Beth and Polly were eating lunch at a small sidewalk café near the Leutze clinic. It was a pretty summer day. A brightly striped awning kept the sun off of the ladies as they ate. "What's the news from Joshua?" asked Polly between bites of her sandwich. A pigeon swooped in and clumsily landed to grab up a crumb she let drop.

Beth answered, "He sent me a telegram from Salt Lake City. The interview with the University of Deseret went well, he thinks. Of course, it will be a while before he knows the results of any of these interviews. Academic hiring isn't exactly like signing on with a cattle drive. The telegram seemed, I don't know, restrained. I think there are things he isn't telling me. People know him out west – in the wrong way."

Polly looked up keenly at her best friend. "I'm sure you don't need to be concerned. How much can a man say in a telegram, anyway?"

Beth looked back over a steaming bowl of soup. "Not much. Especially when it's Heyes. He's careful about telegrams. He wouldn't want to say anything that could hard his chances or embarrass anyone. He knows from experience how easy it is for that information to get to people you don't intend it for. People bribed telegraphers to find out things about Joshua and Jed more than once when they were still running from the law – especially that time Heyes got shot. And they did some telegrapher bribing themselves, back in the bad old days."

"What? Heyes and the Kid paying bribes?" Polly sounded surprised that the nice men she knew had ever been low enough to have done such a thing.

Beth knew better. "Of course they did, Polly. When a professional outlaw wants to know if a sheriff or somebody is on his trail, someone who might put him away for life or shoot him in the back, what's a little bribery?"

Polly laughed at herself. "I guess an unrepentant outlaw wouldn't see anything wrong with it. It's not so bad compared with armed robbery. Maybe I'm an innocent, but I still have a hard time picturing Joshua and Jed the way I know they used to be; holding up trains and blowing up bridges. It's thrilling, but it's not the men I know."

Beth corrected her seriously. "Oh, those old outlaws aren't too far under the surface. Jed, of course, uses that deadly draw of his all the time as a sheriff. And I know Heyes still has urges toward robbery. With the debts we have, I guess it's inevitable that he'd think about it. He doesn't say anything, but I see him studying banks and stores. That incredible mind gets to calculating. Then he sees me watching and stops himself. If he had to go back to robbery, judging from how easily he opened that rusty old church safe the other day, he'd still know how to do it."

Polly wrinkled her nose and flicked a fly away from her sandwich. "He always seems like such a nice guy."

Beth grinned briefly. "He is a nice guy. He's just a nice former outlaw who was very, very good at what he did. I'm glad he has the self-control not to steal now; it would still be terribly easy for him."

"And easy to get imprisoned for the rest of his life if anything went wrong. Do those remnants from his past bother you?"

Beth nodded. "Sure they do. But I to admit the outlaw part of Heyes excites me. And you know I'm far from the only one who thinks he's exciting. And attractive. I won't be easy in my mind until he's back. If he comes back." She ended with a low voice on a dark note.

Polly could see how paranoid her friend was getting while she missed her husband. "Beth! You can't be serious. Of course Joshua will come back to you. He adores you! You're just getting down because he's away and you miss him."

"I surely do miss him. It's tough to be parted; we were just getting used to living together in our own place. There are so many things to work out. Thank goodness Heyes is so tidy. I'd have a hard time with a husband who threw his clothes on the floor."

Beth paused and looked down the street toward the West. "Really, I worry more about some rival outlaw or overzealous sheriff than a rival woman. But, then again, he's bound to be tempted, Polly. You know Heyes. When he's not hiding it, he's the most magnetic man there is. Or I think he is. He walks into a room and every head turns. Especially the heads of women; except those strange ones like you, who like his partner better. If Heyes wanted to stray, he'd have no trouble at all. He could have pretty much any woman he wanted. And look at me – fat, mousy, pushing forty. Nobody notices me." Beth crossed her arms and looked down and away from her friend.

Polly tried frantically to sooth Beth's fears. "Hannibal Heyes notices you, Beth. He noticed enough to marry you. Maybe you don't know it, but you turn heads on your own account - especially when you're lecturing. And Heyes has eyes only for you. It's so obvious, whenever I see you two together."

"Well, when we're together, sure. But when I'm not with him, I know he notices other women, prettier women, like you." Beth was letting her insecurities show far more than she usually did.

Polly knew the last time Beth and Heyes had been apart for very long, he had been in prison. So perhaps it was no wonder she worried. "Oh, come on, Elizabeth! He's a man. Of course he notices women, though not me in particular. He doesn't pay any real attention to anybody but you. He had to get through those two long stretches without you – when he was first at school and after you walked out on him. You'll never know how miserable he was. But I saw him when he came to see Dr. Leutze – I know. He's not happy unless he's with you. Heyes won't stray. Trust me Beth, he won't." Polly touched her friend's hand comfortingly, drawing her attention to the gold wedding ring on her fourth finger.

Beth sighed and caressed the gold ring. "I know, I know. I should trust him. Really, I do trust him. Probably more than I should. After all, he is Hannibal Heyes."

As the two women walked back to their jobs at the Leutze clinic, they caught sight of a wealthy, bejeweled lady who was one of the clinic's financial backers. She was evidently coming from visiting the place where her funds paid many of the bills. The tall, elegantly garbed Mrs. Evelyn shot Elizabeth Heyes a disdainful glance and hurried into a carriage that carried her away. Mrs. Evelyn had always been friendly with Beth when she had been Miss Warren. Polly looked sadly at her friend. She knew that this was hardly the first time Mrs. Hannibal Heyes had been snubbed. Nor would it be the last.

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Early on the morning after his interview in Salt Lake City, Heyes caught the train out of Salt Lake City. Heyes pulled a black journal out of his briefcase and stared at it. He had bought it in New York and hadn't had the nerve to use it until now. He pulled off the top of a new fountain pen Ev Carter had given him for a graduation and wedding present. Then, with a bold flourish, Heyes wrote on the first page of the blank journal "Journal of Hannibal Joshua Heyes, 1891."

Heyes wrote the day's date at the beginning of his first entry and paused. Finally, he began writing, slowly. He had to pause when the train was too unsteady, or when his aphasia made it hard for him to think of a word. But Heyes smiled to himself. The pauses that marred his speech were invisible on paper. The cursive on paper flowed gracefully no matter how long he waited between words. If he no longer had a silver tongue, he might develop a silver pen.

"My name is Hannibal Heyes. Maybe you've heard of me.

Having put my criminal past behind me and been granted amnesty, I bought this journal with the idea of recording my own view of my life. I have long thought that I would like to keep a journal. People have written countless lies about me and my partner and gotten well paid for it. I would like to set the record straight, both about my past and what is happening to me now.

