Jed Curry twisted restlessly in his seat as he rode west on the train, wracking his brain about who he could possibly ask to be his deputy. He had already spoken to Lom Trevors and to Harvey Wilde about it, of course. But Wilde had already asked all the men he had told Jed about – and had no luck. Lom Trevors had a couple of ideas that Jed wanted to try out. Lom hadn't been up to writing until too recently, and he couldn't ask his wife to send out such messages to potential deputies. No one would listen to a woman on such a subject in those days.

Jed had written down Lom's ideas on a yellow legal pad that Heyes had given him. As he rode on the train, he added a couple of ideas of his own with multiple question marks after them. He didn't hold out much hope for any of the little towns and run-down sheriff's offices that came to mind. Jed Curry simply hadn't had a lot of contact with law men – other than running away from them or being locked up by them. Even as an acting unofficial deputy, he had avoided any lawmen from outside of Wilde's office. They had all posed too much danger to him. Now his own caution had come back to bedevil him. If he'd only trusted his own luck a bit more, he might have made some friends among lawmen who could have saved his life now. But only if they were willing to trust Jed Curry as much as the people of Louisville had trusted Thaddeus Jones.

Jed looked out the train windows, watching the low, green eastern mountains go by. It was a pretty sight. Not the dramatic beauty of the West, but pretty. A blue heron flapped slowly from one pond to another. Jed enjoyed the natural setting, but his mind was focused far to the west.

As the train pulled into the station that afternoon in Pittsburgh, Jed reached up to a high wire shelf to get down his saddle bags. A young couple looked at him curiously. Saddle bags, rifles, and cowboy hats were pretty rare this far east. Jed jumped down to the platform, looking around him to find the line to which he would be changing trains to head west.

A familiar voice called out to him. "Jed! Jed Curry!"

Curry whirled around to find one of Heyes' closest friends standing behind him with a big smile on his face. Seeing the look Curry gave him, the smile faded from Matthias Peale's features. "What's wrong, Jed? I thought you'd still be in West Virginia on your honeymoon?"

"Hi, Peale. How are you?" asked Curry, not eager to tell his own story.

Peale could hardly contain his joy, even realizing that his friend was not at all happy. "I'm great, Jed. I'm headed back home to say hi to my parents before I go to California for a faculty position interview. There's a new place called Stanford University that's going to open in the fall. They're looking for a junior physics professor and they want to talk to me!"

"Congratulations on the interview, Matthias." said Jed, shaking his friend's hand. "That's great."

"Thanks, Jed! Are you headed back to Louisville?"

Jed nodded unhappily. "Yeah. I think we must be on the same train – that one over there? Number 173? Come on – let's get something to eat and then you can sit next to me."

The two men found a stand and bought themselves a couple of ham sandwiches and a piece of apple pie apiece to hold them through the long afternoon. Then they hauled their baggage onto the train car and they found seats together. For a little while, while the train wasn't moving yet, the two men sat unwrapping the brown paper from around their food and wolfing down their sandwiches. Finally, Peale wiped his mouth and looked up. He asked, "So, why isn't Cat with you? She's alright, isn't she?"

Jed nodded and showed a very brief smile. "She's fine, Matthias. She's staying with Heyes' in-laws in West Virginia while I go west and make sure things are safe around Louisville."

Peale was puzzled for a moment, then it struck him. "Why wouldn't things be safe, Jed? With you in charge as sheriff? Why would anyone . . . oh . . . yeah."

Curry's face was grim. "Yeah. With my name, my reputation . . . I don't know how many men . . . in my former line of work are out there looking to put a bullet in my back to keep me from saying the wrong things about them." The retired outlaw let his voice grow very soft and he looked around himself nervously. "Some of my closest friends – guys who used to be my closest friends before I went straight – might be on that list. They could lose the most if I spill my guts. I might have to. And there's plenty of guys who wanted to kill me anyhow – they just couldn't find me because of the alias. Now with my real name out there, they'll head toward Louisville. And if you think the lawmen in the towns out there are going to back me up like they would a man who'd always been on the right side of the law . . ."

Peale sighed, "Alright, alright, I get the picture. My pa never faced quite what you will, but close enough when he first turned to the light. You'll need a good bunch of deputies to back you up."

A tight line appeared across the Kid's brow. "That's just the problem, Peale. Sherif Wilde's asked half the good men west of the Mississippi and everybody says no. They won't serve with me. They think it's suicide. They might be right."

"I sure hope not, K . . . Jed. But why isn't Cat with you?" Peale's voice was full of concern. He could tell that there was more to come that wasn't making Jed Curry happy.

