Joseph Jones was hurrying around his brand-new dentist's office, leveling the diplomas on the wall of the waiting room and making sure the spare paperwork on his desk was neat. He had officially hung up his sign and opened his office in Louisville, Colorado only the afternoon before. No patients had dared to come in, though a few had come around to stare. Mayor Post had even shaken the new dentist's hand and wished him well. The newly graduated dentist from the East had felt disappointed but not particularly surprised.

There was a knock at the door. Dr. Jones smiled. A patient! He eagerly opened the freshly-painted door. Dr. Jones couldn't help letting his face fall a little when he saw it was only the doctor from next door rather than someone who might ever have a bill to pay. But his voice was cheerful and welcoming. "Good morning, Dr. Grauer. Come on in. What can I do for you?"

The elderly doctor extended his hand as he stepped into the spotless waiting room with its two chairs and single small table. "Hello, Jones. I came to wish you luck. And to tell you that I might have a patient for you. His wife and I are both trying to get him to come in, but he's kind of reluctant. You know how these country people are about dentists. Or you'll learn if you don't know yet. Can't blame them, considering the hacks they generally get out here. I've tried to tell him that you're the real article from one of the best schools going. But he's still dragging his feet."

Dr. Jones sighed as he again glanced out the window. "I appreciate the recommendation, Doctor Grauer."

Old Doc Grauer smiled at his young colleague. "Hey, it's the least I can do for the son of an old school chum!"

"I appreciate it. My father thinks his son has lost his wits for trying to make a living in the West. And for dragging my family out here. I suppose it will be a long time until I have the money to go home to Pennsylvania to see my parents and my in-laws." Dr. Jones smoothed his little dark mustache nervously and looked out the window again. There were still no patients to be seen approaching.

Dr. Grauer was encouraging, "The West is the land of opportunity for medical men. Mark my words, boy! But that doesn't mean it's easy out here. Rural western folks hardly trust doctors more than dentists. But they generally can't avoid coming to me when they're got a broken leg or a bad flu or are having a baby. A sore tooth, they feel like they can get along with. Poor souls. With you here, they'll soon discover how much better life is with proper dental care. You know I'll direct them to you all I can."

Dr. Jones nodded. "Thank you. I'm sure they need the guidance. I suppose I can't blame people out here in the West if they have a hard time telling an authentic medical professional from a quack. I've heard that they mostly get a hundred quacks to one real doctor or dentist. They don't know what to look for – or even that there are good dentists, I suppose."

Doc Grauer grinned wryly. "That's true enough. I'm glad to finally have a professional like you handy for my own teeth. I've never trusted any of the local men who've called themselves dentists. Not a real degree in the lot. Not until now."

"So, who is this patient you're sending my way, Doctor Grauer?" The tall young dentist inquired curiously.

"The local sheriff. His name is Jedediah Curry. He's a good man. He's got a fine wife who runs Christy's Place with him – the hotel and saloon down the street. They have a baby on the way. He fell off his horse in the mountains while he and his deputy were chasing a murderer. He chipped a tooth at the same time he broke his leg. The sharp corner is hurting his tongue."

Jones' hazel eyes opened wider behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "He was chasing a murderer?! And he's afraid of me?!"

Doc Grauer shook his head. "I wouldn't say afraid. Let's just say cautious. Jed Curry is one of the bravest men I've ever met or heard of. And out here, that's saying something. Well, I've got to go. Looks like I've got a patient of my own. Best of luck to you, Jones. And let me know when there's anything I can do for you and Caroline and the baby."

"You've done so much already. I hope Sheriff Curry comes. A brave man shouldn't have to put up with pain in his mouth. And I hope others would listen to his recommendation."

Sure enough, within the hour, Dr. Jones heard heavy, irregular steps on the board walk outside and a soft knock on his door. He opened the door to find a handsome fellow who was walking with crutches, favoring a heavy leg cast. He was wearing a tin star-shaped badge. And the bright blue eyes did, indeed, look reluctant. The sheriff was watching the dentist as cautiously as if he was a dangerous criminal.

"Good morning, Sheriff Curry," said the dentist, extending his hand.

Curry answered hesitantly, juggling his crutches so he could shake the doctor's hand. "Good morning, Doctor Jones. So Doc Grauer told you about me?"

The dentist nodded, watching his potential patient as keenly as the man was watching him. "Yes. He said you had a chipped tooth that happened a few days ago and it's causing problems."

Curry nodded, "Yeah."

