Disclaimer: Neither 'Alias Smith and Jones' nor 'Magnificent Seven' belongs to me. 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.
Chapter 8 –Separate Ways
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
"How long have you known my real name?" asked Heyes a few hours later.
The southerner's plan had gone off without a hitch. They had entered town from the south, made their way to the general store, bought supplies and rode north as if they were headed to Fort Laramie. Standish answered the few questions directed his way. The gambler fit the role of a bounty hunter anxious to turn in his prisoner and spend his hundred dollars reward money. Heyes acted the disgruntled outlaw. He was mad at Standish for tricking him, so it wasn't hard. He brooded and didn't say a word until they were on the trail south, skirting the town again.
"You coulda told me," muttered the young outlaw.
"I did," drawled Standish.
"Not until you had the handcuffs out, ready to snap on," grumbled Heyes.
"What? You want me to tell you that I read the wanted posters in the Laramie Jail?" laughed Standish.
"Yeah!"
"Oh no, no, not a good idea at all," Standish wagged his finger for emphasis. "What if I had told you what I suspected, and you weren't Hannibal Heyes?"
Heyes reined in his horse and looked at the southerner in surprise. In the hours since pretending to be a bounty hunter and prisoner in order to get supplies, that was the first time Standish had indicated a possibility that he wasn't Hannibal Heyes. By agreeing to go along with the southerner's little con, had he confirmed his name?
"You mean you really didn't know that I was an outlaw?" asked Heyes.
The gambler pulled his horse to a stop beside Heyes and turned to meet his gaze.
"I knew you weren't a regular working man when you patted the pocket of your coat, saying you just got paid," answered Standish. "Coins and… bullets… or bullet casings, don't sound quite the same as gold and silver coins by themselves."
"You could tell the difference?" Heyes voice went up in incredulity.
Was that why the gambler seemed so suspicious of him at the poker table when they first met? Standish rolled his eyes as if anyone should know the difference. The southerner continued.
"It wasn't until you said your name was distinctive that I remembered the wanted poster for Hannibal Heyes."
Heyes frowned.
"My name is not that distinctive," argued Heyes.
"Oh please," sighed Standish. "There were wanted posters for three Jim's, and a James; a Bill, a Billy and a Will; two Fred's and two Frank's, a Kyle, a Wheat, two preachers, a Wolf and a Lobo."
"You remember all that?" gawped Heyes.
"Details, one must remember the details," answered Standish.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
It was another day before they reached a fork in the trail. A tilted signpost held two pointed boards. Southeast to Amarillo, west to Albuquerque.
"I'm headed to Texas," stated Heyes.
"And I most certainly am not," sniffed Ezra.
"Texas got a wanted poster on you?" prodded Heyes.
"No. Nothing so prosaic as that," objected Standish. "Merely that Texas is a state of the Union, and while I understand there are a number of my former compatriots living there, I would prefer to remain in a territory…"
"You still fighting that damned war?" interrupted Heyes.
"No, most assuredly not," snapped the former soldier. At Heyes' frown, Ezra softened his voice and tried to explain. "In a territory… there are more… options… opportunities really, for a man such as myself."
Heyes leaned forward, stretching out his hand. A surprised Standish reached out as well. The two men shook hands in farewell.
"I hope you find what you're looking for in Texas," responded Standish.
"Hope you find those opportunities, and wish you the best of luck…," began Heyes.
"There's no such thing as luck," interrupted the gambler.
Heyes tilted his head to the side. A slow grin spread across his face as he regarded his erstwhile travelling companion.
"Don't know about that," disagreed Heyes. "I'd say it was pretty lucky when a fella called Jones met a fella called Smith."
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Abilene was a noisy town thought Heyes. He turned from the barkeep of this third saloon as if not really interested in the man's answer to his question.
"Nah, I ain't seen any really young fast draws," answered the bartender. He leaned forward across the bar and lowered his voice to a whisper. He made a discreet gesture towards a table in the back of the saloon. "The only fast draw I've seen in the past few days is Larabee there."
"Really?"
Heyes didn't have to fake sounding disinterested. The only fast draw he wanted to find was a certain young, blond, curly-haired Kansan.
"Yeah," confided the barman. "Most of the other gunnies left town when Larabee arrived. He'd know if there was another fast draw around."
This time, Heyes looked. The table the barkeep had pointed out was the only quiet spot in the noisy saloon. A forty-ish man, dressed all in black sat there. A bottle of rye was on the table before him. The man stared at the shot glass filled with amber liquid he held. No one else seemed to go near the gunman. The barman was right. A gunnie would know if there was another fast draw around.