Jed looked out the window over Peale's shoulder, his face a study in worry, "I guess it's no secret that she's expecting a child in the fall. And anyhow, she's my wife. Without a deputy behind me, with nobody better with a gun than our bartender and piano player to watch over her, until I get the local sheriff's convinced I'm really on the right side – Cat would be a sitting duck. She could get taken hostage, threatened, or worse – to get at me. When I've got a good couple of deputies that I trust, when I get the local sheriffs on my side, when things have settled down some, Cat can come. I'll send somebody I trust – maybe a deputy – back East to fetch Cat safely on the train to Louisville."

Peale nodded and spoke softly so people in nearby seats wouldn't hear those famous names. "Couldn't Heyes help you out, if he's not got too many interviews?"

Jed leaned his head in his hands. Peale whispered, "My God, Curry, what is it?"

Curry took a deep breath. "Heyes hasn't had any offers of interviews and doesn't see much prospect. Like me – that name."

Peale started to say, "I can . . . "

Curry interrupted him, "And he couldn't do an interview to save his life, right now."

"What?"

"Peale, we got into a fight."

"A fight! Hannibal . . . you two?" Peale's voice tell to almost nothing. He knew this wasn't news that either partner would want to get out.

Curry snorted. "You think we've never fought? We've fought since we were boys – like any brothers – which is near enough what we are. It wasn't all that serious – or not at first. We were just working things out. You know - punch a little, talk a little, until we come to an understanding."

"But what was it about?" Peale asked anxiously. "It made him so mad he won't help you?"

Curry shook his head. "I wanted him to do just what you said – come along and help me for a while. For just a little while. But he felt like he couldn't leave Beth alone and he had to get along with those job applications so he can do what those amnesty documents say. He said he worried about the time. What with the trials and prison and fighting for those sheepskins – he's lost a lot of time. He said guys were getting offers already and he needed every chance to get a position. He didn't have time to give me a few weeks. He said no."

Peale looked intently at Jed. "He's right about the academic hiring season. It moves fast – need to have people in place by August at the latest, so they'll have time to prepare classes. So Heyes has not much more than one month. With all those new schools starting up in the West, there are positions out there. But they aren't waiting –they're signing guys up before somebody else gets them. Our friends are getting offers already. But to help out his partner? He could've done some applications from out west, surely? He could have gotten his mail sent out there. He's so angry at you that he wouldn't do that?"

"That was what I wanted to make him see. Honestly, he did see. I'm sure he did. He would have come, in the end. But he felt so torn – so worried on both sides. We've both been worrying, feeling the pressure, trying to figure it out – for years now. Ever since Heyes got hurt. Heyes was taut as a fishing line with a thirty-pound bass on the other end. When I pushed and pushed, it was too much. And I was madder than I should have been, worrying about Cat and our baby more than me. We swung at the same time."

Peale was staring at Jed Curry in dread, realizing finally that Jed meant more than that he had made his partner mad.

"I hit him in the wrong place, Peale. I hit him where he got shot – in the head. That thing he had before is back – aphasia. He can't say a word or even understand anything you say to him – or read or write. There could be a pile of letters asking him to interview and he couldn't do a thing about it."

Peale was dumbstruck himself for a moment. Finally he said, "My God, Jed! That's horrible!" Peale was utterly appalled at what had happened to one of his closest friends. He stared at Jed Curry, having a hard time controlling the reflex of anger in defense of his thesis partner, Hannibal Heyes.

Curry's voice was full of worry and tension. "It sure as Hell is. I'm as upset as anybody. I didn't mean to hurt him! I didn't hit him that hard. And he moved just before my fist hit him – I was trying to avoid that spot. But then I hit it. I could tell right off that something was bad wrong. He kind of stopped and shook his head like he was foggy. Then went for me like a wild cat. He must have felt something go snap in his head. Must have felt familiar – bad familiar. For a minute there, he wanted to kill me. I know he did. He forgave me later – without a word between us. The doctor hopes he'll get everything back when the concussion clears up – in a few days."

Peale spoke angrily, "You guys can communicate without even words – but you left him there? He must be terrified!"

Curry nodded. "Yeah, he's scared stiff. He's been in this fix before and he knows how awful it is. The doctor can't say if he'll get better at all, or when. He hopes it'll be fine in a few days, but he can't make it happen. He has to just wait. But I can't wait. Just before I hit him that bad blow, Heyes said I should already be looking for deputies. He said I should be getting things lined up before Wilde leaves the sheriff's post. Before anyone knows I'm there is what he meant – so I can do stuff without getting shot at. And he was right. Ain't he always? Or generally, anyhow. So to do what he wanted me to do, I had to go."

Peale sat silent for a long time, unable to meet Curry's eyes. Eventually he said, "Poor Heyes."

"Yeah," said Curry. "Poor Heyes. He's got Beth to look out for him, but what can she do? Mostly just wait and hold his hand."