The dentist stepped aside and gestured his new patient in, "Well, come right in and have a seat in the examination chair. No waiting today. Don't worry, Sheriff. I have the finest training available in this country. I know the latest methods."

"That's good." Curry leaned heavily on his crutches. He looked curiously at the examination chair, with its leather padding, and adjustable arm, head, and foot rests. He surrendered his crutches to the dentist and sat down with the medical man's tactful help. "That's right comfy," said the sheriff as he settled in.

"I'm glad to hear it. It's the latest design. Now hold on a minute while I adjust it." Dr. Jones worked the foot peddle to raise the seat so he could easily reach his patient. Curry looked startled to feel himself rising, but he didn't move or say a word. Then the dentist raised the foot rest and pushed back the head rest so Curry was reclining.

The dentist began briskly, "Now, Sheriff Curry, are you having pain from the chipped tooth?"

"Not the tooth. But the broken spot is sharp; it catches on my tongue sometimes. You ain't gonna have pull it, are you?" The brave sheriff sounded uneasy.

Dr. Jones replied, "I don't know why I would, but I haven't seen it yet. Which tooth is it?"

Curry curled back his upper lip and pointed to the tooth just outside his upper right incisor. "That one. On the inside corner. It's like a knife."

"If you can please open up for me, I'll have a look." The dentist adjusted a mirror so he could direct daylight into his patient's mouth. With Jones's gentle guidance, Curry opened his mouth the right amount. The young medical man studied the teeth and the tongue for a few moments. He carefully touched the tooth in question with a metal probe, testing for any sensitivity. Curry tensed, but he didn't move. Nothing had hurt him yet.

The dentist removed his hands from his patient's mouth. "Well, well. That doesn't look bad for the tooth itself, but I can see the irritation on your tongue. It's starting to bleed a bit. It will only get worse, if left untreated. You could get an infection. I can fix that sharp place, easily, and save you any further problems."

"You ain't gonna pull it?" Curry looked up at the dentist anxiously.

The dentist's young face was reassuringly clam. "No. I'll just file it down a bit to take off the sharp place. Alright?"

"Will it hurt?" The dentist suppressed a smile at the fear behind the question.

Dr. Jones said comfortingly, "There's no nerve where I need to work. So no, it won't hurt at all."

"Is it gonna cost a lot?" This question was even more sensitive to the uneasy patient.

"No. It's quick work and shouldn't be bad enough to need any gold. It will be very affordable."

"Good. I guess you can go ahead."

Before he began, the dentist added, "I must say, you have a fine set of teeth there, Sheriff. And you take very good care of them. Do you brush your teeth each day?"

Curry nodded. "Yeah, I do. I went to a dentist a few years ago. Well, a bunch of years ago, now. He gave me a tooth brush and told me what to do with it. It's all worn out. I could use a new one."

Jones was intrigued. "I'll be happy to sell you a new toothbrush and some toothpaste to go with it. And one for your wife. I must say, I'm surprised. I thought few people in the West knew about tooth brushing."

"The dentist was trained in the East. Showed me his diploma from some school in Philadelphia."

"Who was the dentist, if I may ask? And where was he?" asked Dr. Jones as he gathered the tools he would need for the minor surgery on Curry's tooth.

"That was in Texas. It was Doc Holliday."

The dentist chuckled as he set his chosen tools on the tray next to the dental chair. "You Westerners! You seem to think Easterners will believe anything. Just yesterday somebody told me he was close friends with Kid Curry the infamous outlaw. And now you expect me to believe Doc Holliday had his deadly hands in your mouth?"

"Yeah, he did. Neat fingers, he had. Like yours." Curry kept his voice casual, resisting the urge to laugh. So, the Doc hadn't revealed to his colleague who the town sheriff was.

The dentist put an oil-cloth drape over his patient and tied it around his neck. "Goodness gracious! I had no idea he was a real dentist."

Curry's smile had a wicked edge to it as he anticipated dropping the other shoe on this innocent Easterner. "Oh, yeah. He was a real good one, seemed to me. Or he was when he was sober. He was mostly dealing cards then, but he did some tooth work, too. Filled a place for me – you can see the gold back there."

Jones filled a glass of water from a pitcher on a small table next to his patient. "If you'll open up, I'll have a look for this cavity filling done by a murderer. Goodness, yes. Upper back molar. Very fine work." Jones explored the delicate little gold filling with his probe. "Beautiful. So how did you meet the famous gunman? Were you trying to arrest him?"

"Ugh." Curry tried to make an approximation of no, but couldn't do it with two hands in his mouth.

"Sorry." The dentist removed his hands and let Curry close his mouth. "So how did you manage meet Doc Holliday?"

