Disclaimer: Alias Smith and Jones does not belong to me. Nor does Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. This is fan fiction, not for profit.
Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.
A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate. Story exists in the same No Amnesty - Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.
Alias A Christmas Carol
Chapter 1: A Christmas Tradition
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Christmas Eve 1903
"It's getting late. Do you want me to start the story?" asked Heyes.
There was no answer, nobody was listening. The dark haired former outlaw looked around the long spacious room of their new home. This past summer, he and Clem finally built their own place up on the ridge near Kid and Matt. He'd told everyone that the library was growing and needed the upstairs rooms that had been their home for so long, but really the whole town of Thunder Ridge was growing. Heyes found he wanted the peace and quiet of their own place. Of course there wasn't any quiet tonight. Over two dozen people were crowded in the rectangular room. The buzz of family and friends talking after Christmas Eve dinner hadn't slowed yet.
"Pa," hissed Arthur, his dark eyes pleading, "I need to get my army men."
Heyes leaned back in his armchair, resting the sleeves of his white button down shirt against the armrests. He looked down at his nine year old son. The lithe boy sat on a pallet in front of the fireplace. Arthur's best friend, Kid and Matt's third daughter Jennifer, sat on the other side. Her blonde head was bent over inspecting twelve year old Sinclair Trevors' army. Tiny metal soldiers, horses and cannons sprawled across the space between the children. Behind them, seventeen year old Cesar MacCreedy leaned against the wall. The teen favored the Armendariz side of the family. Cesar was tall and lanky like Carlotta MacCreedy's brother, but he had his father's twinkling eyes. Right now, Cesar kept taking surreptitious glances at Kid's oldest daughter, fourteen year old Eliza. The tall teen stood beside her mother serving punch at the long trestle table on the far end of the room. Eliza's dark red dress brought out the gold in her blonde hair. Kid and Matt's second daughter, quiet little Hannah leaned against the wall at the far side of the room watching everyone.
"Then why don't you go get them?" asked Heyes in a matter of fact tone.
Arthur Finnian Smith rolled his brown eyes. His long slender fingers gestured towards the couple sitting on the sofa closest to his bedroom door. Harry Wagener held one of Janet's hands in his lap. The newlyweds had arrived from Mexico yesterday and were staying with the Smith family for the holidays.
"You gave them my room," huffed Arthur.
"When family visits, we give up our rooms for them," soothed Heyes. "It's just for a few days."
"Then why ain't they stayin' with cousin Thaddeus?" grumbled the boy. "Ain't they supposed to be his family?"
Heyes's eyebrows went up. The older children all knew that Joshua Smith and Thaddeus Jones were the assumed names of two pretty good bad men that had decided to change their outlawing ways. Last year's legal documents had made the name changes official along the current governor's signature on a twenty year old amnesty agreement. Arthur knew the family relationships. Kid's older brother, Henry Curry, pretended to be a family friend, while their Aunt Katie and her family all claimed to be related to Joshua Smith through her husband's family. Patrick MacCreedy continued to claim Thaddeus Jones as his nephew, while Jenny Black claimed Thaddeus as her oldest son from a first marriage. Heyes had brought Harry Wagener to Thunder Ridge to finish out the final months of his prison sentence. It had been Heyes' idea to claim Harry was another of his partner's uncles.
"Language Arthur," corrected Clem automatically from the chair beside him without turning away from Carlotta MacCreedy. "What have I told you about using the word ain't?"
The dark haired boy's head dropped, lips curled downward in a sulky frown. Heyes leaned forward with a low whisper.
"Uncle Harry is also related to us on your mother's side," prevaricated Heyes with a smirk. "Besides, Thaddeus and Matt already have a houseful, and I wanna keep an eye on Harry."
Clem's sharp ears still caught his words. The petite woman leaned back in her chair as Carlotta MacCreedy quit talking about her son's plans for college. Her red and green checked skirt rustled as she swiveled around to face Heyes. Her mischievous hazel eyes smirked.
"Harry's your relative, not mine," chuckled Clem in a low voice. With a whisper, she added, "My side of the family is the law abiding sort, accountants and attorneys..."
"Don't forget the occasional blackmailer," retorted Heyes with a sly grin.
"What?" asked Arthur. "Is that another story I haven't heard?"
Clem's face turned bright pink.
"Later," responded Clem.
The boy crossed his arms over his white Henley, toy soldiers forgotten.
"Later?" protested Arthur. "That means never!"
"Joshua," suggested Clem, placing a small hand on the knee of his black trousers, her lips in a tight smile as she changed the subject. "Maybe you should go ahead and start Mr. Dickens' story."
