Interview With An Ex-Outlaw

by moonshadowASJ

This is a post-amnesty story. Hannibal Heyes and Jed "Kid" Curry both received amnesty in the year 1883 and this story takes place forty years later, 1923. Several things have happened and many changes have taken place in those forty years. Note: There is an introduction at the beginning of the story which you should read before you start this story.

1. Chapter 1

"INTERVIEW WITH AN EX-OUTLAW"

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musings from moonshadow:

****Before we get into the main body of the story, I have been advised that, in all fairness, I should let readers know that this story contains the death of one of the main characters.****

Please don't let that stop you from reading the rest of this...Even though the character is gone, he is still VERY much a part of the entire story. In fact, you might be a bit surprised to find that it is HIS story that is being told in quite a bit of this; so he is still alive through flashbacks and memories of the other characters. Without him, there wouldn't BE a story to read.

Not to be misunderstood, this story is also a very special story of love. (In fact, a couple of the readers who were kind enough to beta this story for me have expressed their desire to be a female character in my next story!) To me, that is a major compliment!

For those of you who may have already read this story when it was first posted on another site...One last additional note on the violence: This is actually a watered-down version of the original story.

Although this was the most difficult story I have written thus far, I am very proud of the finished product.

I think I have managed to capture the essence of both men and create an emotional and unique adventure for the fanfiction reader to enjoy, despite its somber theme. At the conclusion of the story, you will find back-up information which may help you to understand my motivation for using certain plot devices.

I can only hope that you are willing to continue reading the entire story in spite of the spoiler. If you feel that you can't, I feel sorry for you; you will be missing out on a special tribute to a very special man. Trust me; you'll be glad you did!

Feel free to PM me if you don't feel like posting comments for the public; I would really be interested in hearing your thoughts when you are through reading the story.

moonshadow

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*Since it will become quite apparent which ex-outlaw is being interviewed from the very beginning, if you would like a smile on your face as you read through this, check out this link first:

Tennis_Blazer_Article_and_illustration

Historically, these examples are what the men wore at that time. Now all you have to do is picture Kid Curry thus attired…and read on.

**At the end of the story there are a few more tennis footnotes which are pretty interesting. Who knew?

For points of reference, I have used an ASJ timeline that I worked out many years ago for the benefit of MY fanfiction stories. In it, Hannibal Heyes was born in the year 1852, Jed Curry in 1854. They both received their amnesty in 1883, so "FORTY YEARS AFTER THE AMNESTY" would make the year 1923 for the time this story takes place.

Fun fact: It has been brought to my attention that my timeline actually coincides with real life. Not a planned move on my part, just the way it ended up when I compiled the events from the series to create it. According to the way I have calculated things, Jed "Kid" Curry is 69 years old at the time of the interview...the same age as Ben Murphy this year (2011), the year the story was written!

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PART 1

"THE SPIDER AND THE FLY"

CODY, WYOMING, MARCH 1923

THE RANCH OF HANNIBAL HEYES & JEDEDIAH "KID" CURRY

Sam pulled the buggy to a standstill on the outskirts of the ranch. Once the brake had set, she laid down the reins and looked around with frank curiosity. The wooden sign which hung overhead swung gently back and forth on its rusty hinges, producing an intermittent squeak.

"The HH Bar JC Ranch," she read aloud. "Well, this is it, boy; we made it - good job."

It seemed to be a busy day at the ranch, with plenty of things to capture her interest, but the most eye-catching one of all piqued her curiosity and caused her brows to arch upwards, almost to her hairline. "A tennis court," she whispered, "way out here? I wonder…? Hmm, I shall have to ask him about that for sure." She made a mental note and added it to her list.

The object of her perusal was situated off to one side of the large ranch house and very well-maintained. Although familiar with the sport, having enjoyed several games herself, she still found it unusual to come across a personal, private court on a ranch way out in the middle of Wyoming. "Must be a mighty good conversation piece," she murmured. Her estimation of the former outlaw increased a notch. She used a finger to push her tinted spectacles back on the bridge of her nose where they would be of better use against the glare of the sun.