Curry spat into the bowl that was at his side for that purpose. Then he answered. "He was an antsy bastard. Drew on me in a saloon when he didn't like what cards I'd drawn. He worked on me for free as thanks, later."

"I don't understand. Thanks for what?" The dentist had a distinct feeling that this little phrase hid a violent story.

"For not shooting him dead. I beat him and cocked but he dropped his gun, so I didn't pull the trigger."

Now the sheriff had truly startled his dentist. "Good God, man! You're that fast with a gun? You outdrew Doc Holliday?"

Curry fixed his dentist with a cold gaze that sent a shiver up the Easterner's spine. "I though Doc Grauer told you about me. And it sounds like you met another friend of mine already."

There was silence while the dentist gazed at his patient. Finally, Jones swallowed and said, "He told me you were the local sheriff, and that you had a wife with a baby on the way. He told me you had a fall chasing a murderer and that you chipped a tooth. He didn't tell me you were Kid Curry."

The Kid gazed back at his dentist steadily. "Yeah, they used to call me the Kid. That was back when I made my living on the wrong side of the law. And I was a little younger. I don't use the name these days, but I can't hardly get Heyes to stop calling me by it. Seems he likes to irritate me as much as that sharp spot on my tooth does. You gonna fix it or not?"

"Oh, yes, of course. Open wide, please."

The dentist hesitated, a metal tool in his hand. He seemed a little wary of working on the mouth of the fastest gun in the West. So before he opened wide, his patient smiled and said, "Take it easy, Doc. I don't bite."

The doctor worked expertly with his file, being careful to use a tiny sponge to clear away the tiny tooth fragments so his patient wouldn't have to swallow them. The procedure took only a few minutes with the file and a mildly abrasive cloth to smooth the place even more. "Rinse and spit, please," said the dentist at least. Curry followed directions.

Then Dr. Jones asked, "There, Sheriff, how's that?"

Curry delicately felt the tooth with his tender tongue then with his finger. "Hm. Seems fine to me. Nice and smooth. What do I owe you?"

"What about two dollars and you don't shoot me?"

Curry gave his dentist a steely stare. Then he laughed. "Sure thing, Doc." He dug a pair of bills out of his pocket. "You come on by Christy's Place one of these days and I'll pour you one on the house."

Jones grinned, showing his own buck teeth. "I'll take you up on that, Sheriff. Keep up the tooth brushing. Here, I'll get a new brush for you and one for your wife if you've got fifty cents for them, plus another fifty for a jar of tooth paste. It has the directions on it." The dentist pulled a pair of paper-wrapped tooth brushes out of a drawer along with a jar of tooth paste. Curry handed his dentist another dollar. Jones added, "Have your wife come see me soon so she can have a checkup to get her started on a regular routine of dental care. Everyone should do that, to avoid all kinds of long-term problems. Expectant mothers can have tooth trouble, so it's even more important for her. And you be sure she brings your baby to me when his teeth are just getting started. We'll get him through teething safely without any of those dangerously strong pain killers the old-fashioned guys give babies. He might cry a bit, but he won't die of it or become a laudanum addict."

The Kid grinned gratefully. "Gosh, thanks, Doc. I'll send Cat – Mrs. Curry – over to you. And we'll be sure to bring the baby to you. So those patent medicines are that dangerous?"

"They surely are. And not just for babies."

Curry shook his new dentist's hand. "There's a lot to know about babies, ain't there?"

The doctor spoke thoughtfully. "Yes, there is. My wife and I have a baby son – Daniel - so we're learning pretty fast ourselves. Maybe our children can be friends."

"That'd be nice, Doc. Just don't tell your wife my old name right off the bat, huh? Don't want to scare her." Curry sounded a little giddy with relief as the dentist helped him out of the chair and on to his crutches. The former outlaw hated to admit to himself how nervous he had been about visiting a dentist. He'd been to a couple of awful ones in the years since his visit with Doc Holliday

When Curry got home, he went straight back to the kitchen. Cat was fixing lunch for the customers. "Look, honey, Doc Jones fixed the tooth right up. I won't cut you anymore when we kiss. He sold me a tooth brush and toothpaste for both of us and wants you to go see him. He said you might have tooth problems while you're expecting. And he said to bring the baby to him to get him through teething. He said the medicine other guys give babies to quiet them can hook them on drugs or even kill them."