Heyes glanced at his partner sprawled in an overstuffed chair opposite Harry. Long denim clad legs stretched across the floor, a tripping hazard for the unwary. Five year old Carolyn dozed on Kid's right arm, while her twin sister Charlotte blinked sleepily on his left arm. Kid looked sleepy too. In the chair beside him, Riordan Hale, held Kid and Matt's youngest daughter, one year old Amanda. The young attorney and his wife were expecting a child of their own in the spring. The young Mrs. Hale leaned against her husband watching the chubby baby in fascination, a hand resting on her ample abdomen. Beyond Kid, George and Lom sipped cups of punch. Uncle Mac laughed at something Wheat said, while Wheat's wife elbowed her husband in the ribs. Kyle pushed his glasses up on his nose. Henry shook his head, his arm over his wife Eileen's shoulder. Jenny and Aunt Katie rocked back and forth chattering animatedly.
"All right then," replied Heyes. He cleared his throat. "Quiet now everybody. Quiet down, my partner's trying to rest..."
Instead of the quiet he so desired, nearly everyone took the opportunity to shush their neighbor. All except Kyle. His jaw dropped open and his eyes widened. It was a moment before the dynamite man placed his charge.
"You ain't gonna cancel Christmas again, are you?" blurted out Kyle.
There was a brief instance of silence in the big room, then it exploded in a cacophony of noise as everyone started asking questions.
"What?" demanded Arthur. His brown eyes looked up. "Pa, you didn't! Did you cancel Christmas?"
Heyes held both hands up in a gesture of mock surrender.
"I had a good reason," placated Heyes. "My partner..."
"Don't blame me, I was sleeping," interrupted Kid. "Cancellin' Christmas was all your idea!"
"Pa, I wanna hear this story!"
"Me too!" chimed in a multitude of voices.
"Later," declared Heyes. "Now if everyone will just quiet down some, I'll begin reading."
Heyes opened the book and cleared his throat to begin, but his mind wasn't on the familiar words. He couldn't blame Kyle for his question, Heyes had used almost the same words all those years ago. And it had been Christmas Eve then too.
"Marley was dead, to begin with..." Heyes couldn't help but remember.
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Devil's Hole - December 1879
"Han," called Grampa Curry.
"Unh."
Heyes blinked and shut his eyes again. Grampa Curry was dead. Heyes knew it. He and Kid both knew it. They were alive because Grampa Curry had kept the raiders from entering the root cellar all those years ago, but Heyes had been dreaming of the old man for the last three nights. Grampa's voice called again.
"Han."
The tremulous call was followed by a fit of coughing. Heyes lifted his head off the small square table in the front room of the leader's cabin. He brushed crumbs off his white Henley. Firelight glowed in the darkened room. Kid's bed by the front door was empty. Heyes turned to look through the door at the back of the room into the rear bedroom. He could see his partner. Kid was coughing again, harsh sounding, body shaking coughs. Heyes realized the voice he had heard was his partner's.
"Not Grampa," murmured Heyes. "Kid, you sound just like Grampa, but he is as dead as a door-nail."
The dark haired outlaw rose to fetch the youngest member of the Devil's Hole gang a cup of water. Kid had been shot during the Hanford job in late October. Treatment in Tullerette City and then in Cheyenne had been ineffectual. By the time Heyes got his partner back to Devil's Hole Kid was weak from blood loss and running a temperature from an infection. The closest thing to a doctor in Devil's Hole was Lobo. The shaggy haired outlaw saved Kid's leg by scouring the wound with carbolic, but the recovery was long and slow. Heyes had given up his room so Kid could have the warmer, quieter back room. All Heyes remembered of November and the first part of December was a constant changing of poultices, bandages, bedpans, and worry. By mid-December Kid finally seemed to show improvement. The tall blond insisted he was well enough to forego bedpans and chamber pots and make his way to the outhouse on his own. And Kid insisted on taking back his own bed by the drafty cabin entrance. Three days ago Kid had taken ill again. And he was getting worse.
"Han."
Kid's eyes blinked as Heyes entered the bedroom. The older Kansan knelt beside his partner and tucked one arm beneath the curly blond head. Raising Kid's heads upwards, Heyes held the blue tin cup to his partner's lips.
"Here Kid, drink this," urged Heyes.
An indecipherable moan of protest came from his partner.
"Quit complainin', you haven't even tasted it yet," argued Heyes. "It's just water. We're outta willow bark tea, so it won't taste bitter."
The water was soon gone and Kid lay back on his pillow. His red longjohns in stark contrast with the white pillowcase. Heyes' sharp ears heard the ragged breathing slow, settle to a quieter uneasy rhythm as Kid slipped back to sleep. Heyes pulled a gray wool blanket up around Kid's thin form, tucking the edges in carefully to keep the warmth around his partner.
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"Heyes," called Wheat.
"Huh?"