A sudden gust of wind created a whirling dervish which, in turn, propelled a large tumbleweed straight into the horse. Sam was forced to dive forward and make a quick grab for the reins when the bristly weed startled the animal and caused him to shy. She reached up a hand and patted the material covering her hair, glad for the protection of her bonnet against the unruly elements while she kept the horse and buggy under control. Although bonnets had pretty much fallen out of fashion, she was an old-fashioned kind of woman who preferred to keep her hair under wraps, especially when she was outside. It was for the same reason she still used a horse and buggy; she enjoyed this mode of transportation far more than the new-fangled automobiles.

"Easy, fella, it's okay," she soothed, making an effort to keep her own voice calm. "It's just the wind; nothing to be nervous about." Sam smiled when he whinnied and shook his head, his mane rippling with the movement. "Would I lie to you? I promise you'll be safe and sound in just a few minutes; we're almost there."

The animal gave a snort and pawed the dirt with his hoof.

With a slap of the reins they started forward again. As they drew nearer to the house, Sam tried to calm the swarm of butterflies that were fluttering against her ribcage in a wild dance. "It really is nothing to get nervous about," she whispered, repeating the words as much to herself as to her steed. "After all, he's just an ordinary, everyday man..."

An image flashed through her head and she bit back the bitter laugh that had almost escaped. "Liar," she chided herself, "there's nothing ordinary or everyday about him at all - who are you trying to kid?" That last word brought a smile to her face despite her trepidation. Sam drew in a deep breath and focused on releasing it slowly in an effort to banish the vision from her mind. "Get a hold of yourself, you silly goose! Whatever will he think of you if you show up acting like some giddy schoolgirl?"

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Sam stepped up onto the porch, adjusted her spectacles and lifted her hand towards the door, but before she could knock, the door was pulled open and a man stepped into the doorway. Sam ducked her head while her hand dropped back down to her side.

"Mornin', ma'am; didn't mean to startle you, but I saw you from the window," the man explained. "Can I help you? Kinda outta your way, aren't you?" He raised a brow in inquiry and smiled. "You lost?"

Head still bent, Sam shook her head in denial and prayed her courage wouldn't desert her. "No, I've come to see Mr. Jedediah Curry; I have an appointment with him today."

Her words were met with complete silence.

When the quietness stretched into a feeling that became too uncomfortable to ignore any longer, Sam was forced to peek up through her lashes in order to see if the man was still there. He was, and judging by his expression he was not very happy at the moment. No, quite to the contrary, he looked more like a thunderstorm about to wreak havoc down upon anything – or anyone - that dared to get in his path.

"I do have an appointment today," he admitted, "with a Mister Sam Twain...but you're -"

"That's me - I mean I'm him," flustered, she expelled an exasperated breath, collected herself and tried again. "What I'm trying to say is that I'm her. My name is Sam," she stuck out her hand, "Sam as in short for Samantha."

Curry didn't reach for her hand. Instead he eyed her with disapproval while his own fingers clenched into a tight fist at his side. "You lied to me, Miss Twain," he answered in a quiet tone so cold it sent shivers down Sam's back despite the heat of the day, "An' I don't cotton much to liars," he added, his words managing to sound both ominous and as smooth as velvet at the same time.

"No - I didn't," Sam corrected him. Stung by the harshness of his words she added, "I merely omitted certain details. YOU assumed I was a man."

"YOU never corrected me neither!"

"Well, maybe not," she hedged, "but I never lied to you!"

"Was any of what you wrote in your letter true?" Curry snapped, "Or was it all a pack of lies, too?"

Her eyes glittering with sparks of indignant anger, Sam raised her chin a notch. "With the exception of keeping my gender a secret, the rest of the letter is the gospel truth!"

"Hmph," Curry gave a derisive snort,"Lady, you have no idea how many people have lied to me - to us! All those years, the whole time Heyes an' me were tryin' to get that blasted amnesty, we found out there were only two people we could trust - each other!" He ran a hand distractedly through his hair in his frustration. "It's hard for a stranger to understand, but after what happened to Heyes..." his voice trailed off and the air was filled with a strained silence.

Jed stared down at the floor for a moment before he raised his head in Sam's direction but it was as if he stared straight through her. No, it's not hard, it's damn near impossible! It may not be your fault, lady, but I know there's no way you can even come close to understanding. I lost the one person I trusted the most in this world; the one person who meant anything to me. Things haven't been the same around here ever since that day, an' I don't s'pose they ever will...