For someone in my former line of dishonest work, it would have been dangerous to write honestly. Even after Jed Curry and I gave up crime and started to hope for amnesty, more than seven years ago, I couldn't have done it. Any journal or diary could have been introduced in court and caused trouble for myself or people I care about. Now, it is my fervent hope that there is no further danger. I will write as fully and honestly as I can. I hope that this journal may one day hold some interest for my friends and family, even if for no one else.

Yesterday, I interviewed for the position of junior professor of mathematics at the University of Deseret, Salt Lake City, Utah. This was my first true, formal academic interview and I must say that I was apprehensive about it. My interview at New York University was a farce in which I was never given an honest chance. Dean Smith of Deseret began with some hostility toward a former outlaw with the . . . [Heyes paused and pulled out a paper-back dictionary to be sure he had the word he meant and spelled it correctly] temerity to apply for an academic position. But something about my story won him over. . ." Heyes continued recording recent events in straight forward language. Then he stopped for a moment and started a new paragraph.

"It is strange to think how hard it is for me to share my thoughts candidly with anyone. I wonder if even my dear wife would understand what it means to me to think that there is any evidence in this world of the true thoughts and feelings of Hannibal Heyes. Yes, I have published an academic article, but that was about facts. This journal will be me on paper. I can't help thinking about my mother, who encouraged me in school and told me once that she thought I might write a book one day. This isn't a book exactly, but it is between covers.

To be fully honest, I must say that I have my doubts about teaching at the University of Deseret. I wonder if they could ever come to trust a retired outlaw. The school, the town, and that whole part of the territory are so squeaky-clean, and so bound about with prohibitions that I wonder if my wife or I could be happy there. Beth would find the place painfully provincial. And the library of which they are so proud is a pitiful thing compared with the libraries Beth and I use in New York City. I suppose that will be true of the library at any school west of Chicago.

Could it be that a man from Kansas, a man whose name has become [the dictionary came out again] synonymous with the West has become too eastern ever to be at home in the West again? And yet, I rejoice at being west of the Mississippi. I breathe better out here. Beth has spoken to me about scholar friends, scholars of literature or art, whose hearts are awkwardly divided between their homes in the United States and the distant subjects of their study in Europe or Asia. I wonder if my heart has become similarly torn down the middle, if only between the West and the East of my own country. Sometimes it feels that painful. I wonder what my choice will be, if I am offered the chance between teaching in the West as my amnesty agreement requires me to try, or teaching in the East where the libraries and scholars are so much more plentiful and better. Frankly, I doubt I will have the choice. For even a single school to make me an offer this summer, with my past hanging over me, would be a miracle. After the work I have put in during the last six years at the Leutze Clinic and Columbia University, I find that hard to face. But it is the truth and so I record it.

My next interview will be in Laramie at the University of Wyoming. I cannot help but feel uneasy about the prospect of living in a state where I have caused so much damage and where I have been tried and imprisoned. I have my fingers crossed. I do not give up hope, but I go in some fear that I will be recognized. In past years, my gang and I held up many a train on this line. I hope that the formal suit I am wearing today, my briefcase, and my glasses, will help to keep people from recognizing the outlaw who used to wear a black cowboy hat with showy silver conchas on it. I used to tell railroad men to 'stand and deliver.' What fools we were, to introduce ourselves and make sure everyone knew who was holding them up! It's all past now. I may get by, if only no one spots me and puts a bullet in my law-abiding back."

Heyes stopped and closed the diary, then opened it and studied again the page with his signature in bold cursive. He knew he was writing self-consciously, watching his vocabulary and grammar as carefully as he would have in any essay for college. He wasn't sure if the voice was really his. As Heyes sat with this page opened, a conductor came by and said, "Sir?"

Heyes slammed the journal shut. He certainly didn't want any railroad men to know who he was. "Yes?" answered Heyes, trying not to sound guilty.

"Your ticket, sir?" said the conductor.

"Oh, yeah, here you go," said Heyes, fishing the bit of cardboard out of his breast pocket. He watched the grey-haired conductor studying the ticket. The former outlaw began to sweat. He was sure he had held up a train with this railroad man on it. In fact, he thought that this conductor had been on two trains robbed by the Devil's Hole Gang. But the conductor seemed totally fooled by Heyes' academic garb; he didn't give Heyes more than a glance as he handed back the ticket and went on his way along the car.

Heyes calmed down and just looked out the window for a while. But after a couple of hours, he was yawning. He squirmed in his seat. The danger-addicted man craved a fix and knew he couldn't have it and remain on the road to his academic career.

So he stood, stretched, and walked up and down the train aisle for a bit. He gave friendly smiles to his fellow travelers, tipping his hat to a pretty girl here and a stout matron there. Was he out to try to be recognized? He wasn't sure about that himself. There was an excitement in the danger and challenge of being recognized. But Heyes felt strange not to have to be on the watch for sheriffs or bounty hunters. He did, however, keep an eye out for railroad employees and for outlaws. After the question the dean at the University of Deseret had asked him about meeting up with his former colleagues, Heyes couldn't help thinking about the very realistic possibility. The uneasiness grew stronger with every mile the train got closer to the territory of Wyoming. He wasn't at all sure what a current outlaw might do to a man who had so publically gone to the other side of the law. Heyes smiled at the conductor he had recognized as the two men passed each other in the aisle. Could the grey-haired conductor have given the ex-outlaw a particularly sharp look? Surely not, thought Heyes. He was being paranoid again.

When Heyes had been back in his seat for a few minutes, he again saw the same conductor who had taken his ticket. "It's been a while since we saw you on this line, hasn't it?" asked the railroad man genially. So he did recognize Heyes.

The ex-outlaw didn't know what to say. He considered saying, "Yeah, lucky for you I've been away." But then it struck him. The conductor might well not know who he was; railroad men must see countless people. The conductor, finding Heyes' face vaguely familiar, might just assume he was remembering a past passenger. So Heyes replied, "Yeah, it's been a couple of months." He had, after all, last been on this line on his way to be tried for armed robbery. And before that he had ridden on his way to speak to the governor about his amnesty. He and the Kid had pulled off their last robbery on this line eight years before.

The conductor just nodded, giving no sign that he knew he was speaking to a former criminal. So Heyes tried to relax as he opened his briefcase. He pulled out a local newspaper he had picked up in Utah. He settled in to read the little rag, hoping to learn something about current events out West. If he was going to go for a career in this part of the country, he needed to be up to date. But he couldn't help watching for his own name and the Kid's in the articles, as he had when they had been on the run. It wasn't, after all, that long since their names had figured prominently in print from coast to coast. His new friends at the symposium at Drexel had told him that. Heyes yawned over the dull and very thin paper. A quick scan of the headlines revealed nothing that was likely to be about outlaws, former outlaws, math professors, universities, or even engineers. As the train pulled out of a small station, Heyes was about to opt for his new math book instead. Then his ears pricked at a conversation going on behind him.

