The sun was bright outside on a lovely summer day in New York City. Heyes was inside, and wishing he didn't have to be. But a brief meeting back at the courthouse had made his new name official. Hannibal Joshua Heyes had appeared in the announcements section of a newspaper without attracting any attention, so the name's bearer suddenly had a lot of work to do. He sat at the desk in his apartment, a fountain pen in hand as he wrote with obsessive care on a piece of crisp, cream-colored stationary. The letters flowed smoothly in the beautiful copper-plate hand the ex-outlaw had mastered at the Leutze Clinic under the tutelage of the woman who was now his wife. He was wearing the black sleeve protectors he had so often seen clerks wear; he couldn't afford to replace good white shirts ruined by ink. Coming to the neatly dotted end of a sentence, he paused and put the pen down. He flexed his right hand and massaged it with his left. He gazed at the rough copy on his left and then at the fine copy on the right, checking his work. He had been at this most of the day.

The busy applicant stopped as he heard someone open the front door of the apartment and come in. "Beth?" he called over his shoulder.

"Honey, how many of those letters have you done today?" asked Beth, coming up behind her husband. She could see the impressive pile of neatly written pages sitting on the desk.

"Hi, Beth, my love. How are things at the clinic?" asked Heyes, getting up from his office chair with the clumsiness of a man whose leg has fallen asleep. He gave his wife a quick peck on the cheek. He turned to sit down and go back to his task.

"The clinic is fine. It's good to be back. Mr. Palmer is finally starting to say more than one word at a time and Mrs. Harding is writing better and better. They're both hard workers. Almost as hard workers as you are. But I asked you how many of those application letters you've done today."

"I'm not your student any longer," groused Heyes temperamentally. "What does it matter?"

"It matters because I'm going to have to proof every one of them before you post them and I'm tired. And so are you. If you keep that up with no breaks, you're going to work yourself into another migraine."

Heyes turned back to his wife angrily. "Beth! You are not my nurse!"

Beth, however, had a little smile on her face. "No, I'm your wife. And I love you. But frankly, I'm pretty sick of caring for a husband with a migraine. It's no fun. So I don't want you to risk sliding back into one."

Heyes chuckled, turned around and reached for his wife's hand. "Alright, you win, darling. I'm done for the night. But I need to get these done tomorrow, and I've got an appointment at the publisher tomorrow, too. They'd better accept H. Joshua Heyes on that article, or I'll need to re-do all these letters to take out mentions of the article."

Beth kissed her husband's hand and said soothingly, "They will accept your name. I've never known a publisher to turn down an article that was all edited and printed."

"They've never had an article from Hannibal Heyes before. Or H. Joshua Heyes, anyhow." Heyes' brown eyes looked very uncertain.

"No. But they, and other mathematics journals, will again. They'll get used to you, in time." Beth gave her husband an encouraging hug. "How many of those applications did you get to?"

Heyes sighed. "Four. And I copied each one over three times, ironing out the wrinkles."

Beth massaged her husband's tired back. "Wow! Did you do anything else at all today?"

"Not much. So I'm ready to relax with my sweetie for a while." Heyes grinned at Beth and pulled her into his arms.

When they had exchanged a few kisses, Beth pulled her apron out of a drawer and tied it on over her work dress. "You've earned some relaxing. I'll fix us some dinner, then maybe we can go walk over to that little park down the street."

Heyes looked unhappily at his wife. "I wish you didn't have to work all day and then cook, too. It's not fair."

"Well, there's no help for it. I'm not going to make you cook – or make us both eat your bunk-house cooking." Beth's eyes twinkled playfully at her husband.

Heyes laughed ruefully. "Sorry – cooking was never my strong point. The Kid told you about that. He's no better, by the way, except at pancakes. I wish I could hire us a cook or afford for us to eat out more. Maybe having that article out will help me get a position."

"I'm sure it will, Heyes. It's very impressive. It's well written. Most of those math articles are terribly dry. Yours is really interesting."

Heyes put his arm around Beth. "Thank you. But you aren't exactly an impartial judge."

"I'm being honest."

"Sure you are." Heyes gave his wife a loving kiss.

The next morning, H. Joshua Heyes walked into the offices of Empire State Publishing Company feeling tense, but trying not to show it. He was about to reveal his new name to a stranger in his own field for the first time. What the first initial "H" stood for in his name was going to be painfully obvious to someone whose cooperation would be vital for Heyes' professional standing as he sent out applications.

Heyes walked up to the reception desk in the lobby, which he found empty. He rang the little round bell briskly. A jolly man in glasses hurried out of a back room to answer it. "Pardon me," said Heyes. "I have an appointment with Mr. Dwight."

The man behind the desk looked at a list. "And you are?" he asked.

"H. Joshua Heyes of Columbia University," said Heyes. "Can I please see the editor? I'm the one who's been holding up publication of the Journal of Mathematical Inquiry."

