HEYES RE$COUNTS KID'S DEATH

In all the years we rode together, it stood to reason that one of us would die first. We used to talk about it once in a while, not often. One or the other of us would start a 'what if' conversation and each of us would explain why we'd be the first to go. Kid always won those arguments. Being such a fast gun, it stood to reason that one day Kid would come across someone faster then him.

But then the conversation would move to what the surviving one would do going on in life without the other. Kid always argued that I was the planner, the dreamer, the one who had an eye set on the future. I always reminded Kid that he was the pragmatic one, the one who didn't question the cards he was dealt, but simply played his hand, win, lose, or draw. But in truth, I suspect Kid knew as well as I did that the death of one of us, was really the death of us both, that the survivor would just go through the motions for however long it took for the body to succumb to soul.

If it's possible, Kid and I shared one soul. We were two halves of one whole. Heck, we were so intertwined that all either of us had to do was look at the other one to know exactly what the other was thinking. We could end each other's sentences, feel each other's fears, guard each other's backs.

It's been a year now since Kid died. Shot in the back by a bullet that pierced his heart. A bullet that wasn't even intended for him, fired by some drunk cowboy firing random shots in some two bit saloon. Kid and me were standing at the bar having a beer when the fireworks started. Kid grabbed my arm. I thought he was pulling me down to protect me.

Then I saw his eyes. Those crystal blue eyes were screaming at me. Things moved in slow motion as Kid fell against me, knocking me to my back on the floor. Kid landed on me, then rolled to his back next to me. His eyes were still fixed on me, pleading, begging, then blank, life gone from those beautiful eyes.

I grabbed Kid and cradled his head and shoulders in my arms. Everything else disappeared. No saloon, no sound of music or gunfire, no shouts. The only light I saw was the light that shown on Kid's lifeless face. I don't know how long I sat there on the floor holding Kid in my arms. It felt like seconds. It felt like eternity. I felt my own soul die right there with Kid.

I don't remember what followed. I don't know who carried Kid to the undertaker, who got me off the floor and back to the hotel, who told the sheriff what had happened. I just know two of us died that night.

I telegraphed Lom Trevers the next morning and he came right away. I couldn't identify Kid without the sheriff figuring out who I was. But Lom could, and did. The undertaker gave Lom the Kid's possessions; a few dollars from his pockets, his gun and holster, his hat and boots. Lom gave those things to me.

Lom managed to contact Wheat, and the day of Kid's funeral, I saw the entire Devil's Hole gang, every last one of them, sitting on their horses at the top of a nearby hill, showing their respect.

Ten thousand dollars dead or alive bounty and that damn drunk cowboy was awarded the money.

Lom and I paid for a headstone. It was simple, just said Jedadiah Curry 1854-1886.

It's been a year now and I still grieve. Every second of every day I grieve. I suspect I always will.

I was awarded amnesty three months ago. It don't mean what I thought it would. The only thing the amnesty brought me was the opportunity to live in that two bit town. I visit Kid every day. Rain or shine I visit Kid. It's my only comfort. I still talk to him. I can still hear his voice, his laugh. I can still see Kid's smile and those incredible blue eyes that sparkled with life, and could pierce the soul with focused concentration.

I clean Kid's gun every day, and I tell him so. What I don't tell him is that one day soon, I'll use that gun.

Just once. To let my body rejoin the soul the Kid and I share..