"Excuse me, sir, are you a cowboy?" a woman with an educated British accent asked someone. Heyes could not directly see either person without obviously turning to look over his shoulder. A discrete glance into the reflective train window as they passed some trees disclosed a fashionably dressed, pretty young blonde who had evidently gotten on at the last station. She was standing in the aisle talking to a man in a black cowboy hat who was seated directly behind Heyes, facing away from him.

The man stood and tipped his hat to the lady. "I guess you could call me a cowboy. I'm a ranch foreman." Heyes immediately recognized the baritone voice of the "cowboy." He and the Kid had worked for that very foreman for a while after they had gone straight. So the ex-outlaw was immediately listening intently, all the while appearing to be engrossed in his newspaper.

"Oh, I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to take you for someone less important than you are. Might I ask you some questions? I'm here from England, writing for the Cambridge Post. My readers are very interested in the American West. I'm sure they would find you fascinating." The woman's voice was brimming with eagerness. She clung to the man's seat back – right behind Heyes – as the train picked up speed.

"No problem. Sit down, young lady, and I'll do my best for you," said the foreman happily, resuming his seat and patting the one beside him. Heyes remembered his former boss as a formidable ladies' man who hardly had a chance to sit down at local dances. Apparently this hadn't changed with the passage of a few years. The eager reporter was glad to claim the seat next to the handsome subject of her impromptu interview.

"Thank you very much, sir. What is your name?" Asked the lady reporter. Heyes' reflected view showed him a pencil poised over a little notebook.

"Ranger." There was a hint of challenge in the man's voice.

"Is that your first name or your last name?"

"That's the only one. What's yours?" The foreman's voice was suddenly hard.

No reporter likes an unsolved mystery, but the young woman knew better than to try the direct approach to researching this question. Heyes remembered the forbidding look Ranger gave people when he told them his brief and unusual name – or title. The reformed outlaw had never been sure which was true. The British woman answered the foreman, "My name is Maude Darwin. Here's my card."

"Glad to meet you, Miss Darwin," said the foreman, taking the card. "You're very nearly the prettiest reporter I ever met. Not quite, but real close."

"Oh?" Miss Darwin asked coyly.

"I married the prettiest one." Heyes was surprised; he had known Ranger as a confirmed bachelor.

"Well, I can't object to that. A man should praise his own wife more highly than anyone," said the reporter with a hint of disappointment in her voice. "And what is the name of the ranch where you work, Mr. Ranger?"

"I'm ramrod at the Bull Run Ranch. It's the biggest spread in Wyoming." The pride in Ranger's voice was unmistakable. Now Heyes knew Ranger was still at the same ranch where he and the Kid had worked.

"What does ramrod mean? I mean, I know what it has to do with a rifle or a canon, but what is it on a ranch?" The young reporter sounded overjoyed to find such a colorful subject to interview. Heyes smiled to himself. If she was excited about questioning a ranch foreman, what would she think of an infamous former outlaw?

"It means I'm the boss of the cow hands there, Miss Darwin. The owner pays me to make things run the right way." Ranger spoke with unmistakable pride.

"What kind of duties does that entail?" The pencil was at the ready again.

Ranger laughed. "What don't I do? I listen to the owner and make sure I know what he wants. Then I get it done. I hire the men, tell 'em what to do, get 'em to do it right, keep 'em out of jail, and fire 'em if they don't keep up. I make sure we have enough good horses well broke, well fed, well shod, and with tack that isn't falling apart. We keep the cattle safe, branded, and on good graze. That means moving a lot of ornery animals over a lot of tough country, up to the high country in the summer, down again in the fall. Then we round them up and get them to market in good condition. Over a range of that size, that rough, with thousands of head of cattle, it's not easy work. We spend a lot of nights out under the stars, and a lot of days coping with all kinds of stuff."

"With what kinds of things do you cope?" asked Miss Darwin eagerly.

Ranger snorted. "Strays from other ranches, barbed wire, poisonous weeds, droughts, rustlers, range wars, sickness, wolves, prairie dog holes. You name it, I've dealt with it, after ten years at Bull Run."

Heyes could hear Miss Darwin's pencil busily at work. "Goodness! It sounds very exciting."

"Sometimes. Other times, it can get pretty dull. Repetitive, anyhow. Cattle's cattle, day after day. And stupid hands are stupid hands." Ranger punctuated his remarks with the ringing ping of an accurate spit into a brass spittoon thoughtfully provided by the railroad.

"Do you ever encounter Indians?" asked the lady reporter, hopeful of a good story in reply.

"Nah, not generally. They were moved to reservations years back. I've met 'em when I've been off the place, but not on our spread."

"Oh. What about outlaws?" The newspaper lady was obviously going for excitement. Heyes was sorely tempted to provide it for her by introducing himself, but he resisted the temptation. He wasn't on this train to chat up pretty ladies or to annoy his former boss. Courting attention as a former outlaw wouldn't help him to get jobs in his new field. Besides, now he was married. But still, he listened.

Ranger answered Miss Darwin's question confidently. "Now and then we might meet up with guys who're wanted. Rustlers, mostly. And I watch out not to hire wanted men when I'm looking for new help in a hurry. Of course, they couldn't fool me."

Heyes had to stifle a laugh at that. The ramrod had failed spectacularly when he had hired Heyes and the Kid. They had worked at the ranch for nearly two months without seeming to arouse any suspicion, right there in the same territory where they were best known. Of course, Heyes had sported a beard at the time and the Kid had been very careful never to let anyone see him draw his gun. They'd joined up with the ranch along with a group of other men and they'd made sure not to let on that they were partners.

"So you never hired any outlaws, out there with all those rough men? Not one?" asked Miss Darwin playfully. A hard breath escaped Heyes, but he stopped himself just in time before he actually laughed.

The ramrod darted a glance behind him in Heyes' direction before answering, "Well, I remember one. We found him out and turned him in to the sheriff in the end. But I guess you never know who we might have hired and never found out about."

"Wyoming is the home to some very famous outlaws, is it not?" Miss Darwin asked hopefully.

"Oh, yeah. The Teasdale Brothers were some of the worst, but they haven't been heard from in a while. Murdering b . . . I mean they killed a lot of men. 'Course, the most famous of all the outlaws were Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes. They led the Devil's Hole Gang for more than six years. Have you heard of them?" Ranger wasn't at all sure what word might have gotten to England.