Sam watched the man's face as Jed wrestled with his thoughts and was relieved to see that some of his anger had abated. She didn't move a muscle while she waited for him to continue. Everything depended on what happened next.

His expression enigmatic, Curry's eyes flickered over the woman standing on his porch before he heaved a deep sigh of resignation. "Well, guess that since you're already here, an' since I didagree to an interview with someone..." He lifted his shoulders in a desultory shrug before he turned around and walked back inside the house leaving Sam to stand alone in the open doorway.

She took a fortifying breath and stepped inside. Turning around to push the door shut behind her, she was reminded of a poem by Mary Howitt that her grandmother used to read to her. It began with the lines,

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly."**

Well, while Jedediah Curry certainly wasn't a spider, and while she was not a fly, the anger and the animosity that emanated from the man was palpable and could be felt from clear across the room. It acted as a net and held her captive much like a spider's intricately spun web. His thunderous expression only served to give further credence to Sam's observation; the man looked as if the prospect of devouring her might be a rather pleasant, as well as satisfying, way to rid himself of her unwanted presence.

Furthermore, although his reaction wasn't entirely unexpected, it was much more real when she was standing in the same room, face-to-face with the man and experiencing the repercussions of his verbal backlash than when she had rehearsed things earlier in the safety of her hotel room. She set her portfolio on the couch and reached up to untie her bonnet strings.

"Don't bother," he snapped, "this interview won't last that long."

Sam stopped and lowered her arms obediently. Lacing her fingers, she clasped her hands together in front of her and turned to face him. "You aren't going to make this easy, are you?"

"Should I?" he countered.

"Well, as you pointed out, you did agree to it; you could just as easily have said no and sent me on my way. Instead, here we stand."

Her words were met with silence.

"I need a drink," Curry muttered, breaking the edgy stillness that had fallen, "but coffee's gonna have to do for now!" He turned away and busied himself with pumping the water. "Guess this is the part where I'm s'posed to ask you if you want something," he grudgingly tossed back over his shoulder after he had set the pot on to boil.

"IF you are asking, then yes; a cold drink of water would be very welcome," Sam answered politely and watched as he filled a cup with water from the pump. "Please," she added.

He brought the cup to her and held it out. "I'm a man who lives alone. I don't have tea or lemonade, an' there sure as hell ain't any cookies or cakes, so - "

"There's no need to apologize - "

"I'm not apologizing, I - "

"Water will do fine; I didn't come here to be entertained, Mr. Curry, I have a job to do."

Jed opened his mouth, but before he could reply, the sound of the water hissing as it boiled over drew his attention and he turned away to attend to it.

Sam took advantage of the opportunity to glance around. From where she stood, although the place certainly looked lived in, it lacked warmth. The furnishings were functional, but uninviting. It could have belonged to anyone, so sparse were the personal touches.

Pivoting about to look in the other direction, her attention was captured at once by a solitary object which hung by its stampede strings from a peg near the coat rack. Her eyes widened and she sucked in her breath. Drawn like a moth to a flame, she set her cup down and walked towards it. Tears pricked her eyes as she stared at it, while the memories washed over her like the waters of a dam that had burst.

About to reach up to touch it, she resisted the temptation, uncertain of the reaction her impulsive behavior might evoke. The man was in a bad enough temper already, there was no need to court trouble. She found she had to swallow the lump in her throat before she could trust herself to speak.

"You miss him...don't you?" she asked quietly. "How long has it been now?"

Curry didn't answer. Instead, he crossed the room to stand beside her and eyed her with open hostility. "In your letter you hinted that I might remember you?"

"Yes. As I explained, I once spent some time up in Devil's Hole and - "

"The hell you did!"

The forcefulness of Curry's denial startled Sam and caused her to jump. It also brought her explanation to an abrupt end as she stared at him open-mouthed.

"I would remember you if you had! When your letter came, I had a hard enough time tryin' to remember a man named Sam Twain, but now that I know the truth…" he shook his head. "We didn't get many visitors up at The Hole an' the few we did have sure weren't female!" The atmosphere fairly sizzled with the heat of the ex-outlaw's ire as his angry accusations echoed loudly in the room.

