner, among other imagined infractions.”

Clemens studied the marks Heyes had pointed out and exclaimed, “Merciful Heavens! You are Hannibal Heyes! Why, sir, it is my delight to meet up with you at last. And you, Mrs. Heyes. I’ve been a fan of yours husband’s for many years. No liar of such distinction escapes my admiration. I hope that doesn’t offend you, Madam. To me, it’s a high complement. Allow me to shake your hand, Mr. Heyes!” The great author had a firm, enthusiastic handshake.

Beth laughed happily. “Don’t worry, Mr. Clemens. I’m well acquainted with your writing” her eyebrows rose suggestively, “– and even better acquainted with my husband’s silver tongue.”

Clemens chuckled gleefully at the implications of that statement. One furry eyebrow rose. “Ah, a witty lady. A fitting match for such a brilliant man.”

Heyes grinned. “Thank you, sir! I’m a long-time enthusiast of yours, as my telling that story at my trial must have made clear to you.”

Beth pulled up a chair and sat down. Her experience of her husband’s silver tongue told her that it was about to employed at considerable length.

The author fixed his celebrated fan with a challenging gaze and pointed at him with his half consumed cigar.  “So tell me, what’s your favorite story of mine?”

Heyes scratched the back of his head theatrically. “Gosh, that’s a hard one. I’ve got so many favorites. I really did enjoy Life on the Mississippi, beyond saving a man’s life with it. But I was very impressed by one of your most recent ones – Connecticut Yankee. It’s damned brilliant, if you ask me. Hard, but brilliant.”

“Why thank you. Hard – well it had to be steel-hard to strike the necessary sparks.” Clemens paused to see if Heyes enjoyed the well-crafted turn of phrase, which he did.


The author nodded. “That’s very satisfying to hear, especially from you. So let me ask you something else, Mr. Heyes. Do you think you’ll ever write up your remarkable life story? From orphan to outlaw to professor, we shall hope. It would make quite the tale, I feel certain.”

Heyes paused, leaning against Clemens’ chair companionably. “I despise what’s been written about me, by and large. I used to want no word on the subject ever to appear. But, actually, now that I have the education to be able to make a creditable job of it, I might do it. I wish it would make a faster job than it will – I could use the money right now. Nobody seems to want to hire me for more than minor book keeping, and I’ve been trying to hire on to teach college mathematics. I’m fully qualified.”

Clemens studied the man before him with a critical eye. “I don’t doubt it. But, would you ever consider allowing someone else to write your story? Like, for instance, myself? I would pay you for the privilege, if we could split the proceeds.”

The famed former outlaw shifted his feet uncomfortably. “That is a very tempting offer, Mr. Clemens . . .”

Clemens broke in, “Please, call me Sam.”

“Ah, trying to charm me into it. Never try to con a professional con man, Mr. Clemens.” Heyes winked wickedly at the great author. “No, despite my need for money, you can’t talk me into it. For one thing, it’s far more of a tragedy than a comedy. And, truly, no one else could narrate my story.”

“I am insulted, sir!” cried Clemens. “As if I could write nothing but comic fluff! I can narrate action to beat any man in print!”

“I know that, Mr. Clemens, and I admire your gifts in that area,” responded Heyes nervously, “but truly, there are, um, many things I prefer to keep private. I trust no biographer but myself.”

“Ah,” said Mark Twain, turning out a fresh phrase ripe for quotation, “Every man is a moon and has a side which he turns toward nobody; you have to slip round behind if you want to see it. Are you so afraid I’d get behind you?”

Heyes twisted his hands in his pocket and carefully redirected the conversation away from the traumatic violence of his past.  “I can’t possibly imagine that you would have the time to get all the facts from me – it would take years. You’d wind up making things up and changing them to suit your own preferences. That’s only natural for so creative an author of fiction, but I just couldn’t put up with it. I was particular as a thief, you know. Now I’m a mathematician. I’m even more particular than I was before. I have to have things exactly correct. That’s why my plans worked out as well as they did – I made sure to get things right. I know what I’ll write won’t be anything like as good as what you would write. And it won’t sell anything like as well, either. But I just have to tell it myself.”

Clemens sighed. “Oh, well, I had to try. I don’t blame you for turning me down. You are exactly correct at every point. But I had to try. Think what a pair our names would have made on the cover!” Clemens stopped and coughed for a while, putting down his cigar. “Anyhow, it’s been a privilege to meet you, Mr. Heyes. But I’m beat and I’ll bet you are, too.”

Heyes gave the celebrated author a wry smile. “I am. I am tired about to death from being told ‘no’ over and over again by every place I apply to. I’m sorry to have to repeat that hard word to you. But I will tell you one thing that may cheer you. Take one wild guess at where I was born.”

Mark Twain looked questioningly at the famous thief. “Hm, well, could that possibly be the origin of your name? Could you have been born in Hannibal, Missouri?”

Heyes laughed. “On a farm outside of it. But yes, we have the same home town, Mr. Clemens.”