"I was not previously acquainted with the Teasdale Brothers, but I have certainly read about the infamous Mr. Curry and Mr. Heyes. We know those names even in England." The young woman tried in vain to sound knowledgeable. Heyes was listening to every word. Whatever he could learn about local, or even international, attitudes about himself and his partner could be very helpful with interviews and just in general. His ego was purring like a great big kitten. It did, however, annoy him to have people name his partner first of the two. They always seemed to do that.

"Have you ever met that infamous pair?" asked Miss Darwin.

"No," said the ramrod flatly. Heyes had to pretend to cough to cover what would have been an explosion of laughter.

Ranger started at the sound. "But I've heard and read a good deal about 'em. They were the slickest pair of outlaws this territory, or I guess any territory, ever saw. Blew up bridges, stopped trains, robbed banks, and stole a ton of cash and bullion. A lot more than the James-Younger bunch ever did down in Missouri. The law never caught them, or not to keep, anyhow. They used to break arrest and jail like I could break a stick of horehound candy."

"But weren't they imprisoned for armed robbery just recently?" The British reporter looked up from the rapid notes she was taking.

"Yeah – for three days before they got amnesty. They'd turned themselves in. They'd been straight a while and I guess they figured the amnesty was coming soon. Curry's a sheriff out in Colorado these days. Saw in the newspaper he just caught a big-time killer. And Heyes is in New York City, from what the papers say. He went to college because he wants to teach. Good luck to him, is all I can say. Who'd hire a safe cracker to teach math?" The ramrod spat into the brass spittoon again.

"Yes, it does seem an odd choice of a career after a life of crime," agreed Miss Darwin. Heyes was less than happy to overhear that, but he supposed most people would agree.

"Do you have any colorful stories about roundups or stampedes?" asked the lady reporter, seemingly bored with third-hand information about well-known outlaws.

"Oh, I might just be able to think of something that wouldn't bore you," said Ranger. He went on to tell a few tales, which sent Heyes back to looking at his notes and reading his math book. He had heard more than enough stories of roundups and stampedes during his days in the West. The former outlaw had never found cows particularly exciting. His own adventures far surpassed anything a cowhand could recount, so far as Heyes was concerned. If the lady from England wanted to hear about agricultural things, let her.

Eventually, the lady reporter stood up. "My thanks to you, Mr. Ranger, for the interview. I'll send a copy of the story to you at Bull Run Ranch when it's published. I'm getting off at the next stop."

"My pleasure, Miss Darwin," answered Ranger, rising and tipping his black hat. As the train stopped, he helped her with her luggage.

When Ranger sat back down, he chose not the seat behind Heyes but the one beside him. The foreman said, "You were enjoying listening to me, weren't you, stranger?" He stared curiously at the former outlaw, disguised by his suit and wire-rimmed glasses.

"You sure did tell a few whoppers to that innocent little gal," Heyes said with his voice full of fun.

Ranger was startled, "Huh? Everything I said was the honest to goodness truth. Say, don't I know you? Or did you have a brother or somebody ride with Bull Run Ranch a few years back? He looked a lot like you, but he had a beard and he didn't have those scars."

Heyes laughed. "No, that was me, ramrod, lying low. And the scars came later."

"Oh?" Ranger was puzzled. "But then, I never could figure out why you rode out before you could collect your second month's pay. Not that I didn't have my suspicions about you and the other guy who up and left at the same time."

Heyes chuckled wryly. "Suspicions, my foot. You didn't know?"

Ranger sounded plenty suspicious now. "Know what?"

Heyes continued to tease his former boss. "Well, it sounded like you knew plenty, judging from what you were telling that young lady about us."

Ranger was at least pretending that he still didn't realize to whom he was speaking. "You've lost me. Ain't your name Smith? I never mentioned you. And what do you mean, us? You and the other guy who rode out?"

Heyes was having fun with this conversation, drawing out revealing who he was to a Wyoming man who would certainly know lots of Devil's Hole stories and appreciate them. "Yeah. I mean me and my partner. You had a good deal to say about us. He said to me, my partner did, the day we scatted out of Bull Run, that he was sure you saw him out in the woods practicing his draw. So we took off like a shot after that. Isn't as though anybody with half an eye could ever mistake the Kid's draw."

"The Kid?" Ranger stared hard at the man sitting beside him.

"Yeah."

"You don't mean Kid Curry?" The ramrod's voice was very soft and he glanced around to make sure he wasn't giving anything away to their fellow passengers. Having unknowingly hired two notorious outlaws to work on his ranch wouldn't be at all good for Ranger's reputation.

"I do."

"The guy who left at the same time you did? He's Kid Curry himself?! Is that so? I saw him practice some shots out in the woods. He was damned accurate, but I never saw the fast draw. I must have gotten there just too late." The ramrod was getting nearly as excited as Miss Darwin would have, but he still kept his voice discretely low. The rattle of the train car kept the other passengers from hearing him, evidently, since none of them turned to stare.

"He wasn't sure if you did or didn't. Better safe than sorry. So we high-tailed it." Heyes' voice was just above a whisper. He was annoyed to yet again play second fiddle to his infamous fast-draw partner.

Ranger was taken aback for only a moment. Then Heyes saw a look on his face that he had seen before – the brown eyes were full of hurt. He sounded bitter. "And I thought I could trust Mr. Smith and Mr. Jones. Instead, we had Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry right there in the bunkhouse for nearly two months. No wonder you were such rotten hands." The ramrod laughed derisively at the memory. The familiar conductor did happen to pass by at just this moment. Was Heyes imagining that the man seemed to pause for longer than usual in his rounds just as Ranger was saying those infamous names?

The ex-outlaw asked his old boss playfully, "Come on, were we really that bad?"

"Well, Heyes, you've got to admit that you were a lot better at playing poker than you were at driving cattle. Or taking my orders. It wasn't hard to see you generally made your living doing something else, both of you."

Heyes faced up to the resentment he saw in his former boss's eyes and heard in his voice. "I can see how you feel, Ranger. I'm sorry we used you and the hands and the folks who owned the ranch – the Williams family, isn't it? Anyhow, I feel bad that we had to deceive you. We did that a lot in those days. I'm glad we don't have to do that kind of stuff any longer. We're straight now and I'm sure you know we got amnesty at last."

"I guess you must have been straight when you rode with us," said Ranger, "and maybe even going for amnesty."

"Yeah. We were trying to make an honest living, but it was tough. Not that we hadn't earned a little hardship, or more than a little. I don't deny it. Whenever we tried to find work, people kept spotting us, or we'd think they had, or be afraid they might, and then we'd move on. Listen, Ranger, you don't have to sit with me if you don't want to."

The ramrod shrugged. "Might as well, Heyes. Maybe somebody'll buy me a drink on the strength of the story. Are you really looking for work teaching college?"

