The old rocker squeaked terribly, but the wind howling through the abandoned ghost town swept the sound away. Hannibal Heyes was sitting out in front of the derelict hotel. He was tired and worried. Inside the building, and out of the wind, his partner, Kid Curry, was resting quietly on a pallet made of an old mattress and saddle blankets.
The Kid had been shot by a posse that had been pursuing them. It was the same old story. Someone had recognized them in Cold Creek and raised the alarm. The next thing they knew, they were dodging bullets. The Kid just didn't manage to dodge them all. It wasn't a bad wound as these things go, but Heyes had to clean it quickly so that they could ride on. Now there was an infection brewing in that leg and Kid was running a high fever.
Heyes had thoroughly cleaned the wound again as soon as he'd gotten the Kid settled and he was waiting to see which way things would go. He stared down the main street of Dunton, population formerly zero, now two; and watched the tumbleweeds flying wildly on the wings of the oncoming storm. Bits of debris were airborne and driven by the wind. Heyes squinted from under his battered black hat, shielding his eyes from the worst of it.
It looked like it was going to be a gully-washer. Dark storm clouds swept across the sky, tumbling over each other and turning day into night. The ex-outlaw only hoped that the deteriorating conditions would discourage the posse from continuing their pursuit. He was pretty sure he'd lost them with the false trail he'd laid, but he couldn't afford to be over-confident; not with his partner so sick and injured.
He heard a weak moan drifting through the window next to him and he pried his tired body out of the rocker. Stepping through the door-less entryway, he paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness within. The Kid was shifting uneasily under the saddle blankets. Cursing softly, Heyes went and knelt by his partner, reaching out to feel his forehead. The Kid was burning up. Pulling back the blankets, he attempted to untie the ratty bandages he'd fashioned from an extra shirt; but the Kid began thrashing about wildly as though fending off an attacker in his fevered dreams. Heyes grabbed the wounded leg and hung on. The Kid cried out with pain at the rough handling of his injury, but he ignored him. He had to do what needed to be done. He pulled the bandages off and stared at the swollen limb. Tiny red streaks were starting to snake away from the deep gash and creep along the leg. The infection was spreading despite his best efforts. The wound would have to be cauterized. Heyes's stomach flipped over at the thought. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to do it and he found himself hoping that, by some miracle, it might be the last.
Tucking the covers tightly around his restless friend, he stood up and went outside to forage for wood to burn so that he could sterilize the old hunting knife he'd have to use. There was plenty of wood around here; most of the buildings lining the street were in ruins, pulled apart for the serviceable boards that had been carried away by departing residents for use in the next town to be settled. He walked across to the old bank building. The windows were gone, glass being particularly precious out here. Oddly, the stout wooden doors stood tightly locked. Heyes eased into the blank window opening and carefully stepped down onto the broken floor. Leaves and dirt had blown in and were scattered about. Standing sentinel across the emptied, open room was the old safe, too heavy to haul away. The lock had been dismantled and the mechanism was gone. He crossed over to it, and idly swung the door shut. The manufacturer's decal announced that it was a Carlton Model 215. He stared at the safe for a long moment and then glanced about the building. He had opened this one, five years earlier.
Even then, the town hadn't been much, but he and the boys didn't let that stop them from taking the little it did have. They'd cleaned out the bank in broad daylight. He could still remember the old bank manager who'd begged them not to take the money. He had made a joke of it, tossing the poor man a few dollars and some sarcastic comment long since forgotten, and they had left without a backwards glance. He had been so callous back then.
The gloom of the storm seeped into the building and the shadows grew around him. He wondered if, somehow, the town knew it had been him who had killed it. Shaking his head at his melancholy thoughts, Heyes crossed to the teller's cage and pulled at the loosened boards held together by rusty nails. One by one, yanking savagely, he freed the old wood.
He carried an armful of timber across the street to where his sick partner waited. The Kid had thrown off his covers again and Heyes dumped the wood on the floor and rushed over to cover him. Delirious eyes looked up at his own, unaware of time or place. "Heyes, they're coming for us. I can see them, they're nearly here," the Kid raved.
"Shh, settle down. No one's coming. It's all right," soothed Heyes as he pulled the rough, woolen saddle blankets back over Kid Curry. Stroking his partner's damp hair, Heyes reached with his other hand for the canteen of water nestled next to the soiled mattress. He slipped his arm under Curry's shoulders and raised him slightly, letting him sip the cool liquid slowly. "Good. That's good. Drink as much as you can." The Kid closed his eyes and weakly sagged against Heyes's arm as he gently lowered the injured man.