"Did Heyes give you that black eye?"

"Yeah."

"Does it hurt?"

"Nothin' like what Heyes is goin' through. Poor guy."

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Late that same morning, Dr. Murphy arrived at the Green Tree Hotel to check on his patient there. He found Corey Dunham behind the desk, looking concerned.

The doctor said, "Good morning, Corey. How is he?"

Corey spoke unhappily, "Restless, Beth says. The Kid said when he was shot, he had no trouble keeping Heyes quietly in bed. Now, Beth has to watch him every minute or he's trying to be up."

The doctor smiled crookedly, "It's a good sign, in its way, that he feels good. It might not be so bad a concussion. But it's dangerous. He's got to stay in bed for at least a couple of days or he could set himself back. I'll go up and see what I see."

The doctor knocked at the door of the room where Heyes and Beth were staying after Heyes' injury. Beth let the doctor in. Heyes was dressed in an old shirt and jeans and socks. He sitting on the edge of the bed, looking tired and very edgy. He stood to greet his new doctor, but Murphy gestured for him to sit back down. The two shook hands. Beth beckoned for the doctor to follow her outside the door so they could talk without disturbing her husband. Hearing speech that he could not understand was hard for Heyes. Now, at least, he understood most of what was happening to him. He wasn't quite as afraid as he had been when he had been shot.

"What news, Mrs. Heyes?" asked the doctor in a low voice.

Beth smiled wanly, "He's improving some, from what I can tell, though not as rapidly as we could wish, of course. But even last night, he was able to use the system of gestures that we use at the Leutze clinic. That requires some use of the language centers in the brain or he wouldn't even be able to understand that a gesture could stand for a word or concept. When the language centers are totally nonfunctional, a person doesn't even understand that communication is possible or that the noise everyone else makes has anything to do with getting their ideas across."

"How awful! Utterly inhuman!" the doctor couldn't restrain his horror at the idea.

Beth restrained a sob. "Yes, that's how they often feel. Inhuman. Many try to commit suicide, not grasping that they might eventually be healed, at least a little. When he was first shot Heyes tried, his partner and Mrs. Curry tell me, over and over."

"But he's past that now, Mrs. Heyes, thank God! He hasn't tried . . ."

Beth sounded relieved at that. "No. He realizes his situation. He was in and out of the clinic for nearly six years. He saw people with all kinds and stages of aphasia. He does know that he's been through this before and he got better. I have no way, of course, to explain to him very clearly that he might get better much faster this time. I have tried, but he doesn't understand. Or he doesn't believe me. The gestures can't get across anything very subtle or complex."

The doctor was hopeful that he might have an easier time with his ex-outlaw patient this time than the last time he had seen him. "With this gesture system you spoke of, can I ask him some questions about his condition?"

"Yes, that's one of its most important uses. You ask me and I'll translate it to him as well as I can."

"And he can answer?"

"Yes. He's also started nodding for yes and shaking his head for no – another sign that language is returning. But we'd better go back in – I can hear him pacing in his stocking feet. He's so impatient. He's desperate to get well and get back to looking for work. You can speak in the room with him, but please keep it soft and brief. I'll translate for him when I need to, but not when the answer is obvious."

"Good. I surely hope that he will be passed this very soon and back to his normal life. I'm so glad he's gone straight."

"So is he," said Beth as they entered the room where Heyes stood waiting, looking uneasy, and yet strangely eager.

The doctor looked at Heyes, and then at Beth. He asked softly, in his mellifluous southern accent. "Ask if he is in any pain where he was struck."

Beth gestured to the place on Heyes' head where the scar was and added a gesture like a knock on a door. Heyes shook his head cautiously.

"Can I touch the place, to ee if there is any pain when I do that?" asked the doctor. "Believe me, I'll be very gentle."

Beth pointed to the doctor's hand and to Heyes' head. Her husband looked dismayed for a moment, then nodded. The doctor approached slowly and barely touched his fingers to the injured place. He felt Heyes catch his breath very softly, but he held as still as a stone otherwise.

The doctor backed away immediately. "So the place is still sore. I thought it would be, so soon after that blow. But not very sore?"

Beth gestured to where the doctor had touched and repeated her sign about pain. Heyes shook his head gingerly. He was clearly being careful about moving his head. The doctor asked, "Does he have a headache?"

Beth made a gesture as if to put her hands around her husband's brow and made the knocking sign again. Heyes nodded. The doctor sighed unhappily. Yes, the patient had a headache.

"Does he feel dizzy?" Beth translated this into a whirling gesture. Heyes shook his head.

Beth shook her own head and whispered, "He might not be dizzy now, but he was earlier. He nearly fell over getting out of bed first thing this morning. I had to catch him and steady him a bit."