Cat was efficiently slicing a salami with disconcerting speed. "Gosh, I'm glad we've got a good dentist in town. And I hope Doc Grauer doesn't retire too soon. With children, we'll need all the help we can get. And yes, I've been worrying about my teeth. Some women lose them when they're pregnant. He's not just drumming up business." She stopped and put down her knife. "Let me try out that improved mouth of yours, Sheriff Curry. Hm. Nice and smooth. But I got to get back to cooking. And you get off those crutches. That was the farthest you've been yet on them, so you ought to rest."

Curry obliged his protective wife by taking a seat in the kitchen. "Honey, I think the dentist was scared of me, a bit. Or at least at first. He didn't even believe me at first when I told him that Doc Holliday did a filling for me back in '78. And then he realized who he was talking to. He got real quiet and he was kind of agitated to work on me 'till I settled him down."

"You ought to be used to that by now," said Cat as she worked over the stove.

Curry looked out the opened back door at a pair of boys playing in the alley behind the hotel. The summer heat required the ventilation of propping open the door when Cat was cooking. "Yeah, but I was thinking about our children. I surely do hope my name won't spoil things for them. I wouldn't want them to get stared at in the street, or teased on account of it."

Cat was slicing bread as she spoke, therefore her words were steady and quiet. "I hope it won't be a problem. We can control some of it, by how we deal with your name. We need to make sure they know they have a famous father right from the get-go so they know what folks are talking about. But we can't make a big deal of it, either."

"I don't want them to be ashamed of me. Or afraid of me." Jed fingered his gun grip.

Cat stopped cooking for a moment to look warmly at her husband. "I'd say too proud would be the danger. I'm awful proud of you, Jed. You're a good man and you don't get a big head."

"I try not to. But now that I can't use an alias, it does get kind of strange, having everyone know my name. Some folks are afraid of Kid Curry. There are a lot of crazy, wrong stories out there about Heyes and me."

"Yes, but you can cope with it." Cat sounded quite positive on that score.

"I can. And so can you – my sweet wife." That demanded a trip over from the stove for a kiss.

Cat deliberately moved away from the topic of her husband's fame. She hated for him to brood over it. "How did you manage going that far on the crutches for the first time?"

"Fine, honey."

Cat was back to making up sandwiches for her staff and customers. "So you're going to go in to the office tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Doc Grauer said I'm ready." Jed was getting very eager to get out of his hotel and back to his office.

"If you get tired, you come on home, like the Doc said."

"I can manage my own self, woman." The sheriff sounded a bit defensive.

"I know you can. But you listen to your doctor. We've got a baby coming." Cat patted her expanding abdomen softly.

Her husband kissed his wife as she leaned over him. "Is that going to be your excuse to boss me around until the baby comes?"

"Try until every baby we have is all grown up, Kid Curry. Those children will need their father and I need my husband – in one piece and well."

"Alight. I'll try my best to stay in one piece. You just keep having babies." The two laughed happily together.

Then Sheriff Curry got back up on his crutches and went out to see what was happening the saloon floor. That part of his legal territory he could patrol for himself. He found Al Kelly taking a turn through the little group of card and domino players who were in the place this early. "Say, Al, you ever been to a dentist?" asked Curry of his deputy.

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Heyes and Marvin Mosley hadn't been sitting very long talking together on the couch at Cleveland's Home for Troubled Boys when the new foster father heard the clock on the wall strike half past eight. "Mosley, I got to go now. I've got an interview this morning over at the University. In fact, I'd better hurry along or I'll be late."

"Oh," said the fourteen-year-old boy sitting next to him. "Why'd you come so early this morning?"

Heyes felt rather foolish explaining himself to the youngster. "The warden said you'd have classes later. And I need to get on a train soon after the interview – I've got another interview coming up in Texas. And besides, I didn't want to wait. You just gave me the biggest complement I ever got from anybody but my wife."

Marvin looked intently at the man he had asked to be his father. "I don't understand, Mr. Heyes. What complement did I give you?"

"You said you trust me. I don't hear that a lot. I hope the dean at the University will maybe decide he trusts me, too. Or if he doesn't, somebody else will – somebody who'll pay me, I mean. So I can support you and my wife. I've got to go now and find out. See you later! Work hard at school. I know it's not easy for you to think seriously about the future, but what you learn really does mean everything for what you'll face in your life. You need to work hard at what they ask you to do, whether or not you can think of why you might ever need to know it. I had to learn that the hard way. A lot of guys do."

"I'll try, Mr. Heyes. I promise I will. I think Warden Miller and Mr. Cleveland are out in the stable – right over there. And um, thanks." Mosley didn't say it, but Heyes could see that his new foster son was thinking that Hannibal Heyes had just given him a pretty big complement, too. The boy's brown eyes were very thoughtful.

