Heyes and Curry
An Introduction
Having received amnesty recently after a half score years waiting for it; and in light of the many fantastical tales circulating about my partner and me masquerading as so-called dime novels; and with the strong and recent encouragement of Mr. Pierce, publisher of this fine publication; I am grateful for the opportunity, and indeed, necessity, of sitting down and writing my, and my partner's, account of our shared adventures, in an effort to set the record straight.
In that vein, I will attempt to keep my prose precise, and to the point, and not ramble on; indeed, to also not resort to the sensational, improbable, and far-fetched imaginings of the aforementioned dime novels (although my partner, Mr. Curry, is fond of these generally, he is of the opinion that the best use for those written about us is as for kindling; or, if not too dirty, useful on the trail for a certain kind of wiping [I will not expound further on this latter usage in case fairer eyes than the presumed gentlemanly reader finds this by accident]).
I am of particular affection for Mr. Twain, and his style comes most to mind of what I wish to accomplish; although I fear I cannot match that; and even by mere mentioning, that already puts me at a disadvantage. Indeed, his writings, of course, in whatever guise they appear—be they novel, adventure, historical, humor, satire, journalistic, poetic, or otherwise—are of the professional variety, well-polished and worldly, and admired universally; while mine, I fear, will be meager and parochial.
Of other interest to me of late, is the late Mr. Dickens. I had, of occasion, in the past been only a sometime reader of his many serialized stories. His style, in this very humble writer's admittedly limited opinion, seems to be much more detailed, and descriptive, than that of Mr. Twain. Of course, his spelling leaves a lot to be desired to one of less formal education as myself, and my partner; but not so much that his stories are not understandable to the many readers who have enjoyed them through the years on this side of the Atlantic Ocean.
Contrasted with Mr. Dickens, Mr. Twain's narrative language is that which I, and my partner, speak, and have spoken, every day of our lives; what I understand to be called colloquialism, more or less (according to Mr. Webster's dictionary [that's Noah, not Daniel; and which I don't have on my desk as I write this; but for which memory has to serve]); and it is that very colloquial style of Mr. Twain that I hope to emulate in these writings. Mr. Dickens came to mind because of the serial nature of a lot of his work; our accounts are planned to be on a somewhat regular schedule, given time, and space, constraints; not necessarily continuing chapters as those of Mr. Dickens were, nor as long; but briefer, and, perhaps, more anecdotal.
I see I have already digressed; and this has turned into more essay than introduction. Please forgive me. I was never known for being spare in my language; indeed, I am known for having what is sometimes called a silver tongue; and while that silver tongue might have played an important role in me, and my partner, still being residents of this great planet, and breathing; it was, I'm told, never known for being brief. I resolve to try harder at that pursuit.
I see the time is ticking away for me to finish this; so there will be very little time for editing (which, I'm told, must be done to further polish whatever I commit to paper); or for me to consult with my partner (as I have promised to do), as to the veracity of everything I write in both of our names. The readership may rest assured he has given his permission for me to do this; as he has long permitted me to think for him. We trust each other's judgment implicitly; and, in future articles, I hope the deadline is not so close at hand. It is not with haste that we became the best at what we did; indeed, it was with careful, and precise, planning, and execution (it feels good to be able to use that word in a different meaning than when the banks and railroads offered rewards for us, dead or alive).
Suffice it to say, Hannibal Heyes and Jedediah Curry are now on the right side of the law; as we have been nigh on the last half score years; free of the wanted posters reminding everyone of our past lives as the most successful outlaws in the history of the West (this, I was told; I seek humility in these writings, although my partner says that might be hard for me to accomplish all the time). This will be turned in almost immediately; and, dear readers, please forgive the rambling where none was intended. I will attempt to be briefer, and more precise, and to the point, next time.
Sincerely, and as always, Your Most Humble Servant,
Hannibal Heyes, (now) Esquire