Heyes lifted his head off the small square table again to see the front door open. Daylight streamed past Wheat, Kyle, Lobo, and Preacher standing in the open doorway. All four men were bundled in their heavy winter coats, scarves around their necks, hats pulled low. A piercing cold gust blew into the room fluttering the worn blue blanket on the bed by the door. Heyes shivered.
"Kid don't like it cold," snapped Heyes. "Either come in or stay out, but whatever you do, shut the door."
The smile disappeared from Wheat's face. The burly outlaw beckoned the others. Feet shuffled as the gang entered the cabin. Preacher stooped to put another log on the fire. Lobo craned his neck to see into the rear bedroom. Heyes nodded. The frazzle haired outlaw quietly made his way to the bedroom door to check on his patient.
"Happy Christmas," greeted Wheat.
Heyes glanced at the calendar on the wall by his desk. Instead of its normal meticulous tidiness, the long narrow table he used as a desk was cluttered with railroad timetables, old newspapers, a ruler and his pocket watch. Tending his partner had taken most of Heyes' energy for the past several weeks. Heyes kept his worry about Kid secret and self-contained, while pretending to work on a plan for their next heist. Instead he merely shuffled papers back and forth. The only thing the mastermind hadn't let slip was his daily marking of the calendar. While Heyes couldn't control Kid's temperature, he could mark off each day. Red lines were drawn across every day in December through Tuesday the twenty-third.
"It ain't Christmas yet," objected Heyes. "Today is only the twenty-fourth."
"It's Christmas Eve, near enough," responded Wheat. "Folks like to celebrate, it's a festive time of year."
"Are you and Kid coming to Wildwood?" asked Kyle, a hopeful smile on his face. "Iffen we leave now, we'll be there before nightfall."
"Even old sinners like all of us get to celebrate Christmas," encouraged Preacher.
Since his partner had taken ill again, Heyes had put Kid back in the warmer rear room away from the drafty door. Wheat, Kyle and Preacher hadn't been allowed inside to see Kid. Heyes glanced towards his partner. Through the open door, he could see Lobo with the back of his hand against Kid's forehead. The gang's medic pursed his lips in a worried frown. A restless movement turned Kid's face towards Heyes. The young blond's face was flushed almost as red as his long johns. Heyes felt something hard and sharp as flint settle into his gut. He swallowed as Lobo stood up. Shaking his shaggy head, the outlaw started back to the front of the cabin.
"Kid ain't fit to ride into Wildwood," declared Heyes.
Kyle's eyes went wide. Wheat and Preacher shuffled their feet and looked from Heyes to Lobo as the wild haired man closed the bedroom door behind him and came to stand beside Preacher.
"He's worse?" grumbled Wheat. "I thought you said Kid just had a bad cold."
"Has Kid got the blood poisonin' again?" asked Preacher with a concerned tone.
"No. Kid's runnin' a fever, but it ain't because of his leg," soothed Lobo. At the worried faces around him, Lobo huffed, "Kid's gonna be fine, it ain't like he's on his deathbed!"
"Wildwood won't be any fun at all if Kid can't go," lamented Kyle.
Fever. Worse. Heyes felt frustration building inside him. Whether from the infection in Kid's leg or a new infection of some sort didn't matter to Heyes. His partner was ill, wasting away, and there was nothing Heyes could do to make Kid better.
"Quiet now everybody. Quiet down, my partner's trying to rest," snapped Heyes. "And don't worry about Christmas, we ain't havin' Christmas!"
The angry words were out of Heyes mouth before he realized it. Kyle's jaw dropped open.
"Heyes, you can't cancel Christmas!" objected Kyle.
"We're not having Christmas at Devil's Hole," amended Heyes.
"Huh?" Kyle's blue eyes looked confused. "That don't make no sense at all. No matter what folks call it, Christmas is everywhere!"
"You boys go on into Wildwood," ordered Heyes, his voice sounding harsher than he had intended. "Have a good time. Celebrate Christmas! I ain't stopping ya!"
"Heyes!" pleaded the littlest outlaw. "You and Kid..."
"Kyle! This ain't no safe haven for celebrating! This is Devil's Hole! It's a hideout so we don't get captured or killed," interrupted Heyes. "Be glad we ain't in some home for waywards or worse yet, prison! You boys go to Wildwood! Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine."
"But you don't keep Christmas Heyes!" objected Kyle. "Christmas is to be shared!"
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"We're on our own Kid," muttered Heyes.
The slim hipped man stood by the window as he watched Wheat, Preacher, Lobo and Kyle ride out. Kyle stopped at the crest of the ridge and looked back for a moment before riding on. A weak moan sounded from the bedroom.
"I'm coming partner," called Heyes.
Worried dark brown eyes watched as water filled the blue tin cup. A moment later, deft fingers held Kid's chin as he lifted the water cup to his partner's lips. Disheveled blond curls clung to Kid's forehead.