"See you soon, son." Heyes said, ruffling Mosley's hair fondly. He went to find the warden.

As Heyes went out the door, he looked back to his Marvin looking after him with very big eyes. He supposed the boy was starting to think about the future.

"I could take you straight over to the University," offered the warden as the pair of men walked from the stable to the wagon.

"No, thank you, Warden," answered Heyes with a nervous grin as he climbed up to the wagon's front seat. "I don't think driving up in a wagon that says Wyoming Pen on the side would help my cause a whole lot."

The warden snorted. "I suppose you're right, Mr. Heyes. I'm glad to help you to distance yourself from your past. Your future sounds pretty promising."

"Fulfilling the promise is up to me, Mr. Miller. Like Marvin says, I'm trying." The aspiring father and professor held on to the side of the wagon as the warden ordered the horses to trot and the wagon jerked forward.

Soon, Heyes was in the Golden Fleece Hotel's surrey, hurrying to get to the University of Wyoming on time. It was a quick trip to the University's main building. It didn't give him a lot of time to get his mind off of his new potential family member and back to academics. In fact, he found it very hard to stop planning for being a father. He kept thinking of what he'd need to say when Marvin asked him things, or had trouble at school, or had to cope with his foster-father's fame.

It wasn't hard to pick out the University's Main building. In this town of mostly wooden buildings, the University's headquarters was an impressive stone edifice set apart in a largely open field at the eastern end of town. Only the barn-like technical building stood nearby. The main building had three full stories with dormers above that and a pointed tower. Heyes could see the new school's high ambitions. They had built with a sense of grandeur and left plenty of space around for more buildings. It could be very exciting to be in on the ground floor of such a budding institution, founded only four years before. Heyes wondered in Mosley might one day attend the school. Perhaps so, if the foster father could get his foster son to be serious about his studies. He supposed professors might get discounts for their children's tuition.

Heyes had a sudden vision of students years in the future laughing about the outlaw professor who had taught early in the history of the University of Wyoming. He hoped one day his academic achievements would command as much respect as his colorful past. That would help to make a son proud of his father. Yet the potential professor couldn't help thinking that it would be dull and a bit disappointing to him if his outlaw past was ever completely forgotten. He couldn't think of a single professor who was as well known for research or teaching as he and the Kid were for stylish stealing.

Heyes waved to the hotel's surrey driver as he walked up the stone steps and went in the grand front door. Like most of the small, new schools out West, they had almost everything crowed into the same building, from the President's office to the classrooms and library.

Heyes had little trouble finding the office of the dean. A neatly dressed secretary in his twenties sat in the outer office. He looked up with interest as Heyes entered. The applicant said to him, "Hello, I've got an appointment with Dean Harrison."

"Are you Mr. Heyes?"

"Yes." Heyes studied the secretary closely, trying to gauge whether he knew who the interview subject really was. The aspiring professor didn't think his outlaw past was showing, but he wasn't positive. Some academics could be awfully discrete when they had to.

The secretary smiled. "You're right on time. Dean Harrison is away from Laramie at the moment I'm afraid, but Assistant Dean Jorgesen will see you. He's in the office right next door – that way. He's expecting you." The secretary pointed down the hall.

"Thank you."

Heyes took a deep breath as he walked the short distance down the hall to the next door. He had to stop thinking about Marvin and start concentrating on this interview. He wondered what it meant that the real dean wasn't seeing him. Was Wyoming not taking him seriously? Maybe they were just granting this interview as a favor to Senator Warren, who had been vital in the institution's founding as well as Heyes' amnesty. Or maybe Heyes was imagining things. He told himself that it was summer and deans were often away. Then there was no more time for his thoughts to race. He was there and knocked at the door.

A tall, blonde man with piercing blue eyes answered it. "Hallo, is it Mr. Heyes? Good morning." He had a thick accent that the ex-outlaw thought was probably Norwegian or maybe Danish. In fact, Heyes found it hard to believe this man had been in American long enough to be an academic dean. Maybe they were seriously short on senior faculty at this young, remote school and had settled for someone fresh off the boat. Or maybe he was just one of those people who keep their accents stubbornly.

Heyes answered, "Yes, sir, I'm Heyes. Thank you for seeing me, Dean Jorgesen, when Dean Harrison is away."

"Yah. It is my pleasure. I have read your application. Please have a seat, Mr. Heyes," said the assistant dean, gesturing to a worn armchair across from his desk. Judging from the books that lined the wall, the assistant dean was a biologist. Heyes had never heard of Jorgesen, so he was trying to learn as much as he could from straight-forward observation. It was never good to walk into an interview without knowing anything about the person he was trying to impress, but that was the situation Heyes was caught in.