"Oh! So you're the fly in the ointment. Good luck. Dwight's not happy with you. First you said you'd have the information for him last week and now it's this week. He's really annoyed." The clerk was smiling sadistically at the thought of another man's discomfort in dealing with his prickly boss. "He's all the way down that hall, last office on the left."

The ex-outlaw hurried down the hall, not wanting to be late. He had always prided himself on being prompt, be it the precise timing of bank jobs or meeting a lady at the exact moment he had promised. "Pardon me, Mr. Dwight?" said Heyes tentatively looking in the open door to an office piled with files, books, and journals, bound and unbound. "I'm um . . . I'm the author of the article you've been waiting for so patiently."

"You are, are you?" The neat little Dwight stood up from his desk and walked around it to stand next to Heyes. He did not receive the object of the delay with pleasure. "Don't assume my patience. When a scholar with the standing of Charlie Homer asks something of this journal, it's hard to ignore. But it doesn't mean I'm happy."

Heyes looked sheepish. "Oh. Well, my apologies for the delay. There was no help for it. I hope you're happy with my article otherwise."

"It will do." The editor's frown relaxed a bit. "Actually, I bet it will attract some pretty fair attention. If your ideas on ballistics and explosives work out like you say, it'll save lives in mines and maybe on battlefields. But that long delay is causing problems. That blank where your name should be – would you fill that in? Now?"

Heyes nodded. "Yes, I will. The name is Heyes. H. Joshua Heyes – here's my card."

Dwight studied the card and nodded, then looked up curiously. "Unusual spelling, Mr. Heyes. Can I ask why the wait for that information?"

Heyes shifted his feel uncomfortably. "I was, um, waiting for a hearing to be over. To change my name."

"I suppose it's no business of mine why a man would change his name, but I confess to being very curious. Why would you change it from Smith to Heyes?"

"Um, no sir, that wasn't the change. Heyes has always been my name. I just added the new middle name which I prefer to my first name."

"Then why was the name Smith on the article when you first submitted it?" Dwight stared hard at the mysterious author.

"It was, um, my alias. Or one of them."

"Alias? Why would a mathematics student need an alias? Or more than one alias." Dwight paused and said speculatively, "Unless he was known for something else? Maybe a whole lot better known?"

Heyes shrugged. "I think you might well be onto me. Not that there's any danger, now that my amnesty's come through."

"Amnesty? Heyes. Don't tell me that the H stands for . . .?"

"Hannibal." Heyes hated saying the infamous syllables in that scholarly context.

"Good lord! Really?" The editor stepped back a pace, looking Heyes up and down as if he were a rather dangerous prize stallion.

Heyes shrugged. "Yes. Don't worry – my partner and I are strictly on the side of the law these days. In fact, he's a sheriff now."

Dwight continued to study the author before him. The editor's mood continued to improve. "I've read in the newspapers about you. Very exciting stuff. This article really will be a sensation, once the word gets out. Maybe we'll need to do a second printing." Heyes could hear how delighted the editor was; scholarly journals rarely got high sales, but this one might well accomplish that.

Heyes felt his spirits sink, but he tried to put a good face on it. He had hoped that scholarly publishing would be above such considerations. "I'm glad to add to sales, Mr. Dwight. But really, I wish the word about my past never would get out in association with my new professional work. I'd far rather be known as a mathematician." At least there was nothing in the journal that said anything about Heyes' dishonest past. If the word got out, it would be by other avenues.

There was still a greedy, calculating twinkle in the editor's eye. "You prefer to be identified as a scholar rather than as an outlaw? I suppose so. No pesky posses after you as a mathematician, eh?"

"Not too many. They did get kind of tiresome. There aren't many things I hate as much as being hauled off in handcuffs. I'm glad to be past that at last."

Dwight watched Heyes curiously. "You really got arrested more than once?"

"Over a dozen times," said Heyes casually, examining a stack of mathematical journals on the editor's desk.

Dwight studied the seemingly ordinary scholar before him in puzzlement. "If they caught you, how did you manage not to be imprisoned?"

Heyes looked up with sparkling eyes. "That's our little secret. Let's just say my partner and I had a gift for liberty."

The publisher laughed. "And larceny."

"That, too." Heyes winked at his first publisher. "In those days. Now, it seems like larceny to me that you get the money from the journals and I get none."

"That's how scholarly journals work. You authors get the glory."

Heyes nodded, sighing, "And we do the work. I know, I know, editing and publishing is work, too. And paper and ink cost money."

Dwight smiled with understanding. He worked with scholars a lot and realized the inequity of the system. But he knew this case a bit unusual. "When word of your new career gets out, it's going to add another bunch of stories to the ones we've seen in the newspapers. Stories very much to your credit, I think. So I'm lucky to get in on it and sell some journals. They'll probably be collectors' items in a few years. Let's go see that new name of yours laid out in the press room, Mr. H. Joshua Heyes."