Twain grinned under his bushy brown mustache. “What do you know about that? That’s quite something. But honestly, do call me Sam. I would esteem it an honor if I could say I was on a first name basis with Hannibal Heyes himself.”

Joshua nodded. “Well, alright, Sam. But please don’t return the favor. Despite the distinguished coincidence of sharing a birth place with my favorite author, I really can’t stand being called by my first name. Nobody does it except my old boss. I let him do it by preference over his having me killed, which he could easily have had done. And he paid for a good chunk of my college education, so I owe him too much in the financial way ever to correct him. My friends call me Heyes, or Joshua, which is the middle name I took recently. It was the first name of my alias.”

Clemens took another puff on his cigar. “Hm. Heyes. Do you happen to still have family in Hannibal? I seem to recall a hardware store by that name.”

Heyes tensed visibly, which Clemens observed, tensing in his turn. He wasn’t happy to have upset the famous outlaw. “I, um, yes, I do. But if you return to Hannibal, Missouri, please don’t mention me to that side of my family. They have good reason to curse my name. I wish it were not so, but it is.”

Even at the fag end of a long, exhausting day, Clemens could not resist asking, “Will you tell me the story?”

Heyes shook his head sadly and said softly, “No, Sam, I won’t. I had to tell it in court once and that’s more than enough. It isn’t funny at all. Or, well, there would possibly be someone who found it amusing, once. But not me. I still carry the scar, in more ways than one.”

“I apologize for having reminded you of so painful an episode, Heyes. I hope we meet again.” Clemens dug into his breast pocket. “Here’s my card. Come by and see me if you ever make it to Hartford, Connecticut. If I’m not out on the road doing this infernal speaking, that is.” He wiped his brow with a large handkerchief.

Heyes grinned and gave the card a warm look before he tucked it away in his own breast pocket. “Thank you for the invitation, Sam. I honestly don’t know where Beth and I will be living, so I can’t give you a future address. But here’s my current card. And if you ever want to find me, contact Charlie Homer, the chair of the mathematics department at Columbia University. He was my advisor and, for a wonder, we remain close friends. Or, of course, the sheriff of Louisville, Colorado could always point me out.”

Mark Twain asked, “Why’s that? What’s the sheriff to you, now that you don’t have to go in fear of the law?”

The former gang leader smiled fondly. “He’s my cousin, and also my partner – Jedediah Curry. He’d be right tickled to meet you, as I am.”

“By golly, I’d enjoy that introduction myself!” Said Clemens. “And to see him shoot would be a treat.”

“Yes, he’s quite a sight. Many times as I’ve seen that draw, I can’t explain how he does it. Well, good-night, sir.” Heyes gave his favorite author a bow.

“Good-night to you and to your lovely bride, Heyes.” Clemens put down his cigar and shook the hand of the former safe-cracker for a second time.

As Beth and Heyes walked down the lamp-lit city sidewalk from the theater, unable to find a cab so late, Mrs. Heyes gazed speculatively at her husband. “So, do you have more darkness yet, hidden on that side you refuse to show, oh mysterious moon?”

Heyes put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and walked on in silence, staring determinedly ahead so Beth saw only his profile.

Historical note – Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain, did nearly countless public talks over many years, all over America. He did, indeed, perform in New York City in 1891, but it was in April rather than in August as I have him doing here. He moved his family to Germany for a while after that, so I have fudged the facts there twice. The quote about the moon he published twice in slightly different versions, both times later than this story is set. A slightly shorter version of the lines was in Pudd’nHead Wilson published in 1894. The full version given here was in “The Refuge of the Derelicts” published in 1905. But who is to say that the great metaphor did not to occur to its author a few years before he rendered it in print? My thanks go to Hal Holbrook for his legendary performances in Mark Twain Tonight which I have seen in real life and in recordings. I turned to him for inspiration on Mark Twain’s style of performance. The story told on stage came from a recorded performance and thus is presumably precisely from Clemens himself as he would actually have rendered it.

Apologies for my initial spelling error, kindly corrected by a gentle reader.

Brown eyes peered from out of the darkness.  Perched on a bench, crouching in the shadows, Hannibal Heyes watched the bat-wing doors of the Silver Slipper Saloon and Dance Hall.  Sam Ackerly had gone inside over three hours ago.  Heyes was tired of waiting.  With a heavy sigh, he pressed both hands in the small of his back and stretched. 

The outline of a man blotted out the gaslight glow escaping from the saloon doors.  The shadow paused on the boardwalk, and the flash of a struck match was followed by the flare of a puffed cigar.  The man stepped off the boardwalk, and the bobbing tip of the cigar moved into the street.   Flimsy clouds fluttered in a stray breeze, while the top sliver of a rising moon crowned the distant hills, casting a flickering path across the placid flow of the Missouri river.  The shadow in the street turned his face to the rising moon.   In the lunar light Heyes recognized Sam Ackerly. 

“Showtime,” Heyes breathed as he stood.  His throat worked in dry swallows.  Wiping both hands on his thighs left two damp smudges.  Chin held high, he stepped purposefully into the street. 

