As they came to New York the train went into a long dark tunnel that seemed to go on for an hour. Heyes had never seen anything like it. His heart pounded in the darkness. New York City: whatever fate awaited him, to speak or be silent, it would come to him here. This city was totally strange to him, except the few things he had read about it. He knew it was big and full of people from all over the world. And they had lawmen here, too. They were policemen rather than sheriffs, but Heyes doubted that would help him much. He only hoped they wouldn't think to look in New York City for one half of the most famous pair of outlaws left alive.
The train pulled out of a tunnel at last to emerge into the coal-dust-tinted New York City late afternoon sunshine, bringing the doctor and Heyes to the red brick towers of Grand Central Depot. It was far and away the biggest building Heyes had ever been in. At Heyes and the doctor got their luggage and climbed of the train, Heyes caught his breath. The platform was inside of easily the biggest room Heyes had ever seen or heard of. He was very conscious of trying not to gawp like a hick. But he couldn't help staring around at the teaming crowds streaming off of trains and pouring out onto the streets of the city. He had never seen so many people in his life and of so many different kinds. This city dwarfed Denver and San Francisco. Heyes just hoped no one would pick his pocket. It would be mighty embarrassing for the master thief to be robbed. He had no Kid here to watch his back.
The doctor put up a hand and expertly signaled to the first in a line of waiting hansom cabs. He steered Joshua into the shiny black vehicle drawn by a rough-coated chestnut. They sat in the little cab with their luggage overflowing across their laps and the driver perched above them on top of the roof. The briskly trotting horse pulled the doctor and his new patient along the crowded streets. The street stank with the leavings of countless horses. Ironically, they had far, far more horses here in this big city than in any place Heyes had ever seen out west. The former outlaw had to make an effort to restrain himself from leaning out and staring at all the cabs and carts and carriages and wagons crowding the noisy thoroughfare with their drivers yelling at one another fiercely. He was impressed by the many, many people crowding the sidewalks and how they all were in such a hurry. The buildings were all taller than he had ever seen before, although the great age of skyscrapers was still in the future.
Soon they arrived at a three-story brownstone building where they got out of the cab and Dr. Leutze tipped the driver. Heyes, luggage in hand, followed Dr. Leutze up a steep flight of stairs to the clinic on the second floor. Leutze introduced him to the receptionist. She was a pretty, smiling young blonde named Polly who made the reformed outlaw feel like an arriving celebrity. "How wonderful it is to have you here, Mr. Smith! Dr. Leutze wired us about you." Heyes could only give a brief, nervous grin in reply.
Polly wasn't at all surprised that the man from the West couldn't speak to her. It was the first place Heyes had been in where they were used to people who couldn't talk. A neatly suited elderly doctor named Goldstein warmly shook Joshua Smith's hand and welcomed him. Dr. Leutze then called over a Mr. Hamilton, a slender, dark-haired, middle-aged man who shook Mr. Smith's hand and didn't say a word. Heyes was startled to see the stark agony on Mr. Hamilton's otherwise normal, even handsome, face. God, what had happened to the man?! Then it hit Heyes. Of course – this was a patient – a fellow patient – who probably hadn't been there very long. Heyes wondered if his own eyes had that same terrible look of loss. It occurred to him that even when he shaved or combed his hair looking into a mirror, he had been avoiding looking into the reflection of his own eyes. He was sure that he did have a similar look – it was what the boy on the train had seen. Heyes tried to smile at his fellow patient, but Hamilton was already turning away to go into a therapy room.
A grey-haired elderly lady, who limped slightly, Emma Ross, had been there a year according to Dr. Leutze. Heyes guessed that she must have suffered what Dr. Leutze had told him was the most common cause of aphasia – a stroke. She looked to be in far less mental anguish than Hamilton, although the mark of her trouble was still there to be seen for one who knew how to look for it. She said, self-consciously, "Hello, meet, glad." Heyes soon learned that a lot of aphasia patients had trouble getting their words into the right order.
Heyes choked out, "Hello" in response. It was the first word he had spoken, since the shooting, to anyone other than Dr. Leutze and the Kid. He had put hours of work into that word and was glad to have a good use for it to connect with this nice but troubled old lady.