"You're getting to look more and more like Grampa as you get older," confided Heyes.
"'m not," mumbled Kid. His ragged breathing made his words hard to understand. "I take af… after… my mother mostly."
Heyes regarded his younger cousin. Kid's coloring, blond hair and blue eyes, was definitely from tiny Aunt Mary. But, although Kid was thinner now from his illness, the normally sturdy, well-built body was just like Grampa's, and Kid had the Curry curls, not his mother's and brother Henry's straight gold hair.
"Mostly," agreed Heyes with a smirk, "but Aunt Mary never had stubble on her jawline."
Kid rolled his blue eyes, but he didn't have the strength to provide a comeback. He soon slipped into another restless sleep. Heyes spent the rest of the morning puttering around the front room. He stoked the black cast iron stove and added more wood to the fire blazing on the hearth. He brought more water to Kid and finished the coffee. At midday, Heyes tried to coax his partner to eat some beef and barley soup. Then while Kid napped, Heyes tackled the clutter on his desk. By dusk, Heyes had burned most of the old papers. The railroad timetables were neatly stacked in a pile beside his notepad, next to the note about the bank in Hot Sulfur Springs, while the ruler and writing utensils were lined up in a precise row. The pocket watch was tucked in Heyes' vest pocket. The dark haired mastermind crossed the twenty-fourth day off on the calendar and peered into the back room. Kid was still sleeping, so Heyes decided to make a trip to the outbuilding.
"Shoulda lit the lantern," grumbled Heyes upon his return to the darkened cabin.
Heyes stumbled on the step, landing on his knees. Face to face with a moldy green knothole on the heavy wooden door, Heyes shook his head. The semblance of an eye regarded him. The genius pushed himself upright again.
"That knothole does not look like Grampa's eye watching me," insisted Heyes.
Inside the cabin once more, he checked on Kid. His partner tossed and turned. Heyes re-tucked the blanket in around Kid, before returning to the front room. He eyed the cold coffee pot critically for a moment before deciding against making another pot. A shadow fell across the floor. Heyes turned his head to see the would be intruder and found himself staring face to face with Grampa Curry. The sharp green eyed gaze of the gray haired man looked very stern.
"Grampa?" blurted out Heyes before he could stop himself.
"You know who I am!"
The outlaw shook his head as if to jump start his critical thinking skills, but the best Heyes could come up with was a simple declaration of fact.
"You can't be here," objected Heyes. "You're dead. Dead and buried."
"I'm here boy!"
The dismissive word, boy, irritated Heyes. He hadn't been a boy since his childhood home in Kansas had been destroyed along with nearly everyone he loved.
"I'm twenty-nine years old Grampa," scoffed Heyes. "Ain't been a boy in a long while."
"You'll always be my grand boy," huffed the apparition.
Grand boy. The phrase brought a sudden moisture to Heyes' dark eyes. Grampa had always called the Heyes and Curry children his Grands, as if they were the most wondrous creations imaginable. Heyes shook his head with recognition. There was no doubt about it. Either Grampa Curry's ghost was standing before him or Heyes had gone mad, Heyes preferred to believe in Grampa rather than insanity.
"Why are you here?" asked Heyes. "What do you want with me?"
"Much! I have sat invisible beside you many and many a day," growled Grampa's voice. Heyes winced at the idea that Grampa had been watching him. "You're in a world of trouble and bringing more down upon you and little Jed."
"Jed ain't so little now," objected Heyes. "And he brings on a fair amount of his own trouble."
Grampa's jaw dropped open in a howl of outrage. The loud sound rattled through the cabin like chains being dragged over metal grating, hard and scraping. Heyes doubled over, clasping his hands over his ears.
"Oww!" Heyes cried. "Grampa why are you howling so?"
The sound continued. Heyes looked up to see hard metal links of forged iron appear in Grampa's hands. The gray haired ghost shook chains, the clanking sound even more ominous than his howl. Heyes' brown eyes widened. He wasn't looking forward to telling Kid about the latest update to the wanted posters. Heyes knew that since the Hanford job, he and Kid were now wanted dead or alive. Heyes had no intention of keeping the information from Kid, but with his partner's precarious health the past two months, Heyes still hadn't said a word. Was prison their fate?
"Boy, of the worldly mind, these chains may well be yours. Listen and learn!" replied Grampa. "You have yet a chance and hope of escaping the fate you seem to be so determined to meet."
"Grampa?" asked Heyes. The idea of escape lighting up his dark eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Han, you will be haunted by Three Spirits," declared Grampa. "Expect the first tomorrow when the bell tolls one."
Heyes gulped at the idea of more ghosts, but the bell was a problem.
"Grampa, we don't have a bell in Devil's Hole," objected Heyes.
But Grampa was gone.
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