“Sam Ackerly,” he challenged in a calm voice. 

The shadow stopped and turned toward Heyes. 

“Ackerly, I'm placing you under citizen's arrest.  Drop your weapon and move along quietly with me to the sheriff's office, and we won't have any trouble.”

“Ya got the wrong man, Mister.  The name's Johnson.”  His voice was flat and sounded bored.  He puffed on his cigar again.  “I'll be headin' back to my hotel now.”  The gunslinger turned his back on the dark-haired challenger.

A small crowd gathered at the bat-wing doors.

“Your name's Ackerly, and you're wanted in Texas.  You're here to scare folks into giving up their farms and homes.  Now drop the gun, and we won't have any problems.”

Ackerly pivoted on his heel. He squared off directly across from Heyes.  His hand crept toward his thigh. 
Heyes swallowed.  His eyes slid sideways toward the river.  A smile teased at his mouth at the glint of reflected moonlight.    

“Mister, ya made a mistake,” warned the gunnie.  “You can apologize, and we can forget about this.”  His voice dropped and grew chill.  “Or we can settle it right here in the street.  But I ain't goin' to no sheriff's office with ya.”

The bystanders scurried back into the lights of the saloon.

“We're going to see the sheriff.”  Before Heyes finished his sentence, two shots cracked through the darkness. 

Heyes' Schofield barely cleared its holster.  Ackerly staggered in the street, cradling his gun hand.  Blood flowed freely between his clenched fingers and pooled in the dirt.   Heyes cocked his pistol and aimed at the gunslinger.  Another slim, dark-haired figure slipped around the corner of a building behind the injured man.  He rammed the butt of a shotgun into the gunslinger's head, connecting directly behind his ear.  Ackerly crumpled to the ground.  Heyes kicked the man's pistol toward the boardwalk.  Jake Harrison Heyes retrieved the Colt and knelt next to his brother.  Heyes was checking the injured man's breathing. 

“He's out cold,” Heyes called over his shoulder toward the river.  “But I think you broke his arm.”

Reflected moonlight glinted on a gun barrel in the darkness.  A man stepped forward, and the shadows resolved into the tall form of Kid Curry.  The blond ex-outlaw inspected the unconscious gunslinger before twirling his Colt back into its holster.  Heyes stood.  He and his brother moved closer to Curry.  Heyes kept his gun pointed at the unconscious man 

“Thanks, Kid,” he whispered. 

“No problem, Heyes.  He didn't hit ya?”

“No.  Worked just like we hoped.  Ackerly's the only one bleeding.”

“That was some fancy shooting.”  Jake shook his head.  “I guess you really earned that reputation.”

“Shhh,” cautioned the Kid. 

“Your buddy the sheriff or one of his deputies will be here soon,” explained Heyes. 

As if his words had summoned them, both Sheriff Watley and a deputy  came running around the corner, guns drawn.  Watley skidded to a stop when he saw Jones, Smith, and Harrison standing in the street around the unconscious Ackerly.  “What's goin' on?”

“I recognized the gunslinger,” announced Heyes with a grin.    “He's Sam Ackerly.  Wanted in Texas and Colorado.  So we did a citizen's arrest for you.  He wasn't too cooperative though, so you might want the doctor to come down to the jail and check him out.”

“I'll fetch Doc Finner, Sheriff,” offered Jake. 

Watley nodded. 

“I'll go with him.  Meet ya back at the hotel, Joshua?”

“Sounds good, Thaddeus.  I'll help the sheriff and then meet you in our room.”


Curry holstered his Colt as his partner and Jake slipped inside the hotel room.  Heyes stalked straight to the dresser and yanked open the top drawer.  He pulled out the whiskey bottle and three glasses.  After pouring himself a stiff drink, he offered one to each of the other men by gesturing with the bottle.  Amber liquid sloshed into glasses.  Heyes sprawled in a chair and toed off his boots. 

“Kid, I don't know how you do that.  I was scared stiff.  If you hadn't been hidden in the shadows, I'd be a dead man.”  Heyes drained his glass and poured himself another. 

“I told ya he was good.  But I wouldn't let him shoot ya.”  Curry took a sip.  “How is he?  Is the arm broke?”

Heyes grimaced.  “The doctor patched him up.  He'll live, but . . .   well,  it's a bad break, Kid.  He's not going to be fast drawing anymore.”

“Damn.  I didn't mean to hurt him that bad, but the angle was off.  I'm used to facin' a man directly.  Shootin' from the side was tricky.”

“Does it matter?”  Jake looked confused.  “Ackerly would have killed you or Han.  He's in jail now and won't be fast drawing on anyone else again.  Isn't that a good thing?”

Heyes offered his brother a dimpled grin.  “Maybe, Jake.  But after years on Ackerly's side of the law, it's hard for us to see it that way.  It could have been Kid or me lying in the dust, just as easy as it was Ackerly.”

Jake took a sip of his whiskey and studied his boots.  “Jed, do you hire out your gun?”

Kid Curry looked hurt.  “Do you think I'd do that?”

“I'm asking.”