"Now that I've got all the facts," he continued in a voice that was a low growl, "an' had some time to think about it, I can only recall one person who might even come close…" Jed's glare intensified until his eyes grew as cold as ice; his words were equally as frosty as he eyed her up and down with a scornful expression. "But there's no way in hell you could ever be her," he snorted with derision, "'cos she died a long time ago! You're not scoring any points with me, lady, so you might as well come clean an' tell me who you really are!"

Not without some difficulty Sam managed to maintain some vestige of composure. "Nevertheless, Mr. Curry, I did stay there with you and Heyes. AND there were other members of the Devil's Hole Gang, as well – I remember spending time with Wheat and Kyle. Preacher and Lobo were there, too."

"You're a reporter," Jed snapped, "It's easy enough to get names! The members of the Devil's Hole Gang weren't secret - I think your expectations as far as me rememberin' are pretty high, too! Nothin' you've said so far makes me want to believe you!"

Sam rolled her eyes and blew out an exasperated breath. "First off, I'm a journalist, and second, I don't expect you to remember it at all. It was forty-three years ago - that's a long time to keep a memory alive in your mind."

"IF it really is a memory," Miss - ?" he quirked a questioning brow at her. "Am I s'posed to keep callin' you 'Twain'?"

"You're not the only one who can use an alias, Mr. Curry."

"You have the need to use one?" he snorted.

"In this case, yes."

"And which case would that be?"

"I wasn't sure that you would accept my proposition if I used my real name. For the time being, I think it's better for both of us if we just get through the interview first. Once that's done, we'll see if you're still interested," she prevaricated.

"Whatever you say, Miss Twain," Curry grumbled, acquiescing with unconcealed ill-humor.

Sam turned away to hide her smile of triumph. It wouldn't do to antagonize the man any further if she wanted to get the interview done before he threw her out! When she turned back to face him, she had taken care to school her features back into prim and proper ones.

"Have a seat, Mr. Curry, make yourself comfortable while I get my things; this won't hurt...much, I promise." Sam turned away to dig down into her bag. A moment later she had to bite down on her bottom lip to stifle her laughter when she heard his voice from behind her.

"Just who does she think she is?" Jed muttered, "Tellin' ME what to do! 'Sit down an' make yourself comfortable, Mister Curry...' It's MY house - I'll sit down IF an' WHEN I want to!" He paused a beat before he snapped, "An' WHERE I want to, too!"

It took a herculean effort to compose herself before she turned around, but Sam managed. She breathed a silent sigh of relief when she saw the man had seated himself in the big horsehair chair in the corner of the room.

Some things never change. The thought ran through her mind in a split second when she realized how his instincts while on the outlaw trail still influenced his everyday habits. He had cleverly minimized his vulnerability with his choice. Back to the wall and protected, he had a clear view of the entire room as well as the door and the chair's size gave him the appearance of a king granting an audience to one of his subjects. It is the exact place I would have chosen for him to sit but, for the time being, I think I shall keep that little tidbit of information to myself.

Despite the man's forbidding expression, Sam smiled in his direction. "Well, it looks like we're ready to begin. My first question concerns the events surrounding the day that you and Heyes first found out you had finally received the amnesty. I want you to tell me all about it in your own words; I'll take notes as we go along and ask questions, if necessary." Sam sat down on the couch, pen poised and waited. "Start with something easy; share how you felt that day with me."

Curry took a deep breath. "At first we didn't believe it. Lom had to do an awful lot of talkin' to convince us, an' even then, until we actually had those pieces of paper in our hands, an' could read the words printed on 'em, we kept expectin' it all to blow up in our faces, just like it had all those times in the past. We really wantedto believe that all those years on the run, tryin' to stay outta trouble had finally paid off, but we were afraid to celebrate. Guess we thought that maybe we'd jinx it somehow. I remember when Lom sent us the telegraph..."

The rest of the first part of the interview was a piece of cake. Sam listened with rapt attention as Curry told his and Heyes' story, painting a colorful picture of what life had been like after they realized that it was true, that they were no longer outlaws; no longer men with bounties on their heads or posters that declared them wanted dead - or alive. In spite of his initial reticence, as time passed Curry unbent enough to lean forward in his chair. Warming to his subject, his words became more and more animated as he shared the adventures of Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry and their newfound freedom.