Heyes felt disconcerted meeting Miss Warren, the plump, middle-aged tutor at the clinic. She looked at him so honestly. He felt as if she cut right past the usual verbal formulas and looked into his eyes with a directness he wasn't used to from anyone but the Kid. Heyes couldn't hide his fears and his pain behind a silent façade as he had most of the trip on the train, and even at Christy's place. Now he was in a world where people understood his loss and insecurity all too well.
"Welcome, Mr. Smith," said Miss Warren. "Dr. Leutze tells me that you have special talents in mathematics. I look forward to working with you." Heyes found himself blushing when she smiled at him, and she wasn't even pretty.
Dr. Leutze called down the hall to a young man bounding up the stairs about three at a time. "Jim, come and meet the newest member of the 'club!' This is Joshua Smith. He's just come with me from Colorado. Joshua, meet Jim Smith. Jim came here for treatment, but he's done so well that he works for us now."
Jim was a short, slight young man with a mop of unruly black hair. His brown eyes were much like Heyes' eyes – or like they had used to be – flashing with wit and fun. Jim was several inches shorter and more than ten years younger than Heyes, but he bore himself proudly and stuck out his hand to take Heyes' hand without a trace of self-consciousness. Heyes felt more confident just being around this young man. He was glad to see a patient who had apparently recovered pretty well.
Even when Jim Smith spoke, although he stuttered in a furious fusillade of consonants, he seemed fully in charge. "H-h-hello Joshua! S-s-so w-w-we are both S-S-Smiths! Welcome to N-N-New York!" Heyes could easily see the source of his aphasia – Jim had old white scars all over his face, especially the left temple. His nose had been badly broken and not well repaired. It was a miracle he was still alive after the beating he had taken. Heyes tried to smile at the young New Yorker and wasn't sure how well he succeeded in that, and he did even less well in avoiding staring at the scars. "Yeah, S-S-Smith," said Jim, "The g-gangs here are p-p-p-pretty fierce, b-b-but I know my way around – now. H-h-how'd you get yours?" This was bold, indeed. No one else had been so prying as to ask what had happened to the new patient to deprive him of his ability to speak.
Heyes used his left hand to ruffle the still short hair over the long red scar while he mimed a gun with his right hand. "Whew! G-g-gun shot?" Heyes nodded, suppressing a grimace of distress. "G-g-guess you have your own gangs out th-th-there!" Heyes nodded grimly. Of course, he had been shot because the posse had wrongly assumed that Heyes was still leading the Devil's Hole Gang.
Dr. Leutze said, "Jim, I understand you have a spare bed in your room just now. Would you be willing to take Joshua in, at least until he gets settled? I have a feeling you two will get along. I met him at a poker table, Jim!" The doctor winked broadly at Jim, who arched his ragged eye brows with mock skepticism.
"Y-y-you don't snore, d-do you, S-s-smith?" asked Jim with pretended seriousness. Joshua shook his head. With Jim's bent nose Heyes bet the boy did snore, but the westerner was in no position to complain. He just needed a place to bed down. "O-K-K-Kay!" said Jim, "G-G-Get your stuff and we can go d-d-down there now. You c-c-can wash up, then we'll g-g-get some chow."
Heyes looked apprehensively at the Doctor. Leutze had said not to worry about money, that he would provide what was needed. Heyes had been paying his own way since he was just a small boy and it went against the grain that he would have to depend on charity. With his recent poker winnings, Heyes thought he might have more than enough in his pockets to take Jim out to dinner, as long as his taste wasn't too expensive. Heyes didn't know how high New York prices might be. And he wanted to save his cash for poker, if what the doctor had implied was true. Heyes hoped that he could win some pocket money from the local players. At least he wouldn't have to be so careful of giving away his identity by doing too well, like he did out west. But Heyes would have to either learn to speak at least a little, or to teach someone else his poker hand signals. Oh, how he would miss the Kid!
