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 a challenge prompt about Moon came along on another site where I originally posted it. Spoiler alert – this is set during Two Sheepskins and a Star; it is a spoiler for the first 45 or so chapters and the previous stories Not Again!, Hannibal Heyes Goes to New York, Two Degrees of Separation, and Two Degrees of Separation Part Il.

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 theatre 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 Clemens 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 fare 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. Clemens 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 pockets 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.