The little group of math major friends repaired to their favorite bar to celebrate the beginning of semester. All too soon the semester's work would close in and it would be hard to find time for just plain talk. Heyes took off his new glasses and tucked them into their case – he still felt very self-conscious in them.
"So, Smith. New glasses," said Ev Carter brightly, "shows you got to give up something to get something." He sighed, "Me too." He brought out his own glasses – wire rims very similar to Heyes' new pair. "Too damn much time with pen and paper, I guess. Or just fate. My dad wears glasses, my older brother wears glasses, and now I do too. Bring me a beer, Harry! I got to drown my sorrows." The boys all laughed. Ev still had the prettiest girl friend on campus, so no one took his sorrows very seriously.
Heyes leaned on the bar, sorely tempted to ask for a whiskey. But then he thought about Christy's place and the orders the Kid had given the bar tender. He didn't have the Kid to watch out for him here – he had to do it himself. He sighed. "Beer for me, too, Sid. How are you?"
The bar tender, a skinny little guy who was a special favorite with Heyes and his friends, answered happily, "Can't complain. Got engaged while you were out West. Nice lady – and doesn't mind waiting up late for me. At least she says she doesn't – knows it comes with the territory. When you gonna get hitched, Smith?"
The shadow that came over Joshua's face at that question was unmistakable. He shook his head. "No time soon. Been working too hard on school to have much time for romance. How's things with you and Betsy, Ev?"
"Doin' fine, Smith. I just hope she doesn't get too sick of waiting for me to finish my degrees before I can get a faculty post and support her. I guess as long as she's in school herself, she won't object. But when she finishes the BA and I keep going for the MA, that could be a different thing. Waiting those extra two years won't be easy," Ev took a swig of beer.
Heyes thought a lot about his own version of the same problem. Asking the Kid and Cat, and Heyes' funders – to put up with his being in school for two degrees – it was asking a lot. He sipped his beer meditatively. He hadn't told anyone except Cat about it yet.
"You have a girl out West, Smith?" asked Huxtable with a grin.
"You bet!" answered Joshua with a wolfish grin. "Most beautiful woman I ever set eyes on. And oh, does she know what she's doing after dark . . . "
Neal George looked surprised. "You thinking of getting hitched?"
Heyes grinned in embarrassment and shook his head. "Wrong kind of girl, NG."
Huxtable laughed, "Oh! That kind."
Heyes tried to keep a light smile on his face, as he thought about the other kind of girl, "Yeah, that kind."
While Eve and Huxtable laughed together, Neal George looked at his friend Joshua. George always did have a sharp eye for Joshua Smith's moods. Being the closest of the friends to Smith's age, he and the westerner had the most in common despite his being from Philadelphia. He said softly, "You were so distracted end of last semester – thought maybe you were having woman trouble." Smith's face came over very dark and he nodded.
Smith looked away from George, who stood alone on his right, and toward Ev and Huxtable on his left. "We're here to have fun, so let's have it. What happened with the baseball team you were playing on Missouri? Shortstop, right?"
That started a lively conversation on baseball that covered for a more private exchange with George, who mouthed to Smith, "Beth?" Heyes, making sure that no one else had seen the silent question, gave a very small nod. He knew NG wouldn't give him away. "Told her too much," he whispered. "She's all for the truth – less it's too hard." NG knew better than to ask for details there and then, although he wondered for sure. He had always thought that Beth Warren was very good at dealing with hard truths. He couldn't imagine what Smith could have told her that she couldn't deal with. By the time the beginning of semester gathering wound down, he hadn't learned any more about that.
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As Heyes got into writing his first paper of the semester, he could tell that his aphasia was getting a bit better. Thinking of and writing down words was a little faster and easier. Perhaps Beth would be right that the first semester was the hardest. Heyes sure could use for it to get easier, not only scholastically, but emotionally. He couldn't take another semester like the last one.
He was taking another class with Professor Hargrove, who had taught his freshman composition class and the more advanced composition class he had taken over the summer. He had learned a lot from that wise and learned lady and they had gotten to be something close to friends. She refused to cut him any slack, but offered all the encouragement and help he could ask, even when his aphasia had caused the worst problems. Now, as Heyes approached verbal subjects, he had a new level of confidence.
But even now he would get hung up on a few words as he wrote. He would stop and pace up and down – no longer having Jim there to be annoyed about it was actually kind of lonesome. Heyes wished he could visit Dr. Leutze at the clinic for a bit of help now, but he simply could not bring himself to face the possibility of seeing Beth and having her reject him again. Even if he could avoid her, he wouldn't be able to get in to the clinic at all without facing the cheerful receptionist, Polly. Polly was Beth's closest friend. If Beth had told, or even hinted, anything about Heyes' behavior and identity to anyone on earth, it would have been to Polly. It made Heyes more than nervous to think of meeting Polly without knowing what she knew about him. She might yell at him. Or maybe she wouldn't let him in at all. Or maybe she'd ignore him. Heyes could take being yelled at a lot easier than being ignored.