Heyes stood up and waited, making sure the Kid was quiet. Satisfied, he retrieved the firewood and placed it in the crumbling stone fireplace that had once graced the hotel lobby. There was no paper inside that could be used to start the fire, so Heyes went outside again to gather up leaves trapped in the crevices and corners of the weathered buildings. He glanced up at the sky and saw the hazy curtain of rain sweeping towards him. Hurrying, he used the tails of his shirt as a bag to hold the leaves he snatched up before the wind's grip could tear them away.
Back inside, he shoved the tinder under the stacked wood and struck a match. The fire sprang to life, greedily licking at the dried fuel. The flames flickered and danced crazily and Heyes sat back, exhausted. He had been awake for nearly three days and he wasn't sure how much longer he could stave off sleep. He leaned back against the wall behind him and stared at the fire. Freed from action, his thoughts wandered.
What a difference five years had made. They had been so young and arrogant then, and had fully believed in their right to take what they needed. They had needed a lot. Money burned a hole in their pockets in those days. They were very good thieves and never gave any thought to the future, spending the loot as fast as they stole it. If they'd only known that in a few short years they'd be broke, hungry, and on the run trying for an amnesty.
He remembered how that old lady had slipped the Kid a flyer about the amnesty program. It had happened during a botched robbery. The Kid had pulled it out and had shown it to him just before they'd spent four days outrunning a different posse.
At first, Heyes had laughed it off. By the end of four days, he'd changed his mind. He had wanted that amnesty. He still did, but at what cost? Not the Kid's life. That was too high a price to pay. The whole reason for going for the amnesty was to get out from under the 'dead or alive' tacked onto their reward posters. What good did it do them to die trying? The amnesty was proving riskier than outlawing. Having gone straight, they were cut loose from the safety of the gang and left exposed to all the dangers they'd hoped to avoid. Was it worth it?
If the Kid died, he knew that it would be all over for him. It was hard enough staying straight with his partner by his side; without him, he'd never make it.
He had loved that life a little too much. Even now, he'd use any excuse to drag out the skills he had spent a lifetime perfecting. He had opened nearly as many safes, pulled almost as many cons, since supposedly going straight as he had when robbing. Maybe it was time to give up this mad idea of starting over and go back to what he did best. He wasn't a pretty good bad man; he was an excellent one. He could make all sorts of noises about seeing the error of his ways, but his biggest regret was not putting any of the cash they had stolen away for the future. A few more big jobs and they could be set for life.
Could he do it? He was sure he could, but did he want to? The last couple of years had been hard, but working for a living, instead of stealing it, had taught them a lot about who they were and their true place in the world. They weren't different or special. They were ordinary men in an ordinary world. He understood at last what it was like to earn an honest pay and how hard it was to hang onto.
The coals shifted, breaking his train of thought. They were hot enough now. Sighing, he pulled the hunting knife from the shaft of his boot and examined the blade by the firelight. He ran his thumb down the edge, drawing a small bead of blood. Sliding the knife into the glowing embers and sitting back again, he pulled out his pocket watch. Ten minutes ought to be about right. The Kid was lying still and breathing rapidly. Hopefully, he'd stay out cold for a while longer.
Settling back, Heyes heard the patter of the raindrops reverberating on the tin roof. The storm was upon them in more ways than one. At least the Kid was out of the weather. What would he have done if he hadn't remembered this sad little place? Had they really been the death of this town? It hurt to think that it might be true. They had always wanted to believe they were striking out at the rich; the banks and the railroads, not the common folk. But whose money was in the bank and how hard had those folks worked to put it there? What had happened to those people when it was gone? Why had he never given that any thought before?
The Kid whimpered softly and Heyes knew it was time. He carefully pulled the knife from the fire, his bandana wrapped around the hilt so he wouldn't burn his fingers. He knelt next to his cousin and shook him with his other hand. No response. Heyes exhaled the breath he didn't know he had been holding, and pulled back the covers. The angry wound glared up at him. He held the leg tightly with his left hand and, with a curse, pressed the knife blade down. His partner shrieked and bucked, but he was ready for him and kept the hot steel against the cooking flesh. The smell overcame him and, gagging, Heyes pulled the knife away and fell back gasping. Tears sprang to his eyes unbidden and he dropped the knife and began to weep. He had caused so much pain in so many ways.
The rain was coming in waves now, leaking through the walls where the chinking was gone, dripping down on them from above. Heyes sat up and wiped his eyes, ashamed at his breakdown. He must be more tired than he thought. He wrapped the Kid's leg as best he could and covered him up again.