“No.   At least not in a whole lotta years.  And when I did hire out my gun, it was never to kill.”

“Then I don't see how you and Han can be put in the same category as Sam Ackerly.”

“Thanks for seeing it that way, Jake.”  This time Heyes' smile didn't reach his eyes.  “But the law's not as discriminating as you are.”

Curry looked a question at his partner.  “Your plan worked so far, Heyes, but how do we keep Ackerly from identifying me to the Sheriff?”

Heyes sighed. 

“It's gonna look real suspicious if I stay outta the sheriff's office.”

“I know, Kid.  I know.”

“So what are we gonna do?”

“I'm working on it!  Just stay away from Ackerly and the sheriff until I figure something out.”

“Just stay away?  That's your plan!”

“It's all I got right now.”

“It ain't much of a plan.”

“I know.  Ya got a better one?”

“No.”    Curry smirked at Harrison.  “Your friend Matt Watley is one sharp and suspicious sheriff.  Not our favorite kinda lawman.”

“Matt is quick witted, and he's already suspicious of you two.  Sorry about that.”

“I've been meaning to ask you about that.  Why did you tell the sheriff I'm your brother, Jake?”

“I had planned to keep that bit of information to myself, but I was arrested in Helena two years ago.  The sheriff there thought I was you.  He was real happy and gloating about how he was going to spend that $10,000  bounty.  Matt had to come vouch for me. “

“Oh.”  Heyes studied his boots.    “Sorry about that.”

Jake shrugged.  “On the train trip back home, Matt had lots of questions.  I thought that I owed him an explanation.  That's when he learned that my real name is Heyes, and that you are my brother.”

The silence stretched long enough to become uncomfortable.  Heyes studied his drink while his brother studied Heyes.

“I need to get home.  Sarah will be worried.”  Jake drained his glass and set it on the dresser.  “Remember dinner is at 6:00 o'clock tomorrow.  You're both expected.”

“We'll be there,” promised the Kid.

“Jake.  How old are your children?”

“Jimmy is eleven.  Rachel is nine, and Zeke is six.  I'm glad you're going to meet them.”

“So am I, but it might be best if they don't know who we are.”

“I agree, Han.  And please don't be hurt, but they don't know about you.  I mean,  they've heard about Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry, of course, but they don't know that Hannibal Heyes is my brother.  In fact, they don't know I have a brother at all.”

Heyes offered a crooked smile.  “I understand.  And it's best we keep things quiet until the Kid and I get our amnesty or your children are older.”

“Sarah knows, though.  And she knows who's coming to dinner.”

“Is that a good idea?”asked Curry.

“I'm not lying to my wife.  Not telling her that you're Heyes and Curry would be a big lie.  I won't do that.”

“How does she feel about us coming to her home?” Heyes asked.

Jake grimaced.  “She's worried, Han.  Her pa was a church pastor.  Her home was strict, and you two don't exactly fit her view of what's proper.  She's worried about what kind of influence you two will be on the children.” 

Blue eyes met brown under furrowed foreheads. 

“Are ya sure ya want us to come?” 

“Yes, Jed.  I'm very sure.  Just hang your guns on the rack when you come into the house.  No guns and be polite.  You both have great manners.”

“Yes, both Ma and Mrs. Curry made sure that we knew how to behave.  I guess those early lessons stick with you.”

Jake Harrison walked to the door and paused with his hand on the knob.  “See you both tomorrow.”


The Harrison home was on the second floor above their hardware store.  The entrance to the residence was on a side street and opened into a small room on the ground floor.   Jake answered the door.  After the gun belts of both ex-outlaws hung on a hook in the entryway, the men climbed the stairs to the living quarters.

Sarah Harrison was tall for a woman.  Light brown hair, highlighted with gold streaks, framed a heart shaped face with even features.  She waited for the three men in the  parlor at the top of the stairs.  Her arms crossed her chest, and her mouth formed a firm line.
 
“Welcome to our home, Mr. Heyes.  Mr. Curry.”

Heyes raised an eyebrow as his eyes darted about the room.  The Kid also inspected their surroundings.

“The children are in their room for the moment.  I asked Jake to let us have a few minutes to speak frankly with one another before the children join us.”  She wiped her hands on her apron and licked her lips.  “I am an honest woman, and I want you to know that I am not entirely comfortable with you two being here.”

Blue eyes met brown in a question.  Heyes shrugged, then met the eyes of his sister-in-law. 

“I understand that, and if you want us to go, we'll leave.  No questions and no offense.”

“No, Mr. Heyes.  You are my husband's brother, and he has asked you here.”  Her steely gray eyes flicked quickly to Curry and then back to her brother-in-law.  “Both of you.”  She cleared her throat.   “He trusts you and has asked me to extend the same courtesy.  I'm trying.”

“Sarah!” scolded Harrison.  “There's no danger here.  I told you, they quit stealing.  They're working for Colonel Harper.  If we avoid losing this house and the store, it will be because of them.”

