As The End Draws Near
"What'll it be tonight, Heyes?" Kid Curry asked softly as he approached the bed where his partner lay awake but resting, seemingly comfortable beneath layers of quilts to keep him warm on the cold winter night.
Heyes looked up with weary eyes that reflected years of hard living and days of slow dying. The hint of a smile moved across his face, accentuating the now wrinkled dimple in his cheek. "You choose tonight," he replied softly.
Kid pulled the dime novel from his hip pocket. "How about the new dime novel Miss Clara picked up for me today?"
"What is it?" Heyes whispered.
Kid eased himself down on the mattress near Heyes' pillow.
"Well, let's see. It says here The Life and Times of Joshua Phineas Smith, aka Hannibal Heyes."
"Phineas? Writer did his research," Heyes whispered."That's a first."
"Want me to read it to you?"
Heyes nodded and closed his eyes. "Just the highlights," he whispered.
Kid leaned across the bed and gently fluffed Heyes' pillow. "I can just tell you the highlights, Heyes. I don't have to read about them in some book."
"Dime novel, Kid. There's a difference."
"Whatever you say, Heyes."
Kid turned away and gazed into the fireplace watching the flames peak and trough as they cracked and snapped and brought a welcome warmth to the room. He could hear each slow, shallow breath of his partner, grateful that the breathing was not struggled. Mesmerized by the flames, Kid envisioned one of a thousand campfires he and Heyes had shared, a rabbit skewered over the burning pit, and an imagined aroma of coffee filled his nostrils. Kid shook his head to obscure the memory and draw him back to the moment...this precious, fleeting moment that inched its way into the past with each tick of the clock.
Admittedly the years had been hard on the two former outlaws. They never did earn the actual amnesty. Instead, one of the Governors (Kid couldn't recall his name), had granted an unconditional pardon, something neither understood as they had never been sent to prison, but something they both accepted as a means to an end of running from the law and having bounties on their heads.
"You know, Heyes, I think the first highlight in that book should be all them Saturday afternoons fishing when we was boys."
"Dime novel," Heyes repeated in a whispered voice.
Kid smiled but didn't acknowledge the correction. "If I think on it, I can recall pretty much every single one of them Saturdays."
The dimple was showing again, though the tired eyes remained closed.
"Second highlight was all them years outlawing together. We had some high old times then."
"Some low ones, too," Heyes whispered
"Yep," Kid agreed as he shifted himself on the mattress and brushed the hair back from his partner's face while feeling for the persistent low grade fever in Heyes' skin. "Can't say I'd call them amnesty chasing years a highlight, though."
Kid uttered a long, low sigh as he watched the life slowly ebbing from his partner. But they were both old now, tired and worn, and the idea of death had become the hope of a second amnesty, a true and pure freedom rather than the loss of a partner, or of a life. They shared a calm acceptance to the approaching end, an end void of any regrets.
Years earlier, after receiving their pardons, both had expected life to get easier, and in some ways it did. They were never chased by a posse again, but twice they had been captured by bounty hunters who didn't believe the papers they carried in their pockets, and had bound them and carted them off to a jail, only to be disappointed that their stories were true and rewards were no longer offered. Jobs were no easier to be found and no bank west of the Mississippi would issue them a loan, so buying a small farm or ranch became nothing more than a pipe dream.
But Heyes had put his brilliant mind to work, and they spent ten years on the lecture circuit, two infamous former outlaws traveling the west once again, speaking at Ladies Social Meetings, Men's Gentleman Clubs, theater houses, and inside circus tents. They signed autographs and pushed the sales of their own dime novel. Sometimes the money was lucrative, sometimes scant. But the work was easy and women often threw themselves at the two mysterious and handsome men, so neither was ever wanting for female companionship.
"That night in Virginia City when we had second billing to Mark Twain, you remember that Heyes? You could spin a tale every bit as good as him. In my opinion, I think you was better at it. I always felt like I was right there when you told a story about robbing a bank or a train."
"You were right there," Heyes whispered.
"Ah, you know what I mean."
"Yeah," Heyes nodded.
"To tell you the truth, Heyes. I think these last years have been the best ones of all."
"The quiet years."
Kid smiled softly. "I always liked the sound of that, 'the quiet years.' That's a good way to describe em. Just you and me. No posses, no bounty hunters, no crowds of city folks. Just the only person that's ever meant anything to me."
"Me too, Kid," Heyes said, his voice growing weaker from fatigue.
Kid stood slowly and pulled the quilts up around Heyes' shoulders. He watched the rhythm of Heyes breathing. He dimmed the oil lamp and pulled the comfortable chair up next to Heyes' bed, just as he had done every night for the past two weeks. He sat down and stretched his legs out so only the heels of his boots touched the floor and he draped an afghan over his legs.
There, settled for the night, Kid leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and stretched one arm out across the bed to rest his hand on Heyes' wrist, bringing a comfort to them both. So long as there was warmth, there was life.
Soon, perhaps during the night, perhaps a day or two away, one life would slip from its physical bonds like a tide retreating back into the sea, an infinite rhythmic cycle controlled by forces unknown and beyond reach, while another life would remain, stranded alone on the shore, watching the tide retreat, grieving the loss...
But rejoicing in the life that was.