An accomplished interviewer, one of the best in her field, Sam was skillful enough to draw Jed out, coaxing bits and pieces from the ex-outlaw without distracting him from his story. When he finished with one anecdote, she had a query ready to tempt him into sharing another adventure. She enjoyed her work and wanted to create a story for her readers that would leave them feeling as if they had been right there with the two men every step of the way. To her, it was a little like putting the pieces of a puzzle together in order to find out what the finished picture was.

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While Curry recounted another chapter in their lives, a tiny corner of Sam's mind worked on how she was going to broach what was probably the touchiest subject of the whole interview. Of their own volition, her eyes strayed to the black hat. Oh, Heyes, I wish you had lived long enough to share your side of the story, too!

Jed coughed and cleared his voice.

With a guilty start Sam realized he had stopped talking and was watching her the way a hawk eyes its prey. For how long? she wondered. "I'm sorry, Mr. Curry."

"You look troubled - is there a problem?"

"No," she shook her head in denial and stared down at the floor to escape his penetrating blue eyes. A second later she shrugged. "Maybe." A frustrated sigh escaped her. "Yes." Sam put her pen down on her pad of paper and looked across the room. "I'm not sure, it's kind of hard..." she hesitated and looked to him in mute appeal.

"Let me guess; Heyes?"

Sam nodded.

"I know the feelin'; for me, it's nothin' new."

Sam nodded again. "It's not that he's a problem, it's just that Heyes is very much an integral part of this, but I don't want to push -" she hesitated again. Searching for the right words, she glanced out the window and caught sight of the tennis court. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that now it's up to you; the ball is in your court, Mr. Curry. I don't want to pry into something you'd rather not talk about."

Silence followed her words. She watched the array of emotions that played across the face of the man who had been the closest friend that Hannibal Heyes had ever had; the one person who had known him the longest and the best. As the seconds stretched into minutes, she bit her lip and waited. Not wanting to distract him in any way, Sam willed herself to relax and kept as quiet as a churchmouse.

Curry rubbed a hand across his eyes and leaned back to rest his head against the chair. "I sure could use that drink," he muttered.

"Go right ahead. You still a scotch man?" Sam inquired with an impish smile. "While you're at it, would you mind pouring one for me, too, please? I've changed my mind; I have a feeling I'm going to need it as much as you, if not more."

Curry sat forward and stared at her while he digested her words. His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed into slits. "How - ?" he began and then snapped his mouth shut. Getting to his feet, he crossed over to the liquor cabinet, got two glasses out and poured the scotch. "Nevermind, I don't even wanna know - yet." He turned around and carried the drinks back to couch. "We need to get a few things straight before we go on. Jus' so that you understand how the game's played, I'm gonna be doin' my own interview when you're done doin' yours."

Sam took the drink from his outstretched hand, "Fair enough," she nodded and took a drink. Closing her eyes, she let the liquor roll around in her mouth, savoring the warm, woodsy taste as well as appreciating its smoothness before she swallowed. She released a drawn-out sigh of satisfaction and opened her eyes. Encountering a questioning look on Jed's face, she decided to take pity on the man.

Holding the glass up to stare at him through it, she said, "I learned from a very special person how to appreciate a good bottle of Scotch whisky." Rising to her feet, she held her glass out towards him. "Would you think it wrong or silly of me to suggest that we make a toast to Heyes? Before we get started on his part of the story, I mean."

Curry eyed her thoughtfully for a moment before he replied. "No, he'd probably be the first to agree with you." A grin tugged at the corners of Jed's mouth as he touched his glass to Sam's. "To Hannibal Heyes, gone - but never forgotten."

Sam nodded and took a sip of her drink. No, nobody could ever forget you, Heyes. The fiery burn of the scotch as it slid down her throat and hit her stomach was just what she needed. With any luck, I'll be able to make it through the rest of this interview! She put her drink on the table, sat down, and picked up her pen and paper. Back to work…

When Jed seated himself beside her, close enough to touch, Sam maintained her composure. When he turned sideways to face her, angling his leg on the cushion so that his knee brushed up against her thigh, she swallowed a small gulp, turned her head and stared out the window as if to admire the view. When he stretched his arm out behind her along the back of the couch close enough for his fingers to brush against the tendrils of hair on her neck, she leaned forward slightly and busied herself with straightening her papers. Sam was in the midst of congratulating herself for hiding her emotions so well when Jed's words stopped her cold and she froze like a statue.