Heyes enjoyed watching the lead type being put into place on a little hand press, spelling his new name in mirror image. Each front page of his article would be passed through the little press to add the name that had been missing. Heyes watched the process one time through. He took a freshly amended page and a stack of unbound pages away with him as a souvenir.

When Beth got home from work he excitedly told her and Cat. "Look, here it is in galley proofs! They'll have the first issues bound and ready for me tomorrow. My first article in print!"

Beth threw her arms around her husband and kissed him. "With the name H. Joshua Heyes on it! I know you can hardly wait for those journals."

"You got that right. Isn't that title page beautiful?" asked Heyes, holding the page up.

Beth beamed and kissed her husband again. "It surely is, with all those honors listed on it. That's how you'll be introduced to a whole lot of new colleagues all over the country, even all over the world."

Heyes didn't hide how very proud he was of his new accomplishments. "Yeah. When I go and present at that conference at Drexel, I hope some people will have read that article and have some idea of who Joshua Heyes is."

"Yes. Who he really is," said Beth with a proud smile. "He's a scholar, and soon a professor who'll change a lot of lives for the better, including his own."

Cat had come into the room during this conversation. Heyes handed her the title page of his new article.

"Look at that, Cat. It's the beginning of what Jed and I have worked so hard for," said the new mathematical authority. "I'd sure never have gotten this far without my partner's support, and yours and Beth's."

Cat smiled at her cousin-in-law. "Jed and I are awful proud of you, Heyes! I hope those new journals will be ready before I leave tomorrow afternoon to go West to see my aunt in Kansas. I'd love to take a copy to Jed, when he calls me to go to Louisville."

"I'll try to get a copy for you and Jed, Cat," grinned Heyes. "If they aren't printed and dry and bound before your train leaves, then I can send you one easily enough. But other than that and ones for Beth and Charlie, I know where the first issues I get my hands on need to go."

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The next afternoon, H. Joshua Heyes walked out of the Empire State Publishing company with a briefcase full of freshly printed journals and a wide smile on his bespectacled face. His first scholarly article was finally in print and the name on it was not that of a notorious outlaw. It was the name of a mathematician. As Heyes walked down the street and turned north on Lexington Avenue, he damped down the smile to a level that wouldn't look improper in public. But the triumphant glow in his heart didn't dim.

The newly published author walked ten blocks and looked up at a shop sign he hadn't seen in more than five years. It was Anderson's International Book Store. Heyes entered the shop a little cautiously. He saw no one at the front desk, so he indulged himself by loitering down the shelf that held volumes on mathematics. He pulled a newly published volume on trigonometry off the shelf to study. He looked at the title and the table of contents, then perused a couple of paragraphs. He knew the British author through letters, though the man might perhaps only just be getting the letter telling him who his American friend actually was. Heyes put the volume back, with regret. He had his new name, but he didn't have a full time job yet; he couldn't afford new books. He hoped one day to be able to add this book to his small private library. The vast majority of the collection of books of which Jim and others had complained during Heyes' college years had been checked out from the Columbia University library or borrowed from his professors or friends.

Heyes wandered over to the neighboring sections on ballistics and physics. There was nothing particularly new there that he hadn't seen at the Columbia library or other stores, so he went on to literature. After checking for new volumes of Arthur Conan Doyle and some other favorite contemporary authors, he looked for plays by Shakespeare. He was always in search of new editions with fresh annotations that might help answer his many questions about the antique vocabulary, Elizabethan politics, and many other things. So much was foreign yet very interesting to a late-nineteenth-century former outlaw, world-class mathematician, and voraciously curious all-around genius. As he studied a new edition of Henry V that boasted a nicely improved commentary on the longbows used by the early-fifteenth-century British army, Heyes glanced up to see a bald man in glasses behind the counter. The freshly published author smiled. He schooled his expression to neutrality and strolled over to the counter with deceptive calmness. He had been waiting for this day for more than ten years.

"Good afternoon. Are you Mr. Anderson?" asked Heyes.

The proprietor of the store looked up from his ledger, peering over the lens of his thick reading glasses. "Yes, sir. What can I do for you?"

"Actually," answered Heyes gladly, "I'm here to do something for you. I have ten brand-new copies of the summer issue of The Journal of Mathematical Inquiry." The proud new author reached into his briefcase, producing the new journals, which he put on the counter a few at a time. He straightened the pile carefully.

"At last!" exclaimed Anderson, virtually pouncing on the journals and upsetting Heyes' neat stack. "I've been waiting for those for more than a month. I've been putting off disappointed mathematicians left and right. Are you from Empire Publishing? Do you know what the delay was?"