"Not sure I want to interrupt a gunnie when he's in a drinking mood," dissembled Heyes in a low voice.
The young outlaw was already planning on how to get over to that table.
"Oh, he ain't drinkin' really," replied the barkeep. The man straightened up and began to wipe the counter. "Three days now, he just orders a bottle, pours a drink, stares at it until closing."
Hmmm. Heyes wondered. That's interesting. The astute young man watched for a while longer as the saloon grew even busier. More men joined the crowd at the bar. Heyes turned back to the bartender in time to see the man snap the towel in his hands at a pesky fly buzzing between them. The dead bug landed in Heyes' untouched mug of beer. Heyes eyed the bug floating in his drink with disgust, then raised his eyes to meet the bartender's nervous gaze. The two men looked at each other.
"Give me a bottle instead," requested Heyes in a mild tone. The bartender's shoulders sagged in relief. The man reached for a bottle as Heyes added, "I don't like getting jostled by folks at the bar, think I'll go set down at a table."
The man's eyes widened. There was only one table in the busy place with empty seats. The bartender passed over a bottle.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't do anything to get yourself shot," confided the man in a low whisper. "I hate mopping up blood."
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
"Mind if I sit here?" asked Heyes.
The gunman, Chris Larabee according to the bartender, looked up at Heyes. Sharp pale green eyes assessed the young outlaw.
"Suit yourself," he growled before turning back to stare at the shot glass in his hand.
Heyes pulled out a chair and settled down close to the man, placing his unopened bottle and empty shot glass in front of himself. While the man in black had his back to the wall, Heyes' seat was as near as could be without starting folks talking.
"Kinda crowded here tonight," offered Heyes keeping his voice low.
The taciturn man turned to assess the saloon briefly, and then grunted wordlessly. The young outlaw hoped the sound was meant to be in agreement. Heyes assessed his dangerous quarry. While the shootist rolled his shot glass between his fingers, the bottle didn't look like much was gone. Even more importantly, the man appeared sober.
"I like to have my back against the wall," added Heyes.
That comment brought a reaction. The man turned from staring at his drink to look directly at the young Kansan.
"You done something? Think someone's gonna come shoot you in the back?"
Larabee's snarl included the lingering smell of tobacco. The twenty-year-old met the man's dangerous glare without even a shiver. Jim Plummer had a glare almost as hard and threatening and smelled worse than a cigarillo.
"No," soothed Heyes. He flashed a winning smile as he shook his head. "Just worry about folks that get all liquored up and carry guns. Never know when someone's gonna start shooting."
Surprisingly, Larabee slumped in his seat, suddenly seeming much older and sadder. The man sighed.
"Buck said about the same thing," mumbled the gunslinger.
"What?" prodded Heyes, while wondering, who is Buck? Dark brown eyes scanned the busy bar. Is there another gunnie around?
"Buck said when I'm drinking, I get tetchy," answered Larabee. "Don't know who I'm drawing on, whether it's a man or a boy."
Heyes held his breath at the word boy. He no longer cared who Buck was. His only prayer was please… please… please don't tell me this dangerous man drew on Jed.
"You draw on someone you shouldn't have?" Heyes voice was a bare whisper.
"Almost," admitted Larabee in an appalled voice.
Heyes found he could breathe again. The man in black continued speaking as if to himself, the man certainly wasn't aware of Heyes.
"Almost," repeated the gunslinger, lost in memories. "I almost drew on a young boy back at Menardville. Just a kid really, curly blond hair… kinda looked like my son… only older, fifteen... maybe sixteen at the most."
"This fella have a name?" asked Heyes, trying to sound casual.
His question jolted Larabee back to the present. The fast draw glared at Heyes.
"Why do you want to know about Kid Curry?"
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
The first night out from Abilene, Heyes shared a campfire with a quiet Texan. Heyes tried to get some information from the man.
"This is my first trip to Texas," confided the wily Kansan. "Man in Abilene was telling me about all the gunfighters you got down here. Start 'em young too! He told me there's one called Kid Curry who's probably only sixteen... maybe seventeen."
Blue eyes stared wordlessly at Heyes.
"You ever heard of this Kid Curry fella," prodded Heyes hopefully.
"Don't know," answered the buckskin clad man. "I try not to hang out with gunnies."
"Really?"
The long haired man nodded.
"Can be downright hazardous."
