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 2: The First of the Three Spirits - Christmas 1855 and 1867
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Devil's Hole - December 1879
"I must be more tired than I thought," muttered Heyes. "I'm imagining things."
He shook his head. The front room contained no ghost of Grampa Curry, nor chains. Heyes checked on his partner as well. Kid rolled restlessly on the bed. Tendrils of damp blond curls clung to his forehead. Heyes went back into the front room, pulled off his boots, but decided to keep all his other clothing on due to the chill. He hung the pocket watch on a nail in the wall beside the bedpost before he stretched out on Kid's hard narrow bed.
"Partner," murmured Heyes as he rolled over and punched the lumpy pillow, "I don't know how you've managed to sleep on this thing. The table is softer than this!"
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A peal of laughter, silvery bright like bells chiming, pierced Heyes' dreams.
"Han," called a soft childish voice.
Heyes opened one dark brown eye and then the other. The tip of his nose was cold. He faced the outer wall of the cabin. Somehow he'd managed to fall asleep on Kid's cold hard bed.
"Han, wake up sleepyhead, it's one o'clock!"
The voice again. Heyes rolled over and found himself staring into a pair of dark brown eyes very like his own. The ten year old girl knelt on the floor beside the bed, her chin resting on the edge of the mattress. Her long dark brown hair was tied back with a red ribbon. Her eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Cleo?"
"C'mon Han," urged the ghost of his little sister. Cleopatra Euridice Heyes stood up and extended her hand towards him. "We've got lots to do!"
"What are you doing here Cleo?" mumbled Heyes. "Are you one of the spirits Grampa said would be coming?"
"I am!" responded Cleo with a smirk.
The girl danced across the room. Small black boots tapped on the floor. The ruffled pinafore over her gingham dress fluttered as she spun counter clockwise in a circle with her arms out. The motion made Heyes dizzy to look at.
"Which one?"
"The Ghost of Christmas Past of course," grinned Cleo. "Who else would I be?"
"Dunno," grumbled the outlaw, "I haven't had much experience with ghosts up until tonight."
He swung his feet around to the floor and stood up beside the child. He could feel the chill in the floorboards through his socks. Heyes blinked back sudden moisture from his eyes. When he was thirteen and she ten, he'd been half a head taller than his younger sister. Full grown, he now towered over her.
"Whose past?" asked Heyes. "Yours?"
"No silly," answered Cleo. She held out her hand expectantly. As he took her hand, she added, "Your past."
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A swirl of dark and light. Heyes blinked his eyes and the cabin at Devil's Hole was gone. Instead, he and Cleo now stood outside a familiar Kansas home. Warm golden light glowed from the kerosene lamp on the table.
"Owen," called a cultured voice. "In here."
Heyes turned to look towards the barn. The empty Curry wagon stood unhitched by the large, well maintained building. Heyes' father held the barn door open, reins to one of the sturdy roans in his hand. Uncle Owen followed, leading the second roan. Ten year old Ptol and Kid's older brother Henry gathered kindling from the woodpile. Kid's oldest sister, eight year old Maeve carried an apron full of potatoes up the stairs of the root cellar. Bridget followed clutching a bunch of carrots to her chest. A soft throaty chuckle caused Heyes to turn his head.
"Ma," breathed Heyes. He turned to his sister, "We're home. When is this?"
"Dunno," replied Cleo, "it's not my memory."
Inside, his mother stood at the stove, her back to Heyes. Copper red curls tumbled over her shoulders. Aunt Mary, in a blue gingham dress, stood beside her. Moira Heyes held a spoon out, Aunt Mary tasted the plum pudding and shook her head and reached for a spice tin. In the center of the room, five year old Han sat on a pallet with his army men spread across the plaid blanket. Fourteen month old Jed rolled over on his belly and reached for one of the toys.
"No Jed," admonished Han taking the slobbery figure from his cousin. "This isn't good to eat."
The chubby blond toddler gaped at his now empty hand, opening and closing his little fingers for a moment before he decided on another course of action. Little Jed pushed himself up. He wobbled unsteadily with his newly found skill, then little Jed staggered away from his cousin, towards the blazing hearth.
"No Jed!" exclaimed Han.
The dark haired boy leapt after his cousin, toy soldiers abandoned on the blanket. A howl of protest and Han fell backwards, away from the fire, little Jed clutched safely in his arms.
"What on earth!" exclaimed Moira Heyes. "Boys!"
The women turned from the stove and rushed towards the boys. Aunt Mary grabbed Jed and hugged him close, while Han's mother helped Han up from the floor. The front door opened. Father, Uncle Owen, Ptol, Henry, Maeve and Bridget all crowded into the room, followed by Grampa. Hugs, kisses, and laughter abounded. Potatoes and carrots were peeled and soon joined the venison roasting inside the oven. Grampa sat in the rocker by the fire and pulled Jed up into his lap while the older children sat on the pallet to listen to him read.
"Marley was dead, to begin with," started Grampa.
"This has to be eighteen fifty-five," declared Heyes. "And you're wrong, this isn't just my Christmas past, it's your Christmas too."
"What do you mean?" asked Cleo.
Heyes pointed to the trundle bed peeking out from beneath the edge of the double wedding ring quilt on his parent's bed. The dark haired two year old bundle, wrapped in pink with her rear arched upwards and her thumb in her mouth, napped on, oblivious to the joyful noise in the front room.
"In about ten minutes, you're gonna wake up," grinned Heyes, "and we won't hear the rest of the story until after supper."
"That must mean it's time to go," smiled Cleo as she reached out for his arm.