Heyes suppressed his glee at being able to introduce himself to this long-time mentor he had never met. He would work up to it slowly. "No, I don't work for Empire, though I've just come from their offices. I'm the reason for the delay. They were waiting on one last fact for my article on ballistic theory – the first article in the front."

Anderson looked keenly over his glasses at the new author, then opened the top volume in the stack and flipped past the front matter to the first article. He peered at it through his glasses. "So you're . . ." he paused to read the name, "H. Joshua Heyes? Recent M.A. graduate from Columbia University? Summa cum laude?"

"Yes, sir, I am," said the newly published author proudly.

"Congratulations, Mr. Heyes!" Anderson reached out to shake the new author's hand. "I've heard rumors from my friends at Empire that they had something really interesting coming. I'm eager to read it."

Heyes flashed his infectious grin. "Thank you. I hope it will be worth the wait."

Anderson's eager brown eyes fixed on Heyes. "Can you tell me what that last fact was we've been waiting for?"

"I'll leave that for you to figure out." Heyes said, "But it had nothing to do with the research or conclusions. That was all in place. It was just a minor fact on the title page."

"Hm," said Anderson, "Like Sherlock Holmes, I love a good mystery. I try to emulate his methods." He opened the top volume again and studied the front page of Heyes' article. Then he opened another copy of the journal, and another, and another. Finally, the bookstore owner looked up with a smile. "It's your name. I was thinking it would be a degree or one of the honors, but all that is clearly part of the existing text that was printed in the regular way. However, your name has been separately printed in at the end of the line, so no spacing change was needed. It's set in the same font as the main article, so it was hard to pick out on most of the copies. The ink application is so slightly different – I wasn't sure. But on this one, it's just a tiny bit crooked – see? That would never happen if the type was locked in the same form with the rest of the text and printed at the same time." Anderson turned the volume on the counter so Heyes could see it. Sure enough, his new name was very slightly crooked on the page.

"Yes, sir. It was my name," Heyes said softly, his eyes searching around the store to see if anyone else was listening to this peculiar exchange. He could see where the conversation was heading, and he wasn't adverse to it. But he was habitually careful about his identity.

Anderson nodded and started to read the beginning of the article. Heyes stood still and watched him, curious about his first reader's reaction. Finally, the former outlaw asked, "Aren't you going to ask why they had to wait for my name?"

Anderson glanced up. "No, Mr. Heyes. That's none of my business. I'm curious, but you have a right to your privacy. Can I do anything else for you? I saw you looking at works in mathematics, science, modern literature, Shakespeare . . ." Anderson paused. He watched Heyes run one hand nervously through his hair, revealing the dark diagonal scar on his left temple. The bookstore owner suddenly studied the author before him with fresh intensity.

"Sir?" asked Heyes, uncomfortably aware of the increased scrutiny.

"Can I ask – you don't have to answer – but can I ask? Have you ever placed mail orders with this store?"

Heyes smiled slowly as a gleam grew in his eyes. Anderson was close to being onto him. And for once he was happy to be apprehended. "Yes, sir, I have. It's been nearly eight years since I placed my last order. It was under another name. In fact, I've been waiting a long time to meet you in person and to thank you for all you've done for me. I seriously doubt I could ever have acquired the education to write that article if I hadn't read the books that you sent me. And I wouldn't have known about most of those books if you hadn't written to me about them. You see, I never finished grade school as a boy."

Anderson's lips were parted and his eyes shown with excitement. "But you've finished it now, and far, far more, Mr. Heyes."

The ex-outlaw wasn't nervous any longer. He spoke with confidence. "Yes. I have been fortunate enough to get a second chance at an education. Or, perhaps you would say, a third chance. You were really the one who gave me the second chance that made the third chance possible."

"I see," said Anderson with a satisfied smile.

"You do?" Heyes had expected the bookstore owner to be baffled, or at least uncertain what all this meant.

"I think I do. Can I ask – please don't answer if you don't wish to do so – did you ever get treatment from a Dr. Leutze at his clinic for Aphasia Patients? He's a friend of mine and his patients often come here."

Heyes nodded. "Yes, I did get treatment there, Mr. Anderson."

"So, you came to New York after you got that nasty scar on your temple."

"Yes. It was caused by a bullet." Heyes felt himself start to sweat from reflex, although he had no reason any longer to worry over revealing facts about his past. Actually, he was glad to have his old friend and mentor start to understand some of what he had been through in the past eight years.

Anderson continued peppering his former client with questions. "Did it happen in Wyoming? In October 1883?"

"Relax, Heyes," the former outlaw thought to himself, "you aren't giving evidence in court."

Out loud, he said, "No. I was shot in Colorado in September 1885."

Now Anderson was a little puzzled. "So – you had moved two years earlier?"