Heyes woke at daylight to find the campfire cold and the man already long gone.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
A couple days later, Heyes followed a narrow trail from the high plateau down to the Concho River. Limestone cliffs rose on either side of the river, colorful painted artforms lit up the stone. Night was rapidly approaching. The young outlaw wouldn't have gone down to the river, except for the fact the both he and his horse needed water. As he knelt to fill his empty canteen, he heard a jovial voice.
"Well, hey there," greeted a mustached man just a bit further up the river.
The tall man appeared from behind some junipers. He wore faded pink long johns, boots, a gun belt and a hat tilted back on his luxuriant black hair. Startled at the unexpected sound and even more unexpected company, Heyes reached for his pistol. He froze, hand never reaching its target. The man facing him had pulled his gun faster that he would have thought possible.
"Now is that any way to greet someone?" chided the man.
Heyes wordlessly shook his head from side to side. The young outlaw continued to stare at the half-dressed man. The voice sounded almost like a Texas accent, but there was a touch of the Midwest in his voice. Not Kansas, not from around here originally, thought Heyes, from somewhere else. He appeared to be about forty, with a draw that was faster than anyone Heyes had ever seen.
"Ain't no call for any shooting," added the man as his long legs brought him nearer.
Heyes nodded in agreement. A big grin spread across the man's face. The man towered above him now.
"Glad we got that settled."
The man holstered his pistol, and leaned forward, extending his hand.
"Name's Buck Wilmington," he introduced himself. As he pulled Heyes upright, the garrulous man continued talking. He pointed upstream. "I set up camp earlier… got clothes washed… drying now… watched you come down the face of that cliff… you're welcome to share my fire… and what's your name anyway young fella?"
There was a sudden silence. The man stared at him expectantly. Heyes realized Buck wanted an answer.
"Artie," replied Heyes as he looked up at the tall, talkative man. The man frowned.
"You any relation to a fella called Artie Gorman?"
"Never heard of him," answered Heyes truthfully. Remembering the last name of the storekeeper at the Colorado general store where he and Standish had gotten supplies, he added, "Williamson. My name is Artie Williamson."
Buck beamed at him. Heyes' mind was racing. Buck was a fairly common name, even if it didn't make the wanted posters in the Laramie jail. It was probably just a coincidence…, but he had to ask. Larabee had travelled with someone called Buck.
"Do you know a fella named Larabee?"
"You've seen Chris?" Buck grabbed Heyes by the shoulders in excitement. For a moment, Heyes thought the man was going to hug him. "Dang it if ol' Chris didn't ride off without me! Where is he?"
"Abilene," answered Heyes. "Don't know if he's still there though."
His mind raced. Larabee and Wilmington travelled together. And Larabee was considered the fast draw. He'd never heard mention of Buck Wilmington being fast at all. Just... how fast did that make Larabee?
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Heyes saddled his horse the next morning. Buck, a one-time Texas ranger, was already up, dressed for a long ride with chaps over his dark pants, a buttoned-up plainsman shirt beneath his vest and jacket, a pink bandana at his throat.
"Wish you luck finding your friend," murmured the big man.
"Thanks, you too," replied Heyes.
"Lulabelle," cajoled the big man.
The big gray mare moved forward. Heyes watched as the pair scaled the narrow trail he'd come down yesterday. They disappeared, headed west, looking for Chris Larabee. The dark-haired Kansan led his horse further downstream. Buck's words from their conversation last night rang in his head.
"You're wasting your time," stated Buck in a firm tone. "That boy won't be in Menardville, I know he left before Chris lit out."
"Then where…?"
"According to that loudmouth Gorman, Kid went east… Waco is my best guess… the town is big enough a fella could get lost in, could disappear if he wanted to."
Please Jed, thought Heyes, I can't have you disappearing again. I just have to find you.
-x-x-x-x-x-x-
Seventeen bars in Waco. Heyes first heard his cousin's name mentioned in the sixteenth one. Three men guzzled whiskey at the next table, they plotted. Heyes' hair rose on the back of his neck at the men's talk. They were looking for a young, curly-haired blond fast draw. And while the physical description matched his cousin, the idea of Jed having killed two men shook Heyes to the core. Something had to be wrong with the stories they were telling. The boy Heyes remembered wouldn't call some one out, wouldn't kill a man in cold blood.