"Nice try." His curry-blue eyes twinkling, Curry raised his glass in a mock salute to her, "But you gave yourself away."

Although she turned and met his gaze square on, Sam was unable to prevent the rosy tell-tale blush that stained her neck and cheeks. She forced herself to give him her full, undivided attention.

"Don't forget," he continued, "I had to keep Heyes an' me alive by readin' people's faces…an' their body language; it was part of my job. Right now, you're about as tense as a rattler coiled to strike. Wanna know what else I know?" He didn't wait for her answer, but leaned close enough for Sam to smell the scotch upon his breath when he spoke once again. "At the moment, you're tryin' to figure out why I sat here." His movements deliberate and casual, Jed reached straight across in front of the wide-eyed woman to pick up her glass of scotch from where it sat on the table beside her, an action which brought his body in even more close proximity to hers.

Molasses in January moves faster! Sam groaned silently. Hearing the blood pounding in her ears, she realized that she had been holding her breath and released it in a whoosh. If there wasn't so much animosity between us, I would swear the man was flirting with me! She licked her lips and darted a quick glance towards the glass he held captive in his hand.

"An' now," Jed went on in a voice that Sam was positive had grown more husky, "you're wonderin' what I'll think of you if you take this glass an' down it in one great big swallow," his grin deepened as he held the drink out to her, "Right?"

Sam's breath caught as she reached out and their fingers touched. Bringing the glass closer to her body, she cradled it in her hands and stared down into the amber liquid. "I was," she admitted ruefully. Throwing caution to the wind she put the glass to her lips. Tipping her head back, she drank until the glass was empty and set it back down on the table. "Now, shall we get on with the interview, Mr. Curry?" she inquired in a tone that was brisk and businesslike.

"As you wish, Miss Twain," he replied and cocked his head to the side to study her for a moment. "Sure hope neither one of us has any reason to regret that you did that," he added.

Sam ignored the comment. "Think back to the events surrounding Heyes' death. I want you to take a moment and relax before you start to speak. I will NOT be printing everything you tell me; just what I need to complete this chapter of the story. If for some reason it gets too personal, feel free to stop or tell me that you don't want it included. Keep in mind that since Heyes is gone, and therefore not able to speak for himself, YOU are going to be his voice. Think about what he would want people to know about him; how he would want to be remembered.

"Hmph," Curry snorted, "you're not askin' for much are you? Lady, if you knew Heyes like you say you did, you'd realize that you're wantin' the impossible done when you say you want me to speak an' think like him!" Following Sam's example, he downed his drink in one gulp before slamming the glass down on the table with a loud bang. "It'd be easier to give swimmin' lessons to a rock!"

"We'll take things one step at a time, Mr. Curry. You've given me some wonderful information so far; I couldn't ask for a better interview. Because of the topic's sensitive nature, I saved it for last." She gave him a smile of encouragement, "We're almost done, so when you're ready, do just like you have been doing and tell me the story. I believe that I have most of the newspaper accounts, the 'historical' facts, but I'd rather have your own personal version. I'll be taking bits and pieces from both to create the whole picture for the readers."

With an expression on his face which said he'd rather do anything else than follow her suggestion, Curry leaned back and drew a deep, fortifying breath.

"Relax…" Sam admonished, putting a hand on his arm.

Jed shot her a look of irritation.

"Body language, Mr. Curry," Sam reminded him with a smug grin.

Although Jed gave a skyward roll of his eyes, he uncrossed the arms that were folded against his chest and unclenched fingers that had been closed into tight fists. After running a hand through his hair, he picked up his cup. "I need a refill," he muttered and turned to Sam, his brow raised in question.

"No, thank you; I've had enough. I'm going to need a clear head to keep up with you," she teased.

"Good luck with that!" Curry snorted. A short while later, drink in hand, he returned to his seat. Downing half of the contents, he leaned back and began to speak.

"Despite all the things that happened to us when we were kids an' the first half of our adult lives, once Heyes an' I got the amnesty an' were able to hold down legitimate jobs, we did very well. Actually, we did better than well, as you can see by the spread we have here. It wasn't easy at first; there were plenty of times I wanted to give up an' settle for second best, but not Heyes…" Curry shook his head.

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