"Yeah. Quite a change from my old trade, though I did teach those boys a thing or two when I could. I got some of the illiterate ones to reading." But Heyes was too nervous to discuss the Devil's Hole Gang for long in public. So the ramrod and the former outlaw boss exchanged safe, common Wyoming gossip for a while. The conversation felt strange and awkward after Heyes' sensational revelation.

Finally Heyes said, "Excuse me, Ranger, but I've got some work to do. So pardon me for a while."

"Sure, Heyes," said Ranger. "I'm just as glad to take a little cat nap. Things are bound to be busy when I get back to Bull Run. We work hard, you know." With that prickly, accusatory remark, the ramrod moved to the seat opposite Heyes. He watched curiously as the former outlaw pulled a clipboard out of his briefcase, then a long letter, a blank sheet of paper, a fountain pen, and a fat, leather-bound French dictionary.

Heyes balanced all this on his lap and the seat next to him. He labored away for a quite a while, reading the letter in French and writing his own reply a word or a phrase at a time. He had a harder time in French than in German, so the dictionary was in frequent use. Ranger, quickly growing bored with watching Heyes' scholarship, pulled his black hat down to shade his eyes and snored softly as the train rattled and shook over the tracks.

Eventually, Heyes got sick of writing in French and put his papers and dictionary back into his briefcase. Then he leaned back and started his own nap.

Both men woke up at the same moment, startled by the squeal of the train breaking hard. The train came to a sudden, jolting stop. Everyone gasped and looked around at a tiny town where they had not been scheduled to stop. Heyes recognized the small station called Creston. He had been through it often in his outlaw days. A young mother with two small children shrieked, "Is it a hold-up? Is it a hold up?" She hugged her little boy and girl to her.

The family conductor hurried into the car and called out, "All's safe. All's safe! But everybody out. We got engine trouble and we'll be a while getting it fixed. We'll let you know when you can board again to continue east."

"There's no hold up, Ma'am," said the grey-haired conductor in a friendly voice. He winked at the woman's little boy. "Curry and Heyes have been out of business a long time. It's just a little trouble with the engine. We'll get it fixed in an hour or so and be on our way. You can get food and drink at the Harvey House across the way and there's a telegraph in the train station if you need to send word about your delay."

Then the conductor raised his voice again, "Everybody out! We'll get her fixed in a while, but right now we've got to stop at Creston. Everybody out!"

Heyes picked up his bag and his briefcase and stepped off the train. He sighed, hating to be delayed. The pair of men walked slowly across the soft, sandy, unpaved street to the restaurant. The tiny station town stood isolated from all but the slender railroad line on the vast, flat, dry, treeless land.

"Where are you headed, Heyes?" asked Ranger

"Laramie," the ex-outlaw answered briefly. "Got an interview at the University day after tomorrow" Heyes didn't talk about his plans to visit the State Penitentiary to see if the reforms he and his partner had suggested were going forward.

The restaurant was crowded with a line out the door, but there was no choice of a place to eat in this little town. There was only a single unpaved street with but a few buildings on it. As they got to the back of the line, they saw someone they both knew standing just in front of them. It was a dusty, good-looking young cowboy with black hair and lively blue eyes. "Jake Hood!" exclaimed Ranger in surprise. "What're you doing in little old Creston instead of back at Bull Run where you belong?"

Jake turned around, startled. He spoke nervously to his boss. "Hello, ramrod. Mr. Williams let me take the train over to see an old girl friend of mine who's singing in the saloon here tonight. What're you doing here, yourself? I thought you'd be on the train coming back from that cattle auction you went to in Idaho."

"I was on the train until we had to stop for repairs. Don't know how long we'll be here, now," explained Ranger.

"We? Who's your friend?" asked Jake, switching his keen gaze over to study Heyes. "Say, you look familiar . . ."

"Hello, Jake," said Heyes. "It's been close to seven years since my partner and I rode with you boys at Bull Run. You're weren't more than a boy then, but how you could ride." The men shook hands.

"Thanks. Pardon me, you look mighty familiar, but I'm forgetting the name," said Jake awkwardly. "And I didn't remember as you had a partner."

"It's no wonder. I was using the name Joshua Smith then. I looked a bit different – on purpose. And my partner and I didn't want anybody to know we went together," Heyes spoke softly, not eager to reveal his identity in this crowded restaurant surrounded by noisily talking travelers as the line for food advanced in fits and starts.

There was a pause while one of the waitresses known as Harvey girls seated the men at a collective table next to a group of loudly complaining middle-aged tourists from the east. When the orders had been taken, Heyes could feel Jake Hood staring at him. Hood said under his breath, "So, what's your real name and why were you wanted? And are you still wanted?"

Heyes leaned very close to Jake and spoke in a low, level voice at the bottom of his baritone range, "I'd rather wait to answer your first and second questions until we've got some privacy. As for the third, obviously I'm not still wanted or I wouldn't be sitting here promising to tell you about it later. I'd be riding out as fast as I could go and I wouldn't mind stealing a horse to do it. I've done that often enough, but it's been a while."

Hood looked questioningly at the former Mr. Smith and then at his boss, who nodded. "You can trust him, now, Jake. I think." The last phrase was said emphatically with a hard look at Heyes.

"You can," said Heyes pointedly. After that, the thinly sliced beef and cabbage came and everyone concentrated on eating until they paid their bills.

Once they got outside and were walking across the street in the direction of the saloon, Jake got close to the mystery man's side while Ranger walked close to the other. They made sure no one else overheard this exchange. "Alright," said Jake tensely to the man walking in the middle, "what'd you do and what's the name you didn't want to say in there?"

The trio paused as they approach the board walk outside the Golden Spurs saloon, which was already noisy at this early hour.

"Armed robbery. A lot of it. And the name is Heyes."

Jake's voice dropped to a whisper. "And don't tell me your partner's name is . . ."

"Curry."

Jake stopped down in his tracks with his mouth opened and his eyes wide. "No!"

"Yes," said Ranger quietly, pointing to Heyes' left temple. "There's the famous bullet scar on his head you read about in the newspapers. You can see it as plain as I can."

"Whooee!" yelled Hood, jumping into the air like an excited boy. Seeing the attention this got him from the crowd in and near the saloon, he clapped his hand over his mouth and guided his boss and his new friend over in front of the boarded up building next door. In an excited but much lower voice, he added, "Mr. Heyes, you got to come meet the guys at Bull Run!"

Heyes didn't sound terribly keen to do that. "You don't have to call me Mister. And I don't think the ramrod here would want me anywhere near the place now that he knows who I am, Jake. Sorry. Maybe you've heard that the Kid and I have gone straight and gotten amnesty. I'm out here interviewing to be a professor, but I don't think your boss trusts me. I guess I don't blame him after I lied to you all before. I wouldn't lie like that now, but I did it before. That's a fact I can't deny."