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A swirl of dark and light. Heyes blinked his eyes. He and Cleo stood outside a jail. Inside, the visage of seventeen year old Hannibal Heyes paced back and forth across a tiny cell. A lawman, identifiable by the badge on his chest, snoozed in a nearby chair with his feet propped up on a desk and a hat covering his face.
"We're not in Kansas anymore," stated Heyes glumly. "I remember this Christmas. Wyoming Territory, eighteen sixty-seven. It was the first time I had ever been arrested."
"God bless you, merry gentleman, may nothing you dismay!"
Heyes turned at the sound. Inebriated men singing at the top of their lungs staggered down the street towards the jail cell. Heyes shook his head with a rueful grin.
"Who are they?" asked Cleo.
"The Plummer Gang," answered Heyes. "Perhaps the West's least successful outlaw bunch. The only really big haul they ever got was stolen from them by their leader."
"Least successful?" questioned Cleo. "They had to have done something right or they wouldn't have stayed together long."
"Well, none of them ever stayed in jail overnight and they ate regular," conceded Heyes, "Nothing fancy, but the food was filling."
"What do you mean?"
"Watch," smirked Heyes.
The carolers proceeded down the street. Inside the jail, the snuffling beneath the lawman's hat stopped. The chair squeaked as the sleepy eyed lawman got up. The man yawned, glanced at his pacing prisoner, and clomped to the door. The sleepy lawman frowned at the approaching singers.
"You boys be quiet!" ordered the lawman. "You're gonna wake up the entire town!"
The singers staggered closer, seemingly oblivious to the peace officer. The lawman stepped outside of the building, one hand raised, finger pointing to the silent stars. A metallic click sounded by his ear, a cold round metal barrel pressed against the back of his head.
"Don't move," ordered Jim Plummer. "I've got you covered!"
The lawman froze, the carolers stopped as well.
"Al, get the keys!" The slim dark haired outlaw leader called out.
A younger man, similar in build and coloring to Jim Plummer, detached himself from the processional and moved to pat down the lawman. Al pulled out a jangling set of keys from the lawman's pocket, held it up and grinned.
"Don't just stand there Al," hissed Plummer, "go unlock Heyes' cell so we can get outta here!"
"Okay Jim," nodded Al Plummer, "I'll get Hannibal."
"Jim and Al weren't known for being discreet," muttered Heyes. "The first wanted poster with my name on it appeared after this jailbreak, for robbing the mercantile of a wagon load of fifty pound bags of potatoes."
"But you had your freedom," reminded Cleo.
"And boiled potatoes for breakfast when we got back to camp," chuckled Heyes. "We ate potatoes every day for the next three months.
"Free and with food for your belly," replied Cleo. "That's more than some people had that Christmas."
Something in his sister's tone made Heyes narrow his eyes.
"Cleo?" asked Heyes. "You got anyone particular in mind?"
"It's not your memory," responded the girl looking sad.
"Cleo?" prodded Heyes, his voice a little louder this time.
"Alright!" conceded Cleo, "but don't tell that I showed you!"
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A swirl of dark and light. Heyes blinked his eyes. He and Cleo stood outside.
"Valparaiso," Heyes breathed. "What are we doing here?"
The windows to the dining hall glowed with a harsh white light. Footsteps shuffled on the floorboards as hungry boys lined up to get food.
"Not that window," whispered Cleo. Her small hand gestured to a narrow rectangle of glass streaked with black coal dust.
"The coal cellar?" asked Heyes.
Cleo nodded. Heyes knelt on the cold earth and peered inside. It was hard to see in the darkness, but his sharp ears caught the murmur of his cousin's voice before he realized the shape rocking back and forth was Kid. The skinny thirteen year old had his eyes closed and his arms clasped around knees drawn up to his chin.
"One of the best Christmas' ever," whispered Kid. His voice called out images as he rocked. "Ma made gingerbread men for the Christmas Eve social. Aunt Moira made buttermilk pound cake. There was fiddle music. Folks danced. We all rode home in the wagon together, laughing and singing songs, and the snowflakes glistened like silver, and Grampa had me and Han on his lap with that scratchy red wool blanket, and…"
"He's being punished," realized Heyes.
Cleo nodded.
Heyes' jaw set in a hard tense line.
"What did he do to deserve being locked in the coal cellar with no supper on Christmas Eve?"
"I don't know," whispered Cleo, "it's not my memory."
"And when we reached home, Pa surprised Ma with a kiss beneath the mistletoe," continued Kid. "And we all said Merry Christmas."
Kid's blue eyes shot open and the boy's voice steadied.
"Heyes," called Kid, "where ever you are, Merry Christmas!"
Heyes swallowed. Not for the first time, he regretted not taking his young cousin with him when he'd been discharged from the Home For Waywards. At the time, the seeming security of a roof overhead and regular meals for his cousin appeared to be a better option than trying to take Kid with him.
"I shoulda taken you with me, at least we coulda eaten potatoes together," whispered Heyes, blinking back the moisture from his eyes. "Merry Christmas Kid."
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A swirl of dark and light. Heyes blinked his eyes. He and Cleo were back in the cabin.
"Those were shadows of the things that have been," said Cleo. "They are what they are, and can't be changed."
"Then why show them to me?" snapped Heyes.
The smile on her face faltered.
"Don't you know?" whispered Cleo.
"Know what?" demanded Heyes.
Cleo released his hand.
"And you're supposed to be a genius," chided his little sister shaking her dark haired head. "Expect the next spirit when the bell tolls two."
"Cleo, we don't have a bell in Devil's Hole," objected Heyes.
But Cleo was gone.
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