The dean began in his thick accent, "So, Mr. Heyes, tell me about this new article of yours on ballistics and explosions. I understand you gave a talk about it recently."

"Yes, sir, at a conference at Drexel. I don't know how much you know about trigonometry. . ." Heyes inwardly cringed at his own words. He knew better than to ever make an interview about the interviewer, but he had clumsily fallen into the old trap anyway. Perhaps he was more distracted by Marvin than he realized.

"Enough to follow your argument. It seems very clear to me, your way of directing explosive force. Tell me more about . . ."

Quickly the two men were into technical discussions. Yes, Heyes realized, Jorgesen was pretty knowledgeable for someone outside of his own field. He had read the article carefully and understood it well. The applicant was glad of this – it kept him from having to waste time explaining elementary points. Then they were transitioning from mathematics to pedagogy, discussing classroom methodology and textbooks.

"So, you do much practical teaching, you say? In the field?" asked the dean.

"Yes, I'd like to get the students into the field when I can. There is, of course, a limit on what is practical to do with students. Especially there are limits on what's safe when it comes to the explosives and firearms. Of course, that's the whole idea with my theories: how to do use our calculations to keep people safe while you're getting things done. But experimentation is as important in my field as it is in science."

"Oh, you know science, do you?" Jorgesen asked skeptically.

"I know some, of course. I should. And I want to keep learning more. I need plenty of physics, and geology, and even some chemistry for the way I use ballistics and trigonometry to aid in mining and construction. I hope my teaching can help me to set up those subjects, and other ones, depending upon the class. I'm happy to cover applications of mathematics far afield from ballistics. I've got sub-specialties in bookkeeping, finance, business, geometry, and probability, but I can happily teach outside that, even. Mathematics covers a lot of bases."

The dean was taking notes as they spoke. He was still looking down at his pad as he asked, "I understand you've done some bookkeeping before you got to Columbia. But how did you become so interested and expert with the explosions and firearms, Mr. Heyes?"

The ex-outlaw looked at his questioner, startled. Jorgesen had a strong accent; he had obviously been born in Europe. But surely he had been in America long enough to know who Hannibal Heyes was. "I, um, you do know what I did before I got to New York?" The vision of Marvin Mosely was in his head – the hero-worshipping boy who had such respect for Hannibal Heyes that he wanted to join his family. How could this dean know so little about America that he didn't know who the man sitting before him, one of the most famous men in the country, really was?

The dean looked down at his notes and said in a distracted voice, "I know you mentioned odd jobs – cattle herding, body guarding, carrying messages and the like. I believe there was some gold mining that you said involved explosives. Don't tell me a little gold mining was sufficient to cause such fascination?"

"I mean before that. I thought surely you would know what I mean." Heyes couldn't help sounding a little irritated. Why was the dean playing with him like this? He was Hannibal Heyes, not some nobody.

The dean looked up at the applicant with a dismissive glance. "You were granted amnesty. Therefore you were a little, as they say here, on the wrong side of the law, were you not?"

"Come on, Dean, I was more than just a little on the wrong side of the law. You must know that."

"And how would I know that? A Norwegian biologist has no need to be an authority on western American criminals." The man might have been slighting his interviewee on purpose, it seemed to Heyes.

"But any American knows about my past. You teach in this country. You don't have to be an expert to know about what Kid Curry and Hannibal Heyes did, do you?"

Now the dean was looking squarely at Heyes. The blue eyes looked icy cold. "Do you? And why not? Why should I or anyone care about your little thefts out in the God-forsaken empty places of the wild West?"

Heyes responded almost automatically to the attack. "Because we led the Devil's Hole Gang – headquartered right here in Wyoming. My plans – using a lot of complex mathematics long before I even finished seventh grade by the way – helped to make us the most monetarily successful gang in the history of the West. And the most famous. When did you get to America, anyway? We were in every newspaper in the country for more than six years and my murder trial was reported widely, I'm told, this spring. I can hardly take a step in this state without having people want to shake my hand. It gets kind of irritating, to tell you the truth. I'm here to teach, not to sign autographs."

Dean Jorgesen's blue eyes flared as he cut off Heyes' impassioned recitation. "And yet still you are proud of what you did as an outlaw and how many people know your name for that." Suddenly, the heavy Norwegian accent wasn't so heavy. And Heyes knew he had been had. He had been conned by an honest man for an honest reason for the second time in two days.