Heyes wasn't sure precisely how much his former book dealer had figured out about him. His old book-ordering alias, certainly. But his real name? Evidently not, despite the tell-tale last name on the article. Heyes guessed that Anderson read far more books and journals than newspapers. "Not exactly moved. That implies a change of permanent address. When I was shot, I had no permanent address. I hadn't had one for two years. I had left Wyoming, as you noted, in October 1883."

"What made you give up the address you had when I was sending books for you to the warehouse in Cheyenne, Wyoming? The address where the Chinaman, the drunken preacher, and all those other characters picked up books for you."

"Oh, you found out about that, did you? You are like Sherlock Holmes. I had to leave. I, um, changed my profession." Heyes was still a little shy about revealing his past to an upright businessman.

Anderson kept questioning his mysterious client relentlessly, though without any malice. He was just curious. "What was the new profession?"

"No fixed profession. As long as I could stay away from what I did before, that was all I asked. I did almost every kind of odd job I could think of, from cattle herding to gold mining to body guarding to professional gambling. I was particularly good at the latter." Heyes gave his old mentor a playful wink.

Anderson nodded. "Ah, the Hoyle books on games. But you couldn't keep ordering books, even under your old alias?"

"Even so, Mr. Anderson. I couldn't order books under any of my many old aliases. I often had little money to buy them. I also didn't have shelves to put them on or a home to put shelves in."

"What was the profession you wanted so badly to leave behind?" Anderson asked.

"Can't you guess?" Heyes felt uncertain as to how to put his dirty past to this scholarly businessman.

Anderson was equally unsure. "I hate to say it . . . It seems so unlikely . . . I don't want to insult you if I'm wrong."

So Heyes provided a strange little sidelight that might help Anderson to decide if his wild guess was right. "Well – let's see if this gives you a hint. When we first rode out from our old place, my partner and I, I did take one volume with me that might give you some idea of my old approach to life. It was all I could fit into my saddle bags along with the stark necessities. Can you guess what one book I took along?" Heyes was enjoying this conversation more and more.

"Hm. Machiavelli's The Prince?"

"That was it!" Heyes bowed slightly to the impressive intellect before him. Anderson really did know him! Or he knew what Heyes had used to be like.

Anderson asked, "Do you have that book any longer?"

"No. In fact, it's been gone for a long time. My horse took a bullet only a few weeks after we rode out in the autumn of '83. The book was soaked with his blood. I threw it away."

"I suppose so. Do you miss the volume? I could easily replace it for you."

Heyes shook his head. "No, thank you. I'd far rather have something else. I started to turn away from Machiavelli's ideas even before I discarded the book. I'd gone straight and started thinking about the welfare of others more than my own profit."

"Straight?" Anderson sounded unsure, which surprised Heyes.

"I thought you had it all figured out, Mr. Anderson. Do you still not know what the first initial H in my name stands for?"

"I think so, but it's hard for me to believe." Anderson still wouldn't pronounce that notorious name.

Heyes looked at Anderson. "Is it really? Do you truly have a hard time believing the evils I was pulling off in between my purchases of Poe and Shakespeare? All I can say is, if it wasn't for those books, I wouldn't have ever have questioned that old life enough to leave it behind. I certainly wouldn't have an M.A. from Columbia and be looking to become a professor. If not for you, I'd probably either still be doing evil, or rotting in prison, or buried under some anonymous pile of dust in the desert. I might have ended being shot or hanged, but we also got close to dying of thirst in the desert."

Anderson looked distressed at that. "To think of you that way is distasteful – living that life. It's so foreign to me. I always thought of you as a friend, even if only on paper. I'm happy to meet you. And to know you aren't under that awful pile of dust." Anderson looked truly appalled. It was painful for him to face what Heyes' criminal past could have meant, in a practical way, for the man he had previously known only on paper.

As the two men renewed their friendship, a tall slender man with blonde hair came up beside Anderson and pointed at Heyes. He spoke excitedly, "Mr. Anderson! This is him! The man you said you so wanted to meet – the man who used to order books from Wyoming and showed up in the shop and paid you for his last order five years ago - Randolph Z. Quaid!"

"I know that, Harrison," said Mr. Anderson with a sad tinge to his voice. "But Quaid was, as you suggested when you last saw him in the shop five years ago, an alias."

"Yes," said Heyes. "I've recovered from the bullet in the head now, Mr. Harrison. I can talk, if not quite perfectly. And I can't use any alias any longer – not unless I want to get locked up for life."

"I don't understand," said Harrison.

"Mr. Harrison," said Anderson, "allow me to introduce a superb mathematician – H. Joshua Heyes. He just graduated with an M.A. from Columbia University with the highest honors. And he brought me copies of his new scholarly article,"

"But what does that have to do with your being imprisoned, Mr. Heyes?" asked Harrison.

"What do you think that first H stands for?" asked Heyes with raised eyebrows. "Who have you heard of who used to get up to mischief in Wyoming? And who by the name of Heyes has come to New York and been making a bothersome number of headlines?"