Jake was trembling with excitement, his blue eyes flashing. "Ah, come on, Ranger, we've got to get Mr. Heyes to come out to the bunk house and meet the guys. If you have time, that is, Mr. Heyes. Where are you going and when do you have to be there?"

"Stop with the mister, Jake. Joshua is fine – it's my middle name. My appointment in Laramie isn't until day after tomorrow, though I've got stuff to do before that. But I don't want to upset your boss or his boss. I don't think they want outlaws around, even ex-outlaws. And they're the guys in charge." Heyes was more than a little reluctant.

"They are, but come on, boss." Jake turned to Ranger, pleading with him. "It's Hannibal Heyes! The guys would never forgive us if we let him get away without getting him to come meet them." Heyes could hear and see that Jake was still, as he remembered him as teenager, an incurable enthusiast. "I'll catch the train back east with you when they get the track fixed."

Ranger rolled his eyes. He wasn't going to get any peace until he gave in. "Alright, Jake. He can come if he wants to and has time. Just so long as he don't rob anybody." It didn't sound precisely certain as to whether the last sentence was a joke or not.

"Well, I don't want to upset people, Jake," said Heyes, not eager to be where some people might want him but others wouldn't. He guessed that the wealthy Williams family that owned the ranch wouldn't be happy to host a notorious outlaw whose thefts had probably struck their interests at times.

"Then it's settled. You're coming. You'll upset me and all the hands if you don't come," declared Jake firmly.

Heyes shrugged. "If it's alright with you, ramrod, I guess it wouldn't hurt me to sleep in a bunkhouse one more time. It'll save me money on a hotel. Then I'll head out in the morning to get to Laramie. I've got errands there before my interview." The ex-outlaw wondered if winning over a crowd of cowboys might help his cause with the public in Wyoming. He was fairly certain that ducking out on the chance to meet common folk would make him look bad.

"Well, alright Heyes," said Ranger reluctantly. "Just so long as you don't go near the big house. I don't want to get blamed for putting the family at risk. After all, there's Mrs. Williams and Eddie Mae there along with the men folk."

Heyes had been striving to stay quiet and modest, but the implication that he might be a threat to women got a powerful rise out of the reformed outlaw. "Wait just a darned minute there, ramrod! I never assaulted a woman in my life and nobody ever said I did. I'm married and I'm about to be a professor, for Christ's sake. Now take that back about the women or I'll . . ."

Ranger laughed, "Are you so civilized you'll strike me, sir?"

Heyes joined in the laugher. "Well, I guess not. But seriously, my partner and I don't hurt folks, men or women. I mean, there was the one guy I killed, but that was self-defense and that's what the court of law ruled."

"I'm sorry, Heyes," said Ranger. "I didn't mean you really would do anything like that. I was just thinking of how women panic over things.

"That's alright," said Heyes, slowly cooling down after such a hard blow to his ego. "Now that I have to use my real name, I guess plenty of folks will panic."

The three were headed back toward the train station, where people were starting to line up to get back on the train. "Jake, what about that gal you wanted to hear sing?" asked Heyes.

"Forget her. It's not every day I meet Hannibal Heyes." The young man smiled brilliantly.

Heyes chuckled, "No, and it isn't this day, either. You met me more than six years ago, Jake."

"I know it, Mr. Heyes. But excuse me, I got to get my gear from the hotel." Jake took off running across the street, narrowly dodging a stage coach.

"Man, you'd think he was still sixteen the way he goes on," moaned Ranger. "Sorry about that, Heyes."

"Not a problem," answered the man who was easily the biggest celebrity in the state of Wyoming. His partner might have rivaled him had he been there in Wyoming, but, of course, the Kid was in Colorado still immobilized by his broken leg.

Just as Jake got back to the train with a carpetbag in his hand, the conductor called out, "All aboard! All aboard for Rawlins, Laramie, and points east!" The people lined up and began to file onto the train again. The conductor smiled at Heyes as he got aboard. The former outlaw nervously returned the smile.

The three men bound for Bull Run Ranch found seats together. "So, Heyes," began Jake Hood.

"Could you for Pete's sake keep your voice down?" whispered Heyes angrily, glancing back and forth to make sure nobody had taken notice. "I don't take to being stared at or spat at or shot in the back by some old rival." But it seemed as if everyone on the train was talking at once about the train schedule and no one cared about what Jake had said. Heyes, after all, sounded very much like the common name of Hayes, if a person didn't know the first name that went with it.

"Well, Heyes, you gonna tell us some stories?" asked Jake in a softer voice, but one animated by just as much enthusiasm.

"No. Not here, not now. Maybe back at the bunkhouse where the whole world can't hear and see," said Heyes, barely softening his anger at the young ranch hand. "I got a letter to finish up, so I can mail it in Laramie."

Heyes had to set some of his material on the floor in front of him, but he did manage to work on his letter in French for a few minutes. "What language is that?" asked young Jake, peering at the long letter Heyes was answering.

"French," said Heyes distractedly as he glanced between the French dictionary and the letter he was writing. "I'm answering a recommendation letter from a professor at the Sorbonne."

"The Sor-what?" Jake had, naturally enough, never heard the name.

Heyes gave the young cowhand a reticent smile. He was still unsure of how people from his past would react to his new career ambitions and the high-toned company he now kept. "A university in Paris. He's a specialist in trigonometry, like I am."

"Trig . . .?"

Heyes' teaching instincts kicked in and suddenly he wasn't mad or even mildly annoyed any longer. "Trigonometry. A kind of math using triangles. You use it to figure up things like how to aim a rifle or cannon to get the shot to go where you want it or how to direct explosions in a mine and stuff like that."

"Like you used to use when you blew safes and bridges?" It was Ranger the ramrod asking the question.

Heyes nodded. "Yeah. That's when I got started being interested, but I didn't really know what I was doing until I got into college. I've done a bunch of experiments with real charges. So I know the practical side a lot more recently than when the Kid and I were robbing banks and trains."

The aspiring professor went on avidly, drawing in the men sitting beside and opposite him. "I deal with ballistics - gun shots and explosions – stuff like that. Here, see . . ." Heyes took out a pencil and sketched a diagram on a pad showing a tiny cannon with a long, curved dotted line showing how a cannon ball would fly out of it. He added an equation and showed the sheet to Jake. Ranger also came over to look at it. "See, the triangle comes in with the angle between the cannon barrel and the ground. To change that angle, you change this number." Heyes erased the cannon and re-drew it with its muzzle higher. "That's going to change where the cannon ball lands. And if you change the charge in the cannon, it changes this other number here. That changes where it lands, too." Heyes drew a new dotted line taking the cannon ball farther.