"Kid Curry I tell you! He's the one shot Jake! And that fella Johnson too…"
"When we catch him…"
Where's the sheriff wondered Heyes. Those men are talking murder and revenge. The twenty-year-old headed for the stables. Once there, he started to saddle his horse. He'd go... he'd go... where? Heyes rested his dark-haired head against the side of his mount. Somewhere on the trails man and horse had ridden together, spring had turned to summer. It was August now, and Heyes had no idea where to find his cousin. Texas was so big. How had he ever thought he would be able to find one lost boy? Heyes needed to find Jed before those bloodthirsty men did. The lonely young outlaw closed his eyes and sighed.
"Please...," whispered Heyes.
Two men, as unlikely an answer to a prayer as anyone could ever imagine, stomped past Heyes. They were talking together, talking loud. The sharp eared outlaw spun around at the snatch of conversation.
"I tell you, Muriel kept kissing that young fella, Kid Curry," chuckled the leaner of the two men. "She said he was a real good kisser and Tolliver got upset…"
"Did I hear you say Kid Curry?" interrupted Heyes stepping out of the stall, moving towards the two men.
The men stopped, exchanged a glance with each other, then turned back to face Heyes.
"What's it to you?" asked the heavier set man.
Heyes could almost hear Standish as he explained the con back in Colorado. People see what they want to see. We just need to provide the appropriate evidence with a little finesse and they will believe. Heyes tugged against the lapel of his jacket. He knew his pistol showed on his hip, but his hand reached to the inside pocket. He withdrew his wallet.
"I'm a private detective, tracking a sixteen-year-old boy named Jedidiah Curry," declared Heyes. Standish's voice echoed in his memory. A little truth makes a con more believable, with a real outlaw in cuffs, a little greed and no lawman's badge, of course I must be a bounty hunter. "Boy's family wants him back."
"Why should I believe you?"
Heyes smiled. He tilted his head to one side and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"Young Jed has taken a shine to those penny dreadfuls," confided Heyes, not even addressing the question of belief. "Fancies himself as a fast draw."
Heyes held his breath for a heartbeat or two, before he added what Standish had called the incentive.
"I'm authorized to pay a reward for information…"
The heavier set man elbowed his friend.
"Hank, you best tell… you're the one actually saw what happened in Round Rock."
The thinner man shook his head.
"I didn't hear the name Jedidiah, Muriel's the one called the boy Kid Curry," responded the honest man. "Might not be the same fella."
"Just tell me what you saw," coaxed Heyes. "What did he look like?"
"Well this young fella, mighta been sixteen or so...," Hank raised a his finger beside his head as he continued talking, "curly blond hair, taller than me, skinny… came into the bar. Think he was waiting for the store to open…"
"Get on with it, tell the man what happened," interrupted his friend.
Hank frowned, but turned back to Heyes.
"Like I was saying, Muriel kept kissing that young fella, and Tolliver got upset…"
"Tolliver always gets upset, don't he?" guffawed the other man.
"He does," snorted Hank. "But this time, Tolliver… he was really upset… tried to pull his gun on that young fella."
Heyes heart sank. Please don't be dead. Don't be dead. Don't be dead.
"What happened?"
Hank looked him straight in the eye.
"Mister, if this young fella is the Jedidiah you're looking for, he don't just fancy himself a fast draw. He is the fastest gunnie I've ever seen!"
"Tolliver didn't shoot him?"
"Nah, that boy shot the gun from Tolliver's hand. It went flying across the room," answered Hank. He paused a moment before adding, "Muriel was right upset when the Kid left."
"He's not in jail?" Heyes asked in surprise. "Which way did he go?"
"That boy was headed east when he left Round Rock," answered Hank.
The other man chimed in.
"But according to that fella from Beaumont, he thinks the Kid is headed south towards San Antonio… maybe even Mexico."
"What?" Heyes was confused. "What fella from Beaumont?"
How many people were looking for his cousin?
"Some fella we met on the trail," answered Hank. His lips curled up in a frown. "Said he was a lawman tracking Kid Curry, but I don't believe it. I'm not sure what he wanted exactly, but you might want to watch out for him."
Heyes extracted some folding money from his wallet and pressed it into the man's hand.
"There's some other folks here in Waco looking for Kid Curry too," advised Heyes in a soft whisper.
"Like you, you mean?"
Heyes shook his head. Those murderous men in the saloon were looking for blood.
"Not like me. Dangerous men. And they don't care who they hurt." Heyes suggested, "If it was me, I wouldn't say a word to anyone about seeing Jedidiah 'Kid' Curry."
-x-x-x-x-x-x-