It took only a moment for Harrison to put together a number of things he had read in the newspapers lately with what he had just heard. He whispered. "Hannibal Heyes?"

Heyes laughed softly. For once, he was glad to hear the name. "Yes. Your boss was a mentor to me cross country years ago. He recommended books for an ignorant Kansas farm boy to read in between bank and train jobs. Not that he knew who I was or what I was doing in those days. Or did you, Mr. Anderson?"

Harrison's mouth had come open, but Mr. Anderson was looking less uncomfortable as he started to come to terms with the man before him. Harrison's boss answered, "No, Mr. Heyes, I honestly didn't figure out your secret identity. The thought occurred to me, since there aren't that many people of any fame in Wyoming. You and your partner were easily the most famous, of course. But it struck me as too fantastic to be possible. I rejected the hypothesis."

"Can I ask, Mr. Heyes," said Harrison, tentatively, "when you were using the alias Randolph Z. Quaid – what did the Z stand for?"

Heyes laughed. "Zero! Absolutely nothing!"

"Ah," said Anderson, "ever the mathematician!"

Heyes grinned. "Yes, I always loved math. How do you think I worked out all those complicated plans? Now I'll be glad to put the gift to better use. I hope to teach college mathematics someplace. My amnesty papers ask that I give that a try, and that's my dream."

Harrison studied Heyes. "Mr. Heyes, I have to say, you've worked hard and you've come a long way since your old letters to me. You already seem a whole lot more like an eastern professor than like a western criminal. Your intellect is obviously impressive and your speech reflects your excellent education. The accent, of course, I recognize as western. But other than that and the scars on your cheek and your temple, I would never in a million years have picked you out as an outlaw."

Heyes corrected him, sounding a little testy for the first time. "Ex-outlaw."

Harrison said, "Pardon me, sir. Ex-outlaw. But in any case, it's hard for me to imagine you riding hell-bent-for-leather away from some posse, when you were wanted."

"I have a hard time picturing you playing poker in dusty western bar rooms," said Anderson.

Heyes looked a bit wistful as he thought of those times that would never come again. "I've done quite a bit of both, actually. But no more. Or, well, not escaping posses any longer. Poker, now and then." Heyes could see how the two book sellers were looking at him. The image still didn't fit. He had an idea of what the problem was. "The glasses date to after I came east. If you're wearing glasses, it's hard to get a rough guy with a gun to take you seriously at a poker table or when you're facing off in the street." The two book sellers laughed at the mental picture.

"So you might conceive of the gold wire rims, the suit, and the straw boater as something of an East Coast disguise?" asked Anderson.

"Yes, I do. Or I did," said Heyes, "I've got some adjustments to make now that I'm an aspiring academic rather than a fleeing felon."

Anderson smiled at his friend's playful alliterations. "Speaking of mathematics and numbers, thank you for paying me back the $12.23 for your last book order. That was generous of you. I assume that you had little income at the time, while you were a patient at the Leutze Clinic. It was quite a nice gesture, since I seriously doubt you ever saw the books."

"I didn't ever get those books; they would have arrived after I went straight and left our hideout behind. But I guess you never got them back, either," said Heyes amiably, "I figured it was only right to pay you. I tried to communicate to you who I was when I left the money on the counter, even though I couldn't write or speak at all at the time."

"I recognized the pile of books and the dollar figure easily as belonging to Randolph Z. Quaid, Mr. Heyes. You knew me well enough to realize I would. But had I known your real name, I would have been truly surprised by your actions," said Anderson seriously. "From Machiavellian power manipulation and theft, to risking your own safety to pay a small debt when no one but you knew you owed it. That's quite an impressive transformation." He reached out his hand and Heyes took it. "I am eager to see how you do as an honest mathematician. Best of luck to you getting a post as a professor. I hope it's soon."

Heyes smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Anderson. I'll do all I can to give my students the same kind of guidance and encouragement you gave me when I needed it most. Teaching means a lot more than instructing students in the classroom – you've taught me that."

That inspired a brilliant smile from the New York bookseller. "I never thought myself as a teacher. Thank you, Mr. Heyes! That's a complement that means a lot, coming from you. It's wonderful to meet you at last, and to learn where those books helped to lead you."

Heyes' smile back had a slightly wistful edge to it. "They've led me a long way, Mr. Anderson. Thank you! I'll be back to see you when I can."

As Heyes went to leave, Anderson came close to speak privately with him. He had a strange, eager look in his eyes. "Mr. Heyes, I try to look on things intellectually, but I do read more than historic literature and math and science. I've read the books about you. I know they must be largely fiction, but something inspired them. You are a living legend, as the newspapers would put it. How many of those stories are true? Are you really as brave as they say?"