Heyes smiled ruefully and looked down.  “Thanks, Jake, but your wife has reasons to worry.  We are still wanted, and friends have been arrested for helping us before.  We aren't safe to know.”

“And you've been smart to keep the fact that you and Heyes are kin quiet.  There are bounty hunters who would use you to get to Heyes and me.” 

Brown eyes squinted above a frown.  “Yeah.  Some folks will do most anything for $20,000.”

Jake chuckled.  “You would know all about that, huh Han?”

Curry snorted, but Heyes just watched Mrs. Harrison scowl.  “Yes, we've been greedy and done things we shouldn't, but we don't want to bring harm to any of you.  If you'll just give us a little forgiveness and a little trust, I would appreciate it.  It's been a whole lot of years since I've had any family.  I'd be grateful for the chance to get to know you and your children, and to spend time with Jake.”

Sarah's face softened.  “Truce, Mr. Heyes?”

“Truce, Mrs. Harrison.  But, please call me Joshua.”

“Joshua?”

“I'm going by Joshua Smith, and my friend is Thaddeus Jones.  They're the names the sheriff knows us by.”

“Matt bought that?  Doesn't seem like him,” she wondered.

“It helps that Colonel Harper called us by those names.  May I call you Sarah?”

“The children might wonder at the sudden familiarity.  Why don't we stick to Mr. Smith and Mrs. Harrison for this visit.”

“Whatever you think best.”

“I'll go put the dinner on the table and send the children out to meet you. “

“Whatever you've got cookin', ma'am, it sure smells good.” added Curry with a warm grin.

Sarah Harrison offered him a genuine smile.  “Fried chicken, Mr. Jones.  I hope you enjoy it.”

“Fried chicken is one of my favorites.”

“I'm glad.  The children will be right out.”



“Ma, may we be excused?”  asked nine-year-old Rachel. 

The dishes were mostly empty and conversation was sporadic and strained.

“You need to clear, and your brothers are to help with the dishes.”

“But Ma, Mr. Jones promised to play marbles with us,” complained the youngest Harrison, seven-year-old Zeke.

“I'll help with the dishes,” offered Heyes.  “If it's all right with you, Mrs. Harrison.  Then the children can play with Mr. Jones.”

Sarah chewed her lower lip and studied the hopeful faces of the youngsters.

“I'll be real gentle with 'em, ma'am,” added Curry.

“All right,” she relented, “but thank Mr. Smith for stepping in to help.”

A chorus of 'thank yous' faded into the other room. 

“That was kind of you, Mr. Smith.”

“I don't mind, Mrs. Harrison.  You've been gracious in opening your home to my partner and me.  I want to show my gratitude.”

“Well, you can start by clearing the table.”


 Sarah and Heyes joined the others in the parlor carrying a tray of coffee, cups, cream, and sugar.   Thaddeus Jones sat cross-legged on the floor playing marbles with Zeke and Rachel.  Heyes watched his partner, and felt a twinge of envy.  Hannibal Heyes had not been around children since he had been one himself.   Curry enjoyed an easy, casual rapport with them, but Heyes didn't know what to say. 

Jimmy, Jake's eldest,was peering out the window at the night sky.  Without a word he slipped through the french doors to a porch built over the boardwalk.  Heyes set his coffee on the table and followed the boy outside.

Jimmy leaned his forearms on the porch rail and gazed across the Missouri River into the night sky.  The moon was still hidden behind the hills, allowing the stars to shine brightly in the black velvet of the night.   Heyes crossed the porch and leaned his hip against the rail,  watching the boy. 

Jimmy pointed at the sky.  “The Big Dipper is right there, Mr. Smith.  Do you see it?”

“I sure do.  Do you know how to find the Little Dipper and the North Star?”

“Of course.  Those two stars form a line.  They point right to the North Star.  It's at the end of the Dipper's handle.  See?”

“Uh-huh.  What about Cassiopeia?” 

“Sure.  That one's easy.  Right there.  The big 'W' in the sky.”  He traced the celestial 'W' with a pointed finger. 

Heyes nodded.  “I like that one.”

The boy's brown eyes slid sideways and his mouth turned up in a familiar sly smile.  “Can you find Cetus, Mr. Smith?”

“That one's a bit harder,” Heyes replied, studying the sky.  He grinned.  “There!”  He pointed out a set of stars near the horizon.

“That's real good, sir.  Do you like lookin' at the stars?” 

“My pa taught me when I was a boy.  We spent time watching the sky together.”

“Just like my pa taught me,” beamed the boy.  “His pa taught him too.  Before he died.  I'm named after my pa's father."

Heyes coughed to cover his reaction.  "I know," he choked out gruffly.

The boy's brown eyes snapped wide in surprise.  "How'd you know that?"

Heyes smiled smoothly to cover his error before he lied.  "Your pa told me."

They studied the stars in companionable silence. 

“Where's your pa, Mr. Smith?”

“He died too, Jimmy.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's all right.  It was a long time ago.”

“What happened?”

“War.  People going crazy.  It was a bad time.”

“My pa's father died in a raid in Kansas.  It was during the war too.  I never got to meet him.”