"That's not unusual," said the doctor. "I hope it will clear up soon. Clearly, he isn't understanding speech. You would know if that had changed."

Beth nodded. "I would – but watch him – he is paying attention when we speak. He's trying to understand. See how he's squinting a bit, watching us, listening so carefully. He wouldn't even be able to try, to know how to try, to understand, if he wasn't improving."

Now the doctor nodded, beginning to grasp the ins and outs of this ailment he had never treated before. "And clearly, he can't speak. Would that ever return without understanding of speech?"

"It could, actually," said Beth softly. "I've seen it."

"How strange!" exclaimed the doctor under his breath. "And reading? Have you tried that this morning?"

"Not yet."

"I brought a pad and a pencil. Let me write a few words and see if he can read them." The doctor matched action to his words, writing, "Can you read these words?" He held the pad where Heyes could see it as he sat on the bed. Heyes studied the simple sentence attentively for a long minute. He shook his head and grimaced at the headache that was getting worse. The doctor withdrew the pad, but Heyes gestured for him to hand it back to his patient. Heyes reached for the pencil. Beth and the doctor looked at Heyes curiously. Did he think he could write when he couldn't read? Considering what Beth had just said about speaking and understanding, it was possible.

The doctor turned up a blank sheet and handed Heyes the pencil. The former outlaw sat and concentrated for a moment. He bit his lip and started to write hesitantly. Beth looked down at what he was writing. She was relieved to see words, not numbers, appearing slowly. Heyes studied his own writing in intense puzzlement, blinking and shaking his head in frustration. After a few words, Heyes paused and looked up at Beth.

What he had written in slow but neat cursive was, "Can I write? I can't read it. Is it gibberish? Can you read it, Beth?"

Beth smiled and nodded.

Heyes looked totally perplexed and looked down at the pad again. He paused for a moment, then he closed his eyes and wrote that way. "I can't read it at all. I might as well be inscribing Egyptian hieroglyphics for all it means to me. So it makes sense to you?" He opened his eyes and studied Beth's face. She nodded again.

The doctor studied the pad and looked at Heyes. It was strange not to be able to talk back to the man who was writing. He had to speak to Heyes via Beth. "Your husband has good handwriting and a good vocabulary for a man who can't understand a word," he said with a smile.

"Well, he does have a Master's degree!" exclaimed Beth proudly.

"He does?" The doctor was startled.

"Yes. He just earned it from Columbia University. He was a brilliant student. He's going to be a professor, if he can ever get well."

"My goodness! From an outlaw to a professor! That's amazing. And it's so strange, that he can write when he can't do anything else with language." The doctor was in totally unknown territory here.

Beth replied thoughtfully, explaining as much to herself as to Dr. Murphy, "Actually, it isn't so strange as you might think. After he was shot, he was able to get back everything else, with a lot of time and work. But writing was totally gone, other than numbers. I had to teach him to write letters all over again as if he had never learned it before. It was agony for him – endless repetition. It was much, much harder than teaching a child. We suspect that as he learned writing again he was using a different part of his brain than where writing would normally reside. So this injury didn't touch wherever that new place is that deals with writing. It's been moved out of the way. If I had thought to test him about it last night, we might be able to prove that he had never lost writing." Now that it was clear hearing speech wasn't so much of a problem for Heyes, Beth allowed herself to speak more in front of him. It might even be helping him.

"Gracious!" exclaimed the doctor in wonder. Then he noticed that while he and Beth had been speaking, Heyes had been writing with his eyes closed, feeling his way from line to line with a fine feeling for proportion so that the lines of writing were quite straight and even.

Beth looked at the pad and then up at the doctor. "He's writing to you, doctor. I'll show it to you when he's finished."

"Thank you, doctor, for your help," Heyes had written in his stylish cursive, "I appreciate your kindness to an old outlaw. Sorry for elbowing you yesterday. I'm feeling much better now. Sorry I can't thank you by name or understand what you want to say to me. Please give my wife any instructions you have for me. She will get them across to me. I will do my best to do as you want me to do. By the way, I can't write numbers yet. I tried and I can't. That's hard on a mathematician. I hope I get numbers back soon!" The last word was underlined a couple of times very emphatically. Heyes handed the pad and pencil to Beth.

The doctor shook Heyes' hand again, as the only way he could find to say something like "You're welcome." Then he gestured to the bed and for Heyes to lie down.

Heyes nodded. He understood that instruction easily enough. He didn't like it, but he understood it. He lay down and looked up at the doctor uncertainly. The doctor gave a thumbs up sign to encourage Heyes and left his patient to rest. Heyes rubbed his head. His headache was getting worse. He would put up with resting for the moment. Maybe it would help with the headache.