A smiling but silent, stout, middle-aged man in a spotless suit helped Heyes to take his luggage back down stairs. Dr. Leutze greeted the man warmly as Sam, and explained to Joshua that Sam, like Jim, was a patient as well as an employee. Clearly, this patient wasn't making much headway – he couldn't speak a single word and even seemed a bit hazy on understanding speech, since Dr. Leutze mostly used gestures to communicate with him. "We give jobs to as many patients without outside income as we can," explained said Dr. Leutze. "It helps to pay for the cost of treatment and gives them something productive to do when they aren't getting treatment." Heyes wondered if they would find him something to do, and what it would be. He would be happy to do almost anything if it would help him to avoid taking so much of the good doctor's charity. Hard on the back or not, a job would be mighty welcome.
Heyes joined Jim on the sidewalk outside the clinic. The young New Yorker glanced curiously at Heyes' saddlebags, but didn't ask any questions. They were soon weaving their way through the crowds and vendors on the dirty sidewalks and street of the teaming ghetto where Jim's rooming house was, a few blocks south of the clinic. Heyes could feel himself staring as he got his first sight of orthodox Jewish men in black suits, tall hats, prayer shawls, prayer locks, and long beards. The women wore shawls or wigs over their hair and looked after skinny kids. Vendors sold an array of fruit, furniture, cooking utensils, and other goods from little carts. All were speaking rapidly in an unfamiliar language. Joshua raised his eyebrows to imply a question. "That's Y-Yiddish th-they're speaking, J-J-Joshua. Th-that's wh-what J-J-Jews speak." Heyes nodded his thanks for this information. They had arrived at Hester Street - the heart of Jewish New York. Heyes didn't even recognize the lettering on the shop windows – it was written in Hebrew letters. Jim greeted some of the men and women as they passed by, speaking in fluent Yiddish, not even stuttering. Heyes looked again at Jim. Smith sure didn't sound like a Jewish name even to the unworldly Heyes. Maybe this Smith was another alias like Heyes' own?
Up a couple of flights of steep, narrow, dirty stairs was Jim's room, which looked out on the street, thank goodness. The back tenement rooms were dark and smelly and airless. The sink was in the dark hallway, where Heyes had almost tripped over it – and a small child huddled nearby. Unused as Heyes was to anything other than a basin and pitcher, he sure wouldn't complain. But Jim's room, while very small, wasn't so bad. It was cold, but Heyes was used to that. He unpacked as he had so many times when moving into a hotel with the Kid. He put his carpet bag and boots under the bed Jim showed him would be his, leaned his saddle bags in a corner, threw his old black hat onto the bed, and hung his gun belt, with its dangling cord for tying down the holster, over the bed post. He leaned his battered guitar, wrapped in an old feed sack, against the wall.
Heyes finished his brief moving in and turned around to find Jim staring at him open mouthed as if he had grown a couple of extra heads and sprouted wings. "Y-y-you a c-c-cowboy?" Heyes nodded casually, and held up one finger, then more. "You're a c-c-cowboy and other things, t-t-too?" Heyes nodded as he continued to arrange his things, moving his clothes into a little chest under his bed. "Like what? A g-g-gunman? An outlaw?" Heyes shook his head in a visual lie and pointed at his useless mouth and glared at Jim in annoyance. If anyone ought to know that he couldn't explain things right now, it was Jim. "S-s-sorry, Josh! I know. I s-sure know. Hey, m-m-man, don't shoot me! But w-wow, to meet a r-r-real c-c-cowboy! Wow!"
Heyes now noticed that Jim had a pile of dog-eared books on a shelf by his bed – dime novels with titles about Wild Bill Hickok and Buffalo Bill Cody and Jessie James and Billy the Kid. Heyes felt himself blushing scarlet when he spotted one about himself and the Kid. He hoped he could cover his reaction with his general embarrassment about Jim's hero-worship of western characters. Heyes hadn't known that anyone had written about the Devil's Hole boys. He sure wished he could figure a way to make money out of it without giving away his identity. It was kind of nice to think that they were heroes to someone.
He supposed it was all garbage. But it was also frightening – what if there was enough truth in the book to help Jim or someone else figure out enough to spot Heyes? How popular might such a book be in New York City? A policeman seemed much less likely to spot him than a sheriff, and Heyes guessed that he would be hard to pick out from all the thousands of dark-haired young men come from the West to New York, but what if someone managed it? Maybe someone like Jim, who read western novels and sure could use $10,000?