“I'm sorry about that, Jimmy.”  

The boy looked at the stars.

“Moon's coming,” announced Heyes.  “See that glow on the top of the hills? It'll rise over them real soon.”

“The moon will make the stars disappear.”

“They don't really disappear, ya know.  The light of the moon just makes it harder to see the dimmer stars.  The same thing happens in big cities.  You can't see nearly as many stars in San Francisco because of all the gas lights.”

“You've been to San Francisco?”

“Yep.  It's a pretty city.”

“But with less stars?”

“You see less of them, but they're still up there.”

The moon crested the distant hills in a large, orange crescent.  The dark-haired man and the dark-haired boy watched as it clawed its way over the hills and marched slowly into the night sky.

“It sure looks big tonight.”

“It does.” 

“Pa says that you and Mr. Jones are helping the sheriff. He says that you had a real smart plan to get rid of that gunslinger that came to town.  Wish I was old enough to help.  Pa's taught me how to hunt with a rifle, but he doesn't want me involved in the troubles in town.”  Jimmy turned shining brown eyes to the man he knew as Mr. Smith and tried a charming smile.    “Do you think I'm old enough to help?  I could learn to use a six-gun.”

An owl hooted in the distance. 

“How old are you, Jimmy?'

“Almost twelve, sir.”

“When's your birthday?”

“Next month.”

“Born in November, huh?”

“Yep.” 

“You've got good parents and a nice family, Jimmy.  Be grateful for them.   Me and Mr. Jones, we learned some things too early.  Like how to use a six-shooter.  Good things don't come that way.”

“But you're doing good work.  Pa says so.”

“That real nice of him, but it took us a while to learn how to do things right.  Do you understand?”

“Not really, sir.”

Heyes chuckled and tousled the boy's straight brown hair.  “You will someday.  'Til then, trust your ma and pa.  They're doing things right for you.”

Heyes turned toward the house and saw Sarah Harrison leaning against the door frame listening to their conversation.  She wore a relaxed smile. 

“I've got some apple pie if you two are interested.”

“Apple pie!” shouted the boy running into the house.

“Sounds wonderful, ma'am,” agreed Heyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith.”

“For what?”

“For being the man my husband hoped you were.”

“My past hasn't changed, Sarah.”

“I know.  But I think there might be hope for your future.”

Heyes laughed.  “Time will tell.  Now how about that pie.”

 

“Time to head south!” Hannibal Heyes shouted as he pulled his jacket collar tight around his neck.  “It’s just gonna get colder!”

 

“That’s the best plan you’ve had in a month of Sundays!”  Kid Curry yelled back.

 

Trying to be heard above a stiff wind whistling through the canyon was bad enough.  Add to it the rushes of crisp leaves crescendoing overhead and crackling underfoot and the groan of branches trying to hang on, they beheld a symphonious cacophony of autumnal vexation. 

 

The partners closed ranks but still had to talk well above comfort level.

 

“Hear that?!” Heyes asked.

 

“Yeah!  Gotta be stoppin’ soon, but we’ll never get any sleep with this racket!” Curry yawned.  He observed his surroundings.  “Really pretty, though!”

 

“Yeah!  You won’t find anything this colorful in the desert!  But, it’ll be warmer, and that’s all I care about right now!”  Heyes tightened the stampede strings on his hat as a particularly strong gust ripped through.

 

“Have to get out of this wind!” Kid noted.  “Hope there’s a cave or somethin’ the other side of this canyon!”

 

Heyes nodded.  “Gotta be somewhere sheltered!”

 

Keeping their heads low against the gusts, the partners kept moving, their mounts stepping carefully over past rock slides and other debris of a canyon floor.  Coming upon a rushing stream, Heyes pointed at it.  Curry tracked his cousin’s hand as it gestured for them to follow it and nodded his understanding:  They would trail the creek hoping to find a suitable place to camp.

 

~~oo00oo~~

 

The afternoon passed.  They followed the stream to its source, a spring fed by underground aquifers a little higher in the hills.  Adjacent to it the partners found a site ready-made for camping:  a clearing in a large wood sheltered on three sides by boulders, large enough for two men, horses, and gear to spread out just enough; best to keep the wind at bay.    

 

“So here we are with a good place to bed down, and the wind’s died down a bit.  Grandma Curry would say Providence has provided well,” Heyes smiled. 

 

“Amen, partner.”  Kid grinned.

 

The dark-haired cousin dismounted.  “Enough with the sermons.  Let’s set up camp.”

 

With several hours of daylight left, the pair set about their well-practiced routine:  unsaddling horses, unpacking gear, gathering wood and kindling, starting a fire, tending to the animals. 

 

Heyes dipped a cupped hand into the spring and drank.  “Ah, nice and cold.”  He smiled approval, then shivered.  “Just right for coffee.”

 

“Even your coffee’d taste good right now.  Warm us up, at least!”  Kid smirked.  His stomach growled.  “What’s for dinner?”

 

“Same as last night – beans, biscuits, and whatever you find.  You expected something different?”  Heyes put the coffee pot on the fire.