Heyes walked over to the door and leaned against the jamb. He couldn't see across the street through the deluge. Sighing, he slid his way down to the floor and sat, staring out, unseeing. There was nothing to do, but wait. If the cauterization didn't work, he'd have to take the leg. He didn't know if he could do it. The Kid wouldn't want him to; he knew that much. But could he sit back and watch his partner die in agony?
He could see the bank again. It appeared, accusingly, out of the haze of rain. Was this to be their punishment for their greed and heartlessness? They were changing, he knew they were, but had they changed enough? They'd both talked about how they wanted to be good citizens; how the quest for amnesty was making them better men; but he still lusted for his days of thievery, he just wouldn't admit it to anyone; not even his partner. Is that why the Kid was going to die here, of all places?
Just a few days ago, they had been walking down the street in Cold Creek, minding their own business; enjoying the hubbub of the townsfolk hurrying about doing their holiday shopping. Now look where they were. That's right, it was almost Christmas, or was it Christmas? He couldn't think. He was so very tired.
He counted backwards. They'd been on the run for four days. It was Christmas Eve. Here he was, waiting to see if his best friend would live or die and it was Christmas Eve. He found it ironic that it bothered him what day it was. He'd never cared much about the holidays, not since they'd been kids. The gang would make a half-hearted attempt to observe the traditions. This usually entailed chopping down some scraggly-looking fir tree and dressing it up with whatever shiny objects that could be found in an outlaw hideout. Bullet casings and tin cups mostly. Occasionally, they cooked up something special and, always, there'd be lots of drinking and storytelling. Since the amnesty, they'd forgotten the holidays altogether. Strange that, today of all days with Kid maybe dying, he'd be so very aware of it.
The sound of water disturbed him and he looked around. The roof was leaking in several more spots. He got up and went over to his friend. The Kid was talking again, having a conversation with someone Heyes couldn't see. His normally quiet partner was blabbing his mouth off now. He placed the back of his hand against the Kid's cheek; he was still hot.
He had done all he could do. Lying down next to his partner on the lumpy mattress, Heyes lay quiet. The noise of the storm was deafening. No, that wasn't true, he hadn't done all he could do. He could pray. He hadn't done that since he was a kid and his mother would drag him off to church every Sunday in his best suit. Did he believe any more? He had as a kid, but he had lost his belief a long time ago. Still, he remembered how. He remembered his ma making him say his prayers at night. That one about lying down to sleep and the Lord taking his soul if he died used to scare the heck out of him. Let's see, what other ones did he know? Maybe it didn't matter, maybe he didn't have to do anything fancy. Just talk. He was good at that.
Heyes began, awkwardly at first, but he was a man of words and soon they were spilling out of him. He talked about the pain and sorrow of his losses and his fear of another. He talked about his shame and regret for some of the things he had done. He talked about his hopes and his desire for a better life. He gave thanks for his partner and, finally, prayed for his recovery. It felt good to talk even if no one was listening. He felt lighter somehow and, he knew, he had done absolutely everything he could do for the Kid. Completely spent, both physically and emotionally, he fell into a deep sleep.
He opened his eyes aware that something had changed. It was colder now and it was dawn. The rain had changed to snow overnight and light gusts blew stray flakes in through the open doorway. It was still and quiet; too quiet. He couldn't hear the Kid's rasping breaths and his back was cold, no longer warmed by his partner's fevered body. He wouldn't, he couldn't look; he closed his eyes.
"Heyes?"
He heard the whispery voice and rolled onto his back. Leaning against the warm fireplace stones, sat Kid Curry. He was bundled in a blanket and staring at his partner. Heyes couldn't speak.
"Are you okay? 'Cause if you are, I could sure use somethin' to eat about now," said the Kid weakly.
"Kid?" croaked Heyes. He jumped up and bounced over to his partner. He bent over and hugged Curry to him, laughing and crying at the same time.
"Ow! Heyes, what's gotten into you?" cried Kid.
"It's Christmas, Kid! Merry Christmas," said Heyes, excitedly.
"Great. It's Christmas and I'm sittin' here with a bullet hole in my leg starvin' to death because my partner's actin' crazy," groused Kid. "It's just another day, Heyes. Nothin's changed for us."
"Oh, but it has, Kid. We're that much closer to our new life," said Heyes.
"If we live that long," grumbled Kid.
Heyes grinned, "You just gotta have faith, Kid."