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On the first day of fall classes as he was coming out of his American literature class with Professor Hargrove, Smith fell into step beside that tall lady with her pile of black hair that made her even a bit taller than Smith himself.
"You should be very proud of what you were able to do over the summer, Smith," said the Professor with a smile, "Many people can't work well by themselves. You did wonderfully."
"I know," grinned Joshua, "You gave me an A plus!"
"There are things beyond grades, you know. I mean, I know that you understand that – it infuses all your work." answered Professor Hargrove seriously.
"Thank you, Professor," said Smith, "Actually, I wanted to ask you about something beyond grades, or school, if you have time."
"Sure. If you can walk with me toward my office."
Smith was a bit shy about what he wanted to ask, "I . . . well . . . out West I had a hard time getting back to riding . . . after months out of the saddle. It hurt like hell the first few days!" Smith knew this professor did not object to the occasional salty word – she could let fly herself in private.
Professor Hargrove laughed. "Of course it hurt! Did that surprise you?"
"Well, yeah. I've ridden all my life before this – never spent so much as a week out of the saddle. And I don't want to have that happen again. You ride, don't you?" Joshua had seen her once riding in Central Park. She had a superb seat in that difficult contraption called a side saddle. Heyes had always wondered how any woman could manage it.
"Yes, I do, Smith. I try to get out every week with Emma." Just saying the name brought a smile to Professor Hargrove's face.
"Do you know someone who could teach me English riding? Seems like the thing to do here. I guess it'd keep me in shape for Western riding just as well."
"Actually, Eastern riding is a lot more demanding. So you aren't going to ask me to teach you to ride? I guess you think it would be improper – to go riding with a woman? Wouldn't want anything untoward to happen?" Professor Hargrove's eyes were sparkling with wit.
"No, I just wouldn't want Emma to get jealous." Smith grinned back. He knew very well that Professor Hargrove was in a relationship with a customs clerk named Emma Hazelton, and his professor knew that he knew it. She was about as open a lesbian as a woman could be in those days. Diana Hargrove knew that it didn't bother this student a bit. Although she didn't know the true details of exactly how unusual he really was, she understood that with his aphasia and his lack of previous schooling, Joshua Smith came from a background that was very unusual for a college student. Diana Hargrove knew what it was like to suffer from being different. She supported her equally different student all she could.
"I do know someone who could help you out, if you don't mind his attitude. Arthur Wainwright the third may be an officious ass, but he does know his way around an English saddle. He's a superb rider. And he has the money to be able to afford to rent a horse at least once a week in Central Park. If I put the right words into his ear about what a great student you are and how promising, I'll just bet that I can get him interested in helping you out. I'd play down the rough-edged western thing with him. Wear your best suit to school on Wednesday and watch your grammar even more than usual.
I'll set things up. Don't blame me if you want to punch his lights out after he's been teaching you for an hour! But have patience – if you're a good western rider, you won't find eastern that much harder. And once Wainwright gets used to you and sees how good you are, he'll let up some, I'll bet."
"Thanks, Professor!" said Heyes. He wondered how much of an officious ass he could take, but he couldn't very well back out now.
Sure enough, the blue-blooded Arthur Wainwright and Joshua Smith were riding side by side in Central Park the following Saturday morning early. The eastern aristocrat had even lent Smith some of his boots for the occasion, since they wore the same size.
Smith was saying, "Yes, Wainwright. I've been in the saddle a lot out West. But like I told you on Wednesday, I've never ridden eastern. When in Rome and all that – thought I'd better give it a try. Can you give me some pointers?"
Wainwright smiled condescendingly. Heyes already felt tempted to haul off and deck him, but he controlled himself. "Of course, Smith. I'm sure you'll be able to master it in time." Heyes kind of wondered about that. He felt very, very strange in the little eastern saddle with short stirrups and no horn at all.
The neatly groomed, black haired Wainwright wasn't shy about teaching Smith the ropes. "Head up, heels down. Keep the stirrups on the balls of your feet – not all the way through like that. You balance on your heels – nearly all of your weight should be there. Keep your knees bent and your feet balanced under you – not way out front that way. You're in a saddle, not a rocking chair! Heels down, Smith! And reins in both hands, not just the left. Here, let me show you the grip. Keep your hands soft, but you need to keep more contact on the bit. This horse'll be gone over the hill with you if you leave the reins loose like that. And don't be so shy with the reins stopping him – this is a snaffle bit, not one of those brutal curbs you use out west. And no, we don't neck-rein here!" Heyes decided that he didn't want to punch the guy - he'd prefer to brain him with one of his own boots.
Heyes worked at the unfamiliar form for some time at the walk, and then had to learn about that strange Eastern thing called posting to the trot. He sat the trot so well that it seemed a total waste of effort. He finally had to gripe some, "How on earth do you stay in the saddle perched like this? I've spent eight – ten hours at a time in a western saddle - had no problem. This kind of riding, man, it would tire you out in an hour or two!"
Wainwright looked superior and sounded it. "Naturally hunt seat is more difficult, but we have some contact with the horse – not like in one of those monstrous western saddles. And you have much more control. Did you ever try jumping in a western saddle?"