 

“Nah, just checkin’.”  Kid Curry unholstered his Colt, checking the chamber.  “Maybe there’s somethin’ else around here.  Gettin’ tired of rabbit.”

 

“Just don’t be gone too long.  Something else would be good, but rabbit’s fine.  I’ll buy ya a nice steak dinner when we get to Carsontown.”

 

“You’re on.”  Kid winked, starting downstream. 

 

~~oo00oo~~

 

As the horses had earlier, Kid Curry stepped carefully, lest a wayward tread alert and scare away game.  Detritus of rock slides of recent or more ancient derivation covered the canyon floor, even damming a sliver of the stream on one side for a hundred yards or so.  Daylight hurried on, but a full moon would cast enough illumination to almost check the need for a fire – for light anyway – especially with an overcast sky reflecting even more of the moonlight back.  Hunter’s Moon, his Pa had called it, the first full moon after the Harvest.  And though the earlier gusts had calmed some, the Indians were right:  It was indeed the big wind moon.

 

Curry stopped.  Listening, he turned his head.  Birds of a feather flocked together and flew away in tandem before he could aim.  Anyway, they were tired, and plucking feathers was too much work. 

 

Kid trod on.  The murmur of the stream echoed off canyon walls, yet his ears tuned to finer sounds.  He stopped again, looking down.  Fish!  A nice change, but too small.  Scaling the numbers needed to satisfy a pair of healthy male appetites would take too long, and they both craved shut-eye.

 

Ambling around a bend, Kid heard a chirp.  His eyes wandered up a tree.  There, a grey bushy tail swayed.  He smiled.  They both liked squirrel stew.

 

~~oo00oo~~

 

Heyes steadied the grate over the fire before dumping a handful of beans into a pot of boiling water.  Then, grabbing a pan, he measured just enough flour and water, stirred, and set it on the grate.

 

He sat back on his heels in satisfaction.  While no slouch, he conceded he was not the hunter his partner was, and even if he suffered slings and arrows for his coffee, his beans and biscuits stood second to none.  Curry could whip up a meal in a pinch – indeed, that skill was needed on the trail – but Heyes had taken his turn at bunkhouse cook back at Devil’s Hole more than once. 

 

Reverie overtook him.  Maybe he could open an eating establishment after amnesty, but not just any two-bit café in the almost nameless towns through which they passed.  No, a fancy restaurant like the ones Soapy frequented in San Francisco.  Now, there was good eatin’s, as Kid would say.  Heyes liked the finer things in life and felt comfortable amongst that class of people.  He could get accustomed to that lifestyle, catering to the moneyed set, but he really knew nothing about being a restauranteur.  Perhaps he should stick to being a customer.  Then, he could move on if he wanted.  The peripatetic life was the one he knew and felt comfortable in.  It would take a while to get used to being in one place too long.  And it could get too hot in the kitchen, in more ways than one.  Maybe something more outdoors, where the cramped-in closeness of always being inside would not hem him in.  But, a nice gambling hall somewhere perhaps; someplace classy.  After all, a good poker game always beckoned him …

 

Bang!

 

Heyes looked in the direction of the shot.  Daydreaming would wait.  Back in the present, he smiled and spoke out loud.  “No time wasted.  We’ll eat early and get a good sleep tonight.”  He grabbed his saddle bag.  “Time to get that spit ready.”

 

Bang!

 

The dark-haired partner smirked.  “No need to be greedy, Kid.”

 

~~oo00oo~~

 

Heyes selected several small but sturdy branches and soaked them well, fashioning a spit to fit over the fire.  With the last he whittled points at either end with his knife, settling it on the spit to let wood smoke season it before meat was added.  Task done, he stirred the beans and removed the pan with biscuits from the grate, setting them aside to cool. 

 

Standing, he surveyed the direction Curry had gone – west, into a spectacular sunset.  Heyes gazed as the last rays filtered pink and purple on the cloud-filled horizon.  The moon had just risen, Nature swapping daylight for moon glow.  Perhaps Curry watched as well.  It was a gorgeous sight and might explain his delay in returning now so long after the last shot.

 

“I think he’s over here!”

 

“No, I heard rocks falling over there!”

 

Heyes looked around.  The voices were faint but loud enough to make out what they were saying, or shouting.  They were hard to pinpoint, reverberating off canyon walls like so many beats of a drum – first in front, then to the rear; each more faint than the first.  A posse?  Nothing had raised an alarm they were being followed.

 

Lest he command the attention of whoever was out there, he dared not call to his partner.  But, if he heard them, surely Kid had, as well.

 

Heyes calmly wiped the knife on a rag and replaced it in his boot.  Removing his sidearm, he checked the chamber and re-holstered it.

 

“No, over here!”

 

“Meet me the other side of the camel boulder!”

 

The calls lessened, dying away now. 

 

Grabbing a canteen, Heyes extinguished the fire.  The sudden lack of warmth gave way to a chill.  He shivered.  Whether from the cold air or jitters, he knew not.  He wrapped his jacket more tightly around him. 