Heyes scrambled to recover himself, "No, of course I'm not proud of my past. I'm glad to have left all that behind. It took a lot of hard work for me to get my degrees and I know there's plenty more ahead of me," said the ex-outlaw vehemently. Yet even as he spoke, he knew full well that no one who had heard what he had said just a minute before and how he had said it could possibly believe him. He had to find a way out of this. He said, trying to cover his panic, "Well, I guess it is hard to get past being that famous. But I'm not stealing any longer and I'll never condone dishonesty. I know what's right and what's wrong."

The dean sounded sad. His accent was hardly noticeable at all. "Hannibal Heyes, do you really think you can be a good example to students when you are so obviously arrogant about your criminal past? The students in college now were eleven, or eight, even younger when you and your infamous partner were in the headlines. They were impressionable boys and girls. They all know full well what you did as an outlaw. You were glorified in print all around them. For you now to teach those young people to be upright adults, as well as good mathematicians, will demand from you absolute discipline in putting your criminal past behind you. You just showed me that you don't have that discipline. Mr. Heyes, I wish you luck – in finding the self-control you need. If you ever do gain that, you'll be a formidable professor. But until then . . . Good-bye."

Heyes' mouth was opened in dismay. He closed it quickly, but he knew he was finished here. His academic career had been a series of triumphs – hard won, but always ending with him on top. Until this moment. He had failed. His career and his whole life, and Beth's, and Marvin's might suffer for it. There was nothing to keep this dean from spreading the word about Hannibal Heyes' arrogance as widely as he pleased.

Heyes nodded. He spoke in a strained voice. "I've been struggling for almost eight years to put it all behind me. It's not easy and I don't blame you for feeling as you do. But, well, you caught me at a bad moment. That's no excuse, of course."

The dean gazed keenly at the infamous former outlaw. "Do you care to explain that? What bad moment is this for you? You're a brilliant man at both mathematics and teaching. I do know that. You have plenty of reason to be proud – you just have to control that pride."

Heyes shook his head. "No. I hung myself. You just provided the rope. There's no reason you should care about my personal life."

Dean Jorgesen was clearly concerned. "Are you certain? I promise to tell no one what you say unless you give me permission."

Heyes spoke, leaning his head on his hands and looking toward the floor, unable to meet the dean's worried blue eyes. In an era that admired self-control – indeed, as the dean had said – discipline, Heyes purposefully let his heart show. It was his only chance. "Oh well, it's probably over now anyway. It's no use. All these years of work and it's no use. The Wyoming authorities have asked my wife and me to foster a fourteen-year-old boy. He has a troubled past very much like my own, although his parents weren't killed like mine were. His mother is a drunken prostitute and his father could be anyone. He was locked up for picking pockets. He had no guidance. I, at least, had guidance when my parents were still alive, before my cousin and I were put in a very bad home for waywards. My wife and I accepted the state's offer to foster the boy, providing I can get a good enough job to support us. I had met the boy when I was in prison. He said he trusted me." Heyes had to stop for moment to breathe and keep emotions at least nominally in check. "He trusts no one else in the world – just me. I don't suppose anyone will ever trust me again, now. They'll give him to someone else. It will hurt him badly, but he's just a boy. He has no power to make things go the way he wants them to go." Heyes felt similarly powerless.

Heyes got up and turned to go. He walked blindly, head down, devastated by his disappointment in himself.

He heard a voice behind him. "Mr. Heyes, can you tell me why the boy trusts you? Please do tell me, if you know."

Heyes turned back to face the dean, wondering at the question. "Because I fought the guards to keep them from beating him. He just spoke and those brutal men were going to beat him! Just for speaking! And he trusts me because I'm Hannibal Heyes. He admired me because of the very past I went to prison for – the past we share. I told you it was no use."

"Were you punished for this fighting for justice?" Jorgesen questioned the man standing in doorway with an intensity at odds with the previous calculated course of the interview.

Heyes answered with an informality that would have been fatal in most academic interviews. Somehow, he felt it was what the dean wanted, now. "Yeah, they punished me. The boy and I both knew they would. We also knew they would punish him – they just waited until after they'd dragged me out of the room in irons."

"What did they do to you?" Dean Jorgesen asked.

Heyes shrugged. "Not as much as I expected. They beat me with a switch and put me in solitary confinement in the dark on bread and water for a day. And then had me driving railroad spikes until . . . well, the spike driving was probably for a different reason – it had more to do with the dirty warden who wanted me to work for him. I wouldn't do it no matter what he did. The Wyoming Pen was a very violent place, then. I hope it's better now. I visited just yesterday and it seems better. The Kid and I testified in hopes we could get them to improve things for those men. And for the boys like the one they want me to foster. So I hope that's what's really happening."