"Wow, that kinda' looks like fun to figure out," commented Ranger, surprised at himself.

"It is." Heyes grinning enthusiastically at his former colleagues. "And this is the simplest stuff in the field. When you bring in more complex stuff like wind and shot weight, the way I see it, it only gets more fun. And when you go out and test it with real charges and guns, well, that's the best."

"So, how do you figure up what it'll take to blow a safe?" asked Jake.

Heyes closed the pad and his expression went dark. "You don't. And I don't any longer, either."

"Oh. Sorry," said Jake. "I guess that could get you into trouble.

"If by trouble you mean getting me locked up for the rest of my life, you got that right," said Heyes crisply. Seeing how chastened the young cowboy was, the ex-outlaw warmed up his tone and his eyes lost their threatening look. "Now if you want to talk guns, that's another matter."

So the three of them had an enjoyable and educational time as the train carried them east toward Rawlins, the town nearest Bull Run Ranch. Heyes, Ranger, and Jake were gossiping together like old friends as they lined up at the door of the train car to get off in the early evening.

"Good luck to you finding a school to hire you, Mr. Heyes," said the grey-haired conductor as Heyes neared the door.

Heyes turned back to look at the man, disconcerted. Then he laughed. "So you did recognize me, after all? I wondered. Seemed to me you were keeping a pretty close eye on me."

"You think I'd let Hannibal Heyes have the run of my train without watching him?" snorted the conductor. "You held me up twice! I've been watching for you and the Kid for fifteen years."

"Then why did you wish me luck?" the ex-outlaw wanted to know.

The conductor grinned affably as Heyes stepped down to the platform, "If you do good at teaching, maybe you won't come around and hold us up no more."

"No matter what, I promise faithfully not to hold you up any more," said Heyes as he stepped away from the train. Ranger and Jake joined in his laughter. But the mother with two children who had been frightened about a possible holdup gave the former outlaw a frightened and angry look and hurried away with an arm around each of her children.

Heyes looked at their backs with trepidation. The news about him would be out in no time, now. Just as the family was about to disappear into a nearby hotel, the little boy turned and stuck his tongue out at the infamous ex-outlaw. Heyes stuck out his own tongue and then winked at the startled boy with a sparkle in his eye. Heyes heard a delighted, childish giggle before the three vanished from view.

"I'll go get my horse and yours, Jake," said Ranger as the three walked away from the station. "What kind of animal would you like, Joshua?" he was careful to call Heyes by a name that wouldn't attract attention in town, little good as this might now do.

"Just as fast as yours," said Heyes. "I don't want to slow you down getting home. I'm not gonna fall off of anything short of a bucking bronco. And if you'll pardon me, I've got a couple of errands before we head for the ranch."

"One in the sheriff's office?" asked Ranger softly as they stood in the unpaved street near the train station where a fair number of people were walking by in the thriving town.

"Yeah," said Heyes. "And then I'd like to change into some other clothes for riding. It's not like I can afford to wear out good suits in a saddle."

"You want me to go to the sheriff's office with you, Joshua?" asked Jake cautiously. He thought this might be a sore subject.

"You don't have to do that, Jake," said Heyes with a sad tinge to this voice. "I don't want to harm your reputation. Being seen with me, here in Wyoming, might not be real good."

"I don't see it that way, Mr. Heyes," said the young cowhand stoutly. Heyes had already won a steadfast supporter.

"Well, come if you want to," Heyes sighed. He wasn't looking forward to this. "I haven't done this before and I don't know how your local sheriff might react. I assume the old guy retired since I was out here?"

"Yeah, his deputy's in charge now," said Ranger. "He's a good man. I'll tie the horses out front of the saloon and meet you there."

"I'd rather just meet by the stable, if you don't mind," said Heyes. "I'm hungry more than thirsty."

"Alright, Heyes," said Ranger, who had a feeling this wasn't the real reason for the reformed outlaw's disinclination to walk into a Wyoming saloon in a town where the news of his arrival would be spreading like wildfire.

Heyes nervously ran a hand through his hair and picked up his briefcase and his bag.

"Let me help you there," said Jake, reaching for the bag.

"Thanks," said Heyes, appreciating the moral as well as physical support.

The sheriff's office was nearby, with bars in the windows and a hand-lettered sign over the door. Heyes took a deep breath. He had never warmed up to sheriff's offices, not even knowing his partner now ran one. As the pair got inside, they found an elderly woman and a man they guessed was her husband swearing out a complaint to the sheriff. Jake hung back near the entrance with Heyes' bag in his hand.

"Hello, Jake," said the lean, weathered deputy. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm here with a friend who needs to see you," said Jake, pointing to the former Joshua Smith.

"Oh?" the sheriff stared at the stranger.

The former outlaw stepped up to the deputy's desk. He said in a low voice. "I, um, I need to report to you."

"You do, sir? And why is that?" asked deputy.

"I was convicted on a felony. Now I have a pardon on that charge and amnesty on other charges that were never brought in court. I live in New York City. The terms of my amnesty say that until further notice, I have to report my presence to the law any time I return to the state of Wyoming. So here I am."

"I see." The deputy stood to face the man who had come to report to him. "Just a moment." The lawman bent to sort through the files in his drawer for a moment before he found the forms he was looking for. "Ah, here we are. We don't get a lot of felons with pardons, much less amnesty." He wasn't keeping his voice very low. The sheriff, the woman he was helping and her husband all glanced apprehensively over at the stranger standing with the deputy before they turned back to what they were doing. The deputy started to fill out the form, inking in that day's date. "What is your name?"

"Hannibal Heyes." The owner of the name felt he never would get used to saying it in public.

The heads of the sheriff and the woman with him turned swiftly toward Heyes. The woman gasped and stepped back in fear, as her husband put his arm around her protectively.

"Don't worry, folks, we won't let him do you any harm," said the sheriff. He studied the infamous Hannibal Heyes. This was a face he had been waiting a long time to see.

The deputy nodded. "Well, well, Hannibal Heyes himself! I had a feeling. Used to have your wanted poster and the Kid's right over there, so I know that description real well. Now we got the new posters. " He pointed straight across from his desk at a large bulletin board crowded with posters. It now featured the declarations of amnesty for the man standing before him and his partner. The sheriff went back to work with the old woman and her husband, talking softly to them, but Heyes could see that the head law man was continuing to pay very close attention to the infamous former outlaw standing in his office. The woman glanced uneasily at Heyes now and then as she held her husband's hand.

"Can I see the pardon and the amnesty documents, please?" the deputy asked.