 

Heyes closed his eyes, stood stock-still, listening.  The calling had ceased.  Forcing the sounds of nature out of his mind, he concentrated.  What was that?  Breathing?  Kid?

 

He opened his eyes – nothing in sight.  But, there was that breathing again.  Where was it coming from? 

 

Wait.  It was his.  Damn!

 

Heyes removed the Schofield from his gun belt.  Holding it at the ready, he moved in a crouch, starting down the path his partner had gone almost an hour before.

 

He moved amongst the trees alongside the stream, keeping as well out of sight as possible.  Night’s usual opacity would not offer its cover this evening:  Moonlight bathed the few open areas in radiance, luminescence sparkling off flows like so many jewels, but also casting shadows of an eternal gloaming.  Looking up, he saw but few stars, dulled against a twilight sky.

 

The stream widened rapidly.  By now a good ten feet across, driftwood trapped behind river rocks snagged branches, damming up one side.  Bats swooped; Heyes swatted them away.  Their occasional chitter added another layer to the echoes of the canyon.  He closed his eyes and listened, trying to distinguish the finer sounds from the wider racket.  A crack!  Kid?  He turned.  No; only a stick he crunched underfoot.  He stilled himself.  The shouting from the men might have ceased, but it was impossible to know where they were.  He dared not step out from the shadows, nor summon Kid.

 

A sudden burst of light from a shooting star flared above tree-line, radiating daylight ground-ward.  Ahead, Heyes beheld something not fitted to the scene – something in the water, close to shore.  Another pulsing burst illuminated further.  He squinted.  Posse or whomever they were be damned, he splashed into the stream, impossibly staying upright even as his boots slipped and slid.  He reached his partner. 

 

“Kid?”

 

Heyes kneeled beside the downed Curry, rolling him from his side onto his back.  Another streak of light revealed a bloody crease on one temple.  “Damn,” Heyes murmured under his breath.  Dipping his hand into the water, he carefully washed the wound. 

 

Yet one more shooting star showed Kid’s eyes twitch, then open.  The blond man moaned.  “Hey-Hey-Heyes?”  His voice shivered with the cold.

 

“I’m here, Kid.”

 

“Where …?”

 

Heyes breathed through his mouth.  “Never mind.  Let’s get you outta here.”  He looked around.  A series of shooting stars pulsed above the timber.  He murmured half out loud, “Not sure where these shooting stars came from or why they’re so low, but they’re a blessing and a curse all in one right now.”

 

“Huh …?”  A groggy Curry slurred, “Wha, what happened?” 

 

“Shhh,” Heyes soothed.  Surveying the scene once more, he leaned in closer to his partner.  “Kid, ya gotta be still.  Can ya do that?”

 

“What?”

 

“You gotta be still.”  In the flashing light, he gave his cousin the once over.  “Looks like you’re in one piece otherwise.  Can you stand?”

 

“I … I don’t know.”

 

“We gotta get outta here.  Let’s try.”  Rising, Heyes attempted to pull Curry up with him. 

 

“Argh!”

 

Heyes lowered Kid.  “Let’s at least get you out of this water.”  Positioning himself at his cousin’s head, he grabbed Kid under the shoulders, dragging him onto the bank.  Pausing, he hefted the blond man into the safety of the first row of foliage.

 

The bursts of illumination continued inside tree-line, Heyes’ heart beating to the flashes.  The exertion took its toll for a minute.  Calmer, he examined the wound again.  Thankful it was not as deep as he had first believed, Heyes nodded in relief.  Calmer now, he shivered.  The night air was cold, and they were both soaked.

 

“Hey, did you hear that?!”  The voice echoed in the canyon, faint but distinct.

 

Heyes’ breath rapid, he snapped around.

 

“Huh?  What?”  The injured man reacted.

 

“Shhh.”  Heyes placed his hand over Kid’s mouth.  “Shhh.”  Curry struggled.  In a low voice, the elder cousin spoke.  “Kid, ya gotta be still.”

 

Another voice echoed a little louder.  “It came from over there!  In the trees!”

 

Heyes locked eyes with the shivering, panicked, wounded Curry.  He willed his own famous patience to speak silently through them, brown to blue.  Without blinking, he moved his hands to the blond man’s shoulder and upper arm, rubbing lightly with his thumbs.  They stayed thus for a long minute, until Kid gulped.  Nodding understanding, his breathing more regular, Curry reached up to grab Heyes’ shoulder, squeezing it.

 

Heyes squeezed back, nodding toward the campsite.  His brow furrowed in question.

 

Kid replied with an imperceptible nod.

 

Heyes gestured helping Curry to walk.

 

The blond man sat up slowly.  The motion caused him to pull his knees to his chest, resting his forehead on kneecaps and hands.  He shivered uncontrollably.  Heyes’ hand on his shoulder gradually stilled him, though the dark-haired man fought against his own chill.  With help, Curry rose to his feet, allowing Heyes to take most of his weight.  They staggered one step, crunching a branch underfoot.

 

“There!  It was just over there!”