Heyes shrugged. "Brave? Me? To tell you the truth, I never did like to take unnecessary chances. To me, that's just stupid and careless. People seem to think getting shot proves a man is brave. When I got shot, like I have too many times, it meant I'd messed up somehow. I used to have men in pay to watch out for me and follow my direction, though that was a long time ago. But I'll tell you one thing. I'd ride into the mouth of Hell itself if Kid Curry was by my side." Hannibal Joshua Heyes turned and walked out the door with his briefcase in his hand.

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Jed Curry wasn't riding anywhere at that moment. He was at his desk, going through the letters and notices that had accumulated during his trip to Denver. He had done as many patrols as he had time for, trying to avoid the paperwork. But he couldn't avoid it any longer. The afternoon was getting on and Curry was envying his deputy, who was out on patrol. The youngster was, Curry felt, getting pretty good at his duties. Just as Jed was congratulating himself on having hired a decent deputy, he heard the man's voice. "Boss! Boss, you might want to come out here."

When Sheriff Curry heard the anxious edge to Billy Healy's voice, he was up on his feet instantly, with his right hand by his gun. He looked out the window and studied the situation. There was a man standing in the middle of the street. Jed didn't recognize the man, but the stance and situation were far too familiar. It was a man standing with his feet apart and his hand near his gun. The Kid shook his head unhappily. The first of them had come – the men who wanted to face off with Kid Curry. How many would there be? How many men would die in that street while he was sheriff? Might Curry himself be one of them? Maybe today?

There was only one way to find out. "What is it, Billy?" called Curry.

Healy replied in a taut voice, "A man out here wants a word with you, boss."

"Is that all he wants?" inquired the new sheriff testily as he stepped out the door.

A different voice shouted angrily from the street. "Come out here and find out, Curry."

The sheriff stepped slowly into the dusty street. He looked at the broad-shouldered, tautly-muscled young man of about twenty-five standing facing him with his eyes squinting in the brilliant summer sun. The Kid spoke patiently but firmly, as a lawman, not a gunfighter. "Mister, get out of the street. You're blocking traffic and frightening folks."

All around, people were hurrying into stores to find shelter. A woman screamed and rushed away with her baby. But other townspeople peeked out of shop and hotel windows, watching the fight shaping up.

"No, I ain't moving. Not 'till we get a chance to sort things out between us," growled the stranger.

A boy's high voice piped from a back alley, "Jimmy, come and see! Kid Curry's gonna shoot a man down!"

"Who are you and what can I do for you?" Jed Curry asked the stranger blocking his way. He was trying his hardest not to be angry at this man who wanted to challenge his new authority and put his townspeople in danger. Staying cool would serve him far better. The internal battle didn't show. It never did. As Heyes and others had often remarked, the Kid had a formidable poker face.

"My name is Burns. Jonas Burns." The man declared with a confident gleam in his blue eyes.

The sheriff nodded. Then he gestured for Billy to get out of the street and onto the board walk in front of the sheriff's office. At least he could keep his deputy clear. Then Curry spoke again to the challenger. "I know who are, assuming you ain't lying. You're a gunman out of Montana. You ain't wanted in Colorado. I got no beef with you. Go on your way and don't be stirring up trouble."

The young gunman spoke aggressively. "And I know who you are. You're Kid Curry. And I do have a beef with you."

The sheriff's words were calm, but firm. "I'm Jed Curry, the sheriff here. So far as I recollect, we've never met. So how can you have a beef with me?"

"Word is, you say you're the fastest gun west of the Mississippi. But I think that just might be me," said the younger challenger proudly.

Curry snorted. "You heard wrong. Other folks might have said that, but I never bragged on my speed on the draw to anybody. I'm here to keep the peace, not to draw on guys."

"You didn't brag on your draw, Curry?"

"I don't brag, Burns."

The younger man's eyes flashed combatively. "So maybe you figure you don't have to?"

"That's just what I figure." Curry was perfectly calm.

"Well, old man, I figure I can beat you." Burns pushed verbally at the famous champion, but there wasn't the hint of any anger or even annoyance in the sheriff's steady blue eyes.

"And I don't think you can, boy." The out-of-towner's eyes flared angrily at the slight from the West's most famous gunman.

"So, I guess we'd better sort things out in a practical way. You're mightly slow coming to draw on me, Kid."

The sheriff shook his head. "I won't draw on you. We can see who's faster without blocking traffic or putting any folks in danger."

"We can?" The tough challenging gunman was taken off guard.

Suddenly, the Kid looked far more friendly than hostile. "Sure." He gestured to his deputy. "Billy, come with us back behind the livery stable where I've got that little range set up for practicing. You can count off for us. Burns, we can set up a few cans and settle this sensibly. Only a fool would put his life in danger when he don't have to. I ain't no fool. Maybe you ain't, neither."

"What about a coward, Curry? A man who won't shoot it out with somebody on his turf looks like a coward to me." Burns looked as tough as a young man facing off with the West's most famous gunman could. Curry thought he might just be able to detect the Montana man trembling very slightly.