"No – well, not . . . intentionally." Heyes thought of times when his horse had wound up having to leap a fence or a creek unexpectedly when he and the Kid had a posse on their tails – not exactly stories he could tell Wainwright!
When they went out again the next week, Heyes started to learn what good, balanced form felt like. He began to appreciate the close control of the horse eastern riding afforded. Especially in the relatively tight spaces of Central Park, the balance and control came in very handy. It seemed like there were endless things to startle a horse, from girls with billowing skirts on bicycles, to kids popping rubber balloons. But eastern or western, a good gallop was still a blast.
As they rode back toward the stable after just such a brisk gallop, Wainwright asked his riding companion, "Smith, you ever handle a gun?"
"Sure. Out West, a man can hardly avoid it." Heyes was carefully guarded in his answer. He surely didn't want to get anyone wondering about his previous experiences with guns, such as in armed robbery! But he would be glad if he could find a place to keep his shooting skills honed – that could mean life or death.
Clearly, Wainwright enjoyed feeling superior to that rough Westerner Joshua Smith and thought he would enjoy teaching him to use a weapon in the eastern fashion. The next weekend, Wainwright took Joshua Smith to an exclusive gun club out in the New Jersey countryside. Heyes didn't bring his Colt – there would be guns there for the men to use.
There was an intimidating iron gate out front of the fields of the club. As they trotted past in a rented surrey, Heyes looked appraisingly at the gate and the lock; he thought he could probably get past that lock in a few minutes, if he was left to work. It would certainly be easier than climbing the smooth stone wall with iron spikes on top!
When Smith and Wainwright got to the main building, they went to pick out their guns. There was a locker with a wide array of pistols. A dignified sixtyish man named Bunter was in charge. He had a slight British accent and a haughty manner. Wainwright said that Bunter had been in the British army before he had come to America. Bunter handed Wainwright his accustomed 38 caliber pistol. Wainwright donned the matching holster and took a box of bullets. Then Bunter turned to Joshua Smith.
"Have you any experience with guns, sir?" he inquired haughtily.
"Yes, some. I'm out of practice, though," lied Heyes.
"Which weapon would you prefer to try, sir?" asked Bunter, pointing to an impressive array of pistols.
Heyes couldn't help himself – he had to go for the weapon on which he could show a mastery that would put the snooty Wainwright in his place - he hoped. "The Colt 45 single action, please."
"Sir! That is a powerful weapon with a considerable kick. Might I suggest a 32 instead?"
"No, Bunter. The Colt, if you please." Heyes carefully stayed straight faced and kept his voice calm and firm. The thought that anyone would doubt that he could handle a Colt was enough to make his blood boil, but he couldn't let that show.
"Well, if you are sure, sir. But I implore you to be careful. I will accompany you to give you some instruction as you begin target shooting." Bunter was solicitous and superior.
"Suit yourself, Bunter," said Heyes casually.
Bunter handed Smith the heavy Colt with a neat, new holster and belt. Heyes buckled up the gun belt and holstered the Colt, conscious of the critical eyes of Bunter and Wainwright upon him. He settled the stiff new leather belt at the right height and angle and tied the leg strap with a swift gesture that had been automatic to him for decades.
They walked to a field with targets set up and stood at a lime marked distance line. Wainwright stood in careful balance, bracing the pistol in front of him to resist the kick. Slowly, with a few seconds between each shot to aim and brace his arm, he loosed six shots into a loose grouping in and close around the central circle of the target. The man smiled and Bunter exclaimed, "Very pretty shooting, sir! Now, Mr. Smith, let me give you some instruction before you begin. If you will be certain to hold your pistol . . .
Before Bunter could finish his sentence, Heyes had drawn, not at a speed to challenge the Kid, but fast enough. Within seconds, he had fired all six shots into the bull's eye, all but the last of them squarely in the center. He reholstered the smoking Colt with a flourish.
Wainwright and Bunter were opened mouthed with amazement. It was a sweet moment.
"Told you I was out of practice – I see that last shot was about a quarter inch right. Got to work on that." Heyes was enjoying himself. If this showing off was dangerous, at this moment he frankly didn't care.
"Sir, I apologize! I did not realize that you an expert level marksman!" said a stunned Bunter, while Wainwright was still speechless.
"Nothing special, out West," said Heyes, which was stretching the truth. While it was true that good shooting was often met with west of the Mississippi, really fine shooting was not precisely common anywhere. Although Heyes had always kept the fact under wraps to provide himself and the Kid with a surprise attack, he was a good marksman. And his draw, when he was in practice, was swift enough to beat most men who weren't actually professional gunslingers, and some who were. As the Kid had discovered, Heyes was keeping his shooting in better shape now than he often had in the Devil's Hole days.
Despite the threat that had warned him away from Long Island, Heyes had figured out how to maintain the skills that he was well aware could still be necessary for him to stay alive. He never doubted that there would come a day, or maybe more than one, when he would need to ride for his life and to shoot his way out of a tight spot.