The dean wasn't looking down to take notes now. He was watching Heyes' eyes closely. Here the man was, facing the end of his academic career, and he was talking about his hopes for the improved lives of prisoners. "I, too, hope the prison is better, thanks to you. When did you hear about this boy and that they were asking you and your wife to foster him?"

"Yesterday afternoon – at the Pen. And I spoke to the boy this morning, just before I came here." Heyes wondered where all this might get him. Could the dean possibly care about a boy who wasn't a student at his school and wasn't ever likely to be?

Dean Jorgesen was riveted by this story. "You were with the boy just minutes before you got here?"

"Yeah."

"So that's why you were thinking so much about your criminal past."

Heyes nodded. His voice was charged with emotion and his sentence structure was out of control. "Yeah. I was thinking about how much the boy and I are alike. I was trying to figure how to help him come out differently than I did. Or than I did at first. Or well, you know what I mean. Sorry, I don't sound disciplined at all. Honestly, usually I am. I was so happy once I saw the boy, but also concerned. Boys like he is – and like I was – helpless children - I can't stand the thought of having them go through what my partner and I suffered – the violence and the want - or anything like it. To be so ignorant and go so wrong when they could do so much good in the world if they just knew better and really had a chance. It just tears me up."

"So that's why you want to teach? To help young people to know better and do better?" The dean asked with a passionate eagerness that made Heyes' feel some hope.

"Exactly, dean. That's why."

"I see. It was your passion for teaching that just now had you so upset that you betrayed yourself, here, speaking to me." The dean speculated, hoping he was at last getting real insights into the infamous man he was interviewing.

An ironic smile curved up one corner of Heyes' mouth. "Yes. I betrayed all the students I could have taught. Ironic, isn't it, Dean?"

The dean's blue eyes were full of warmth. Again, he saw Heyes thinking not of himself, but of his students. "No. It's human. Teachers have to be human or they are no use to anyone. Only a human can teach a human. I'll reconsider your application, Mr. Heyes. If there's any reason for a man to lose his discipline and sound like he means what he doesn't mean, that's the one reason I will easily admit. Because he cares too much about young people."

Heyes looked sharply at the dean. By speaking with complete lack of professionalism, had he really won the man over?

The dean still looked very serious. "I'm not promising anything except that you have a chance. You know how academic positions are. I'll have to explain it all to Dean Harrison and the President, and we'll have to consider other candidates. We haven't even met some of them, so we can't know how good your competition is. It's all up to the Dean. And the President. And the board will care about this position – because it's you. You know how it is, when it's you, Hannibal Heyes." He smiled disarmingly at Heyes.

"I do." While he was being undisciplined and unprofessional, Heyes took it one step further and flashed his winning smile at the man who had just slammed a door and then opened it again. "And thank you for reconsidering. Sometimes my mouth runs away with me, despite the aphasia."

Dean Jorgesen looked into the former outlaw's shining brown eyes. The dean looked torn between compassion, hope, worry, and more than a little wonder at the man standing in front of him. "You really are an amazing man. And disciplined enough to get through a lot of misfortune in your life and still keep trying. I had almost forgotten about the bullet in the head that you overcame. There's the scar, right in front of me, and you made me forget it with all the fine things you had to say about mathematics and teaching. That's a formidable skill to be able to teach – how to overcome obstacles. Whether you can overcome this one, here in Wyoming, though, I just don't know."

Heyes nodded. "I understand. No guarantees. There never are. A chance is all Marvin asks, and that's all I ask."

"Who's Marvin?" asked Dean Jorgesen, who had a feeling he knew the answer.

"He's my new son." Heyes smiled again. "Or I hope he is."

Historical note – Doc Holliday was a real dentist with an authentic degree. In fact, when he wasn't coughing all over his patients due to his Tuberculosis or shooting people or dealing cards, he was a very good dentist who won awards for his creation of false teeth in various materials. He did very distinguished work in gold. He was active at both dealing cards and some dentistry in Texas in 1878 as Curry mentions. The dentist's chair, mirrors for lighting, toothbrush, and tooth paste in a jar described are all authentic to the period. The dangers of patent medicines used to quiet children when they were teething are also, unfortunately, accurate for the period. The description of the Old Main building and its setting at the University of Wyoming in 1891 is also accurate. Deans Harrison and Salvesen are both invented characters.