"Here you go," said Heyes reaching for his briefcase.

The deputy drew his pistol and aimed it straight at Heyes' heart. "Hold it right there, Heyes. I'll get those papers out, if you don't mind."

Heyes put his hands up and stood there while the deputy rifled through his briefcase. "Mr. Deputy, sir," said the amnestied man with a trace of impatience, "Why on earth would I come in here and pull a gun on you with the sheriff standing right there? I don't have a death wish." Nevertheless, the deputy kept searching until he pulled out the papers and studied them.

"These aren't the originals," the lawman complained.

"No. They're certified copies. I don't travel with the originals – they're too valuable to me. If I lost them, it wouldn't be good."

"Sheriff, will certified copies do?" The deputy raised his voice to get the attention of his boss.

"Who certified 'em?" asked the sheriff, glancing in Heyes' direction.

"The Governor of Wyoming. See there?" Heyes pointed.

The sheriff came over to study the signature. "Oh, yeah. That'll do," said the sheriff.

"Charges?" the deputy went on with the routine.

"You probably have them listed there someplace. Armed robbery is what we were pardoned on and that accounts for a lot of the amnestied charges, too. But there were others – resisting arrest, breaking and entering – etc. Hey, I can fill out that form myself, deputy. That'll make this go a whole lot faster."

"No. There are some questions they want a lawman to ask in person," asserted the deputy firmly. "Where do you live now?"

"New York City." Heyes saw the lawman carefully writing down his words.

"How long are you gonna be in Wyoming?"

"Three days or maybe four."

"Have you made an effort to rehabilitate yourself? Trade school, apprenticeship, something like that?" The deputy's face remained impassive, but the ex-outlaw had a feeling the lawman was enjoying himself as he gave Hannibal Heyes the third degree.

Heyes decided to enjoy himself, too. "I have a bachelor of arts honored summa cum laude and a master of arts in mathematics from Columbia University. I'm trained to teach college. That do it for you?"

"What's summa . . . whatever you said?"

"Summa cum laude. That's Latin for with the highest honors. There are certified copies of the sheepskins in there, too"

"Sheepskins?"

"Diplomas. College diplomas." Heyes tried to hide that he was losing patience with this process. He knew that gossip about him would be rampant before he got out the door.

"Oh. Very good. What are you in the state of Wyoming for, Heyes?"

"I'm applying for the position of junior professor of mathematics at the University of Wyoming at Laramie. The original of the letter inviting me is in there, too."

"Oh. So you might move back to Wyoming and teach at the University?"

"If they want to hire me, yes. I might accept that offer, depending upon what other schools make me offers." Heyes knew very well that he would be lucky to get a single offer, but that was no business of the deputy's.

"So Hannibal Heyes might teach in Wyoming – be on the state payroll. You really think the state of Wyoming would give you money?" The deputy smirked. "I wish you luck, I really do." Jake stepped toward the lawmen his blue eyes blazing with fury.

Heyes shoved the cowhand back with his elbow and whispered, "Let me handle it."

"The University authorities were the ones who invited me to come and interview in Laramie," said Heyes aloud as affably as he could, considering that he desperately wanted to beat both men senseless. "And the Governor signed my pardon and amnesty. If you have a problem with it, take it up with them."

"We might just do that, Heyes," said the deputy, more kidding than threatening. "And oh, by the way, we got a communication about you just a couple of days ago, didn't we sheriff? Where is it?"

"Oh, yeah. It's in the top drawer," answered the sheriff.

The deputy opened the drawer and pulled out a letter on official stationary that Heyes recognized with a qualm. "We got a letter here from the State Penitentiary in Laramie," said the deputy, glancing up at the former outlaw to watch his reaction. "It says they want you to report to the Penitentiary in person while you're in the state. It don't have to be right away, but before you leave. In person," the hard-faced lawman repeated.

Heyes tried not to show how disconcerted he felt. "Does it say what they want with me?"

"No, it don't. Are you staying at a hotel in Rawlins tonight?"

"No. I'm riding to Bull Run Ranch tonight with Ranger and Mr. Hood here. I expect to spend the night there in the bunk house at the ranch. Then I'm off to Laramie tomorrow and I don't look to be back this way on this trip."

"Where are you headed when you leave Wyoming?"

"Denton, Texas, to interview at a new teacher's college they have there."

"Is that so? Good luck. I guess that does it for the form, except you got to sign it, please, Mr. Hannibal Heyes. And do let us know if you're ever back this way," said the deputy breezily.

"Yes, sir," answered Heyes, trying to stay on the good side of the local law, no matter how obnoxious the deputy might be to him.

"I hope you get to do some good service, Heyes, and get honest pay for it," said the sheriff, walking over to shake Heyes' hand. He sounded more sincere than his deputy did in his good wishes. The ex-outlaw remembered that this man had been a solidly dependable deputy when Heyes and the Kid had been at Bull Run.

"Thank you, sir," said Heyes as he shook the sheriff's hand and signed the form.

As they left the sheriff's office and the door shut behind them, Jake Hood asked Heyes, "What do you suppose they want with you at the Penitentiary?"

"They're probably just inviting me so I can see the reforms they have going on because of the testimony the Kid and I gave them before we left the state. Getting new people in charge, teaching the illiterate guys to read, and getting the men some better food – that kind of thing. If they wanted to arrest me, which they have no reason to do, the sheriff would have done it here and now. But still, don't mention it to the bunkhouse guys, alright? I don't want to worry 'em."

"What about you?"

Heyes said, "You mean am I worried? Of course not, Hood. The governor gave me a pardon and amnesty. Even the President of the United States got into the act. I haven't put one solitary finger wrong in many a long year. What's the law gonna do to me?"

Heyes was not, in fact, particularly eager to find out the answer to his rhetorical question.

Notes – Readers may recognize things in common between Bull Run Ranch and a certain Wyoming ranch depicted in another television show. The parallels are undeniable, but in changing the names, I have also felt free to make a number of other changes. For instance, that show had a timeline later than that of AS&J, so I have changed that.

I have used real place names in Wyoming. Those towns really were on the Union Pacific Line to Laramie, but I am not sticking to more particular facts. I was sorely tempted to use the colorfully named Separation Station, but it is too close to Rawlins for my story. The Harvey House was a string of hotels and restaurants in railroad towns in the American West in the nineteenth century. Harvey Houses lasted into the twentieth century. I was raised with stories of the parsimonious portions they served, as in "slice it a little thinner!" You may have seen the Judy Garland movie The Harvey Girls. I don't know if there was a Harvey House restaurant in Creston, Wyoming.

The Cambridge Post is my own invention. The Kid, Cat, and the intrepid deputies of Louisville, Colorado, will be back next chapter.