The Kid was almost smiling. "I gonna pretend I didn't hear that." There was a tense pause as the men locked eyes. Curry spoke amicably, "Come on Burns, shoot with me instead against me. I'll buy you a drink afterward, no matter who wins."

Burns paused to think this over. The whole town was watching. Finally, he said, "Well, alright, Mr. Curry." Burns turned to follow the sheriff toward the livery stable. He seemed to figure that if he couldn't gun down Kid Curry, maybe a good second best might be to make friends with him.

Within a few minutes, Billy had cans set up on a row of fence posts and the Kid was lined up next to Harry Burns. Burns kept furtively glancing at the man next to him. Was he going to sneak in a shot sideways at his opponent instead of the cans? Curry's cool blue eyes remained fixed on the cans. He wasn't worried.

Eyes were peering out of windows, from alleys, back doors, and roof tops all around the men as they prepared to match their draws. Curry knew that word of this contest would go out far and wide. He hoped it wouldn't bring in more who wanted to have a contest with him. The next man would probably insist on doing it head to head in the street.

"Alright, gentlemen," said Billy. "Are you ready to fire on the count of three?"

"Ready," said the Kid.

"Me, too," said Burns, flashing a grin.

Billy Healy counted off, "One, two, three!"

There was only one bang. The Kid had his can shot off its perch before Burns was more than clear of his holster. There was a long silence while Burns just shook his head with his mouth open.

Finally, Burns said, slowly, "That, Mr. Curry, is the gol-darnedest thing I ever saw in my life. I want to thank you, sir, for saving my life. Just how many men have you gunned down, anyhow?"

"More than enough, Burns. That's all you need to know. I ain't ever been eager to shoot any man."

The winner of the contest turned to look around at the townsfolk gaping at him from every possible vantage point. He shouted, "Do you hear me? I ain't here to murder no man. And I ain't here to have gunfights in the street or anyplace. I'm here to keep the peace. I'm here to watch over every man, woman, and child in this town. So you tell that to anybody who wants to make himself a big man by gunning for Kid Curry. They won't get no satisfaction. Not out of Sheriff Jed Curry, they won't. You tell 'em for me!"

There was tense, long silence from the watching townsfolk.

Finally, Burns said, "Say, what about that drink, sheriff? It's dry out here."

"Sounds good to me," said Curry amiably, clapping his new friend on the back. "I run Christy's Place. Billy, watch the office while I'm gone. This time I think it's worthwhile to drink on duty."

As Jed Curry leaned on the bar next to his new friend from Montana, a figure stepped in the door whom Curry had never seen in his saloon. It was a grey-haired minister whom he had often seen looking after the poor and troubled of the town.

"Welcome, Reverend!" said the proprietor in surprise. "I never thought to see you in a saloon." He spoke with respect.

"When peace is achieved in a saloon, I'm glad to enter one. Mr. Burns, Sheriff Curry, I'm glad to see you meeting in accord rather than killing one another in the street." The two gunmen nodded to the man of God, both of them feeling more than a little embarrassed about their violent pasts.

The minister continued. "Mr. Curry, I must say that when I found out who our new sheriff really was, I was more than a little worried. I was afraid that Kid Curry with a badge might attract a lot of the wrong kind of attention here. Your actions and your speech just now make me feel a lot better. If you can set an example of peace in this town, you can do us a lot of good."

"I hope so, Reverend," said Curry modestly, realizing that a lot of men were listening around them. "I was worried same as you were. I don't want to bring more gun fighting here. This town has seen some rough times, but it's my home now. I don't care what folks think of me. I just want this place to be safe. My family and my friends are here. I'm doing my best to keep the peace."

"Then you and I are in the same business, in the ways that really count, Mr. Curry," said the Minister, reaching out his hand. "I look forward to working together to keep this town safe and peaceful."

Curry shook the minister's hand. "I'm with you, Reverend. My wife and I would like to be members of your congregation, if you'll have us. Mrs. Curry is away just now, but she'll be back soon."

"We would be honored, Mr. Curry," answered the Reverend with a smile. "We'll look forward to seeing you on Sunday. And what about you, Mr. Burns?"

Burns blushed and studied the floor for a moment. "Um, Reverend, I think I'll be on my way, telling guys with guns to steer clear of this town. Mr. Curry's been real decent to me. I want to spare him as much business as I can."

The Minister nodded. "In that case, Mr. Burns, we won't look for you in our congregation on Sunday. But maybe another minister might have the pleasure?"

"Maybe, Reverend," said the young gunman frankly. "I'll give that some thought. I surely will."

"You might do that, Burns," said Sheriff Curry.

Note to readers – to understand the back story for the Heyes part of this chapter, you need to read my allied story "Randolph Z. Quaid," posted on this board.